Energetic scraping with the long handled wire brush Sandra had been given by Colin from hardware was making little impact on the Reduced in Price ticket that was stuck to the floor. Sandra was new. It was important to make an impression by obliteration. That was her job. The discarded discount label was stubbornly attached to the floor beside a shelf with items nearing their sell by date, on sale for one more day before being chucked. Mopping had already failed to budge the gluey paper and jabbing at it with her trainer had resulted in a clump of the ink congealing in the grooves of her Hexalite Performance System Reeboks. The rubber art form soles belonged to Jason, her Son and he was going to kill her when he saw the state of them when she got home.
She had popped Jason’s trainers on this morning, her own were still drying out after an incident with a blockage in the customer toilets yesterday. Angela, the girl from check out four, had already remarked that the designer footwear was too good to be worn on the job. She ‘d said something like, ‘too blingy for a skivvy. They’ll get ruined in here, get yourself down to Primark.’ Sandra thought it was good advice. She knew she would most likely be back in the house before Jason had time to notice they'd gone, she would wipe the trainers down with a soapy cloth and hopefully he would be none the wiser.
It was funny, the things Jason did and did not notice. His head was in the sand about the fact that they were skint. He glared at her every time she repeated that times were hard, ran a mile when she suggested he get a part time job to fit in with his college course and was nowhere to be found whenever there were chores to be done in the space they now shared together since Brian had fled from the family home.
Jason was skilled in verbal put- downs; acutely observant when it came to commenting on her increasing weight, her hair that had transitioned overnight into full white out cover, the worry lines on her forehead that now resembled an ordnance survey map of anguish. Hers was indeed a face that had lost its way,
She realised of course that Jason was hitting her hard with his own hurt. He was seventeen. She had the emotional intelligence to laugh at her own awareness that yes, she would do anything to be in his shoes, and not just in a literal way, as she was now. She would secretly love to trade places just to watch him try to negotiate middle age as an ex Detective Sergeant working as a cleaner. She felt sure there would be less of the sarcasm and more compassion.
To pass the time on her eight-hour shift, Sandra compiled lists in her head. Sometimes they were useful, like when she identified her top five worst worries. Mounting debt was at the top this week. She missed luxuries. Every month, once bills had been paid, there was nothing left for quality time. She wondered if she’d ever had quality time in the first place and decided to make sub headings to include substandard, basic and prime time to add another layer to her angst. With this structure in place she could now improve her fretting ability and to probe into why she had never perceived any time she had, regardless of the definition ,as enjoyable at all. It was an alarming discovery.
These days indulgences and frivolity reached the dizzy heights of the sedentary, secret scoffing of a family sized chocolate, watching a huge amount of television, On a Friday, she would open a bottle or two of family sized wine, the sheer bliss of self soothing to the mortification of blacking out. It was not uncommon that she would wake -up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, covered in a combination of cigarette ash, chocolate crumbs and drool. Jason had told her she was an embarrassment; she couldn’t disagree.
Today, she was making a list of her top five most stubborn food stains found on her cleaning ventures around the shop floor. The gluey sticker was up there but strictly speaking that particular bad boy wasn’t perishable, so she discounted the bargain sign and made a note to create a non perishable list later. The thought amused her and she laughed out loud resulting in a funny look from a passing customer.
Onions, now onions were tricky. They had flaky skin that separated easily from the core of the vegetable and the detached layers scattered all over the shop like butterflies ,papery thin and fluttering, escaping the brush and shovel and landing teasingly out of reach. Residual onion skin was frequently blown from the vegetable rack by gusts of air from the automatic doors and deposited randomly all over the shop; onion skin could be found in the savoury snacks isle, underneath the magazine stand, behind the lottery podium, and once she found some in the lady’s toilet beside the sanitary bin. Sandra thought she might like to be an onion skin. A non- follower of rebellious means, ubiquitous and sticky, outsmarting the neat and tidy oracle of order.
Onion skin, she thought, realising she was overthinking again, belonged to a different category, organic matter was not strictly a stain so she could therefore not add it to this particular list that was keeping her mind off her circumstances of late.
Tackling spillages dominated both her new job description and the aims and objectives of the health and safety action plan that was pinned to the wall of the staff kitchen. There were other skills involved, of course, but none quite as crucial as a clean floor. Someone could slip.
Sandra was creatively careful when asked about her employment status. She referred to her current job as, a contributor to the domestic service industry. Sandra had, in- fact, been a Detective Inspector in the Police force, some might say an expert in the removal of a different kind of stain, the stain on society. Sandra laughed again at her clever word play. Employed with the force for over twenty years, Sandra had been good at her job until she herself was arrested, caught, no less, with the jiffy bag crammed full of donations from the good people of Windyhall who had given generously to participate in the annual Police Pie a Plod charity event.
