Jane's husband doesn't have a job any more. . . and she can barely live with the shame
The children still have pony lessons, she's kept on the cleaner, but, financially AND emotionally, her gilded world is falling apart. One woman's story of how fragile our middle-class lives can be. . .
At supper one day, our eight-year-old daughter Emily announces that she has an idea. Its about a new job for Daddy, she says, I saw it on the back of a bus. Daddy, you could train as a bus driver and earn 125 a day.
My husband, Andy, winces. My eyes fill with tears. Hes got a History degree from Cambridge, a Masters degree in Business, and years of senior experience in strategic management. Bus driving wasnt exactly the future hed planned.
He makes a joke of it, gives Emily a hug but yet again his self-esteem takes a knock, an all-too-regular event these days. By the time Emily spotted the advert on the bus, hed been jobless for two years. She could hardly remember a time when Daddy went to an office.
We were once a typical middle-class family, comfortable, not super-rich, children in good state schools but with private lessons for tennis and riding (posed by models)
We were once a typical middle-class family comfortable, not super-rich, children in good state schools but with private lessons for tennis and riding. Skiing in February, a nice hotel in Italy or Spain in the summer.
Andys corporate career meant that I could work freelance as a writer when it suited me. We enjoyed our lives, and without even realising it felt se! cure and optimistic. Thats not the case any more. Since Andy was made redundant four years ago now, our income has plummeted. Sometimes he picks up a day or two of work; twice hes had contracts which last a few months.
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Im working, too, and we have savings and his redundancy money. By cutting back on luxuries, were still afloat financially. But emotionally, thats something else. And our belief in the future has completely dwindled away.
The middle-class unemployed are pretty invisible. We dont riot, we dont draw attention to ourselves, and we often dont show up in official unemployment figures. We dont qualify for benefits, free school meals or tax credits we have to use up our savings first, and sell our home.
At some point, Andy will probably sign onfor the Jobseekers Allowance 67 a week for six months. But its unlikely that hell find any jobs for his level of seniority advertised at the local Jobcentre, although hes overflowing with qualifications and experience and couldnt be keener to find work.
Acacia Avenue, a street name synonymous with comfortable middle-class Britain... but just how safe is that comfort?
We know quite a few people in a similar position, but few admit to it. Theyre freelance consultants or building a portfolio career. We know not to ask too closely about how much consultancy work they get (Andy thinks himself lucky to get a couple of days a month) or what goes in the portfolio. In return, they dont ask us how were surviving.
Some friends of ours were terrified of traumatising their children if they admitted that Daddy didnt have a job any more. So each morning hed dress in a suit and head for the station, take a train to London and spend the day in a library.
They lived this charade for six months, until he set up his own business. We felt the kids didnt need the insecurity of worrying about money, his wife told me. We took a different view. Emily was six when Andy lost his job; twins Jack and Lucy were 12. We felt they were robust enough to know that life had ups and downs, and that money would be tighter until their father found a new job.
Besides, Andy had a redundancy package from his last job that would cover us for six months at least. How long could it take to find a job? We never expected that four years later, Andy would still be out of work.
The kids have learned to do without expensive clothes and electronic gadgets; the paint is peeling from our windowsills. Theres a long list of things we dont buy any more: books,clothes, magazines, handbags. Lucy proudly boasts of the money shes saved when she goes shopping with her friends.
Weve managed to keep up Jacks tennis lessons and Emilys riding, with help from my parents. I know theyd do anything to help us but it sti! ll felt humiliating when I paid their cheque into our account.
Even worse was applying for a bursary so that Jack could go abroad with his cricket team. I knew it was the only way we could afford it; I knew hed be upset if he couldnt go. But the thought of people in the cricket club our peers, our equals judging our need, made me feel physically sick.
I wrote the application three times and three times I threw it away, before forcing myself to send it off. The bursary was granted, and Jack went on his tour. I havent set foot in the cricket club since. Emily was hardly the first one to comeup with the idea that Andy should ditch his former career and strike out on a new path. Has he thought about re-training? people ask me again and again.
What as? I ask, as politely as possible. Again and again, the same answer comes back. As a teacher!
Unfortunatelyfor their Dead Poets Society fantasy, Andy has no interest in teaching in fact hes convinced hed be a disaster in the classroom. And we knowyoung, energetic and keen teachers who cant get jobs. Plusre-training as anything teacher, plumber, lawyer, counsellor (all suggested by well-meaning friends) involves time, money and starting out again at the bottom, with a salary to match.
And why re-train when head-hunters are still calling with job opportunities? Sometimes they call a lot three or four in one week. Sometimes theres nothing at all. Each call is a possible way out of Andys predicament. Each possiblity is researched inobsessive detail, prepared for like an Olympic marathon.
Jane never anticipated that she would end up buying her daughters' clothes from Primark
Last month, a job came up at a telecoms company in Oslo. The head-hunter thought that Andy would be perfect for it. Andy s! tarted r inging contacts in telecoms, printing out pages of information about the company. Im not getting excited, its really early days, he assures me, but theres a gleam in his eye when he talks about fjords and skiing.
