Up To The Job

MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY ALISON WASSELL

Christie and I had to battle it out to impress our manager…

I need a quick word, ladies, before you go home,” Maura says.

I can tell by the look on Maura’s face that she’s not about to surprise us with a pay rise.

I glance at my colleague, Christie, and she shrugs her shoulders.

Our new manager isn’t one to mince her words.

“These are tough times,” she went on. “I’m not sure we can afford to keep you both on – not when there’s been such a reduction in footfall lately.”

I’ve been dreading this ever since Maura’s gran, Pauline, retired and put her in charge of the shop.

For weeks she’s been following us round with a clipboard, sighing and making notes, or poring over sales figures and shaking her head.

Even though the words don’t come as a shock, they’re difficult to hear.

I slump into the chair we keep by the till.

Christie takes a more combative approach.

“Which of us are you planning to sack?” she asks.

Maura smiles, which seems inappropriate under the circumstances.

“Well, I was thinking one of you might like to retire and put your feet up,” she says.

I suppose to a young woman barely out of university we must seem ancient, but we’re both several years away from drawing our pensions.

Christie explains this in no uncertain terms.

“Well, give it some thought anyway,” Maura says, then ushers us out.

We drive home together in silence.

“Come in for a cuppa?” I ask when Christie stops her car outside my house.

Inside, her hands wrapped around a mug, she gives vent to her anger.

“That slip of a girl must think we’re working for pin money as a way to pass the time,” she complains.

Despite everything, I can’t help smiling at “pin money”, which I haven’t heard for years.

Then the gravity of the situation hits me again.

Living alone, I rely heavily on my wage, and I know Christie does, too.

“Ambrose’s last vet’s bill came to thousands and the insurance won’t cover it,” she adds.

The geriatric chocolate Labrador has been her faithful companion since her husband passed away.

I squeeze her hand, then remind myself that I’m supposed to be the cheerful, optimistic one.

“These things have a habit of sorting themselves out,” I say unconvincingly.

Once Christie has left, I cook a meal, but find I have little appetite.

I spend the evening on my laptop, looking up things like “Retraining after sixty” and “Great answers to tough interview questions”.

I’ve only ever had two jobs, unless you count a paper round when I was fourteen.

The first was as a primary school teacher, spending 23 years in the same school, and now this lengthy stint as a shop assistant.

I am not a lover of change.

“You’re going to have to choose between us,” Christie blurts out, as soon as we walk through the shop door the next morning.

I’m half hoping Maura will make her selection right away, even if things don’t go my way, because the uncertainty is almost unbearable.

But she bestows another of her smiles on us and says there’s no need to make any decisions just yet.

“For the time being, ladies, it’s business as usual,” she says, then leaves.

“It’s all just a game to her, keeping us on tenterhooks,” I mutter as we watch her go.

Christie sticks out her hand for me to shake.

“May the best woman win,” she says.

The only thing I have ever won is a colouring contest when I was six.

I’m not the competitive type.

For a second I think about telling Christie the job is hers.

Then two things happen.

The first is that I hear my late mum’s voice in my head.

“Joyce, pet,” her voice says. “If you really want something, you have to be prepared to fight for it.”

The second is that I notice Christie has armed herself with a bucket of hot, soapy water and is about to mop the kitchen.

In all the time we have worked together, she has always left this to me, claiming she’s more suited to the customer-facing side of things.

Now, though, it looks as though she’s out to prove how indispensable she is.

“Two can play at that game,” I imagine Mum saying.

I decide it’s high time the shop window was cleaned.

To do a thorough job, I need to dismantle the window display, which hasn’t been touched for at least a month.

Once the glass is sparkling, I find some pastel-coloured yarns that have just come in and arrange them with a selection of patterns.

The resident mannequin gets a makeover with a lacy cardigan made by one of our volunteer knitters.

I hang a bag made from crocheted granny squares over her shoulder.

In my best handwriting, I create signs indicating how much each item would cost to make.

It looks good, though I say it myself.

By lunchtime, every surface has been wiped down and there is a fresh citrus smell in the air.

Maura closes her laptop and surveys everything with a critical eye.

“You’ve worked wonders,” she admits. “It’s just a pity you can’t conjure up a few customers, too.”

