Short Story: Anxious Moments

Short Story: Anxious Moments

I returned to the ground floor flat in St David’s Road five minutes before my 11.30 am appointment with Mr Jones. My wife, Sheila, was there but my six year old son, Gregg, was nowhere to be seen. Sheila told me that he was playing in the back garden. She was understandably nervous about the meeting. The last five years had been financially tough but the coming months had the potential to be even tougher.

The year was 1973 and I was twenty six years old. Sheila and I came from working class families in the South Wales valleys. Our fathers were both miners. I was in the final year of a six year, university course to become an architect. I considered myself privileged because in those days not too many youngsters from the valleys made it to university.

The course, especially in the final years, was project based and very time consuming. After the design of each project had been developed it was necessary to prepare presentation drawings and models along with the normal written work. These would be hung on display boards and form the basis of the assessment. Although intensive, the work was creative, I enjoyed it immensely and it was the vehicle to a better future.

Being married with a child I was able to claim a mature student’s maintenance grant, which is just as well because there was no way we could be a financial burden on our parents. Thankfully, student loans and the debt culture was still an age away. The grant money lasted only through the academic terms so, along with most others students, I normally found a job during the holidays. This year was different. To complete my final thesis and design project I needed to work on them full time throughout the summer. In desperation I turned to the local benefit office to see if they could help. To my amazement they did have a grant that I could claim subject to a home visit from one of their inspectors - Mr Jones.

Mr Jones turned out to be a vey pleasant middle aged man. He took us through a questionnaire and explained that the visit was to ensure that the claimant had no other source of income. Everything was extremely cordial and going well when Gregg suddenly burst into the room.

“Daddy, Daddy, why aren’t you at work?”

A heavy, seemingly endless silence filled the room. My heart sank. There was nothing that I could now say that would ever convince the once affable Mr Jones that I did not have a job on the side. In those moments the grant disappeared and the prospect of significant debt flooded in. Not only would I not get the grant but I would have to justify making the claim.

Gregg piped up again. “The people at university will think you are dead!”

As my heart resurfaced Mr Jones gave me a bemused but understanding smile.