Day one

September 2015

Monday 7th September

• Cups of tea: 4
• Acronyms pretended to understand: 12
• Toilet cubicle crying: 0 (minor victory)
• Mentors fallen slightly in love with: 1
• Times I considered faking my own death: 2, but both before 9am so they don’t count

The smell of warm bread drifted up the stairwell before the alarm. My unofficial snooze button.

I lay there for a moment, eyes on the hairline crack above my bed (the one that looks like the Thames if you squint and have been drinking), listening to the bakery shutters clatter open and the city stretch its bones. Somewhere below, Coventry was waking up, doing its Coventry things, entirely unaware that today was the day Maisie MacDonald became a Real Social Worker (RSW) and not just someone with a degree and a concerning amount of student debt.

Mr Whiskers, my one-eyed tabby tyrant and longest male relationship, chose this moment of quiet reflection to step onto my throat with the delicacy of a bricklayer.

“Breakfast,” I croaked, which is our code for: I love you but you are emotionally manipulative and if you don’t move I will die.

He blinked his single green eye, unimpressed by my mortality, and head-butted my glasses off the bedside table. They clattered somewhere under the bed, into that mysterious realm where glasses go to consort with hair ties and single earrings.

First day as a real social worker. I had planned a calm, grown-up morning: alarm at 6:30am, yoga stretches, a sensible breakfast involving fruit, perhaps a motivational podcast about believing in yourself. Instead, I began it on my knees in my second-best pair of bed knickers, patting under the bed for my frames while an elderly cat sat on my pillow judging my life choices.

“This is not,” I told him, retrieving the glasses from a dust bunny the size of a small nation, “how Legally Blonde started.”

He yawned. He’d seen the film. He wasn’t impressed with that either.

* * *

The mirror gave me back someone who looked almost competent. Navy dress, professional but not funereal. Sensible flats. Because you never know when you’ll need to run, and heels are a liability in this line of work, though nobody tells you that at university. Cardigan that said approachable rather than please tell me your secrets. I’d agonised over that cardigan for twenty minutes last night. My best friend Jo had talked me down via text. It’s a cardigan, Maze. Not a personality test. But it IS a personality test. Everything is a personality test when you’re about to walk into a room full of people who’ve been doing this job since before you could spell “safeguarding.”

I ran the straighteners over my hair until it obeyed (a minor miracle; my hair has strong opinions about humidity) and dabbed concealer on the spot that had appeared overnight like a stress-beacon. Because of course. Of course my face would choose today to stage a rebellion.

One final check. Bag: notebook, pens, phone, wallet, the folder of induction paperwork I’d read three times without retaining anything. Armpits: acceptable. Teeth: present. Existential dread: simmering but contained.

Today I would not cry in a toilet cubicle.

Ambitious, but we must dream.

* * *

Far Gosford Street had that early-autumn bite, a morning that couldn’t decide between summer’s last gasp and autumn’s first breath. Students in oversized hoodies drifted past wrapped around takeaway coffees, carrying that back-to-school buzz, and I felt it too: that tingle of excitement that precedes complete terror. New pencil cases. Fresh starts. The naive belief that this time, THIS time, you’ll be organised.

I tightened my scarf (the nice one, the one Mum gave me for graduation) and told myself this was just another Monday.

Just the kind where you carry the state’s authority in your tote bag and your imposter syndrome like a second handbag.

The walk to the Council House takes twelve minutes if you don’t stop, fourteen if you get stuck behind the slow walkers outside Greggs, and approximately seven hours if you’re walking towards the first day of your professional life and your legs have decided they’d quite like to not. I took the long way around, past the cathedral ruins, because apparently I wanted to contemplate mortality and also because I was early and being early felt somehow worse than being on time. What would I do with the extra minutes? Stand there? Looking eager? Like a golden retriever in a cardigan?

The Council House on Earl Street looks like Hogwarts got a job in local government. Red sandstone, arched windows, a clock tower that watches you be late. It’s beautiful in a stern, municipal way; a building that says important things happen here and also your parking fine is overdue.

I’d been inside before, for my interview, but that had been a blur of sweaty palms and trying to remember the Children Act while a panel of three stared at me like I was a particularly unconvincing magic trick. Today was different. Today I was supposed to belong.

“New starter?” asked Security, peering over his glasses as I fumbled with my temporary badge.

“How could you tell?”

“The look,” he said. “Part deer, part headlights.”

Fantastic. Excellent start.