It’s not the response I’d been hoping for, but she does have a point.

So far this morning we have sold a size four crochet hook and a circular knitting needle.

Two people have been in to look at yarns then left without making a purchase, saying it would be cheaper to order online.

“It’s been raining all morning,” I say. “Maybe now the sun is out more people will be inclined to come shopping.”

Maura looks sceptical.

She asks if either of us has ever heard of upselling.

“Is that where you persuade people to buy things they don’t need, as well as what they came in for?” Christie says.

Maura replies that it’s more a matter of making them see that they really do need the extra items.

Then she announces that she’s popping out to meet a friend for lunch.
“I don’t suppose we’ll see her again until closing time,” Christie says, and I’m about to agree when someone comes in.

Normally we greet customers with a friendly smile then leave them to browse.

Today, though, we both swoop on the unsuspecting woman.

“Are you looking for anything in particular, madam?” we chorus.

The woman looks a bit disconcerted at this unexpected attention, and explains that she has only come in to pass the time before a dental appointment.

She puts her hand to her face and winces.

“I’ve been having trouble with my wisdom teeth for years,”

she says.

As I make sympathetic noises, Christie practically elbows me out of the way.

“You know, an excellent way to take your mind off pain is to take up a new hobby.”

She produces a series of beginners’ kits and launches into a story about how learning to crochet was a godsend when she was recovering from her knee replacement a few years ago.

Ten minutes later, the woman leaves, still in obvious pain, but looking forward to knitting herself a new bobble hat.

“That’s the way it’s done, Joyce,” Christie says, looking pleased with herself.

A little later she is less chirpy when a woman comes in, having fallen in love with the lacy cardigan I displayed in the window earlier, and I sell her the wool to make it herself.

“We’ve got some lovely new pattern books,” I say, gesturing at the rack as I ring her purchase up on the till.

She has some birthday money to spend and treats herself to two of them.

I allow myself a satisfied little smile.

By the time Maura returns, we have each made two more sales.

In terms of money taken, Christie is slightly ahead, which she is quick to point out.

Maura doesn’t seem particularly impressed.

In fact, she doesn’t even seem to be listening, her mind clearly on other things.

She goes into the kitchen where, probably searching for biscuits, she opens a cupboard door to find five dozen excess packs of lime green yarn.

“Who was responsible for ordering this?” she shouts.

Christie is busy cashing up, so I’m the one who goes to see what the fuss is about.

“I think it was Christie,” I tell her.

It’s the truth, so why do I feel as though I have crossed a line by telling tales?

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” I add, but the damage is done.

“The nerve of the girl, telling me off like that,” Christie fumes on the drive home.

She doesn’t mention my betrayal, and neither do I, but I’m mortified.

I think of all the things Christie and I have been through over the years.

During lockdown, when I was stressed and anxious, she would phone me twice a day to chat.

I like to think I provided the same kind of support for her through her husband’s final illness.

We have cried together and laughed together.

We are so much more than colleagues.

Surely this kind of friendship is worth more than any job.

“Christie, whatever happens, we won’t let this come between us, will we?” I ask as I’m about to get out of the car.

She turns to look at me and her face seems softer, somehow.

“Of course not,” she replies.

Then I invite her in for tea.

Over a simple meal, we talk about how making the shop look its best and interacting with customers has reminded us both of how much we love our jobs.

We discuss ways we’d improve takings, if it was left to us, and discover that great minds really do think alike.

We come up with beginners’ workshops in knitting and crochet, expanding the product range to include other crafts, starting a knit and natter group . . .

We get quite carried away until we remember that we’ll never be able to do this – at least not together.

Sometimes, though, things really do sort themselves out.

The following Monday we are greeted not by Maura, but by Pauline, looking slightly embarrassed.

Maura, it seems, has decided to go travelling with a friend.

“I love my grandaughter to bits,” Pauline says, “but she’s always been a bit unreliable.

“I thought putting her in charge here might be the making of her, but I should have realised her heart wasn’t in it.”

Then she looks hopefully at us.

“I don’t suppose either of you would be interested in the manager’s role?” she asks.

Christie and I don’t need to consult each other.

“Can we share it?” we say in unison.

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