The Checkout Girl

by Tazeen Ahmad

  I see Adam as I’m about to leave the store. He started a few months before me after losing his job in the city. Having spent most of his twenties and early thirties working in middle management, he is far too qualified to be doing the menial tasks I often catch him doing. He’s been long convinced that the store has much bigger plans for him. ‘I reckon they’re thinking they could train me up in different departments so that they can move me upwards as soon as a position is available.’ Today he’s wandering around in circles in the kids’ clothing aisle with a woman’s top in his hands. ‘Adam, that’s a blouse, not a dress,’ I say, showing him the label. ‘It’s a size 12, not age 12.’ Every time I see him, he’s working in a different part of the store. He’s quickly becoming a jack of all trades. Clothing is his latest home, although by his own admission he’s certainly no master of it.

  I take my shopping to Sonia’s till.

  ‘That’s £77 please.’

  ‘Should I do what our customers do and go, “Ohmigod, how did that happen?”’ I joke, digging into my wallet for my credit card. As I’m tittering to myself, she launches into a full-blown tirade.

  ‘I know! They are so stupid. Why don’t they just watch what they’re spending? Like it’s our fault they couldn’t control themselves. It’s your money, you control it. No one’s forcing you to spend it—it’s up to you, you idiot!’ It’s harsh and she’s had a long day, but I know what she means.

  As I drive home, there’s a news item on the radio about how some supermarkets docked the pay of staff who couldn’t make it in to work because of the snow.

  Saturday, 7 February 2009

  I ask my first customer about how his week has been.

  ‘Terrible, I’ve been laid off.’

  I stop scanning immediately. ‘God, how did that happen?’

  ‘I mend machines for the building business and work has just quietened down. It’s all I’ve been doing for the last six years and now I’ve been laid off, just like that.’

  ‘That’s dreadful. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I might be after your job next.’

  ‘Well, you know retail is where it’s at,’ I say, smiling—but not in a smug way, I don’t think.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to work in retail, there’s no money in it!’ he snaps.

  He listens tensely as I offer what I hope is advice with some sympathy thrown in. The more I hear of someone’s redundancy worries, the more incompetent I’ve become at handling them. Platitudes flow easily today but they don’t go down well at all. He seems irritated that he revealed his financial despair to me.

  If nothing else the buzz around the Basics range in the store should have brought a little smile to his face. It’s a big hit with the customers. Two ladies at my till discuss the Basics frozen mixed fruit pack. Before I know it, ‘Lynne’ and ‘Pam’ have exchanged numbers, promising to compare reviews on the product. It could only happen in a supermarket.

  It’s a Saturday so trolleys are full to the brim. I see customers struggling with the supermarket version of Murphy’s Law (once all the shopping has been paid for and packed into plastic bags it doesn’t fit back into the trolley) and they get annoyed with their own grocery shopping.

  I’ve learnt a lot about myself since working here. I definitely like rules—in a place like this I’d be lost without them. One customer comes to the till without any plastic bags and just one granny trolley (also known as a granny cart, shopping bag on wheels, wheelie trolley, wheelie shopper). ‘Can you count this as four bags please?’

  ‘You don’t actually have four bags though, you only have one…’ I look over the counter trying to decide how to describe the tartan box on wheels ‘…one of those.’

  ‘Yes, but if I didn’t have it, I’d be using four of your bags.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’m not, I’m using one of my own.’

  ‘So I’ll give you one Nectar point then.’

  ‘Yes, but technically it’s like me bringing in four bags.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually bring in four bags.’

  Why am I arguing about this?

  ‘Yes, but this much shopping would have required four bags.’

  ‘If you only bring in one bag—I can only give you one point.’

  ‘So you’re not going to give me four points, even though I’d need four bags to take this home?’

  ‘No, because you only have one bag.’

  ‘Job’s-worth,’ he finally mutters under his breath. I cannot disagree—and I’m not sure what possessed me.

  A couple in their thirties have their ten-month-old baby and their bags. The wife, who is from Finland, tells me she never forgets her bags. ‘Where I come from, there was never a time when I didn’t have to take my bags to the supermarket. It’s just a way of life there, ever since I was young. It’s a habit. Just like I always remember my phone and purse, I remember my bags.’

