The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside

Prologue

THEN

Dawn

THE PROBLEM WITH MOVING trains is, they are tricky to exit without causing rather a lot of fuss and bother. Dawn could do without the fuss and bother, especially with him in the carriage behind. It’s the fourth train she’s boarded today, and she’d been hoping to have lost him by now. Even ducking into the station loos to change her clothes hadn’t helped. Maybe she should have chopped off her hair like they do on the telly.

‘Anything from the trolley, love?’

Dawn jumps as a cart comes clattering into carriage B, pushed by a young man with a proud smile and a modest collection of beige cookies. Perhaps he could help. She could whip out her eyeliner and scribble a note on one of his napkins… Help, I’m being followed by the man in the Metallica T-shirt. The one with the huge shoulders and the red hair.

But then what? He’d just say it wasn’t him and that there’s no proof.

Dawn needs to hide; start again.

‘No thanks,’ she smiles at the trolley boy, regretfully pinching at her belly fat, knowing it will make him grin, tut and leave her the hell alone. It does.

If only laying off the cookies would get rid of the heaviness sitting on the inside of her stomach. She can deal with the flab, it’s a reminder of motherhood, of how her body had stretched and strained and carried. That the past fourteen months had been real. She’s been having some trouble with that lately: reality. That’s why she’d spent the previous week trying to convince the staff at the Barton Wing that she was fit for discharge. They’d agreed after the paint-by-numbers piece she’d displayed of her recovery. Of her nearby friends, all on hand to help. How they’d rally around with their cuddles, cups of tea and daily reminders to take the medication that’s lodged in the bottom of her rucksack under Rosie’s cot blanket that still smells like her. Of course, she’d had to lie, there was no way anyone could be there for her, not after everything she’s done.

The overhead lights on the train flicker on in response to the early winter’s evening, illuminating the grubby floor and the empty crisp packets strewn across the stained fabric of the seats. The approaching darkness also means Dawn can see more of the inside than outside through the window. She looks away from the glass, wishing she could close her eyes for five minutes. She daren’t though, she needs to keep her wits about her.

Four young women occupy the table at the front of the carriage. The curly-haired one says something witty about their sociology lecturer and they all laugh. Self-assured laughs. Aren’t-we-clever laughs. Dawn can’t work out whether it feels an age or a minute since she was the one on the train on the way back from uni, snickering with Mel and her other student midwife buddies. It’s still less than two years ago. Two years since her twenty-year-old self had plonked her springy backside on a train, carrying her dreams, an engagement ring and a glint in her eye.

How the mighty can fall.

The girls grow silent and Dawn inches herself downwards, easing her shoulder blades against the back of her seat. She needs to stay calm. Relaxed. This is the only way. A clean slate with all the old stuff rubbed off. None of the memories, none of the people. A new place.

Step one – get off the train and onto the next without him following. If she can’t get that one right, the rest is pointless. Step two – start new life. Get herself and her rucksack somewhere safe, dry and not too fussy about references.

She distracts herself from the reanimated group at the front by imagining what her new flat might look like. Her new job. Obviously, she won’t be able to do what she was doing before; she no longer has the required paperwork. But something. Something good.

How can she even hope for good things after what she’s done? Happiness can’t happen, not without her. Not until her.

But that’s step three, and she can’t start that until she’s sorted the first two.

That’s why she’s spent all day riding rails that span the length of England, from north to south and back up again.

He may have followed her onto this train, but the next station is soon, and she reckons she can lose him at that one. Then there’s just one more journey to take. The one that leads back to Rosie.

Chapter 1

NOW

Dawn

WHEN LIFE SENDS YOU right to the bottom, sometimes it helps to climb a hill and look at the world through higher eyes. Dawn catches her breath and decides what to do as she stands at her thinking spot by Dover Castle. From here, all of the town can be seen, its edges drawn around by hills of green. The stone harbour wall cuts a semi-circle through the sea, making space for ferries to come and go between Calais and the cliffs of Dover that stand like sparkling white teeth bared from England’s biggest grin.

