The Checkout Girl

by Tazeen Ahmad

  Magda is on the till opposite me. Her mum is being served at the till behind me. Magda’s customers are arguing furiously. They throw their shopping down on the belt, thrust bags at each other, and at one point the husband yells at the wife, ‘Just get on with it, will you?’ They are causing such a scene I can barely concentrate on my own customer. Magda is so busy pestering her mother that she doesn’t even notice.

  People are buying clothes by the dozen and worried that they’ll get marked by the black conveyor belt. They hand them over to me carefully, asking to keep it on the hanger. I scan and then hold the item in mid-air. One lady wearing a baby blue Barbie T-shirt leaves me with my arm dangling in mid-air for a whole minute, simply ignoring me.

  Another shouts ‘STOP!’ when I pass her food on to the belt after scanning it. I freeze and look up. ‘DON’T PUT THE MEAT ON THE VEG,’ she roars.

  However big her mouth may be, it’s not big enough for the super-sized Easter eggs stacked on the supermarket shelves. I scan several giant-sized eggs costing in the region of £10. Who’s going to eat an Easter egg that big? No wonder children’s teeth are such a mess. And half the customers that come in here are overweight. One woman buying several of these Easter eggs gets to £72.91 and starts to put her shopping back. Instead of the human-sized eggs, I put back slug & snail killer, an anti-bug spray and a white blouse.

  People are doing big shops today and cash flows heavily into the till. I have to tuck the notes in because they are literally spilling out—and many are choosing to pay in cash. Most people’s shopping is costing in the region of £130-£170. And, as usual, they’re all getting their fair share of nasty shocks. But who can resist the pull of cheap-chic clothes? One woman buys some pretty floral dresses for her three-year-old and six-year-old granddaughters. With the 25 per cent sale discount they only cost her £14 and £11. ‘I just bought two dresses from Monsoon that look almost the same and that cost me £58. I’ll be taking those back, straight away.’ She’s so pleased with her bargain shop, she shares this information with the customer behind her, who is suitably impressed. I then see that customer lingering in the clothing section, moments after leaving my till.

  A couple in their fifties are going away for a short break and are in to stock up for their seventeen- and twenty-year-old sons. They buy a lot of easy-cook rice, ready meals and Basics curry sauce for 10p as, you guessed it, the boys don’t cook. They spend £194.05.

  ‘OH MY DAYS!’ cries Mum.

  ‘We usually spend £150 on proper fresh food. This is awful,’ says Dad. He turns to Mum and says, ‘You know what will happen, as well? They’ll run out of food and order pizza.’

  One couple are so embroiled in a row they don’t notice me tuning in to their grumblings. First it’s the peas, then the choice of mayonnaise and then the £19.99 music system the wife tries to justify purchasing for their teenage daughter. ‘Why does she need a new one? She’s only had it a couple of weeks,’ asks Dad.

  ‘Because she’s broken it.’

  ‘Well, that should be it. We can’t keep buying her one a month.’

  Somehow the stereo stays. They argue next about the custard they may or may not already have at home. Then the value of canned potatoes versus fresh potatoes, canned carrots versus fresh carrots. In the end, the cans win. Every item is dissected by Dad and then defended by Mum.

  On my way up to my break, two Cogs are walking speedily through the aisles. ‘Quick, quick,’ they mutter to each other, racing ahead, ‘don’t look sideways, don’t look ahead, just look down. They may grab us.’

  In the canteen, Barbara walks past me, flashing a smile and a big wink, and for the first time I don’t jump out of my skin.

  When I get back down after my break, I go to see Rebecca. ‘So was Richard devastated?’

  ‘Devastation would be a slight exaggeration. Disappointed is better. But, you know, he was good about it.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll say when I tell him I’m out of here next?’

  ‘He won’t say anything, because you’re not going anywhere. This is your calling, lady. Accept it.’

  Adam walks past and I call him over for a quick chat. As usual, he’s floating from department to department. ‘It’s so busy on the floor today I haven’t been able to do anything on my tick list. Just been running back and forth trying to find something customers want that is invariably out of stock or doesn’t exist.’

