“Oh, you can’t pull the car up here, there’s no space. I’m in the… I’m in the… hang on, what’s the name of this place again?”
She glances around, as though a neon sign will appear – though neon, flashing and colour are really not the style of this place. I suppose that’s because this is not the sort of place you’d want to advertise.
It’s subdued, neat, almost clinical. Everything is angled perfectly. The little booths are as regular as the lines of a copybook.
The woman is still hunting for a sign to tell her where she is.
“We’re in the Public Services Card Office,” I say, as if someplace that everyone must go, on occasion. “In the Intreo building.”
She smiles at me before relaying this information down the phone.
There is no one else talking here, no light conversation about the weather, no idle banter tossed back and forth. The woman hangs up, and turns to me.
“Sorry about that,” she says, “we’re just here for Nanna’s bus pass and my husband was wondering where to pick us up.”
Beside her, an elderly lady leans forward to get a look at me. Everyone in here seems to size each other up, and it starts from the minute you sidle through the front doors. The security desk – manned by a balding bodybuilder or ex – nightclub bouncer – is the first thing that awaits, not a polite reception desk or a waiting room with browning magazines piled on a coffee table. Security is everywhere, on every floor, as though those present are barely tamed circus animals, liable to break out at any moment. Everyone flings furtive glances around the building, appraising each other, like curious gardeners eyeing up other neighbourhood flower beds. Are you poor enough? Are you sick enough? Are you down and out enough?
“Hopefully, the bus pass doesn’t take too long.”
The cheerfulness in her voice, a cheerfulness of those who deserve social welfare after years of labour and tax – paying.
“You’re just here to get the card for a form of photo I.D., I suppose?”
There is a moment when I almost let the truth fall off the end of my tongue. No, it’s not for a form of photo I.D., or anything as innocuous as that. I’m here because I’m applying for Jobseeker’s Benefit, because I’m unemployed at the age of 22. The college books have barely been closed, the ink is probably still wet on my examination scripts and I’m here because I need money.
Nobody wants to admit it. Of course; you can tell by the atmosphere, as though we’re all in a waiting room for some minor yet embarrassing surgery. The kind of surgery you don’t want to mention to your parents, and that you’ll use euphemisms to talk about: euphemisms like ‘signing on’ or ‘assistance’ or ‘I need this to stay alive.’
I smile and say that yes, a different kind of photo I.D. – just in case – is exactly why I’m here. Lies always taste so sweet because you can believe them yourself for a few seconds.
I can believe that we’re all in this plain, regular room, with the walls an uncomfortable shade of lime green, because we just need a new photo I.D. for a passport.
I can believe that I rolled into a job the second the university doors shut behind me, that I don’t have to call my mother every time I wanted to eat something, that I didn’t have to beg her to give me sixty euro to buy my boyfriend’s birthday present. I pretend that buying his birthday present won’t mean that I’ll only eat pasta for a few days. I can pretend that my mother’s constant generosity doesn’t leave me with a thickness in my throat.
I can pretend, for a few seconds, that I don’t have a stack of paperwork an inch thick in my bag, asking for addresses, names, numbers, dates, times, eligibility. As though anyone who didn’t need this money would actively choose to come in here, to take the ticket, to become number 172, to wait while your number flashes up, to experience the inquisitive eyes wondering whether you deserve the government begrudging you a few notes. I can pretend, for the slightest breath of nothingness, that the girl in the booth directly in front of me isn’t weeping.
I have used the English version of my name (I have consistently used the Irish version for the last 9 months) for every piece of paperwork stamped and for every signature scribbled in this building. I persuade myself that this is because it’s the name on my birth certificate and that using the English version just makes things easier on the staff. Making things easier didn’t stop me using the Irish version of my name in university, even going as far as changing it on my I.D. and email account. But that was different.
Of course, Lucy Costello can collect Jobseeker’s Benefit, but Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha doesn’t have to. Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha, and her name, are free from the system. She never claimed money from the government because ‘nowhere was hiring.’ Lucy Costello, however, did. But that’s alright. She’s someone else.
Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha has never sat in this impersonal waiting room. Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha has never gritted her teeth in a smile at the receptionist, hoping he’ll forget her face in a matter of minutes. Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha has never watched a girl sobbing in a booth in front of her because she’s not eligible for social welfare.
Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha has never been in this building. Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha scored a job straight out of college, bought her boyfriend a fantastic birthday present with her own money, booked herself a summer holiday, and enjoyed a great summer, drinking wine in the backyard with a stack of books and going out to pubs with her flatmates in the evening.
Lucy Costello has seen all this. Lucy Costello will return for the eligibility meeting in two weeks. Lucy Costello will collect bank statements, proof of address and passport. But that’s alright. I can leave it all on her doorstep. I can hang all this shame off the sound of my English name. As long as Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha is who she says she is – the strong, smart, super – confident young woman – Lucy Costello can swallow her pride and stretch out her hand. She can take the hit.
The lady behind the partition swiftly whips out a box of Kleenex from under her desk, and the girl, still sniffling, wipes her eyes. The lady tells her “it’s all going to be alright.”
I wonder why there are tissues under the desk. Does the lady have a runny nose, or do people tend to break down in desperation often? I pretend it’s the former while swallowing the truth of the latter.
Lucy Costello signs a few more forms, gets her photograph taken, and shoves yet more paperwork into her bag. She leaves, ducking her head as she passes security on the way out, as if to show humility or a healthy sense of shame.
Yes, I know it’s a disgrace that I’m here. Yes, I know that I should have a job. Yes, I know I don’t deserve government handouts when I’m an able – bodied, young, educated, middle – class woman. I don’t deserve to shove my sticky hand in the pot. Other people need it more.
The air is thick as I, Laoighseach Ní Choistealbha – not the girl who has just emerged from the Intreo building, not the girl who has signed forms and stamped sheets, not the girl who has stared at the floor for ninety minutes – cross the street to the appropriately placed JIGSAW building, which deals with young people’s mental health, from the ages of 15 to 25.
I walk, almost dream-like, into the building, down the steps, and present myself in front of the receptionist, who raises her blonde head to greet me. My presence here almost feels like a confession in itself.
I am sick. I am not well. I am not functioning.
A few syllables come out half-formed, before the truth falls out of me for the first time that day, neat and perfect and just there, like a freshly laid egg.
“D-Do you have someone I can talk to?”
On the sign-in sheet, I scribble a name: Lucy Costello.