I lifted the badge they’d dropped off for me last week: MAISIE MACDONALD CHILDREN’S SERVICES. My name in official font. My face in that photo where I look vaguely startled, because the camera had gone off before I was ready and the woman had said “that’ll do” before I could ask for another go.

“Try not to feed the printers,” Security said, deadpan, handing me a lanyard with a key fob on the end. “They bite. Third floor, turn left, follow the sound of despair and the smell of instant coffee.”

“Noted.”

“And love.” He’d already turned back to his crossword. “It gets easier. Or you get used to it. One of those.”

I wasn’t sure which was more comforting. I wasn’t sure either was comforting at all.

* * *

The lift was broken, because of course it was. By the time I’d climbed three flights of stairs (sensible flats, good choice, past Maisie, you genius) I was slightly out of breath and deeply aware that I should probably take up running or at least stop eating croissants for dinner.

Level 3. The open-plan office stretched ahead, partitioned into clusters of desks, whiteboards, filing cabinets that looked like they predated the building. Phones chirped. Keyboards clacked. Somewhere, a printer whirred with the menacing persistence of a machine that knows it holds all the power.

The smell hit me first: photocopier ink, instant coffee, the ghost of someone’s meal-deal sandwich, and underneath it all, something indefinable. Stress, maybe. Or commitment. Or the aroma of forty people trying to hold back chaos with paperwork and good intentions.

On the whiteboard along the back wall, the week’s rota in squeaky marker: DUTY, VISITS, COURT, CORE GROUPS. Names I didn’t know yet. Codes I didn’t understand. Someone had drawn a small sad face next to DUTY and then crossed it out, which felt ominous.

I stood there, bag clutched like a shield, trying to locate someone who looked like they might tell me where to go, when a voice cut through the noise.

“Maisie?”

Warm velvet. I turned.

A man in his fifties, standing by a desk covered in papers and what appeared to be an entire ecosystem of Post-it notes. He had kind eyes, earthy brown, flecked with amber, and a brown leather notebook tucked under one arm, soft-cornered from years of use. His shirt was soft blue, slightly creased, like he’d ironed it but not aggressively. He smiled, and something in my chest unclenched.

“Ray Campbell. I’m your mentor.” He held out his hand and I shook it. Firm grip, warm palm. “Don’t look so terrified. Nobody lets you make big mistakes without me at your shoulder.”

“I’m not terrified,” I lied.

“Course not. That’s just your face.”

I laughed before I could stop myself, and he grinned, a grin that said I’ve seen a hundred new starters and they all looked like you and most of them survived.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you your desk before Heather finds you.”

“Who’s Heather?”

As if summoned, a tall slim woman shot past with a stack of files tucked under one arm like disciplined ducklings. Blonde bob, precise. Perfect eyeliner, the kind that takes twenty minutes and looks like it took none. The scent of citrus and something sharper, ambition, maybe, or just really good perfume — the sort you only encounter when spraying all the samples in duty free.

“Heather,” Ray said mildly, as if speaking to a storm. “Edwards. Assistant Team Manager.”

She stopped. Turned. Cool blue gaze flicking head to toe like a barcode scan.

“Newly qualified?”

“Very,” I said.

“Fine.” Already walking again. “Read the policy folder. Twice. And don’t abbreviate in case notes. We write for court, not for ourselves.”

She was gone before I could respond, leaving only the faint scent of citrus and the distinct impression that I had been found wanting.

“She’s lovely once you get to know her,” Ray said.

“Is she?”

“No. But she’s fair, and she’s good, and she’ll make you better.” He steered me towards a cluster of desks near the window. “That’s the trick. Find the people who’ll make you better, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

* * *

My desk was exactly what you’d expect: slightly sticky keyboard, monitor with a Post-it saying LOG IN DETAILS IN TOP DRAWER, a phone that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the Cold War. But someone had left a welcome card, hand-signed by the team, including one signature that was just a smiley face, and a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST SOCIAL WORKER.

“That was Mei,” Ray said, nodding towards a woman around my age with sharp cheekbones and a silk scarf that suggested opinions. She was typing with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. “She’s your cohort. Started two months ago. She’ll tell you where the good biscuits are hidden.”

“There’s a hierarchy of biscuits?”

“There’s a hierarchy of everything.” He picked up a battered set of car keys from my desk and jangled them. “Pool Car 7. She’s yours for the week. Coughs like a pensioner, pulls to the left, and the heating’s stuck on volcanic. Treat her gently.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

“It’s character building.” He checked his watch. “Right. Ian wants to do the welcome bit before briefing. Brace yourself for enthusiasm.”

