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CHAPTER ELEVEN
TODAY was the day she had her appointment with the Citizens Advice Bureau, and in preparation for it, and also in an attempt to exert some kind of control and order over the chaos of Andrew’s financial affairs, Philippa had spent the previous evening making lists of the positive and practical steps she could take to help herself.
It was a pitifully short list, but she still studied it with fierce concentration as she ate her breakfast. She had made herself a vow that she was no longer going to sit back and let life and other people make her decisions for her as she had done with Andrew; that she was going to grit her teeth and assert herself a little more, something she ought perhaps to have done years ago, she acknowledged self-critically now as she studied the list in front of her.
Her first priorities had to be: a) to find herself a job—any kind of job, just so long as it brought her in some income—and b) to do something about ensuring that both she and more importantly the boys had somewhere to live once the house was sold.
With half-term just over, the boys weren’t due any more holidays until Easter. How quickly would the bank want her out of the house and how soon would they be able to sell it?
She wished now that she had questioned Neville Wilson more closely on these points, but at the time she had been too shocked to do so…
If the worst came to the worst she would just have to go cap in hand to her parents and ask if they could stay with them. It was the last thing she wanted to do, especially in view of their attitude, but for the boys’ sakes she might finally have to do so. Where previously she had resented Andrew’s insistence on sending them away to school, now she was almost grateful for it. At least while they were at school their lives were protected and secure… for the time being.
Next year… but she couldn’t think as far ahead as next year at the moment—she dared not even think as far ahead as next week.
She looked at her list again… A job… She smiled wryly to herself. She wasn’t so naïve as to imagine she would find work easily.
There were training schemes, though, she told herself. She had spent the last few days studying the local papers and visiting the Job Centre, obtaining as much information as she could on what kind of training schemes might be available to her, and this was one of the things she hoped to discuss with the Citizens Advice Bureau counsellor.
She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was time for her to leave; she had made her appointment as early in the morning as she could, not wanting to spend all day worrying apprehensively about it.
She stood up, smoothing down the skirt of her suit. She had seen an advertisement in the local paper for a secondhand clothes shop; they must buy clothes as well as sell them, and what good was a wardrobe full of expensive clothes to her when she hadn’t really got enough money to eat?
Which was her own fault and no one else’s, she told herself firmly as she left the house, muttering under her breath, ‘I’m damned if I’m going to start wallowing in self-pity.’
She had two clear choices ahead of her now, two clearly diverging paths she could take: she could either succumb to the fear, misery and despair she could feel waiting to overwhelm her, to pounce on her like shadows lingering threateningly in the dark, or she could fight the situation just as hard as she could and look upon what had happened as an opportunity to prove to the world, and more importantly to herself, just how strong she could be. A chance to have a fresh start and make her life what she wanted it to be, to be answerable only to herself and her sons.
She had her health, mentally and physically; she had a good brain even if she had lazily allowed it to semi-atrophy, and, perhaps most important of all, she admitted to herself, she also now had the impetus to make use of them; they were after all the only assets she now had, and if when she was younger she had not been able to motivate herself to use them for her own benefit, when it came to protecting and nurturing her sons…
* * *
The offices of the Citizens Advice Bureau were housed in a building next to the town hall. As Philippa approached them a young woman came down the steps towards her; she had a baby in a buggy and a toddler by the hand and Philippa automatically hurried up the steps to help her with the buggy.
As she turned to thank her, Philippa saw how very young she was, barely out of her teens. Her face looked pinched and thin, her collarbone sticking out sharply beneath the baggy black clothes she was wearing.
The toddler had a runny nose and the baby was crying; despite the cold wind neither child was wearing mittens and nor was the mother, and as she watched them Philippa felt a surge of angry despair against a world which on the one hand sanctimoniously and sentimentally semi-worshipped the ideal of motherhood—a motherhood that was depicted by an idealistic image of a glowing, perfect young woman clutching an even more perfect, glowing child, the status of both of them enhanced by a wealth of material assets—and yet on the other hand seemed deliberately to ignore the fact that motherhood for so many meant nothing like that. This was the reality of modern motherhood, this young, tired-looking girl.
And she thought she had problems, Philippa acknowledged as she hurried back up the steps.
The girl behind the reception desk gave her a friendly smile and asked her her name. The waiting-room had a shabby and yet somehow comforting air about it, slightly reminiscent of a doctor’s surgery, with its faded notices and a pile of ancient out-of-date magazines.
Lost in studying her surroundings, Philippa started slightly when she heard someone saying her name, and focused on the elegant woman speaking to her.
‘I’m Elizabeth Humphries,’ the counsellor introduced herself as she showed Philippa into her office. ‘We spoke briefly on the telephone when you rang to make your appointment.’
How much did she already know about her? Philippa wondered uncomfortably as she took the chair she was offered. The news of Andrew’s suicide and the problems with the business had made headlines in the local paper and she suspected it would be naïve of her to think that this woman hadn’t guessed who she was.
How did she feel, having to offer the same help and advice to the woman whose husband was responsible for so many other people losing their jobs?
But just in case she hadn’t heard, Philippa gritted her teeth and briefly outlined her situation.
Elizabeth heard her out in silence, causing Philippa to grimace slightly
and ask, ‘You must feel that there are other people who need your help much more than I do. People…’
‘Is that what you think?’ Elizabeth asked her quietly. ‘Or are you really trying to say that you believe that only a certain social class needs to come somewhere like this for advice? You’d be surprised how many professional and apparently financially stable people do come to us for debt counselling.’
‘Yes, I understand that,’ Philippa acknowledged.
