The Tax Man

Amadeus had experienced a few career problems during the previous ten months. He was made redundant from one job, but his notice period and payout were decent. He had hoped for three more years of work before retiring.

He was once told when you’re drowning, don’t ask the colour of the life raft. Another job came before he was kicked out. He took the job, parked his payout and took Geraldine on a week’s holiday before starting.

Amadeus couldn’t say he was lied to, but the company was dependant on 11 customers. One account had delayed their purchasing, which created terror. The workshop was empty. The field service crew had shrunk and nobody had been on site for a month. The latest departure had been offered a job and flew to Saudi the next week.

‘Why the fuck can’t you get clients like that?’ screamed Bellamy, the company’s owner.

‘Because I’ve been here for five weeks and we don’t have anything in Saudi. The visa’s a grand, the flights are more and the hotel twice that. You buy the tickets and I’ll be there in a flash.’

Amadeus knew the company, and Bellamy, were broke. His expenses had been short-changed by £4 because he couldn’t get a receipt for an electronic toll crossing. He made it back by overcharging for his mileage.

By November, things were spiralling downwards. Bellamy’s solution was to cut Amadeus’ salary, but he refused, so the dirty tricks started. Amadeus was suspended and dragged into a meeting two hours later. It was straight-up bullying. He was given a stark choice. Accept the pay cut or be fired.

He refused, forcing Bellamy to hold a sham meeting where he was fired for gross misconduct. That meant Bellamy could weasel out of paying Amadeus’ notice.

To compound his worries, Bellamy didn’t pay his last month’s salary and owed him a chunk of money in expenses. He now had a bigger financial hole than before.

Amadeus was deeply upset. His blood pressure went north of 150/95, his resting heartbeat was over 80, he was stressed and he drank too much.

‘Calm down!’ instructed Geraldine, his wife.

‘Sorry, babe. I get burning angry every time I think of that twat.’

There was another problem.

‘I can’t tell an employer I got fired for gross misconduct. Sounds like I was till-dipping. And I’m worried about my age.’

‘Tell the truth, Ama!’

He knew a prospective employer would ask why he left his last job, so he created an answer. He practised the words out loud to get the correct intonation and then booked interviews with recruiters to make the tale more convincing. He’d created an armour to hide the pain.

Geraldine put comforting arms around him and they held hands. ‘Never forget how much I love you.’

As Amadeus’ seas calmed, HM Customs and Revenue sent a mail, reminding him to complete a tax return. This usually meant he owed money, which he didn’t want to pay. He worked through the document, then realised he should have added Jobseekers’ Allowance.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he yelled in a whisper, so Geraldine couldn’t hear. He bit the bullet and called the helpline, making the call at 8 a.m., to beat the rush.

‘Welcome to HM Revenue and Customs. Please have your National Insurance number ready,’ said the electronic voice when he called. ‘Did you know….’

‘I don’t want the bloody live chat!’ he said when the option came up.

‘Or to watch a YouTube video. I want to talk to someone. And I’m not giving you feedback,’ he replied to each option.

‘Ama!’ shouted Geraldine across the kitchen. ‘They won’t help you if you speak like that!’

‘Good morning, HM Revenue and Customs. Michelle speaking,’ said the warm voice in a Newcastle accent.

‘Hi Michelle. My name’s Amadeus Shaw.’

‘That’s a cracker!’ she giggled. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the laugh was genuine. ‘Dad was a refugee from Austria at the end of the war. He Anglicised our surname and to hide our ancestry, he called me Amadeus.’

‘I can’t wait to tell the girls over coffee.’ Michelle chuckled for several seconds. ‘I’m sorry. How can I help?’

‘I’ve got to complete this self-assessment form and it’s killing me. I can’t make the numbers add up.’

‘Don’t panic. Let me help you.’

She walked him through it. He registered the two employers and had the figures for his income and tax.

‘If you have any job-related expenses you can put them in this section here,’ she commented.

Amadeus smiled. The expenses that bastard Bellamy hadn’t paid could be claimed against his tax. He thanked Michelle and ended the call.

With a deal of trepidation, he clicked on the box marked view your tax calculation. His heart hammered. £2,466. Bollocks! It took him several seconds to realise this was money owed.

‘God, thank you, Michelle! You’re a lifesaver!’ he praised.

There was enough money to cover his bills.

Amadeus saw the German number and recognised it as Klaus Wobig, the man who had made him redundant.

‘Wie gehts?’ said Wobig.

‘Gut, Danke.’ the call continued in German.

‘We screwed up, Ama. The UK is failing. I’ve been given permission to hire you on a contract basis. Can you come to Düsseldorf next Wednesday?’

‘Send me the ticket and I’ll see you next week.’

Amadeus opened the document and printed the job offer. He read it twice before showing it to Geraldine.

‘You see! Good things happen to good people.’

Someone who had no reason to help him had made a difference. The effects were profound. Amadeus’ blood pressure fell, he cut down on the drink and slept fitfully.

‘There’s a lesson for you,’ said Geraldine. ‘Try being kinder to people.’

It would make his last few years of work much more satisfying.