* * *

Ian Chambers’ office was tidy in the way that suggested regular, possibly therapeutic, reorganisation. Plants on the windowsill, valiantly refusing to die. A framed certificate on the wall. A family photo: him, a woman, two teenagers frozen mid-laugh. On his desk, a mug that said WORLD’S BEST DAD, which either his children had given him or he’d bought himself, and I wasn’t sure which was sadder.

He stood when we entered, slim, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, rectangular glasses, the air of a headteacher who genuinely believes that everyone can succeed if they just apply themselves.

“Maisie! Brilliant to have you.” He shook my hand with careful enthusiasm. “Sit, sit. Tea? Coffee? We have both, though I warn you the coffee is what my wife calls ‘an acquired taste’ and I call ‘a cry for help.’”

“Tea’s fine.”

“Excellent choice. Ray, would you?”

Ray was already moving towards a kettle in the corner. I got the impression this was a well-rehearsed routine.

“So,” Ian said, leaning forward with his hands clasped. “First day. Big day. How are you feeling? Honestly.”

“Terrified,” I said, because he’d said honestly and something about his face made me believe he meant it.

“Good. That’s healthy. The ones who aren’t terrified are the ones I worry about.” He smiled. “First thing: you’re not alone. You’ll feel alone sometimes, that’s the nature of the work, but you’re not. Second thing: paperwork is how we keep children safe. It doesn’t always feel like it, but it is. The notes you write today could be read by a judge in two years. So we write like it matters, because it does.”

I nodded. My throat felt tight.

“We’ll keep your caseload light to start. You’ll shadow Ray for a couple of weeks — home visits, case conferences, court. Learn our systems, our rhythms. Ask questions. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.” He accepted a mug from Ray and wrapped his hands around it. “Remember: contemporaneous recording. If it’s not written down?”

“It didn’t happen,” I recited. “God bless university.”

He laughed. “Exactly. Though between us, university teaches you about thirty per cent of what you need. The rest you learn here.” He gestured vaguely at the office, at the world beyond. “In the mess of it.”

Ray handed me my tea. It was too milky, but I didn’t say anything.

“Any questions?” Ian asked.

Just the small one about how not to ruin anyone’s life. Just the small one about whether I’m actually qualified to do this or if my degree was an elaborate clerical error. Just the small one about what happens when I get it wrong, because I will get it wrong, everyone gets it wrong, and what then?

“No,” I said. “I’m good.”

“Excellent. Morning briefing in five. Ray will look after you.”

He would. I believed that already. It was the only thing I was sure of.

* * *

Briefing was a scrum of bodies around a desk someone had declared a table. Introductions came fast, names I immediately forgot, faces that blurred together, a plate of supermarket doughnuts that was already half-demolished. Mei slid one towards me without making eye contact, which I decided to interpret as friendship.

The duty list went up. My name appeared beside SHADOW with an arrow pointing to Ray’s. Under Allocations, two cases I’d be observing: Billy (statutory visit), Jade Ellis (home visit, PLO prep).

“We’ll start gentle,” Ray said, as everyone dispersed. “Jade first, she’s young, new baby, prickly. Then Billy, he’s in foster care, stable placement, routine welfare check. You see the child where they live, ask about school, health, feelings. And before long you’ll sit in on a strategy meeting. That’s when agencies share information about significant risk and decide next steps.”

“Strategy meeting,” I repeated, writing it down.

“Think speed-dating, but with safeguarding.”

“And less flirting,” Ian added.

“Dear God hopefully,” Ray muttered.

Heather swept past, a file already open in her hands. “MacDonald. Read the PLO guidance before Wednesday. There’s a test.”

“There’s a…” I started, but she was gone.

“There’s no test,” Mei said, appearing at my elbow. “She just likes to keep people alert.”

“Is she always like that?”

“Only when she’s awake.” Mei almost smiled. “You’ll be fine. Everyone cries in the first month. The toilets on the second floor have the best acoustics.”

This, I realised, was what passed for reassurance here.

I texted Jo from the second-floor toilets: Survived morning. Team seems human. One woman may actually be a beautiful cyborg sent to assess my weaknesses. Send wine later.

She replied: You’ve got this. Don’t shag anyone on day one.

Sound advice. Historically unheeded in past workplaces, but sound.