Things had been quiet for a while now. Darren was on his way to becoming a customer services manager but still doing the odd trolley pushing shift in between. According to Steve he was doing pretty well at it, but wondered why he would want to become 'a suit.' My suggestions of a) Better pay. b) More respect. And c) More job opportunities in the future, didn't seem to wash with him. I could have gone on, of course. d) No working in the rain and/or snow. e) No dirty nappies or fag ends to pick up. And f) No working with middle aged idiots like himself.
With Duncan long gone we all waited for Sharon to employ someone else, considering we were almost two men down. The day finally came, one busy Saturday, with only me, Alex and Steve on, she gathered us outside the store to brief us on her new plan.
'Trials. That's what I'm going to do, gentleman.' She informed us all, in her firm Kilmarnock accent. 'Trials.'
'Trials?'
'Trials, Steven.'
Steve hated it when she used his full first name.
'What are you trialling?' I asked.
'Trolley pushers.'
'Porters is the official term, Sharon.' Steve professed.
'Three trolley pushers over three days.'
'Wow, we're getting three new porters!' Steve grinned.
'No. You're getting one trolley pusher at the end of it. The best one gets the job. They'll do Duncan's old hours.'
It had been a long time coming too. I almost miss those dead arms and nipple twists on a fresh friday morning. Plus I think Alex was getting a little annoyed about Steve asking about his brother. The last thing he told us is that Duncan and Jenny got a flat together, and little Callum was doing fine, even though he was still in that 'punching daddy' phase. Give him one for me, mate. And one from Darren. Make it in the bollocks.
'And the best part is...you'll be one who chooses who gets them!' Sharon said in a high voice, pointing at me.
'Me? Why me?'
'Because we've got three people. Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday. And you are the only one who just happens to work all those days.'
'Oh...I suppose that makes sense.' I shrugged.
'Hang on, Sharon. Head Porter speaking now...' Steve stepped forward. 'Shouldn't I be the one who judges them all?'
'No judging...just recommendations. Plus you're on holiday all next week, how can you have a say?'
'Still...Head Porter.' He sulked.
'Back to work gents.'
Monday - Carl
Carl was seventeen and at college studying for a BTEC in Engineering. He was Sandra's son, the loud woman from the checkouts. I can safely say that nearly half of the colleagues who work here are related to someone. Almost all of them are a brother or a mother or a grandfather to another colleugue. So it was wise not to say anything negative about anyone. Steve found that out last year when he called Anne from the Pharmacy department a 'shrivelled old hag.' He may have been right, but he said it to Warren, the cleaning manager, who happened to be Anne's son.
Being reasonably around Carl's age, I thought I could connect with him on the same level. I asked him about his favourite music whilst we walked around the car park, which was a mistake, as i'd never heard of 'DJ Chronic', 'MC Zanda' and 'Mickman Rue'. I just smiled and said 'Yeah, I prefer their earlier stuff.' He was a small lad, his borrowed yellow coat reaching his knees and an attempted beard still in the early stages. I did my best not to bring up my disliking for his mother, but you wouldn't believe how many times it can come up in conversation. When we were clear outside I went inside to collect a few baskets.
'How's my lad of mine doing outside?'
'He's doing all right, Sandra.'
'You not got a job yet?'
'Yeah, I'm here.'
'Nooo! With your degree and that?'
'Oh no, not yet.'
'What is it you've got again?'
'A degree in biomedical sciences.' I swallowed.
'Ah, biomedical...'
She said the word as if she vaguely recognised it, but her eyes glazed over, looking for the meaning. Fifteen minutes later Carl bounded out of the store and shouted at me.
'What's this I hear about you being a nurse?'
'Eh?'
'My mum says you've got a nursing degree!'
'I've not. I've got a degree in Biomedical Sciences.'
'Medical?'
'Yeah?'
'Gay boy nurse!'
I told Sharon that Carl wouldn't be appropriate for the job.
Tuesday – Trevor
Tuesday was Trevor's day, and after my day with Carl, I wasn't holding out much hope. But I was pleasantly surprised when Sharon introduced me to an old man. He retired from his full time job a year ago and applied for this job after becoming severely bored at home.
'So, Trevor, you live close to here, then?' I asked.