  One customer’s bill comes to £20.12. I cannot resist the game of the bored Cog, so I say, ‘That’ll be 20.12, like the Olympics, please.’ At first she looks blank and then: ‘Yes, yes. Don’t we all know it, too? That’s all this government cares about. Not the recession, not the fact that people are losing their jobs or the fact my shopping is so expensive now, but just the ruddy Olympics.’

  Marital matters rear their head at the till this afternoon and it makes for great entertainment. A woman with a brunette bob and two young kids asks if she can do a part payment for her bill. She pays £100 on the card and £15 in cash.

  ‘My husband has placed a top limit on our weekly groceries of £100 since the credit crunch kicked in. But it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Who can do the shopping for four people on just £400 a month? I’ve been telling him that it’s not possible these days but he’s very unrealistic.’ If she can’t convince him, she’ll lie to him and pay the remainder in cash. Her French friend behind has no such budgetary restraints. She buys nothing but organic food. Her husband insists, so her entire shop is from the So Organic foods range and costs £166. She doesn’t have a car of her own so is driven back by Mrs £100.

  Shopping à deux leaves one couple in need of immediate Relate counselling. She’s in charge of the selecting and he’s in charge of the packing and paying. But he’s not happy. Every item that I scan is met with a variety of expletives, lots of rolling of eyes and a myriad of sideway sneers. It comes to £154.73 and it’s met, as expected, with a top-notch profanity.

  A daughter snaps at her mum not once but twice for forgetting her Nectar card. Mum blushes and smiles awkwardly to hide the embarrassment. Another bites her mother’s head off for not telling me she needs bags. A third grabs the purse out of elderly Mum’s shaking hands and rolls eyes as she dips into it to pay. I quietly promise to pop into my mum’s just to give her a cuddle.

  A woman old enough to be my mother is reading about Jeremy Clarkson’s apology for calling Gordon Brown a ‘One-eyed Scottish idiot’ in her paper. ‘It’s all a bit silly, isn’t it? Ever since that Jonathan Ross and Brand man said those silly things, all these presenters are getting harassed. It’s all a bit of a fuss about nothing and the media are going to town with it.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right, there has been a media frenzy,’ I say. Buoyed by my response, she continues, ‘Like that Carol Thatcher and the whole golliwog thing. That was really silly. When I was little, we all used to collect those jam jars with the golliwogs on them and we loved them. So you know, that was an overreaction, sacking her just because she called that tennis player one, wasn’t it? What’s offensive about that?’

  And so I say nothing.

  Richard is staring at me from a ten-yard distance and he couldn’t have chosen a more inopportune time to be observing me: the chap who has just arrived at my till is one tough customer. He throws his shopping on to the belt. Moves swiftly to the packing side of my till. No eye contact. Bags open in rapid succession. I smile and say hello. He gives me a quarter of a smile. I ask how he is. ‘Fine,’ comes
the short, sharp response. I scan. Ask if he’s had a good week. ‘Fine.’ ‘Plans for the weekend?’ ‘None.’ Lots of speedy packing. ‘This looks good,’ I say, picking up chocolate cake. An eighth of a smile—it’s getting worse. ‘Is it for you and yours to gorge on?’ A nod, no more. Blood from a stone. I look up, Richard is still watching. Rethink strategy. ‘You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?’ Half a smile. ‘I won’t hold you up with my feeble small talk.’ A full grin, teeth showing. Eureka! ‘I know—it must be dull, listening to me drone on and on.’ And then…more than one word.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, it’s the football.’

  ‘Well, in that case I won’t take it personally.’

  ‘No, please, you mustn’t.’

  He pays and races out. Richard has turned his attention to another Cog. Mission accomplished.

  I’ve got four under-18 Cogs placed around me and they need me to authorise their alcohol-buying customers. Grace is one of these Cogs. After a few minutes she’s removed from her till by a supervisor and told to stand behind Jane and observe her. ‘What are you doing here, Grace?’ I whisper to her over my shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve just been told to watch and learn from Jane.’