  Connor passes Magda’s till and stops for a quick chat. ‘Was that your mum in earlier?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so—we had a little chat. She looks and sounds just like you.’

  ‘Everyone says that,’ says Magda, and then they are interrupted by Ayesha.

  ‘Move away, Connor, stop talking to her,’ Ayesha says through gritted teeth.

  Connor is used to being reprimanded, so shrugs it off. ‘Slap, slap,’ he jokes to Magda as he walks down towards the pet-food aisle. I’m tempted to ask customers if they really do mind a quick exchange between two Cogs.

  I see Connor later, wandering around, arms laden with abandoned items set to return to the shelves. As he passes by, I psst him. ‘Connor, what’s the trick? How do you manage to get off the tills so often?’

  ‘It’s simple. Just stare at the supervisors, directly in the eyes, don’t look away and don’t blink. Oh, and look really bored, like you’re not doing anything. Throw in a yawn if you’re brave enough, and then watch the magic happen.’

  It’s clocking-off time and the Closed Checkout sign is on my belt, so I cash up. I check my till roll and see I’ve served exactly 100 customers today. A woman arrives and starts piling her shopping on the belt. ‘I’m sorry I’m closed now,’ I tell her with the cash notes in my hand, mid-count. She picks her shopping up, shoots me an evil stare and says into the phone pressed to her ear: ‘The F****** B**** won’t serve me.’

  I have to pop into Richard’s office on my way out. ‘Everyone’s very upset that you are leaving!’ he exclaims. I look at Ayesha draped on the chair next to him half-asleep and she nods lamely. Barbara, busy scribbling something with her back to me, asks, ‘Who’s leaving?’

  ‘SHE is,’ says Richard. Barbara looks over her shoulder and, without a word, turns back to her paperwork. I don’t think everyone cares, but I appreciate the sentiment.

  Saturday, 11 April 2009

  Rebecca’s lost her locker key but I have no space in my locker for her bag today. Another Cog we don’t know too well offers to store her things at the customer service desk in the store. ‘Thanks, that’s really very nice of you,’ says Rebecca.

  ‘No worries,’ says the Cog, flicking back her hair and preening herself while we watch gormlessly.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asks Rebecca.

  ‘Ai-li.’

  ‘That’s a gorgeous name, what does it mean?’

  ‘Lovely,’ she says with slow deliberate intent.

  ‘Oh, how appropriate,’ says Rebecca, taking the bait, almost entirely for her own amusement.

  ‘I KNOW…’ Ai-li says excitedly. ‘People really think I’m making it up, but that’s just what it means. They keep saying that’s so right for me, but I’m like, honestly—yeah—I didn’t make it up.’ Another flick of the hair.

  ‘How lucky for you that your parents named you so well. I think my name just means hairy armpits,’ says Rebecca as I chortle quietly.

  We walk down the stairs on our way to the shop floor and a warehouse assistant on his way up sees Rebecca and immediately his face lights up. She teases him and he glows. ‘You don’t need me,’ I say. ‘You’ve got admirers, fans and friends in every nook and cranny of this store.’ She smiles and puts her arm through mine. It’s heaving as we walk through the double doors and into the store.

  ‘I’m not in the mood for this today,’ we chime, looking at each other and laughing. ‘Let’s just turn around. We could go to the cinema and watch back-to-back movies.’

  ‘Oh, what a great idea. Do you think they�
�d notice we weren’t here?’

  By the tills, my brain can’t process the chaos. Even the aisles are now filling with customers queuing. The Cog I relieve is so annoyed she’s had to stay on for two further minutes that my greetings are met with a stony silence. I ask her where the school vouchers are and she blanks me. I don’t blame her one bit. Working one extra unpaid minute in this place feels like a gross breach of human rights.

  It’s the holidays and that has to explain the craziness. I look to the door and there is a steady flow—no, not a flow, a veritable flood of customers pouring into the store. ‘Why aren’t people on holiday?’ I ask one of my customers.

