Chapter 19 — The Court Eviction

The summer soon ended, and with the start of September, I was lucky to secure work back at the college again. Within the month, Trust Inns, the owners of the property and land, had initiated court proceedings to have the two static caravans removed, which we all lived in. One afternoon, a young woman solicitor appeared and began to plaster all the walls of the building and the caravans too with documents advertising their intention to go to court for eviction. A date in October had been set, and they were determined to rid their land of the hobos dossing there called Karl, Alex, John, and all the animals which accompanied our characters.

When the day of court arrived, John didn't bother to attend, but Lorraine did, which was unusual, and she never did give a reason, and I suppose it was curiosity or wanting to see a true closure to the whole fiasco called the Harrogate Arms.

The court was traditional, and it had that very official atmosphere and whispering people. A duty solicitor asked us if we would like him to undertake our 'defence', if that's what you could call it, and we agreed, since he would have possessed a consummate understanding of the law compared with ours. His skilful eyes quickly perused the document and case against us, and he declared within a matter of minutes that the owner's intention to 'evict' on the grounds of 'trespass' was unlawful on account that I had lived in the Harrogate Arms, and therefore was in legal terms 'a tenant', and this alone would deem the summons invalid.

With this unassailable point of steel, we all entered the chamber of the magistrate. Trust Inns submitted their case, and the duty solicitor contended it with ours. The magistrate wavered in favour of the latter, and I was granted another six weeks' reprieve, but to make ready for leaving the property, as then some other initiation of law would commence, and then I would be evicted. John was not so lucky, and since he hadn't been living 'in the Arms', an eviction licence was granted against him that very day.

The next day I hired a car, and we moved John out with his meagre belongings and set off for Clifford, where he now lives with his son.

***

Back at the caravan, it was somehow different without my old pal, and the place appeared cold, and you could feel the autumnal air and see the fine drizzle, which barely made a sound in the greyish light. Alex had gone to stay with Rebecca that day, and I can remember thinking, sat there in the caravan, that soon, within weeks, I would have to make a decision about finding alternative accommodation.

Finding another place to live isn't hard, but when you have a teenage son, three dogs and a cat, and a credit record bust to bits, it becomes a serious matter. The sale of the bungalow was all but complete, and all that remained was for NatWest to release the charge on the place, which they had obstinately resisted doing. The buyer had become increasingly irritated with the delay of the sale, and he would constantly pester me for a conclusion, and I would pester NatWest for a conclusion, but nothing happened. I could have pulled out of the sale and moved back into the bungalow, but I vehemently, passionately detested the idea of moving back to Belle Isle, and in particular to the bungalow, which had caused so many rifts with Anna and problems in the past.

I decided to apply to the council for accommodation and possessed court documentation to attest that I would be homeless within a matter of weeks.

The last time I had visited one of these offices was in the distant past when living at 255 and paying the rent. The Harrogate office was small, and an old woman was at the desk advising a man and his wife about procedures when I arrived.

'Can you tell your wife that she will have the keys to the property once the workmen have been in to remove all the old furniture.'

The man spoke in some other language to his wife, who in turn spoke in some other language back to her husband.

'My wife says, will she be able to move in by the end of the week?'

'Yes, I think she'll have the keys to the three-bedroomed house by the end of the week.'

The man and his wife then left with their three children.

I approached the desk and informed the lady of my state, and that I would like to make application for council tenancy. She asked me to take a seat and that someone would be with me shortly.

A young girl, no more than sixteen, sat opposite with a baby no more than twelve months. She was shortly joined by a young lad of similar age to the lass and with a baseball cap on and muttering various expletives as to why he was late.

'You should a been ere half an hour ago.'

'Shut the fuck up, an dote start. I've had enuff.'

'Baby's shit hersen again. Put her on table there while I get her nappies out of bag.'

The lad duly plonked the baby on the little table, which held a couple of magazines, and duly began to remove the soiled nappy. After his other half had cleaned the baby, the dirty nappy was unceremoniously placed in the bin beside them for future attendees to screw their nostrils at.

'Stacy Middleton?' asked the old woman returning to her desk from the back somewhere, and grabbing a keen hold of the stink in the waiting room.

'Ye, that's me.'

'Here are your keys to the flat, and make sure you make application for housing benefit straight away.'

The two young kids shuffled up to the counter with the baby, duly took the keys, and without even a thank you left to take residence of their council flat.

'Now, Mr Swainston, if you'd like to go through to the room on the right, someone will be able to speak to you.'

I made my way to the room, entered and sat down opposite a middle-aged woman shuffling some papers and not looking up as she spoke, 'Mr Swainston, what can I do for you?'

I related my present circumstance, and the woman listened attentively.

'I'm sorry, but we don't have any accommodation, and the only abode we can offer is some hostel. But they won't take animals, and you will have to get rid of the dogs and cat before they'll even consider housing you.'

And that was it: nothing. Fifty years old, worked nearly all of my life and fuck all. I was so annoyed. I paid fifty thousand pounds alone each year in tax when at the Academy, but that means jack shit when up against either immigrants with babies, or teenage kids with 'shitty' babies.