'Yes, just on Beaumont Road.'
'Oh, that's great. Just around the corner. That's convenient, isn't it?'
'Yes, it's good. Only takes a few minutes walk.'
I was good at this small talk thing, I thought I'd keep going.
'So, does your wife still work?'
'I haven't got a wife.'
Oh no, I hit the small talk wall.
'Oh, sorry.' I looked down.
'No, she hasn't passed away or anything. I just haven't got one. I'm not married.' He smiled warmly.
An old man without a wife? Something was gravely amiss. You see an old woman alone on a bus and you don't raise an eyebrow, do you? Their husbands die and they've got years of church and gardening to get on with. But an old man on his own? Oh, no, something was wrong here. Trevor looked like a bog-standard old person. Grey hair, red face and glasses. If it wasn't for his work coat he'd probably be wearing a beige cardigan. Bog-standard old bloke, in my opinion. So what was wrong with him? I found out soon enough. We chatted a bit more whilst clearing out the trolley bay. Trevor stopped and watched a woman parking her car a few feet away from us.
'Look at her...' He nodded.
We watched her aim her black 4x4 into a parking space, then I went back to the trolleys, but Trevor kept watching.
'Why would a woman buy one of those cars?'
I stood still in shock. Why would a woman?...
'She can't drive that thing.'
Trevor was a sexist. A massive sexist. The 4x4 woman set him off into an hour of woman-based ranting. I got all sorts from him. Women with high powered jobs, women presenters on TV, even women voting. Oh, yeah, he was an old school sexist. I told Sharon about his rants, starting off with the 'women with high powered jobs' bit. Then she took great pleasure in telling him he wasn't appropriate for the job.
Wednesday – Margaret
'I haven't been too impressed so far, Dylan.'
'No. Me neither.'
'Last chance. Margaret Grady.' Sharon said, looking down at her papers.
Margaret? A woman? Wow, Trevor would be furious, wouldn't he? A woman trolley pusher? You go, girl!
'Grady? Where have I heard that name before?' I asked her.
She looked down through her glasses at me and smirked. Oh, no. Grady. Steve Grady. It was Steve's mum.
'Morning, Dylan.'
'Morning.'
Margaret was wearing brown trousers, a fuzzy green fleece and ice white training shoes that looked like they'd come straight off the local market. The only thing she was wearing that was 'work' related was her high viability vest which she had tucked into her trousers. I couldn't help but smile.
'So, does Steve know you're up for this job?'
'Oh, no. He wouldn't have it, would he? He thinks I'm out shopping! Now he's on holiday I thought I'd give it a go. Gets me out the house, doesn't it?'
'Oh yeah. Definitely.'
I don't know if you've encountered this before, but the problem with working with a 68 year old was stamina. Every ten minutes she was sat on the bench, holding her feet and breathing heavily. But I was still smiling. It was a nice change to work with her. I say work with her, I did nearly all of the work. Plus, we got to share her flask of soup during our break.
'But how do you cope with all the walking, Dylan?'
By being 23. And not having arthritis. But I couldn't say that, could I?
'I enjoy it. Fresh air.'
'That's true. That's why Steve likes it anyway.'
'Does he talk about this place a lot at home?'
'Oh yeah, won't shut up about it. He's always going on about Sharon, someone called Darren and a student. Can't remember his name, says he's a bit of an idiot.'
I let that go.
'I'd have thought he would talk about his touring days.' I said, before taking a sip of my soup.
'His what?' She smiled.
'You know, his touring. With the bands...in the 70's.'
She burst out into laughter, which made a bit of leek and potato go all over my shirt.
'Touring? With the bands? In the 70's?'
'Yeah.' Wiping my shirt with a tissue.
'He used to be a trucker, Dylan. Since he was in his twenties.'
'Yeah, with the bands, I presume.'
Of course, I always thought he was bullshitting, but when you're talking to the man's mother you have to remain a certain sense of politeness.
'No, with Eddie Stobart. The haulage company.'
'Oh, right.'
Politeness went out the window.
'So what else has he done?'
'Oh all sorts, Dylan. Nothing to do with touring with bands, I can tell you!'
I told Sharon that Margaret would be perfect for the job.
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