The government is telling us what those of us on the front line have known for months: we are officially in recession. The economy has shrunk by 1.5 per cent, which means wages will be frozen, unemployment will increase and the variety of shops and shopping experiences we have enjoyed for so long will shrink dramatically. News from my employers states that there’ll be some restructuring at head office and the loss of 200 jobs. But this will translate into an increase in jobs elsewhere in the business by 3-4000 this year alone. Meanwhile I’m being blinded by notices in the canteen and the corridors about our last mystery customer visit and the big fat ‘FAIL’ that we achieved. Our percentage score was 79.5 per cent and we have five more visits to get our average up to 80 per cent and nail the bonus. I’m quite sure I’m not the only one who is struggling to care about the bonus that we may receive.
I’m on baskets and a regular from the car shop across the road pops in during his lunch break.
‘How’s it all going over there?’
‘Not bad, not too bad at all.’
‘Really? I thought the car industry was suffering?’
‘Not us. I mean it is quiet, but there are no cuts and we’re still selling, so nothing to worry about.’
Despite my numerous attempts to make him see the dark side, he plays down any talk of the recession affecting sales.
An office worker who pops in for lunch tells me she’s also becoming obsessive about the recession. ‘I’ve got really scared by it recently. I think I’m listening to the news too much. Do you know that the economist who predicted this recession is saying that it will take one and a half to two years before things get better?’ I see nothing but fear in her big blue eyes.
‘Yes, I heard that too, but another analyst said that this time next year the recession will be looking better. So it just depends on who you listen to, right?’
Behind her a dark-haired woman with a German accent joins in the discussion. She works at a car-manufacturing company which makes lights for Chrysler and Volvo cars. She says they’ve had huge cuts since October and that more job cuts lie ahead.
‘It’s gone very quiet. I work in sales, and for the time being that’s OK. Touch wood.’
Not long after those two customers have left I serve a chap who works at BT. He tells me that, while it’s as busy as ever where he works, there are huge cuts ahead.
‘They just want more work done by fewer people—same amount of work but having to pay less. There is definitely plenty of work around, but why pay five people to do it when you can pay just the one idiot for it?’
After all the dreary recession tittle-tattle I need some supermarket idle gossip, so I eavesdrop on Sonia and Katherine discussing one of the fruit-and-veg boys.
‘Do you know, right, that I gave him a cuddle. But only…because I felt sorry for him. He seemed very upset about the fact that his granddad was ill, so when he asked I thought, all right then.’
‘You DIDN’T! You idiot. I’m sure he’s just trying it on.’
‘Well, do you know what I saw next? He then asked four other girls to hug him right after I hugged him—and all of them on the stairs by the canteen. Can you believe the cheek of it?’ My eyes widen by the second.
‘Euch. It’s creepy. When he asked me, do you know what I said? I said, “Get away from me! Try that again and I’ll put a complaint in against you,”’ says Katherine.
I admire Katherine’s balls. Sadly, I also fell victim to his get-a-free-grope ploy and complied when he asked. The whole thing has made my stomach churn a little, so I turn my attentions back to my customers. A teacher wants to tell me about how she’s saving a fortune through ‘recession-friendly cuts’ she’s made.
‘I’ve stopped going out for dinner and to bars and to the cinema. And I’ve started cooking from scratch. And do you know how much I saved this month? About £400 in total,’ she declares proudly. That’s an impressive amount, but I wonder what she does for fun.
‘Well, I certainly don’t need to worry about my job because I’m a key-worker and we’re not affected by downturns.’
‘So that’s a good recession-proof job then?’
‘Oh, definitely, and during recessions or when people lose their jobs they start training to be teachers. The only thing is, all these people who are in training now will be looking for a job in a year—they don’t know what they are in for. There’s going to be so much competition, they’re going to struggle to get a job.’
Around two hours into my shift along comes a man with a lot of potatoes.
So I say, ‘That’s a lot of potatoes.’
He says, ‘Well, that’s not surprising, there are eight of us.’
‘Eight of you?’ I gasp.
‘Six kids, of whom five are boys; the eldest is seventeen and the last one is a two-year-old girl.’
I stop scanning and look him directly in the eye.
‘Don’t tell me you kept going in the hope that you’d get a girl?’
‘It’s funny you say that, because that’s exactly what we did.’
‘And now you’ve the same size brood as Brangelina, minus the team of nannies and the billion-dollar fortune.’
He laughs and starts packing his bags. ‘You don’t need a team of nannies to make it work, trust me.’
‘So what’s the secret then?’ I ask.
‘Well, I work night-shifts and my wife does day-shifts and we’ve never had need to pay for a child-minder.’
‘And I guess neither of you ever sleeps.’
He laughs again. ‘That sounds about right.’
Nevertheless, he seems like a very happy sleep-deprived dad of six. He takes his 30 kilos of potatoes and hobbles out.
In supermarket world, the cheery are often followed close behind by the cheerless; heart-warming stories are followed by heart-rending ones.
A man in his sixties comes to my till. Thick-rimmed black glasses sit on his weather-worn face and he’s wearing a bright blue cagoule. I ask how he is.
‘You don’t want to know how I am.’
‘Well…my wife is sick and I spend all my days looking after her,’ he blurts out. ‘And it’s the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ve had a shit day today and all I want to do is go and hide under a rock, but I’ve got to get food so here I am doing my bleeding shopping. That’s how my day has been.’