  ‘I imagine people can’t afford to go abroad so they’re just staying here, aren’t they? I’m having a—what did the papers call it again? Oh yes, a “staycation” with my family—it’s the new recession-friendly holiday.’

  One customer has a basket full of groceries entirely from the Basics range: curry noodles, crème caramel, salmon, trifle, mashed potato, meatballs—she has several meals for the next few days all for less than £20. But then she has to go and spend £11.99 on a bottle of Teacher’s whisky.

  There is such an endless swarm of customers. I try to get through them quickly. But one customer, to misquote the Pointer Sisters, wants a Cog with a slow hand. ‘I know all about your items per minute, but you need to slow down.’

  ‘Oh, how do you know about that?’ I say, going into slack motion.

  ‘My friend works in a supermarket. You lot need to tell your managers that we don’t want to be rushed—and I certainly like to pack properly.’ But by trying to please them all, you fail to please anyone. Sainsbury’s customer service policy empowers the customer but disembowels the Cog. It stands to reason that customers paying a premium for their food now see it as their right to insist on a tailor-made service—and that’s what the store expects Cogs to deliver. In this climate, Cogs are being expected to work ever harder for their money. The problem is perpetually second-guessing and constantly custom-making the service is much easier to demand than it is to actually do.

  I serve a chatty, friendly customer but things turn when I give him his change. ‘I gave you £20.’

  ‘No you didn’t, you gave me £10.’

  ‘No, I only had a £20 note on me—and it was a new crisp one. Have a look in your till.’

  I look in my till, which is bursting with both new and old £20 notes. I think he gave me a tenner but now I’m not sure, and by the looks of him I can tell he isn’t either. If I give him the extra £10 back, I could be in trouble. If I insist and I’m wrong, he’ll be out of pocket. Deadlock. Supervisor is buzzed.

  Ayesha comes over and tells him that at the end of the day the contents of the till will be totalled and if it is £10 over he’ll get his money back on Tuesday. He seems happy enough with this, but if it had been me I’d have kicked up a fuss.

  A customer close behind doesn’t have any bags.

  ‘I’ll carry my tins home and won’t use one of your bags, but could you put a point on my Oyster card?’

  ‘You mean Nectar card, but yes, sure.’ I give her a point, hand her the receipt and then watch her pick up a bag and put her tins in. She’s forfeiting her integrity for a point that is not even worth a penny.

  A Nigerian mum and dad are in, minus their three kids aged seventeen, fourteen and seven.

  ‘The fourteen-year-old is the human vacuum cleaner. He eats everything in sight.’ The kids send Mum and Dad into the store with their huge shopping lists.

  ‘That defies the laws of nature. You guys should make them come with you,’ I tell them.

  ‘It’s far better than bringing them with us—otherwise we end up spending more.’ They tell me they usually spend about £250 every week, or a minimum of £800 a month. For a change I’m the one that’s shocked. ‘That’s how much my mortgage costs me every month,’ I tell them.

  ‘I know…I know…but we can’t figure out how to make savings. In the last six months our shopping has started costing up to an extra £150 per month—it’s the prices that are going up.’ They spend a staggering £320. I find myself giving them a quick master-class in my till-side ‘Cog Clinic’. ‘Make a list and stick to it. Pay in cash and buy cheap versions of everything—usually kids can’t tell the difference. Give your kids a budget and tell them to come with you next time and insist they shop within that budget.’ They listen closely and leave, clutching their hefty bill and over-sized trolley.

  People are still buying the giant Easter eggs. And another customer blows hard into a bag to open it. ‘That’s the second time I’ve seen that strange behaviour,’ I blurt out. ‘Why don’t you just lick your fingers and open it?’ ‘Because this is the best way,’ comes the odd reply.

  Easter eggs aside, everyone is buying compost. One customer says they want to start growing their own little vegetable plot in the garden to save on their grocery shop, another tells me it’s because they’re on offer at £2.49 a pop.