She can’t stand there all day though, she’s got problems to sort, people to see. She walks the winding road to town as the school run rushes past, taking bleary-eyed children home from days of times tables and silent reading and towards their summer holidays. Adults scurry across pavements, skiving the last two hours of the working week. Friday afternoons don’t count, and every one of them knows it as they propel themselves towards their kettles or their glasses of Prosecco. Dawn expects they’ve earned it; it’s been one of those weeks.

She cuts through the park and past the line of boarded-up shops until she reaches the council building. She nips inside and joins the queue, smiling her usual thousand-watt smile. Disarming or alarming, no one can ever agree which.

‘It’s Dawn Elisabeth Brightside, Brightside one word,’ she tells the woman behind the Perspex-encased desk, before rattling off the numbers of her date of birth. She waits to be told that she doesn’t look like a woman in her forties. She must be thirty, maximum.

‘Address?’ The woman has barely looked up at her though, so there’s still time.

‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t actually have one.’ Dawn’s laugh makes the woman jump but at least she stops tap-tapping on her computer. Everyone else in the room must have heard too as they’re all looking at Dawn with varying degrees of curiosity. She would too if she were them. They’re thinking she doesn’t look like someone who would get themselves in such a pickle. She peers back at them, one at a time, wondering what they’re doing in the rows and columns of itchy seats.

She bets the man in the corner has just been let go from his job as an encyclopaedia salesman – not much call for them anymore, what with the internet and asking Siri. And her with the Marks and Spencer’s jeans; well, she probably just wants to complain about a late bin collection.

‘Miss Brightside?’ The desk woman, name badge; Tracey, here to help, is staring as if she’s waiting for an answer.

The reception area is nicer than you’d imagine. The desk goes around in a big circle with all the people behind it facing outwards behind their screens, ready to catch all the problems. It’s light and airy, and the walls are almost entirely made up of windows so all the regular people out doing their shopping can stare in and make up their own stories about the misfortunes of those inside. Dawn gives a quick wave towards the panelled glass on her right, just in case.

Tracey-here-to-help is still watching. ‘I was asking you if you have an appointment. There’s nothing showing up on the system?’

‘Oh, the system.’ Dawn make a pfft noise and bats her hand away towards the floor. ‘The system never shows anything; happens all the time. Just tell them Dawn Elisabeth Brightside is here, I’m sure that will be fine. That’s Brightside all one word.’

‘For homeless applications, we do need to set up a proper appointment, Miss Brightside, so you can speak to the right person in a private room.’

‘It’s Mrs.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s Mrs Brightside. My husband’s no longer with us.’ Dawn lowers her voice.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Her head is cocked to the left at a thirty-degree angle, the universal gradient of sympathy. It makes Dawn feel warmer for a moment. Nice lady, that Tracey.

‘We could actually squeeze you in now, Room 2 appears to be free.’

Dawn should ask her why she didn’t just say that in the first place and no wonder it always takes so long to get through to the council if they’re always dilly-dallying about like this, but there’s no time to fit the words in before she’s ushered into a small pine-coloured room with purple-cushioned chairs.

‘There’s several factors we need to consider whilst we assess your application. First we need to assess whether or not you’ve made yourself intentionally homeless.’

This Tracey has an odd sense of humour. It’s a good job it’s just Dawn she’s asking; she can always see the funny side of most things. But if she was to say this kind of stuff to the wrong person, well, perhaps that’s what that security button on the desk is for.

‘Maybe this will explain things. It’s from my last landlord.’ Dawn gives Tracey the crumpled letter that’s been lurking in her bag for the last few months. She looks at the posters on the wall whilst Tracey reads it. They’re mostly about support groups and food banks.

‘This letter suggests you were given notice to leave over six months ago. Were you in arrears with your rent?’

