In the Queue, too

Dawn was rather overcast and gloomy when I walked in this morning, but she cheered up a little when she got her rosy-tipped fingers on the bundle of notes I brought for her to count.  She flicked the corners up with deft digits and bundled them into hundreds before filing them away in her money drawer.

No Rose today, Ron was sat in the middle at “Cashier No2, please.”  Judging by the clouds that hovered around Dawn, Ron was not having a good day.  By the doubtful sideways glances that Dawn was giving him I could tell he didn’t really know what he was doing.

            -  You’ll have to start that again, she said, nodding at the job in hand.  No, you’ll have to recount.

She sighed quietly while he started again.

Dawn entered the amounts on her keyboard and I handed her the cheques as Ron finally sold his customer a second class and sent her on her way.  She was not best pleased either, judging by the way she swung her bag for life off the counter.  The automatic door was definitely not quick enough for her this morning.

Just then Ahmed walked in from the Medina Stores next door clutching a piece of paper.  He saw Ron behind the glass and hesitated a moment, but he approached the counter.  A bit warily, though, I thought.

Doreen had evidently been out the back making tea because in she comes now with three mugs – two in one hand, one in the other – and a packet of Abernethy under her arm.  She delivered the mugs along the counter, reversed her large behind up onto her stool and deftly whipped the easy-open strip from around the biscuits.

            -  Hello, Ahmed, she called across, snapping a biscuit and dunking a piece in her tea.

            -  Hello, Doreen.

            -  Do you fancy a nibble, ducky?  She winked at me as her lipsticked mouth engulfed the soggy, crumbling fragment.

Ahmed grunted as he passed his paper under the glass to Ron, who studied it, front and back, as if he wasn’t sure what he should be doing with it.

            -  What’s this?  he said

            -  It’s me gas bill, said Ahmed, I need to pay it.

            -  Well I know that!  I can see that!  But what’s this… this mark here… what’s that.  Looks like a big “C”. 

He flapped the bill at Ahmed

            -  Oh that, said Ahmed, it’s coffee.  I put me cup down on it yesterday.  That’s what reminded me to pay it.

Ron huffed.

            - I can hardly make out the numbers.  You should be more careful.

He acted out holding it up close to his face and studying hard.

            -  You don’t want to get yourself cut off, eh, Ahmed, said Doreen.

            -  No, certainly not.

Dawn was just starting to sort my change out, sixty eight pounds’ worth, when something caught my eye behind her on the floor.  A sudden blurry, furry movement.  A rat? – no surely not.  It couldn’t be – not in a post office.

I said nothing.

Dawn tipped herself off her stool and bowled over to the change drawer.  She stood there rifling through the various packets of pennies and two pence pieces.  I’d been looking at the Health Lotto cards wondering what the odds were when suddenly there was a sharp yelping noise and a small brown pointed face jumped up in front of me and immediately disappeared again.  Another yelp and the face appeared again, jumping even higher, before falling back down.

            -  Timothy! get down, snapped Dawn.

Once more the yelp and a small brown dog appeared, jumping up behind the counter in a desperate attempt to get onto it!  He looked as if he’d take my fingers off if he could get at them.

            - That’s some jump he’s got on him, I said, glad of the glass between us.

            -  He’ll get his muzzle on him in a minute, said Dawn.

Once again the little dog jumped .  Again, and again.

            -  Timothy! growled Dawn.  How many times have I told you?  Right.

She dropped the bags of change she was counting out, went to her handbag on the floor by the back wall and pulled out a length of black cloth.  She marched over towards my window and the bouncing dog, and flipped the cloth strap onto the counter.  The buckle clicked loudly against the glass.  

She held out a finger of admonition.

            -  I’m not joking! she said.

I could tell she wasn’t.  We could all tell she wasn’t.  Even Timothy could tell she wasn’t.  I couldn’t see him now, down on the floor, but I could imagine his little face, his cowed eyes, his lively tail starting to droop as the thought of the muzzle filled his tiny, bouncing head.

Dawn turned to look at me from hooded lids.  She still wasn’t joking.

In The Queue

First in the Queue

I'm off down the hill to the Post Office to pick up change for the till.

We've a shortage of pennies.

It’s a hot afternoon, the Sun dripping down the back of my neck.

I'm in the queue.

Dawn and Doreen are enthroned on their stools behind the glass –  positions One and Three – and Rose, "Cashier Number Two, please," is a small, unnoticeable woman between the double D.

Dawn and Doreen mirror each other; a genuine 88, the real thing, two pneumatic ladies bantering over Rose’s quiet head.  And when they must move in the course of their work, they float like dodgems around the cluttered space.  Gently their midriffs collide in the tighter corners – softly rebounding from each other, pin-balling across the office floor, reversing and negotiating. 

Dawn, younger but senior, Doreen, older, on the edge of insubordinate.  She’s looking at retiring but has just a hint of the memory of a sexual encounter or two about her – a someone by Beryl Cook.  

Dawn’s busy with a young man sending football stickers.

- They'll squash no problem, he says and she forces the package through the Small Packet size guide.

Rose is busy putting five pounds worth of gas on somebody’s card.  

Doreen’s got the Position Closed sign up; she's been busy untangling rubber bands or something.

