What matters is that I can no longer take gainful employment. That she understands does not mean I am acting correctly. After all, one’s family must eat and wear clothes, be kept warm in the winter, and they must also view television if they wish—like any other family. To enable all of this to come to pass I must earn money. Thirteen months have elapsed. This morning I had to begin a job of work in a warehouse as a warehouseman. My year on the labour exchange is up—was up. I am unsure at the moment. No more money was forthcoming unless I had applied for national assistance which I can do but dislike doing for various reasons.
I am worried. A worried father. I have two children, a wife, a stiff rent, the normal debts. To live I should be working but I cannot. This morning I began a new job. As a warehouseman. My wife will be sorry to hear I am no longer gainfully employed in the warehouse. My children are of tender years and will therefore be glad to see me once more about the house although I have only been gone since breakfast time and it is barely five o’clock in the afternoon so they will scarcely have missed me. But my wife: this is a grave problem. One’s wife is most understanding. This throws the responsibility on one’s own shoulders however. When I mention the fact of my no longer being the warehouseman she will be sympathetic. There is nothing to justify to her. She will also take for granted that the little ones shall be provided for. Yet how do I accomplish this without the gainful employment. I do not know. I dislike applying to the social security office. On occasion one has in the past lost one’s temper and deposited one’s children on the counter and been obliged to shamefacedly return five minutes later in order to uplift them or accompany the officer to the station. I do not like the social security. Also, one has difficulty in living on the money they provide.
And I must I must. Or else find a new job of work. But after this morning one feels one… well, one feels there is something wrong with one.
I wore a clean shirt this morning lest it was expected. Normally I dislike wearing shirts unless I am going to a dinner dance etcetera with the wife. No one was wearing a shirt but myself and the foreman. I did not mind. But I took off my tie immediately and unbuttoned the top two buttons. They gave me a fawn dusk or dust perhaps coat, to put on— without pockets. I said to the foreman it seemed ridiculous to wear an overcoat without pockets. And also I smoke so require a place to keep cigarettes and the box of matches. My trouser pockets are useless. My waist is now larger than when these particular trousers were acquired. Anything bulky in their pockets will cause a certain discomfort.
One feels as though one is going daft. I should have gone straight to the social security in order to get money. Firstly I must sign on at the labour exchange and get a new card and then go to the social security office. I shall take my B1 and my rent book and stuff, and stay calm at all times. They shall make an appointment for me and I shall be there on time otherwise they will not see me. My nerves get frayed. My wife knows little about this. I tell her next to nothing but at other times tell her everything.
I do not feel like telling my wife I am no longer the warehouseman and that next Friday I shall not receive the sum of twenty-five pounds we had been expecting. A small wage. I told the foreman the wage was particularly small. Possibly his eyes clouded. I was of course cool, polite. This is barely a living wage I told him. Wage. An odd word. But I admit to having been aware of all this when I left the labour exchange in order that I might commence employment there. Nobody diddled me. My mind was simply blank. My year was up. One year and six weeks. I could have stayed unemployed and been relatively content. But for the social security. I did not wish to risk losing my temper. Now I shall just have to control myself. Maybe send the wife instead This might be the practical solution. And the clerks shall look more favorably upon one’s wife. Perhaps increase one’s rate of payment.
I found the job on my own. Through the evening times sits vac col. It was a queer experience using the timecard once more. Ding ding as it stamps the time. I was given a knife along with the overcoat. For snipping string.
I am at a loss. At my age and considering my parental responsibilities, for example the wife and two weans, I should be paid more than twenty-five pounds. I told the foreman this. It is a start he replied. Start fuck all I answered. It is the future which worries me. How on earth do I pay the monthly rent of £34.30. My wife will be thinking to herself I should have kept the job till securing another. It would have been sensible. Yes. It would have been sensible. Right enough. I cannot recall the how of my acceptance of the job in the first instance. I actually wrote a letter in order to secure an interview. At the interview I was of course cool, polite. Explained that my wife had been ill this past thirteen months. I was most interested in the additional news, that of occasional promotional opportunities. Plus yearly increments and cost of living naturally. Word for word. One is out of touch on the labour exchange. I knew nothing of cost of living allowance. Without which I would have been earning twenty-two sixty or thereabouts.
It is my fault. My wife is to be forgiven if she … what. She will not do anything.
There were five other warehousemen plus three warehouselads, a forklift driver, the foreman and myself. At teabreak we sat between racks. An older chap sat on the floor to stretch his legs. Surely there are chairs I said to the foreman. He looked at me in answer. Once a man had downed his tea I was handed the empty cup which had astonishing chips out of its rim. It was kind of him but I did not enjoy the refreshment. And I do not take sugar. But the tea cost nothing. When I receive my first wage I am to begin paying twenty-five pence weekly. I should not have to pay for sugar. It does not matter now.
Time passes. My children age. My wife is in many ways younger than me. She will not say a word about all this. One is in deep trouble. One’s bank account lacks money enough. I received a sum for this morning’s work but it will shortly be spent. Tomorrow it is necessary I return to the labour exchange. No one will realize I have been gone. Next week should be better. If this day could be wiped from my life or at least go unrecorded I would be happy.
The warehousemen were discussing last night’s television. I said good god. A funny smell. A bit musty. Soggy cardboard perhaps.
The boss, the boss—not the foreman—is called Mr Jackson. The foreman is called George. The boss, he… The trouble is I can no longer. Even while climbing the subway stairs; as I left the house; was eating my breakfast; rising from my bed; watching the television late last night: I expected it would prove difficult.
Mr Jackson, he is the boss. He also wears a shirt and tie. Eventually the express carriers had arrived and all of we warehousemen and ware-houselads were to heave to and load up. It is imperative we do so before lunch said Mr Jackson. I have to leave I said to him. Well hurry back replied George. No, I mean I can no longer stay I explained. I am going home. And could I have my insurance cards and money for this morning’s work. What cried Mr Jackson. George was blushing in front of Mr Jackson. Could I have my cards and money. It is imperative I go for a pint and home to see the wife.
I was soon paid off although unable to uplift my insurance cards there and then.
The problem is of course the future—financing the rearing of one’s offspring etcetera.