‘Oh no, she just wants the house back. Something to do with her daughter, she…’

‘Could you not have arranged further private rented accommodation for yourself during this notice period?’

Perhaps Tracey doesn’t know how much landlords want paying upfront nowadays. All those deposits, a few hundred quid to fill out a form and a few more for the credit check people to tell her she can’t ‘pass go’, can’t collect two hundred pounds, and it’s straight to the council for Dawn. She’s always sucked at Monopoly.

‘I was a bit short of cash. Lost my job at Reg’s Reptiles – couldn’t afford me any longer, they said.’

‘Where have you been sleeping?’

‘Here and there. Dover really is a beautiful town. I’ve got to know it really well.’

‘Do you have family who could help?’ Tracey has stopped banging on her keyboard, her voice softer now.

Dawn wonders how many people must come in here who have no family at all, alone in the world with no one to turn to. It must really suck, knowing if anything happened to you, no one would actually notice.

‘There’s Rosie, my daughter. She’s abroad at the moment, Spain. She’s project-managing a… project. A very important one, I wouldn’t want to worry her. They’re trying for a baby, her and Mike. Imagine it, me a grandmother at forty, wouldn’t that be something?’

Tracey still doesn’t say anything. Maybe it’s company policy not to make remarks about how young people look. Dawn wishes she would say something though, anything, just to distract her. She’s still thinking about all those poor, lonely people with no one, and how if they died, people would only realise once their bodies started to decompose. That’s if they had a home of course. At least they’d be found quicker if it happened in a shop doorway or in the park. It’s a good thing she has her Rosie to speak to every day. If the worst happened to Dawn, Rosie would wonder why she hadn’t answered her calls and she’d alert someone. Yes, of course that’s what she’d do.

‘Are you suffering from any of the following: physical health problems, domestic abuse, disabilities of any kind and do you take any medication?’

The window on the left is open, leaving a path of warm and heavy air between the room and the arse-end of the park where all the ramps are kept. Children are performing tricks of impressive complexity on their boards, especially taking into account what it smells like they’re smoking. Dawn fights to remember the list Tracey’s just sprinted through.

‘No,’ she says after a moment.

‘Any mental health issues that may class you as being vulnerable?’

Is she more vulnerable than anybody else? She looks out again at the kids. One of them has just cracked open a can of Strongbow.

‘Nope. I mean, I’ve always been a bit up and down, but no. I’m fine.’ She remembers being asked a minute ago about medication but can’t think what it is she’s supposed to be taking.

‘I can place you on the list for social housing, but as it stands, you don’t qualify for emergency housing. You’re not classed as a priority.’

Ouch. Dawn glances up at Tracey’s ‘Investors in People’ award that’s fixed to the wall behind her. She tries her best, she supposes. It must be hard having to spend the day telling people they aren’t her priority. I mean, it’s fine for Dawn, she’s used to it, she hasn’t been at the top of anyone’s list for a long time, but for some people, well, that sort of thing could be hurtful.

‘There’s a list of phone numbers in this booklet for hostels who can sometimes take in people who we’re not obligated to house. It may be worth giving them a call, but they often have waiting lists. St Jude’s is the nearest, on Dover cliffs. I can give you some vouchers to take along to the food bank until your benefits are instated. Any questions?’

She has plenty.

Dawn forces the booklet and the vouchers inside her over-flowing holdall, £12.99 from Primark. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll give that St Jude’s place a try.’

Tracey holds an arm out towards Dawn when she gets up to leave. Dawn is already hugging her when she realises she’d probably just been going in for a handshake.

Chapter 2

Grace

‘I AM STRONG, I am confident and I am brave,’ Grace Jennings mutters to the blank computer screen in front of her. ‘I do not fear Mondays…’ Grace’s phone bleeps its eight-forty reminder to make her green tea (with ylang-ylang) and to complete today’s meditation in her Six-Minute Meditation app.

