People Watching Part 21 - Looking After Number One
It was that
fine rain that soaks through everything.
He’d been waiting in the queue for a quarter of an hour and hadn’t
moved. The labour exchange was one of
the older buildings in Boomtown, brick built with sandstone lintels and window
frames and it had probably been glorious when it was newly built, but like so
many government buildings, it had been neglected for years. He’d been leaning against the low wall that
ran along the front of the building. Originally
the wall had been topped off with railings, but they had long gone, all except
a few broken stubs of metal held firmly by decades of accumulated dirt in square
holes cut into the sandstone coping.
Many years
ago when the whole world was monochrome, someone had painted the wall but it
was impossible to know what colour had been used. At first the paint faded and cracked and then
it peeled and started to fall away. Now,
only a few tenacious flakes of peeling paint hung on in the few areas the
weather couldn’t reach.
He
questioned himself. Why were these details
important? No one walking past would
think twice about the long-lost railings or the ancient paintwork. Truth was, they weren’t important - but he
wasn’t walking past, he’d been waiting in this dole queue too long and he
needed something to focus on.
Just then a
loud squeak of protest from the aged hinges announced the opening of the labour
exchange door and the long queue shuffled inside. If nothing else, he was glad to be out of the
rain. He walked over to the board that
advertised the new jobs. Peering over
the heads of the many ‘regulars’ – the same faces every week – he saw without
any surprise, that there was nothing that suited him. He moved across the room to another board
which had the word ‘Construction’ written in green ink at the top. Whoever had made the sign had set out with
good intentions. The first seven or
eight letters were boldly written and carefully formed - but then had come the
realisation that the board wasn’t wide enough and the last few letters had been
hurriedly crammed into the last couple of inches of available space. The few construction jobs that were posted had
been there for as long as the peeling paint on the wall outside.
After going
through the usual charade with the benefits assistant – “yes, he had been
looking for work” and “no he hadn’t been able to find anything”, his benefit
card was stamped and he was free to go.
These weekly visits to the labour exchange always left him with a bitter
taste in his mouth. He was a craftsman –
a joiner and carpenter – and was proud of the fact he’d worked on many of
Boomtown’s finest buildings. Until everything
started to be pre-fabricated. Any idiot
could fix the pre-fabbed plastic in place and idiots were cheaper to hire than
craftsmen.
He’d long
got over his concern that his dole payments were a form of charity. He preferred to see them as his reward for
all the painstaking hours he’d put into his work - so he’d take all that they could
give him…though it was barely enough. He
needed to be able to stand on his own two feet again, to never need anyone’s
help. He paused for a moment on the step
of the labour exchange, the rain falling into his eyes. He looked again at the low wall where he’d
stood only half an hour earlier and promised himself that next week, rather
than waste his time studying the fading masonry, he’d work on a plan. It didn’t matter what he had to do but woe
betide anyone who underestimated him. Just
as he realised it was time to look after number one, a gap opened up in the low
cloud and a shaft of sunlight lit up the ground at his feet. He’d never been one for the good Lord above,
but if that wasn’t a sign, nothing was.