  BOGOF shoppers are annoying me with their repeated questions mid-scan about every single offer. ‘It will come off at the end or you’ll see it on this little screen up here,’ I say, pointing to the screen in her eye-line. She bought her two ice creams for £3 and two stock-cube packs for £1.50 and she doesn’t want to pay a penny more. She continues hounding me about every deal.

  In a quiet moment I catch the eye of the Cog opposite me. ‘I’m so bored.’

  ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘If you run now, I promise I’ll follow.’

  Here is what the list of someone who came in to buy Easter eggs looks like:

  Jute bag x 2

  Quavers crisps

  Wotsits crisps

  Skittles x 2

  White bread

  Mini doughnuts

  Ferrero Rocher chocs

  Tropicana juice

  Heinz mayonnaise x 2

  Cosmetic creams gift bag

  Tampons

  Salsa dip

  Heat magazine

  Greetings cards x 3

  Bunch of roses

  Chocolate fudge pudding

  Gift wrap

  Grand total: £53.76. She is so appalled she stands there enraged with herself. ‘I’m so disgusted I can’t even be bothered to get my Nectar card out.’ I can tell she wants to dump it all and if Ayesha wasn’t standing so close I’d tell her to abandon it and run. She pays up and hates herself for it. I tell her she’ll find the Easter eggs at the front of the store.

  When I get back down after my break, fed and watered, a man is at the till with his daughters—all five of them. They tell me they are eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, twelve and six. They have a very natural, loving relationship and playfully tease each other. I assume the two female customers at the bottom end of the till are the mother and grandmother. ‘Look at you with your tribe,’ I say to Dad. ‘Your beautiful daughters and wife and mum—aren’t you a lucky man? Although you are, of course, seriously outnumbered.’ He looks at me, confused, and then his eighteen-year-old daughter says, ‘Oh no, they’re not with us,’ looking at the two older women at the other end of the till. ‘But, yes, there are a lot of females in our family.’ We talk about their family life and she tells me what it’s like to grow up in a home full of women; how Dad is outnumbered, the divvying up of bedrooms, the time spent in bathrooms, the borrowing of clothes and shoes that clutter up the hallway. It’s also easy to see that they are all the very best of friends. They are a delightful, colourful bunch with smiles that stretch from ear to ear.

  ‘I’m surrounded by boys upwards, sideways and downwards, so can’t imagine what it’d be like in a house full of girls,’ I tell them.

  ‘Oh, it’s great. We’re thinking of starting our own pop group—Only Girls Allowed,’ quips the fourteen-year-old.

  ‘The constant talk of boys, celebs and menstrual cycles does do my head in a bit,’ says the straight-talking sixteen-year-old.

 
‘And don’t forget our nasty cat-fights,’ adds the twelve-year-old.

  Dad is listening and smiling quietly to himself. He turns away for a minute and the eldest of the girls leans in and whispers, ‘The thing is, we’re just trying to do our best at the moment because our mum just passed away in January. So we’re kind of still coping with that…’ My heart breaks into two big chunks and falls into my stomach.

  She continues, ‘It’s hard, but we’re just trying to keep it together for him,’ indicating Dad, ‘and her,’ glancing at the youngest being teased by a sister at the end of the till.

  ‘Do you have any other family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No aunts, grandmothers?’

  ‘No. We’re just happy that we’ve got each other.’

  The two older girls tell me they want to go into dentistry and graphic design. I get a lump in my throat as I watch this motherless family courageously walk away with their heads held high despite the giant heart-shaped piece that is missing.

  My thoughts are still dwelling on them thirty minutes later and I think I serve the mystery customer without realising. I suspect this because she doesn’t offer her Nectar card until I ask for it. She doesn’t tell me about her bags, which I see in her trolley as she leaves. I barely made any conversation and hardly any eye contact. And she tries to look discreetly at my name badge at the end.

  The last fifteen minutes are really quiet but the two Cogs sitting by me are dreading the unwelcome last customer with their over-flowing trolley. The three of us make a unanimous decision at 6.25 to only serve basket customers. At 6.27 we see two large trolleys heading our way and immediately decide to close our tills and suffer the consequences. Fortunately, Hayley is of the same mind and shouts over to us to cash-up.