Mondays are especially busy at St Jude’s homeless hostel and Grace is in its cramped, cluttered office exactly twenty-two minutes before her shift starts. As her Work–Life Balance book says, it’s important to start the week as she means to go on and every minute spent wisely before nine o’clock is an investment in the rest of the day.

She flicks on the kettle and presses the lotus icon on her phone screen. Nothing happens, and the display freezes as she taps it several times in quick succession before it flashes back at her, Application is not responding. Would you like to close Six-Minute Meditation?

Stupid, cheap, crappy phone. It’s eight forty-three now and that’s not enough time to do her sun salutations before Peter gets in at eight fifty. Eight fifty is the time for checking emails and the day’s to-do list.

‘Morning,’ she beams at Peter as he walks through the office door wearing his usual cords-and-green sweater combo.

He grunts a few syllables back at Grace as he shuffles past her desk. That’s another reason to be twenty-two minutes early: the acquisition of prime position in front of the office hatch. As hostel manager, it’s rightfully Grace’s spot but Peter, twenty years older than her twenty-five, seems to think he should be the one putting out all the fires when it comes to the residents. ‘I’m well aware you know what you’re doing,’ he always snaps when she says anything about it. ‘It’s just that I know what it’s like to be the other side of this hatch and you don’t.’

It’s an argument he uses for most things and each time he says it, Grace gets closer to wishing she’d never suggested to head office that they should take on an ex-resident as a staff member. She taps in her password at lightning speed, so he doesn’t have the chance to suggest they switch places, and then logs into her emails.

‘Wait till you see the interview list head office have emailed us. Tons of names. Don’t they know we only have one room to offer this week?’ Peter pulls off his crooked glasses and wipes at them with the corner of his sleeve.

He must have read his emails before he’d even come into work. Grace shakes her head. Some people are so competitive.

Monday is interview day at St Jude’s. Each week, the staff meet with prospective residents in the hope of hacking away at their ever-growing waiting list. Grace mentally reaches for the first breathing exercise from her ‘Breath of Zen’ app and tries to follow it whilst she stares at the names on the list in front of her. Peter’s not wrong; there are a lot to get through. Monday is also transaction day, so the residents will be queuing at the hatch to pay their rent top-ups and chase late benefit payments. That’s why she always opens up at eight fifty-eight. Two minutes of quiet… just to look out into the empty foyer before the storm begins.

It’s an entrance hall like no other, the other side of that hatch. A gateway between people’s lives and the big wide world; residents come and go through it, for the first time and the last, often reappearing months or years later. It’s a place where tenants come for help, to read the noticeboard and to pick up their post. It’s the hostel’s hub.

The shutters roar as they retract upwards and Grace dashes to the kitchenette in the corner of the office to pour the drinks before nine o’clock hits – she will start tomorrow with the whole giving-up-caffeine thing. She’ll just have to reset the goal date on her phone calendar. That way it won’t count, and she won’t have failed. Grace doesn’t like to fail – it’s like her parent’s always said, It’s not what Jenningses do.

‘Tea for me, ta,’ Peter says, without turning away from his computer. ‘And none of that flowery shit.’

Grace clinks the teaspoon with some extra force against the inside of the cups as she stirs the drinks.

‘They’ve arranged a relief worker to man – or woman – the office for us today, so we can concentrate on the interviews. It’s her first time, so one of us will need to show her where everything is. Then I thought we could use the residents’ lounge downstairs for the interviews. It’s homelier,’ Grace says, carrying the hot mugs back to their desks.

‘Homelier?’ Peter splutters after he’s swallowed his first gulp of tea. ‘Most of them have come from the streets or other people’s sofas. I’m sure any room we use will feel homelier.’

She ignores him while she scans through the rest of her emails. Quite a few today, all from head office. Why couldn’t they just put everything in one message? All this reading will throw her even further off-schedule. She’s about to start at the bottom of her unread list when a subject line from halfway up catches her eye.

