Service With A Smile
MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY ALISON WASSELL
The customer’s always right, that’s what I have to remember!
There’s a week to go before the use-by date and it exploded in the fridge. It gave me quite a fright.”
The customer thrusts a half empty pot of yoghurt under my nose, glaring at me as though the explosion is entirely my fault.
“I believe it’s something to do with fermentation and bacteria,” I begin, before deciding a science lesson isn’t going to win her over.
I offer to replace the yoghurt and throw in a voucher for coffee and a slice of cake in the café.
She walks away without thanking me as someone plonks a mouldy satsuma on the customer service desk.
“I’ve got the receipt,” the man says, rummaging in the pocket of his anorak.
It turns out to be dated more than six weeks ago.
“I’m afraid fruit doesn’t last forever,” I say, and explain as politely as I can that it’s not supermarket policy to replace items that have been kept too long.
The man mutters something about service not being what it used to be, leaving me to deal with the offending satsuma.
“You’ve stopped stocking those biscuits with the white chocolate chips and coconut,” an angry female voice informs me as I wipe the counter.
I’m not responsible for the purchase of our stock, but I apologise profusely on behalf of whoever is.
“Well, you can’t dunk an apology in a cup of tea, can you?” the woman says, before vowing to take her complaint ”right to the top”.
“Honestly, Cath, I don’t know where you get your patience from,” Helen, my colleague, says as we watch her storming off to pen a missive to head office.
“Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice,” I reply, bestowing my brightest smile on a sprightly elderly lady who has come to return a nightdress.
“It was a gift from my grandaughter,” she explains. “I love her dearly, but it’s a bit frumpy. Could I exchange it for something a bit more up to date?”
“I’m sure we can sort something out,” I tell her.
Ten minutes later she gives me a cheery wave as she leaves with a pair of bright red pyjamas.
“Thank you for your help, dear,” she calls, and I remember how much I actually like this job.
Then someone spoils it all by presenting me with a tub of cottage cheese that “just doesn’t taste right” and asking, more aggressively than is necessary, what I intend to do about it.
During my lunch break I check my phone.
There is a text from my daughter Hannah’s primary school, reminding all parents that the uniform policy specifies black shoes not trainers and that crisps and chocolate biscuits don’t constitute a healthy lunch.
It also points out that many of us are guilty of tardiness in paying for the upcoming trip to the dinosaur museum.
Innocent on all three counts, I feel a bit like a schoolgirl myself, being kept behind with the rest of the class as a collective punishment until the culprit owns up.
My phone rings. It’s Mum, who gets straight to the point without bothering with pleasantries.
She had an accident a few months ago that has temporarily stopped her getting out and about, so I’ve been doing her shopping for her.
“That breakfast cereal you brought me isn’t my usual one. It’s too sweet. And you forgot the wholemeal loaf I asked for.
“By the way, the television remote isn’t working. Not that there’s anything worth watching these days . . .”
“Sorry, Mum, I need to get back to work. I’ll see you later,” I say once she has finished cataloguing her woes.
The afternoon features the usual enquiries from customers convinced they have been charged too much and a lady who has lost her mother.
“I was choosing a cooked chicken, and when I turned round she’d vanished. I’ve been searching for half an hour.”
This is where the Tannoy system comes in useful.
“Would Elsie Cunningham please make her way to the customer service desk, where her daughter is waiting,” I call.
Within minutes the pair are reunited.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s not as though I’m going to escape, is it?” Elsie asks as her daughter bursts into tears of relief.
They hug and I can sense real affection in the embrace.
I think of Mum and how I’d be equally distraught if I thought something had happened to her.
I wonder if she would appreciate a bunch of flowers.
Then I remember how she always complains about how they set off her allergies, or don’t last five minutes these days, or make a mess of the tabletop when their petals drop off.
I decide a packet of her favourite biscuits might be better received.
Thankfully, she loves custard creams, rather than the seemingly discontinued line containing white chocolate chips and coconut.
I’m coming to the end of my shift when I spot a vaguely familiar figure approaching the counter.
It’s the biscuit woman from this morning
Helen whispers.
I briefly consider scuttling off before she can harangue me again, but I’m not speedy enough.
Then I notice that she is smiling a little uncertainly.
“I’m sorry to take up any more of your time, but I owe you an apology,” she says. “I was rude to you this morning. I was upset, and I took my frustrations out on you. It was inexcusable.”
Slightly taken aback, because this has never happened before, I tell her not to worry.
Listening to complaints is part of my job, after all.
“Those biscuits are my friend’s favourites, you see,” she explains. “She’s very poorly, and I thought they might cheer her up.