That April had been a crazy month what with Brian and his sodding affair. She had known for ages their marriage was over, it was a matter of who would give in first. The catalyst for Brian had been Deirdre Dunsmore from the local garden centre. Apparently, it had been going on for some time and, well, yes, she was the last to know. The fact that the rose bushes and begonia were blooming splendidly and the clematis had spread like wildfire last year should have given her a clue. When he started a decking project, she just thought Brian was embracing middle age with appropriate fifty something plus activities, as suggested in the Homes and Gardens magazines that he had insisted in buying despite the costly price of five- pounds per issue. Brian was normally tight with money, in fact, his most used words were “How much?” Sandra had enjoyed watching the garden grow, had been looking forward to family barbeques and had already bought Brian an apron with the words “hotter than hotdogs” written underneath an excited Pomeranian. She felt foolish now.
The charity fund raiser had coincided with a small matter of what they used to call, having a nervous breakdown. One minute there she was being handed wads of money by keen anti- establishment types turning up ready and more than willing to pay lavish sums to Pie a Plod. Sandra had, in a moment of madness pocketed the money. It was beyond her, and everybody else’s comprehension. An internal investigation resulted in a final written warning followed by her dismissal on the grounds of behaviour out-with the acceptable standards of an Officer and so here she was, scrubbing at a value for money sign that was impregnable, just like her newly ruined reputation. She would never get rid of it. Mud sticks, and Sandra was stuck. She tightened her grip and pressed down harder on the handle of the tool, cutting into the paper, moving the blade rapidly over the mark which was now coming away in small bits, leaving patterned swirls of mess, she bent forward for maximum impact and with all her strength made a last gasp attempt to rid the floor of the gummy notice once and for all.
‘There’s going to be a reduced floor in a minute Sandra, maybe even a hole to Australia at this rate, love.’ It was Bob, the Store Manager, he was not best pleased. “Leave it alone for now, it’ll come off eventually .There’s a puddle of milk needs mopping up at checkout three, bit of an accident with the scanner, hurry along before someone makes a trail.”
Sandra, flustered and red with the physical exertion and embarrassment at being caught releasing her displaced aggression, headed towards Angela who was waving at her frantically with a damp paper towel from behind checkout three.
Jason had disowned her since the incident with the sponsored pie a plod money. He only appeared from his room to go to the toilet. He even refused to eat with her anymore. Sandra had tried to explain. She had justified the theft with a tale about the impossible compromises required to work within a misogynistic framework, the added horror of the menopause, the disabling impact of insomnia, hot flushes and memory loss. She threw in her shrinking height and general self- hatred for extra sympathy points. Jason had not been convinced.
Milk mopped and composure restored, Sandra returned to making her list. It was preferable to thinking about her Son. The last time she’d checked the clock it was only fifteen minutes since she had cancelled out onion skin as a legitimate stain. Two hours to go, one hundred and twenty more cleaning minutes remaining, seven thousand two hundred seconds of sweeping and wiping and spraying and bending and polishing and binning and all the time smiling and abiding by the customers come first local superstore mandatory policy.
Ingrained sodden marmite granules, now there was a rightful and justifiable difficult, let’s say, almost impossible, 100% accredited stain. It was up there with red wine, blood and beetroot. A marmite stain was not absorbed and erased magically by her mop, did not disappear with an effortless swipe, like they pretended in the adverts they made to sell to the gullible with money to burn; no, the result was a permanent smear entrenched into the grooves of the non- slip floor tiles. The resorting application of industrial strength bleach to annihilate the yeasty globule not only led to the removal of the enemy, in addition, it exposed and whitened the surrounding floor, evidence that something untoward had once existed there in the ultra -bright white patch that failed to match the dusky blue colour scheme that tinted the rest of the tiles.
Sandra was losing it again with over identification and poor concentration levels. Yes, she had brought shame on herself and her Family. A disgrace to her profession, she was a corrupt splatter of gunge dripping down the side of a jar, the mucky bottom of a coffee cup that’s left a nasty permanent ring mark on a beautifully waxed table, an out of date carton of not so fresh orange juice in need of immediate removal for health and safety purposes.
“Are you alright Sandra?” It was Angela from checkout three. “Only, one of the customers has reported concern about the cleaner sobbing beside the chick peas in aisle five. I thought I’d best come and see for myself. Why don’t you take a break love? Bob’s gone over to the warehouse to collect more of the French fancies that have gone out of stock, so you should be safe for ten minutes.”
Sandra was grateful to Angela who understood her situation. Angela’s husband Tommy was one of the participants in the pie a plod event and he had witnessed the consequences of her actions, albeit through the gloopy contents of a custard pie.
In the canteen, Sandra wiped her eyes. She still had the toilets to clean. She hated that bit, usually left it till last, so that she could go straight home and shower. There was a mirror above the kitchen sink, handy for the girls who went out clubbing after a shift. She was good at avoiding her reflection, but something made her look. And then she looked away. Jason was right, she was a mess.
Sandra straightened her tabard and adjusted her name badge. Someone had written Sandy in large pink child- like letters. She had never been called Sandy, except sometimes by Brian, after a few drinks or when he wanted sex. She took off the badge and opened the plastic surrounding her name. The cheap card came out easily and she crumpled it up dramatically and threw it in the recycling waste. “Bye Sandy.” She said.