And it makes her want to throw up her low-calorie granola bar.

‘Listen to this,’ she hisses to Peter. ‘"Please be aware that Supporting Futures are carrying out rigorous inspections across all supported housing hostels under their funding schemes. Over the last month, ten projects have been forced to close as a result of having their funding pulled… Oh, this is bad, I’m not sure I can read any more of it.’ Grace rests her forehead in her hands and counts to ten. Well, she manages to get to five before she looks back at the screen. ‘These checks are sporadic, but each project will receive a letter approximately two weeks before each inspection."’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah? Do you realise how behind we are on some of our paperwork? And the laundry room is falling apart. Then there’s the incidents we’ve had lately with the…’

‘Grace. Stop. We’ve not had a letter yet. Might not even get one till the end of the year. Let’s just focus on the interviews – who’s first?’

‘The first one’s due at eleven thirty. A young lad, Shaun Michaels?’

‘You always say that like you think I know every homeless person in Kent just because I used to be one. It’s as bad as someone telling you they’re from Australia and you saying, "Oh, my Auntie Karen used to live there; perhaps you know her?"’

The office phone rings as soon as the clock strikes nine. Grace answers it, forcing her mouth into a wide smile. People can tell over the phone if you are smiling; it says so in her Women in Leadership magazine. The same issue that had inspired her last week to chop her blonde hair into a sleek bob with an edgy fringe, just like the woman on the front. ‘There’s more to maintaining a successful image than the right hairstyle,’ her mum would have said. Then in the same breath, ‘Be the best version of yourself, Grace. You really should make more of an effort, it’s important to create the right impression.’ It’s always been a bit tricky, getting the balance right. Enough make-up to impress, but not so much that she looks shallow. Professional clothes – not too expensive (she shouldn’t look as if she’s trying too hard) but not too cheap either (she has the family name to uphold after all).

It’s head office on the line and they want to add yet another name to today’s interview list. Head office oversee St Jude’s as well as four other hostels across the south-east, but they always seem to find the time to give them extra work to do.

‘Absolutely. The more the merrier,’ Grace sings, ignoring Peter’s eye roll. She puts the phone down and concentrates on helping him with the small queue that’s formed behind Teardrop Terry from Room 3.

Teardrop Terry has been a resident of St Jude’s for almost three months following many years of spending his life between prison cells and shop doorways. It hadn’t taken Grace long to notice that – despite his colourful rap sheet, bulky frame and tear tattoo below his left eye – he is, in fact, the least intimidating person you could ever meet.

‘Peter.’ Teardrop Terry pulls the front of his baseball cap down a smidgen as if showing some sign of respect. He’ll take that back in a minute when Peter tells him he’s already three weeks in arrears with his rent top-up.

‘But they’ve suspended my jobseeker’s again. I can’t pay you nothing I ain’t got yet, can I?’ Terry says at double speed, trying to squash his hat back into place over long voluminous curls that look like they’ve been cut from an eighties band photo.

Grace’s eyes are drawn to his tattoo as they always are. Peter had scoffed when she’d asked if teardrops were inked onto people’s faces in prison to signify remorse for their crimes but Terry had chuckled and told her she was right.

‘You could always do a couple of shifts in the café?’ she offers. St Jude’s has an adjoining café for the residents to work in, and they’re short-staffed this week.

Peter picks the phone up and keys in the number for the job centre before handing it to Terry.

‘That was head office,’ Grace whispers into Peter’s ear. ‘They’ve added another one to the list for this afternoon. A woman called Dawn something-or-other. They’re emailing over her referral.’

Teardrop Terry has got bored with holding the receiver to his ear and has left it on the desk on loudspeaker whilst he stands in the open doorway rolling a fag.

‘Wonderful,’ huffs Peter. ‘As if I hadn’t already spent a million hours of my life listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. I don’t think the job centre has changed its on-hold tune in ten years.’