“I just feel so helpless.” Her chin wobbles as she struggles not to cry. “I took her some Jaffa Cakes instead. She was delighted, so there was no need at all for my ridiculous outburst.”
“Well, I never,” Helen says when the woman has gone.
We spend a minute or two reflecting on the fact that you can never know what someone else is going through.
“Worry can make the best of us behave badly,” I say.
I am about to continue when I realise that I have stood talking for too long and am now in grave danger of being late collecting Hannah from school.
“It can be upsetting for the children when a parent isn’t there in the playground at home time,” Hannah’s teacher says, giving me one of her disapproving looks.
I’m only three minutes late, for the first time ever, but I can see she’s in no mood to listen to explanations and excuses.
Besides, I tell myself, she’s well within her rights to be annoyed. She must have lots of things she needs to be getting on with.
That’s my trouble. I’m too good at seeing the other person’s point of view.
For what feels like the hundredth time today, I apologise.
Hannah hasn’t had a very good day and, according to her, it’s all my fault.
“You forgot to write in my reading record to say I’d read at home, so I didn’t get a sticker on the chart.
“And you put ham in my sandwiches. I’ve gone off ham. I told you last night.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, knowing that the best thing to do with my disgruntled daughter is to make her laugh.
“I admit it. I’m a terrible mother. You’ll have to ask Granny to knit you a new one.”
Hannah giggles and links her arm through mine.
“Sorry, Mummy,” she says. “You’re not that bad, really.”
I decide to take it as a compliment.
We make a quick dash to another supermarket, because the one where I work doesn’t stock the cereal Mum prefers, nor her wholemeal loaf of choice.
“Granny’s very fussy, isn’t she?” Hannah asks, and I find it hard to disagree.
“She just has a discerning palate,” I reply.
She doesn’t seem to notice the note of sarcasm in my voice.
With new batteries installed in the TV remote, there is a whole host of things for Mum to find fault with.
As I put away the shopping, she hops from one channel to another.
“I don’t know where they get these game show contestants from. Their general knowledge is terrible,” I hear her telling Hannah.
The drama serials are all repeats, the sitcoms aren’t funny, the documentaries are dull and boring.
“Is there anything you do like, Granny?” Hannah asks.
I whisk her away before Mum has time to launch into a reply.
By the time we get home, I’m longing to put my feet up with a cup of tea, but our next-door neighbour greets me as I’m getting out of the car.
I deduce from the expression on his face that he’s not about to ask if I’ve had a good day.
“You put the wrong bin out this morning,” he says.
Sure enough, the garden waste bin I wheeled out before going to work hasn’t been emptied.
“Silly me,” I say with a smile.
“The thing is, Cath,” he goes on,
you’re always the first, and we rely on you to get it right. We all copy you. It caused no end of chaos.
At first I think he’s joking, although my neighbour is not known for his sense of humour.
He just looks at me, clearly waiting for my grovelling apology and a commitment never to let the street down again.
I remind myself that the customer must always be respected.
I try to live by this rule outside work as well. It’s not always easy.
“I’ll make sure it never happens again,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“You look as though you want to scream, Mummy,” Hannah says when we’re safely inside.
She’s right, but somehow I manage to resist the temptation.
By the time my husband gets home I’ve calmed down a little, but he knows me very well.
“You look the way I feel,” he says, giving me a hug before going upstairs to change out of his uniform.
My lovely husband works as a civil enforcement officer, otherwise known as a traffic warden.
He spends his days being grumbled at by people who have parked illegally and listening to their excuses, yet always manages to return home with a smile on his face.
Sometimes, though, it all gets a bit too much.
When he comes down again, he takes the kitchen timer off the shelf.
“Five minutes each?” Will says.
“Make it ten,” I reply.
He nods.
“You first. Off you go!”
It’s as though the safety valve on a pressure cooker has been released.
I grumble solidly for 10 minutes, barely pausing for breath, letting off steam about the frustrations of my day.
“And the icing on the cake is that the milk’s gone off and I can’t face venturing out again,” I wail as the timer pings.
Will says that’s easily fixed. He’ll go, but not until he’s had his turn.
I listen, my head sympathetically on one side.
“And there was one chap who said he’d hold me personally responsible if he was late for a job interview.
I’m sure people think I make up the rules about where they’re allowed to park.
The timer pings again.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much,” he replies, and we grin at each other.
While Will is fetching fresh milk, my phone rings
It’s Mum.
I brace myself for another complaint, but it doesn’t come.
“I’ve just found those custard creams in the cupboard. What a lovely surprise.
“I know I’ve been a bit grumpy lately. I don’t know how you put up with me,” she adds.
“Oh, you’re not that bad,” I reply, and I really mean it.
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