It was the largest department store in the city, with the food department covering most of the ground floor. And it was there that I had taken up a part-time job on the Saturdays of my final year in college. Quite a comfortable little job loading bakery shelves. Then came Christmas!
“The Saturday before Christmas will kill you!” George, head porter, gleefully informed me. “Time of year always kills off part-timers.”
It was looking like George was right. Saturday 23rd December, just open half an hour, and there were people everywhere, grabbing cakes from counters like hens at a tray of corn. And I had already been racing from one shelf to another.
Outside, a biting wind blew white diagonals of snow along hostile streets. Inside, heat and stickiness of non-stop fetching and carrying. Carton of teacakes here, carton of eclairs there. And the constant frantic questions, “Where’s the flan cases, flower?” Flower? Me? It must be Christmas.
A grey-haired old lady, arms full of parcels, face full of worry as I tell her the stock answer, “Sorry,” and feel it. “Seasonal line. Summer only.”
“Ah, our Bob loves his flan at a weekend.”
Off again, stoking hungry counters. George’s red, fat, grinning face turns up. “Getting you down yet?”
Grin back bravely, “No bother.”
Pace quickens. Blue smocked supervisor appears, hard faced, and anxious as she demands, “Three trays of chocolate Swiss. Two of jam tarts. One of Madeira, one of Genoa!”
And away with empty, stubborn-wheeled trolley to sweet, unheated basement storeroom. Sweat down the small of my back, feet ache. Ah, that cool, cool basement. I press heated brow to wonderful soothing, ice-cold metal shelf.
Now laden, it’s back to the sales floor, and more eager queries, “Where’s the doughnuts, pet?” I’m wishing I was somebody’s pet. “Do you have any teacakes?” Point out here, point out, over there, but thinking, “Haven’t you got eyes in your head?” Am I losing my patience?
Lunch hour comes as a relief. Plenty of tables in the canteen but George plonks himself down opposite me, and I watch fascinated as he deftly flicks peas, fork to knife, knife to mouth, without dropping one, poetry in motion.
“Lousy grub,” he declares, that devil’s advocate grin reappearing, “Feet tired?” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “No, they’re fine, thanks.” They ached like mad.
Lunch hour over in five minutes. Down to the sales floor—a sea of red-faced humanity. My arm grabbed by the blue-smocked supervisor, “How long does lunch take you?” she demands. “Fast as you can, six trays of chocolate Swiss, six jam rolls. Three trays of angel cakes, and two of Battenburg.”
Off to the depths again. Load up. Will six o’clock never come? Shoulder behind creaking trolley, heave. God, tote that barge, lift that bale! Out of lift to face struggling masses. Determined faced women, trail protesting husbands, boyfriends or screaming kids.
“Excuse me.” Easing trolley into buzzing throng, almost get swept away. “Excuse me!” My louder plea. Angry female face, “What right have you--?” No headway through the masses.
“Trouble, lad?” George, grinning as ever. “You should see it when it gets really busy.” He grabs my trolley in long, broad fingers. “WATCH YOUR BACKS!” The parting of the waters. A miracle. Crowds close in behind us.
“Experience, that’s all it takes, lad” And he’s gone, swallowed up in the crowd. Blue smock is at my shoulder, “Where’ve you been? Counters are empty.” Eyes glare, as she mouths, “Eight trays of eclairs, six---”
On and on, jelly legs, aching back feet on fire. The point of despair when, at last, it’s six o’clock. Bell in my head rings, a welcome end to a losing fight.
Sorry legs are dragged up long, long staircase. Back arched, as I slump against cloakroom wall, my shoulders stooped. George appears. I straighten up and step numbly, but not nimbly, to my locker.
“Had enough?” George gloats.
“Wasn’t so bad,” I reply, blithely yet unconvincing.
“Never mind, home, and feet up, eh?”
I nod my head while cringing inside. Tonight is the college Christmas dinner dance!