She couldn’t find any replacement card or a pen anywhere in the canteen, so she put the empty badge back on and added the task of sorting it to her list of things to do later.
Back on the shop floor Sandra started unfolding her bright yellow, for maximum visibility, Caution! Slippery Surface! signs. She wished there were warnings for other hazards in life, like her impending divorce. Caution! Slippery Slope! The affair, the fights, the sleeplessness and drinking, the blame, the stealing ,the sack, the end of everything that had been built between them. Thirty years. It wasn’t so much a slippery slope as a giant Olympic slalom and Sandra faulting her way to the finishing line.
“I think you’ve dropped this dear.” A customer handed her the nameless identity badge. The safety catch must have broken when she dispersed with the offensive Sandy.
“Oh thanks, yes I need to fix that.” she said. Sandra remembered what her last badge had represented. It had been an honour to wear it, she loved when her actions had been challenged and she could reach into her pocket and flash the necessary authority with pride. It said, look who I am, I have power, I am in command, I win, I get paid to decide your fate, I am respected, listened to and valued. She loved that shield. Her blank badge pinned onto her tabard and her mop and bucket said other things. I am low paid and desperate; I have no choice.
She popped the flimsy badge in her pocket and made a mental note to buy a bigger safety pin. She would cobble together a patch up job and ask Bob for a more robust replacement.
Sandra was changing the bin in the car park when she noticed Deirdre Dunsmore reversing into a space beside the bottle bank. She got such a shock that she dropped the bag and hardly noticed as the contents burst out of the over filled plastic and landed on Jason’s Hexalite Performance Reeboks. She abandoned the rubbish and hid behind a red Citroën Saxo, crouching low under the wing mirror and pulling her supermarket visor cap down over her face. This was where her previous experience came into fruition, at least it would have done had the Citroën driver not driven off leaving Sandra exposed on all fours with only a moped on her right providing less than ample cover.
“Hello Sandra, err, Brian said you’d got a job, hadn’t realised it was this supermarket. Eh, how’s it going?”
Sandra stood up and spluttered out a quick explanatory excuse for crawling around the car park, something about a missing child who may be hiding under one of the cars, and that she would have to continue the search as a matter of priority. She managed to blurt out further untruths about temporary work and other opportunities in the pipeline.
“That’s great. I hope you find the kid, poor thing.” Sandra wasn’t sure if she meant poor child or if she was referring to her. “I’m just nipping in for some kebabs for the barbeque, got some friends coming over tonight. Brian’s busy firing up the coals. I’ll tell him I saw you.”
“Thanks.” Sandra said. “Best get back to looking for little Harry, time is of the essence and all that.”
Just keep breathing, she told herself. As long as one dirty Reebok goes in front of the other for another twenty steps, I will make it to the shop front, I will enter, urgently locate Angela, explain and then disappear home to safety. It was too much to hope that it would be that easy.
“Sandra, there are seagulls eating the chips and god knows what else from a spillage in the car park. Could you see to it?” It was Bob, back from the warehouse with an abundance of French fancies.
Sandra was grateful for the opportunity to release her fury. She marched back out and started stabbing at the gulls with her long-handled pick up stick and shouted from the depth of her lungs, “Just like Brian, parasites, get lost the lot of you. Fly, fly away unless you want me to zap you with disinfectant or capture you with an extra strength maxi cloth.” The birds flew off. A young couple stared. She wanted to cry in a corner, like a toddler, beating her fists on the floor refusing to be consoled. She wanted to shove Deirdre’s kebabs where the sun refused to shine, scratch out the word cheat with a key all along the bonnet of the shiny white Range Rover, parked so carefully by the new love in Brian’s new life which sounded one hundred and fifty billion times better than her own sad, back breaking, supermarket cleaning existence.
Sandra tiptoed into the house, but Jason was up and making tea in the kitchen. He saw her just as she was about to dive into her bed room and remove the trainers which were now sorry looking versions of their former dynamic selves earlier this morning. Jason noticed.
“Oh my God, Mum!”
“Look Jason, I can explain, you see it was dark and I couldn’t find ………” But it was pointless. She stopped explaining. Jason was crying. “Look love, it’s only a pair of trainers, I’m sure we can ……….”
“It’s not that! It’s everything else. You, Dad. Life is crap, it sucks.” Sandra put her arm round her Son and steered him towards the sofa. “I’ll make the tea.” She said.
The phone rang, it was Angela from the shop. “Sorry, Sandra, could you come back in for a short shift tonight, only Betty has called in sick and there’s been a bit of a mishap with the frozen goods following a power cut at lunchtime. I wouldn’t bother you but aisle six is already an inch deep in water, everything’s melting!”
Sandra passed Jason a large cup of tea and sat down at the table. She found her identity badge in her pocket, picked up a black pen and wrote Sandra in capital letters.
On her way out, she was about to change into her Primark cheapies, but Jason noticed.
“It’s okay Mum, keep the Reeboks, they sort of suit you.”
Sandra was just pleased that he had noticed.