  So what does she learn from Jane?

  Jane talks about her boyfriend. A lot. She talks about being dumped. A lot. She asks one customer, ‘Why are you lot all such bastards?’ The thirty-something man in a suit and tie is not often asked this question by a sixteen-year-old and he smiles uneasily. She reveals details of the act of being dumped. It involved a text message sent by boyfriend, followed by several frantic phone calls from Jane. It’s highly inappropriate, but in terms of entertainment value—it’s worth all the cash in my till.

  Ayesha interrupts.

  ‘It’s good you’re chatting, but you need to quieten down. You’re too noisy. We can hear you all over the store and customers will get irate.’

  ‘No, no—she’s fine. She’s not noisy at all,’ says the thirty-something bloke, now starting to settle into the role of Agony Uncle. Ayesha’s out of line; she should have reprimanded her privately—now they both look foolish. With reddening cheeks, Ayesha turns her attention to me.

  ‘How long has this fish been here?’ she snarls, picking up the piece of salmon beside my till.

  ‘A customer left it behind about forty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything? It’ll have to be thrown away now,’ she barks.

  ‘I told Samantha; she said she’d come back for it but never did.’

  ‘Well, you should have called us again.’ And with that Ayesha storms off.

  Jane continues her unsuitable till chit-chat with the next few customers. Susie stops by to remind Grace and Jane not to start gossiping together. She fails to notice that Grace is but a mere spectator in Jane’s Shakespearean melodrama. Jane’s eyes are still sore from the crying she’s been doing this morning. I know this because she tells everyone who asks. Ten minutes later Jane is sent to Richard’s office. Grace and I decide her personal crisis has landed her in trouble. When she emerges, she tells me she was being observed and was told she’s doing really well. Thankfully, after a full hour of watching Jane, Grace seems to have learnt nothing. Next time, I’m coming loaded with all the teen angst I can muster up from yesteryear.

  It’s 5.30 and the end of my shift, but yet again I’m still serving. Ayesha arrives with her Closed Checkout sign at exactly 5.30. At that precise moment a customer pulls up with an enormous shopping trolley. Ayesha looks at me and shrugs her shoulders.

  Rebecca comes looking for me fifteen minutes later, jacket on, bag in hand.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ she shrieks. ‘What time do you finish?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh goodness, you must have wanted to kill me,’ says the customer I’m serving.

  ‘Yes…No, I’m kidding. It’s not your fault. The sign should have gone up earlier.’ And then I add unprofessionally, ‘Otherwise we’re just working for free.’

  ‘It’s the way it is with these big companies,’ she says sympathetically.

  ‘Yes. We do all the hard work and they get all the money,’ I say, quoting another Cog from earlier in the month.

  Friday, 13 February 2009

  Richard has granted me the unpaid leave I wanted next month. Whatever I think about this place, he is a premium supermarket kick-butt brand. And I know I’m not the only one who thinks so.

  I’m early, so I stroll into the canteen to get a cup of tea. It’s just after the lunch hour so there are several uncleaned tables piled high with empty Coke cans, coffee cups and crisp packets. The large-screen television in the corner is blasting its usual dose of News 24 and a couple of my colleagues are strewn on the sofa gazing lazily at it. At one table in the corner there are a number of Cogs alongside staff from other departments having their lunch. I consider sitting myself down with them but decide against it. Two of them smile at me but don’t invite me over. I’m sipping my tea and flicking through a magazine when Lesley comes over.

  ‘How’s your dentistry course going, darling?’

  I don’t correct her. ‘It’s going fine, thank you.’

  She asks after my kids, saying, ‘You’re like me, you had them young.’

  Again, I’m economical with the truth.

  ‘It must be tough; working, studying and raising kids,’ she ploughs on. ‘I’ve always wanted to do an Open University course in counselling but just never did it and now my daughter is twenty-one. She works here actually, her name’s Kelly, do you know her?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘She studied criminal law at college. She wants to be a lawyer, but you know what it’s like at the moment. I’m proud of her whatever she does. But I wish I had done something else apart from this when she was growing up. Now, it’s probably going to be really expensive…How much do you think it will be?’