Meanwhile I started panicking about packing up the house, googling international schools in Oslo and trying not to burst into tears of happiness too often. Two weeks later, hed heard nothing. He phoned the head-hunter, trying to sound casual. Oh yeah, hes told. That job. They decided against it. Theyre going to manage without a Head of Strategy for the time being.
Often though, the initial interest turns into a job interview. And then another, a panel, a day of psychometric testing. Andy goes off to these tests like a boy on his first day at a new school: smart, nervous, hopeful. Generally he comes back feeling things went well. They liked you, says the head-hunter. Ill be in touch.
And then it all goes quiet. Andy jumps every time his phone rings but its never the head-hunter. Three, four weeks go by. In the end he cracks and calls. Sorry, hes told. A new candidate popped up. They really liked you, but they felt she had something different to offer.
Either way, the possibilities consume Andy for weeks on end. He needs to talk through every aspect of every possible job, and he talks to me. Its exhausting, its necessary, and it sometimes makes me want to scream. But I know its the most important thing I can do for him so I go on listening, sharing the pain with him as chances crumble into nothing.
The mental stress on my husband is enormous. Its as though hes trapped in a recurring nightmare in which hes for ever on trial, never escaping.
After six months without work, he started having panic attacks. He focused on Emily, losing confidence about his ability to drive her safely in the car or even be alone with her. He was haunted by the idea that shed come to harm in his care. He cried Andy never cries as he begged me not to leave the two of them alone.
He talked to our GP, signed up for meditation classes, bought some relaxation tapes. He confided in old, trusted friends, started exercising more. Slowly the panic attacks eased. I cope by refusing to think about the future. I wont go down that road of what-ifs, because otherwise Id start panicking, too. I try to block out the past as well, otherwise I get bitter and angry, re-running decisions we botched, things we should have done differently.
Its not easy. I used to cheer myself up with a lipstick or a pair of shoes but I cant do that now. I loved buying pretty clothes for my girls. And theyre still pretty but they dress at Primark now. Its not that I think materialistic things matter, its just that life feels dreary and miserable without them.
We were too spoiled, maybe, to cut out all the extras. We still have a cleaner once a week, we buy Christmas presents for the kids (but not each other), we treat ourselves to a night out at the cinema every week.
I worry about the money, but I also feel its important to enjoy family life. And I dont want there to be too much of a gulf between my children and their affluent friends, the ones who still go skiing, have real Ugg boots and PlayStation 3.
Theone unemployed executive I know who went the full austerity route was aworking mum, sacked from a top job in corporate finance. On her first morning at home, she sacked her cleaner and cut up her credit cards. It was as though she wanted to punish herself.
I feel so bad that Ive let my family down, she told me. The least I can do now is clean my own toilet.
Strangely enough, some good things have come from our situation. Like many couples, wed become unequal partners. Andy earned the money; I did everything else.
Now thats all changed. I take on bigger projects and longer contracts, and love building my career again. A friend asked me how unemployment affected the way I perceived Andy and how he ! saw hims elf. Did he feel less of a man without a job to define him?
Well, contrary to her expectations, this has never been an issue. I love and admire his courage in overcoming the stress and stigma of his situation even more than I did when he was the conventional breadwinner. Were closer than we were because our roles are less separate. We always had a good marriage, but now its better than ever.
Sometimes Andy cant face social events where he knows hes going to be quizzed about what is happening in his life. But hes ambivalent about his old workaholic life. He certainly doesnt envy men who work long hours and never see their families.
Id love to win the Lottery, he says, because then I could do things that would define me better than any job could do.
In the meantime, Andys become a real hands-on dad. He used to be a voice on the phone the Daddy who goes away on business trips and comes back with airport presents. During the working week, hed leave home before they woke and come back well after their bedtime. Now, he plays table tennis with Jack, helps Lucy with her coursework, reads bedtime stories to Emily. Hes learning to get self-esteem from his relationship with his kids, his tenacity and his determination to keep going with the job-hunting.
Hes thinking about taking some Open University courses. He remains quietly sure that, one day, things will change. Im proud of his flexibility, his survival instinct. I rage at the world which cant find a use for his talent and experience.
A friend told me recently about a middle-class family whod told no one their finances had reached breaking point. The marriage broke up, the husband moved out. Eventually their 13-year-old daughter told a teacher that she needed help because her mum was ill.
When friends went around to the house, they found the mother lying in bed, her face to the wall. She wouldnt speak to them, she was engulfed in despair. There was no food in the house. Theyd quietly run out of money altogether, an! d were t oo ashamed to ask for help.
Im confident well never get into that situation. We are lucky to have equity in our house thank goodness that we never traded up and saddled ourselves with a massive mortgage. Sometimes we fantasise about selling up and moving to the Highlands. We could do it, liberate cash, and live off my earnings just about. But the question remains, what would Andy do? Hes just 47, too young to retire, too young to write off what was until four years ago a successful career.
Another day, another head-hunter. Andys smart in his suit, steeling himself for a tough interview. Ive got three freelance projects on the go, Im gulping down coffee, trying to meet deadlines. Like many, many families in our position, all over the UK, all over the world, were surviving. But when will things get better?
All names have been changed.
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