(Editorial notes This article, and two other articles which will follow, have been written by social workers and are based’ upon their professional and personal experiences, These experiences strengthen the argument for . the NAB to be integrated into a Ministry of Social Security, and illustrate the urgency with which the Government should approach the establishment of this ministry proposed in the Labour Party's "New Frontiers for Social Security.")
"Will you write an article outlining what the National Assistance Board needSeece"s “Blowing up" I thought, as he continued, "....to improve or change it?" The man asking the questions had a round kindly face which wasn't in the least like "the man from the National Assistance Board", His question had sent my mind back to the day when I saw "the man at the National Assistance Board" office some six or seven years ago. I shall never forget his face, it was deformed by bittenness and hatred, I was a plumber, unemployed and broke, I had been on the dole before, Come to think of it, it wasn't the first time I had been skint. This was Liverpool and the lot of the casual building worker, But this time it was different. I was in Liverpool and my wife was in hospital in London, "Fill in a B.I. and take it to the National Assistance Board, they may help you to visit your wife" suggested a sympathetic clerk at the Employment exchange. So I did. My depression deepened as I entered the waiting room where I saw row after row of grey faces that seemed to fuse into the drab green walls. I panicked at the thought that they were 'people' and I was one of them. I wanted to run. I clenched my fists, sat down and stared at the worn green linoleum. I felt ashamed. Ashamed of. being there and yet ashamed that I had thought I was different from the people around mee God, how worried I was, perhaps I did not look like them or maybe they were more worried than me, Children cried and my thoughts crowded and blurred the faces, A crackling voice from a loudspeaker called a name which I couldn't understand and an elderly man shuffled towards a door and went through into the ‘Inner Sanctum.! We slowly propelled ourselves along the wooden forms, our bottoms leaving the wood only when we moved up a form, as the interviewing clerk behind the grill shouted questions to decide who was eligible for Assistance, "Hels a bastard" I thought and I clenched my fists again as I heard him growl to a young white girl with two babies "He's coloured is he? And youtre not marrieae Who's the father of the kids then?" What right has he ~ but my thoughts stopped as I looked straight at the face of the man behind the erill. He had half risen from the chair as he was shouting to the girl that she was "not entitled" and I could see his face above the grill. He was fast approaching sixty, with steel grey hair and a face that had been moulded into the most ugly, frightening shape, by hate? fear of us? frustration? overwork? or was it an overwhelming responsibility? as the girl argued with him and he began raising his voice, the rest of the waiting room became anxious and restless and began to talk loudly and some shouted abuse at the clerk. The man stood up and leaning over the grill shouted to those waiting to "shut up or get outside." I felt angry and sad. What right has he? But I, like the girl, was helpless, I felt sadness for the girl, the clerk and all of us in the room. We seemed trapped. Trapped by other men or by ourselves colluding with other men? Who knows, I mused.
The man at the ‘iationrl Assistance Board continued/ Nudged out of my reverie by the man next to me I heard the clerk shout "Next" and stumbled forward. I handed him the B.I. form from the Lebour Exchenge and he began shouting questions for all to hear. Anger welled up inside me, but I answered him quietly and calmly, telling him about my wife in hospital and that I needed the fare to London. He continued asking questions whilst he was, :resumably, writing the answers on a form, Within a few minutes he told me curtly "Youtre not entitled" then shouted "Next!" I was furious. I shouted and demanded a "discretionary payment", Whether it was because I shouted or my knowledge of the Assistance Act which made him more angry I will never know, but he told me to "leave or I will call the police." "Bring the police or the manager" I shouted angrily. ‘This retort immediately calmed him and he told me to sit down and he would arrange for me to speak to the manager. I sat down amidst subdued praises from the waiting applicants. "That told the bastard." "Its about timee" "Hets been getting away with it for years" and so on like a humming top in my ears. But the old lag who I now found myself sitting with was not a bit impressed with my apparent success. "You won't see him yer know." "Who?" I asked. "The manager" he replied. "You're being given the treatment, by the time they call you the manager will have gone home." If this was true I was to be allowed to cool off and then sent packing. It was then 3.00 p.m, and I had been in the "Outer Sanctum" since 2.10 peme A 5.15 peme my name was called through the crackly loudspeaker. I entered the "Inner Sanctum’, I was directed into a large room with a huge semicircular counter divided into at least.-ardozen interviewing booths. A young woman called my name, I sat down and she began asking me the questions I had already answered. I explained that I had requested to see the manager. She looked surprised nnd told me that the menager had left the office. Christ, the old lag was right! After I explained again the reason for ny application, the clerk, who was very pleasunt and sympathetic, sugezested we complete another form. This we did and for 2 second time I was told that I was "not entitled" and "no" I could not have a discretionary payment. The following morning, after discussing my experience with a friend who sat on a N.A.B. Appeals Tribunal, I went back to the Bonrd but this time entered by the staff entrance. I found the moniger's office, knocked and entered. This man had never been the 'front man! in the 'Outer Sanctum", He had a pleasant face and an engaging manner. I explained my entry, told him about my experience the day before and that my friend (neming him, of course) had confirmed that I could be considered for a discretionary grant, He immedlately agreed and suggested he should see if my application wes filled in correctly. When he returned he placed the train fare to Londor. in my hand, npologised for the way I had been trented and told me he hoped my wife would soon be well agains I now know that the Board employs many different types of people. Some dedicated civil servants, others striving to understand and be fair to people, and there are many quite unsuited to handling people with problems; in particular there are those frustrated failures from other Government departments who transfer to the National Assistance Board in the hope of finding success. Now that I have released my repressed feelings about the Board I think I might manage to write objectively about it. The theme? ABOLITION!