Rose finishes with her customer and it’s me next, but as I step forward Doreen takes down her sign and calls me over to her window.

- I'll do him, Rose, she says, with a slight tinge of innuendo, looking at me from under her mascara.

- Afternoon, Doreen.

I slide the change book, with the cash inside, under the glass to Doreen.

She takes it with a slight sigh.

- Thank you, lovey.

She does everything with a slight sigh.  She likes her job – the people – the public – it’s important, but she doesn’t like money or counting or having to do it.  Everything’s a sigh but ending in a smile.

She tots the column of figures and riffles the notes, moistening her fingers on an already dry sponge damper.  Her gold topped fingernails glisten like new pound coins, flashing over the fleshy pads of her counting digits.

I have to look away from the blurring movement.  I can’t count as fast she, and I get a bit queasy watching the whirring of her hands.

Postman Pete comes in from his van.  He’s here to collect parcels.  He flicks out his electronic pad. 

- Picked up the wrong one! he says, dabbing at the screen with a capped ballpoint pen.

- Oh! you idiot, wails Dawn.

- It were full of fish!

- Fish? No! What live fish? says Dawn.  No!

- No, y’ dope, tuna, tins o’ tuna.

- Oh, I were gonna say… shouldn’t be shipping fish, not live fish, not in’t mail.

- No, says Pete.  Mind you talking of wildlife…

- What?

- I were just lifting it up and this massive big spider crawls out of it.  Massive hairy thing.  Nearly dropped it!

- Eeuw!  Nooo! Dawn and Doreen chorus.

Another customer moves up to Rose’s window.

- Here, says Dawn, we had to stop that feller sending spiders through post.  D’you remember, Dor?  You weren’t here, Rose.  Pots with them in, he had, wrapped ready to go int’ post.  Can you believe it?

- Oh ay, says Dor.  Oh, and Dawn, do you remember that woman with the crisps. 

But Dawn’s gone to fetch a sheet of First Class from the back.

Doreen looks to me for audience.

- This woman comes in and puts this great big box on the scale.  What’s in it, says I, she says “It’s snacks” but I thought she said “snakes”.  Oooh!  I heard her say “snakes” not “snacks” but it were crisps!

- Haha! I offer.

She chuckles to herself casting me quiet glances as she starts to push the little cash bags under the partition.

- Snakes!  Honestly… so that’s forty in ones, twenty in fifties, ten in twenties, five in tens and ten in copper.  Is that right, lovey?

- That’s right, Doreen.

I want to tell Doreen about Penny Stamp who worked in the Post Office where I grew up.  Penny Stamp.  Working in a Post Office.  But I can't find the right moment, so I don't say anything.

She pokes the last of the bags of shiny two pence pieces under the glass.

- They look new, I say.

- Yeah, I just made ‘em, she says winking at me.  Have you got a bag, lovey?

Then I'm off back up the hill with the weight of change bouncing my bag against my back.

A Tale of the Unexpected

Ok, so I'm doing my delivery round on Wednesday and as I pull up at Mrs Wright's house, her neighbour who's, what,  about 78, is standing leaning against the wall by her front door.

I walk up veg box in hand and he's staring at the van...

- I'm trying to read what that says on your van...

- Oh, yes, it is a bit tricky to make out...

- What is it? B...E.. R, is it?

- B, E, A, N, I, E, S - Beanies...

- Beanies?   What like in Beans?

- Yes.

- Beanies ...oh.   Beanies...

I knock on Mrs Wright's door... she often takes a minute or two to come so I'm stood there waiting...

- She's in, but she's been pooorly, she probbly won't come.  Can't make that out...Beanies?

- No, it is a bit tricky...   I'll just leave it here under the bush.

- No, not there, here I'll tek it.   Gi'it here...

I rest the box on the wall for him to take.   It's only a ‘B’ box, standard size, no potatoes.   It's got some onions, carrots, a lettuce, spring greens, 3 courgettes, an aubergine.  It’s not heavy.

He lifts it off the wall.

- Blimey!   That's heavy!

I think he's joking.

He's not joking.  

He's holding the box and wobbling about.

- I've only got one leg!

He hobbles off to put the box in the passageway.

I watch him bend, straight-legged, slowly lowering the box onto the ground.

He straightens up, puffed from the exertion.   Poor old boy.   I feel a bit bad for him, making him struggle with his one leg.

- She's a fabulous cook, you know.

- Is she?

- Ooh fabulous.   I'd do some gardening jobs for her and she'd cook up Sunday lunch!   Ohh, fabulous. Hehe!

He pushes his belly out and rubs the memory of the food. 

- What is that then? Beanies?

- We're a greengrocer's and a wholefoods shop.   Been there more than twenty years.

- Twenty years?

- And more...

- Twenty years, not heard of it.   Where is it then?

- Down on Crookes Valley Road, you know just opposite the big church by the lights.

- Oh, down there.

- Yes.

- Oh, right.   Yes, I've a couple of young 'uns selling drugs for me down there.

- Rig... What!?

- I'll send them in...

I think he's joking.   He is joking...isn't he?

- Erm, well you needn't bother!

He's not laughing

He must be joking.

- Oh I don't care what they do, so long as they bring me my ackers.     See you.