It’s not fitting to say anything, so I say nothing. Besides, I’m totally out of my depth and he’s on a roll.
‘Do you know I’ve worked for years, and that job was a piece of piss by comparison, I tell you! And the worst bit is that the love of my life doesn’t even know that I’m there most days.’
This is the exact reason why checkout girls should not, under any circumstances, ask customers how they are.
‘And do you know how much I get for looking after her week after week, month after month?’
I shake my head, but I know it’s not going to be pretty.
‘A paltry fifty quid. Fifty quid to not go to work any more. Fifty quid to stay at home and lose every semblance of my former life. Fifty quid to not have anyone to talk to. Fifty quid because I love her and if I don’t look after her then who will?’
I’ve scanned all his shopping but there is, unfortunately, no one behind him.
‘Then the other day my mate who works in a post office tells me that a woman with two kids who couldn’t speak a word of English picks up fifteen hundred quid every fortnight—fifteen hundred! I’ve given this country a million pounds in my lifetime in taxes and all I get is fifty quid. And these Romanians and Polish people who have been here just a couple of years get that much more. I mean, I don’t blame them, I blame the system…’
And then to my utter horror his voice starts to break and he wells up.
‘…it’s just very hard to deal with. I don’t understand it.’ And there it is—a tear slipping down his crumpled right cheek.
I know I have to say something, anything. There is, after all, a grown man crying at my till.
‘Oh dear, you are having a bad day.’
It’s feeble, I know, but in the circumstances it’s the best I can offer.
‘Well, you asked, so I told you.’ He picks up his shopping and without a further word walks towards the exit.
Out of sheer terror I don’t talk to the next three customers I serve.
Soon a train driver with job cuts on his mind comes to my till. He drives overground trains.
‘The recession won’t affect me because they always need drivers and people always need to get from A to B. But you should see the cuts they are making at a number of over-ground stations out of King’s Cross.’ ‘They’re just getting rid of ground staff, it’s been ruthless. And the thing is, we’re being told it’s because of the recession, but I reckon that was always the big plan for the company that bought Thameslink.’
Not far behind the train driver is a woman in her fifties with no such recession woes. Dressed in a fleece and jodhpurs, her freshly highlighted blonde hair is tied back neatly in a ponytail. She’s just about to drive to a local riding school where she will pat her horse on the back and take him out for a ride. She tells me that she came in here because she can’t bear to stop off at the Tesco closer to the school as ‘it’s full of riff-raff. There’s a much better clientele in here.’ After she leaves, Katherine, who is sitting with me at the baskets, does a marvellous impression of her.
It’s so quiet today we’ve been gossiping and giggling most of the afternoon. Against my better judgement I take a stick of gum she offers that comes with a warning: ‘Just don’t chew it when a customer or manager is close by.’ I take it cautiously, because we’ve been told it’s rude to chew. But if it’s good enough for the supervisors, it’s good enough for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen them all munching sweets. Both Sonia and I are chomping away happily when a manager pushing a trolley passes by.
‘You two—with gum in your mouth. Take it out and put it in the bin, please. Now.’ Our faces flush and we mutter threats at Katherine as we throw the gum away. My metamorphosis into a Cog is complete.
There is a brief flurry of confused activity when a supervisor comes over asking if we had seen Fatima cash up. Her shift ended a couple of hours ago, but they can’t find her cash. Usually at the end of our shifts we empty our tills, pop the money in a canister and send the money up to the office. Her canister is missing. Sonia and Katherine tell Samantha they are sure they saw her put the money away.
As usual during my shift, Betty is on. She comes over to talk to Katherine and blanks me completely. After she leaves Katherine and I exchange notes on her. She tells me Betty is pleasant with her because she’s friends with Katherine’s neighbour. But Katherine is no fool. ‘I know what she’s really like. Why be nice to me just because you’re friends with my neighbour? Why not just because I’m a nice person?’
A few minutes before the end of my shift I see Susie talking to a young student called Grace a few tills down. From where I’m sitting I can tell she’s just had an assessment. She looks crestfallen by the time Susie has left. When it’s time for me to go home, I pick up some milk and take it to her till.
‘Hi—how are you?’ I ask brightly.
‘I’m OK…I had observation today.’
‘Oh, really? How did it go?’
‘Not well at all. Susie was nice about it but, you know, I wasn’t very good.’
‘Why? What were you not doing?’
‘Apparently I look down too much and I’m not talking to customers enough. But I…I…just don’t know what to say to them.’
Grace is seventeen, almost six foot tall with large hazel-coloured eyes and long eyelashes that she tries to hide behind. She’s gorgeous, but really uncomfortable in her own skin. I’ve developed a soft spot for her because I remember too well what it’s like to be a gauche teenager—the painful self-consciousness and crippling shyness. The refined small talk we’re expected to initiate day in, day out requires the kind of skills that a tongue-tied teenager is a long way from developing. And she has not yet grown the layer of thick-skin required to bounce off the inevitable rejection that comes from customers in no mood to chat. Coming of age is excruciating enough—let alone before a stream of obtuse customers unmoved by a young Cog’s best attempts to appear urbane.
‘Don’t worry about it, OK? Just chat when you can think of something to talk about.’
‘Hmm,’ she says distractedly, not looking at all comforted by my words.