Читать книгу The Checkout Girl - Tazeen Ahmad - Страница 24

I’m in the locker room loos tying my hair back with a piece of tinsel when Michelle walks in.

‘Are you doing any overtime next week?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m not. It’s too difficult with my kids. Are you?’

‘Same here—I just can’t. My daughters were ill last week so I had to call in sick. You know, I’m finding it really difficult with them—I just don’t know what to do. I really need to change my shifts from three to two.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Richard? Just tell him how tough it is.’

‘I know I should, I should…but…we’re still on probation, you know.’

She is obsessed with our probation. I want to tell her I’ve asked for a shift change but don’t.

‘If my situation doesn’t change, I might have to leave—you know,’ she says rubbing her eyes wearily.

Suddenly we realise that there is someone else in the toilets. So she changes her tune.

‘Well, maybe I won’t have to leave…I’ll see you downstairs.’ And she runs off.

This is my last shift before Christmas. I turn the corner towards the tills and walk on to a pantomime set. There are elves, female Father Christmases, two-legged reindeers, walking Christmas gifts…One of the supervisors is parcelled up inside a box wrapped with ribbon. Richard is dressed in a Santa Claus outfit with an enormous white beard. The others have all gone with a Sexy Santa theme: short skirts trimmed with tinsel, tight black belts pulled suggestively around the waist, red corsets lined with white fake fur, stockings, tails, reindeer hairbands—it is a Santa’s harem.

The local scouts are in, helping with packing (and raising money for charity) and I’ve got a garrulous Scout leader at my tills. She ends up talking to all my customers so I just listen.

Everyone wants to know about our Christmas hours and I tell them we’re open twenty-four hours a day next week. They must all be planning to come in then, because it’s certainly quieter today than I expected.

There are lots of unfamiliar faces around and I realise that they’re the extra staff taken on for Christmas. Others in the retail sector are cutting back on part-time staff and offering extra hours, but not so at Sainsbury’s, and there’s been no talk here of redundancies.

At the end of my shift, Richard calls me into his office. He gives me a Christmas card, thanks me for my work and offers me a Quality Street. He asks about my childcare situation, tells me he will consider it in light of the recent sackings, and give me an answer in the New Year. He then talks to me about being off sick. He asks me to go through what was wrong, how I informed them, and reminds me that I don’t get paid sick leave. He takes out a piece of paper and draws up a six-point list for every instance of sick leave:

1. Fill out a back-to-work form. And talk through what happens next.

2. Have a chat about why sick. Can Sainsbury’s do anything to support you?

3. Verbal warning.

4. Written warning.

5. Disciplinary action.

6. Dismissal.

‘Wow!’ I find myself spluttering. ‘But most people are sick about three times a year. What about the fact that we might pass on what we’ve got?’

He tells me politely that once everyone learns about these six stages, no one goes beyond the second or third. This, it seems, is Richard’s way of pulling us into line.

When I emerge, Michelle is next in the queue. She looks anxious and asks me what it’s about. I reassure her it’s a Christmas greeting and she relaxes. She comes to my till ten minutes later looking brow-beaten.

‘I asked him if I could change my shifts and he said no.’

‘Really? He’s not even going to consider it?’

‘No. He said someone has already asked him, so it’s too late for me.’ Her soft blue eyes are piercing when they stare.

I say nothing and I’m not sure why. As she walks away I feel uncomfortable. I know that the supermarket has already invested £2000 in training us, I’ve done OK in my assessments and I’m not scared of negotiating. Michelle is scared witless about losing her job, paranoid about our probationary period and doesn’t know how to play the game. It shouldn’t be my problem, yet I’m racked with guilt.