Grace rushes downstairs to get the room ready at eleven twenty-eight. She rearranges the cushions on the sofas and switches on the lava lamp to provide a psychologically enhancing environment for the interviews. She glances at the time. Eleven thirty-one. Not only is Shaun late but so is their relief worker. If he turns up before she does, they’ll have to close the office.

She bounces back upstairs to join Peter as he collects the clipboards and interview paperwork from the office cupboard. She peers out of the window onto the long driveway to see if anyone is on their way. St Jude’s sits up on the clifftop, and its entrance is around the back, facing away from the sea and towards the twisty road that leads back to the high street. It’s fifteen minutes’ walk from town and accessible by a quiet road that leads only to the hostel, the café and the cliffs.

Two figures appear at the bottom of the track and are walking towards the building. At least they’ve arrived together and Grace won’t need to put the shutter back down.

‘Are you here for the interview?’ Peter asks the boy after Grace has buzzed the two people into the foyer. His referral form says he’s eighteen, but with his short, skinny frame that’s drowning in that XL hoody, he looks at least four years younger. ‘Shaun Michaels? Is that right?’

The boy nods and blushes as he studies the posters on the noticeboard, avoiding the eyes of the crowd around the desk.

‘Grace,’ she introduces herself as she shakes the young man’s hand. He may be anxious, but it’s a good handshake and there’s a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. Good start. Putting people at ease is important when interviewing potential tenants. As is, according to Peter, doing a proper background check and switching on one’s bullshit radar.

The woman with the wild curly hair who’d walked in behind him, skips around Shaun and sidesteps to the front. ‘Mrs Brightside,’ she says with a smile, huge dark eyes and a handshake Jean-Claude Van Damme would be impressed with. ‘Your head office said you’d be expecting me?’

‘So glad you’re here, we really need an extra pair of hands today,’ Grace answers with a smile. She asks Shaun to take a seat for a few minutes in the foyer so she can show their new relief worker where everything is.

‘Have you worked in places like this before?’ Grace asks her. She shows her the code to the fire panel and the filing cabinet where the resident’s files are kept.

‘Umm… yes, a few. Not for a while, mind. I don’t think I’ll need to see those files though. Other people’s lives are none of my business.’

Grace wonders if head office has checked this lady’s references. Most new staff members like to have a quick scan through the files so they know what to expect to be dealing with.

‘Okay, if you’re sure. We’ll be downstairs if you need us. There’s an alarm button you can press if you’re worried about anything. Don’t look so panicked, they’re a lovely bunch here at the moment.’ Grace picks up a pen and her cold coffee, ready to leave.

‘Don’t you want to ask me any questions?’ Mrs Brightside asks as Grace is walking out the door.

Honestly, the staff getting sent to this place just keep getting stranger, Grace decides as she downs her drink and heads back down the stairs, two at a time.

Chapter 3

Grace

SHAUN MICHAELS IS PULLING hard at Grace’s feel-strings. Most interviews in this place err on the side of sad. Stories that have broken people’s lives apart. This boy though, life has dealt him so much shit she’s surprised he’s not leaving a trail of it everywhere he walks.

‘Do you have any contact at all with your mum?’ Grace asks Shaun in her gentlest voice. She shuffles forward on the lumpy sofa and leans towards him. They should really think about getting some new furniture in the resident’s lounge if they’re going to be inspected. And some fresh wallpaper. The wall behind Shaun is peeling in several places. Perhaps paint would be better. She’ll grab a colour chart next time she’s in Homebase.

‘I go to her flat sometimes, but only when he’s not there. He pretty much broke my jaw last time. She don’t remember when I visit anyway. Too pissed.’

According to Peter, Grace is too easily shocked and needs to work on her face during client interviews, as if she needs to plug it up with some sealant to stop all that pesky emotion leaking through. It’s because she’s led a sheltered life, he always says. And she has in way;