Free A Dreadful Past by Peter Turnbull Page A

Anne Graham replied. ‘I did a full day at their house. Usually on a Wednesday. More than usual, most often on a Wednesday. Other clients I had at the time I did half days for but it was a full day at Mr and Mrs Middleton’s. Always a full day. I was as regular as I could be but sometimes I got called in by the dole people to ask why I hadn’t got a job, but that wasn’t very often – once every couple of months or so.’
    â€˜You were claiming the dole while you were working?’ Carmen Pharoah raised eyebrows. ‘Bit naughty of you, wasn’t it?’ Her voice contained a soft note of disapproval.
    â€˜Yes, but so what?’ Anne Graham replied defensively. ‘Everyone did it. Folk still do it. You can’t survive on the dole. You try surviving on it. So I worked for cash-in-hand and everybody was happy. But when the social security people asked why I hadn’t found work, I said, “Look, I’ve got no bits of paper, I’ve got no qualifications. What I have got are convictions for theft and soliciting for purposes of prostitution. So what chance have I got of getting paid employment? Who will hire a thieving street girl?”’
    â€˜Have you?’ Carmen Pharoah gasped. ‘You are not known to us – our criminal record check on you was negative.’
    â€˜Well, that’s because it was just a little lie I used to tell to get them off my little old back, sweetheart.’ Anne Graham smiled. ‘It helped me a lot. They gave me a lot less grief that way. You see, I knew that the social security people couldn’t access people’s criminal records to check my little story so I invented quite a track record of previous convictions which they knew I had to declare when I was sent for a job interview. So I never got offered any job at all but I was working five days a week near enough … and it was all cash-in-hand. I was canny, though – I’m a survivor. I never flashed my money around; I always looked like a starving doley, I mean, ragged clothes, the lot. But I was well-set in those days. Really nicely well-set. I used to nip out the back when I went to my jobs and I used to use my clients’ cleaning equipment and materials. It was a very nice little number I had going for me but the old body gave out. All that cleaning didn’t help … arthritis, sciatica, rheumatism … my body just got old and now the state pension is sufficient. I was careful not to flash the cash about, like I said, and I put it all in the bank. All that I could, anyway. I still have a bit put by. So for twenty-five, thirty years, I was earning the average wage, not paying any tax on it and getting the dole on top of it. So yes … I’ve got a bit put by, enough for my vodka and my cigarettes. So I don’t complain.’
    â€˜I see,’ Carmen Pharoah replied dryly. ‘It was quite a way out to the Middletons’ house from the centre of York. Did you cycle or use the bus?’
    â€˜Most often, almost each time I visited I cycled, but I would use the bus in bad weather. There was a good bus service. Their house was just beyond Skelton and I took the Skipton bus,’ Anne Graham explained. ‘Sometimes I took the Thirsk bus – same route, though. There was a bus stop about ten minutes’ walk from their house. I could cope with that easily enough. I never had much to carry. In very bad weather – I mean, really heavy rain or snow – I didn’t go at all. It meant I didn’t get paid, but that was the deal. My job with them was still safe.’
    â€˜I understand,’ Carmen Pharoah replied calmly though still with a note of disapproval. ‘It is the case with all self-employed cleaners, I suppose, all self-employed persons in any capacity. No work means no pay. End of story.’
    â€˜Yes, and that’s the downside of the black economy, as I am told it’s called.’ Anne Graham