  ‘I really don’t know, I’m afraid. But if it’s what you want to do, go for it—it’s never too late.’

  ‘I could probably afford about £500 a year, but any more than that and my husband would go off his rocker.’

  I smile. ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Twenty-three years. We met when I was twenty-two.’ Twenty-three years married, eleven years in this place—no wonder she needs time for herself.

  It’s the Valentine’s weekend and so, in typically unoriginal Cog style, I make it my opening gambit. The customers I don’t waste it on are easy to spot: a basket with one giant chocolate bar, a rom-com DVD or two and usually a magazine with Jennifer Aniston on the front cover. Needless to say they don’t have any plans for the weekend. As for the couples—they buy mussels with butter cream, chocolate cheesecake and a bottle of red wine. One chap also throws in flowers, a box of chocolates, Taste the Difference vegetables, ready-made salad and a pretty blouse. It costs him just over £30.

  ‘It’s my credit-crunch friendly Valentine’s night-in.’

  Most men are actually buying their Valentine cards while wife is in tow. I scan the card and then the wife picks it up and drops it in the bag without a word. One customer with two boys buys his Valentine’s card for his wife and absent-mindedly passes it to her to put in the bag. She looks at it, rolls her eyes and says, ‘How romantic!’ He tells me he’s ‘making the effort tonight and cooking’. His cooking involves popping the readymade Thai meals into the microwave. I tell him the total and he takes his card out.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says, handing it over to me.

  ‘No, I don’t need it. Just shove it up there,’ I say, pointing to the pin-pad.

  ‘Ooh, you’ve made me blush,’ he wisecracks.

  Deep sigh.

  Dear Male Customer,

  Ever since I was a teenager, you’ve been a taxing breed. Now you are tougher than ever.

  The worst of you congregate around the basket tills so I give that the wide berth as much as I can. Those of you that do come to the trolley t
ills are a mixed bunch and, if I’m fair, I can’t complain about you all. Some of you are actually really terrific and indulge my nonsensical musings. But I tolerate a lot from you in return. Monosyllabic responses, grubby hands, schoolboy humour and being talked at endlessly. But there’s one thing I really do mind and, trust me, if there was a way around it, I’d have found it.

  Your credit card goes in the pin-pad. End of story. That’s what I mean when I say, Put it up there, pop it in, shove it in, push it in…

  It’s all cracking stuff, admittedly. But, surprising as it is, talking about sex in the middle of the afternoon with a complete stranger with whom I’ve shared nothing but the Nectar card you’ve just handed me doesn’t do it for me.

  So can you just stop? Now.

  Yours,

  A. Cog

  After the school run, the half-term crowd piles in. They’re buying extra juice, sweets, chocolates and crisps. Those without the kids—aunties, uncles and grandparents—are all stocking up for the children coming to stay. And there are more teachers in the queues than at an NUT conference. Everyone has forgotten their plastic bags—in the car. I’m quite sure that there are more plastic bags in the car park than there are in here. I serve Mrs £100 with her six-year-old in tow. Her shop this week is £108.

  ‘You’re over budget, I’m afraid. It’s £108.’

  ‘God, is it really? I haven’t even done my weekend shopping yet.’ There is pure terror in her eyes.

  ‘Really? What do you want to do?’

  ‘Well, um…er…I know—I’ll pay for the Barbie doll on my card. And I’ll just have to see if I can pull it off without him noticing. I lied last week, you know.’ And off she goes, home to her unsuspecting husband with the dwindling bank account.

  Newspapers coming through my till are reporting that the number of people out of work increased by 146,000 in the last three months to December and is now at 1.97 million—the highest figure for twelve years. Unemployment has increased by 369,000 over the past year and is expected to top 3 million during this recession. I’m seeing evidence of this every day. Just last week, a customer came to my till with a sandwich and a drink. He had tears in his eyes and I asked him if he was OK. He told me he had just lost his job. I commiserated, but he didn’t want to talk. Today, a woman who used to do the deliveries for a local florist tells me she lost her job last week.