Part 5

When Pinky started out on the checkout at Bugden’s, he could not have displayed a finer aptitude for the job. Defying all laws of physics, he somehow managed to not only scan each item but pack the customer’s shopping into a bag in the process.

“Oh, thank you so much, love,” said one ageing and very satisfied customer. “The girls never used to ask if I wanted me things put into a bag. And me arthritis has been killing me something chronic of late.”

One Employer of the Month award followed another. Pinky was riding the crest of a wave, and his groundbreaking customer service led to serious changes to the supermarket chain’s policy: all checkout assistants must ask if a customer would like their items packed.

Each week, he was able to bring home a modest pay packet to help his mother with the household expenses.

“Why don’t you treat yourself to something nice?” she often suggested. “You deserve it.”

But he’d merely shrug and tell her that he had everything he wanted at home with her, even if the soles were almost falling off his training shoes or the knees worn out of his jeans.

Whether due solely to his checkout prowess, he eventually turned the head of Assistant Manager Jeanette Green, a woman some eighteen years his senior. Soon there were cinema dates, walks along the beach, hand-in-hand, and fish-and-chip suppers. Most importantly of all, Jeanette had met with Ms. Goose’s approval when the couple took her out for cream tea at the town’s fanciest hotel.

“Lovely girl, Pinky. You should keep hold of that one.”

They were the envy and toast of the supermarket.

“There’ll be wedding bells in the air soon,” said one of the checkout girls. “Mark my words. If we’re lucky, we might get ourselves an invite to the reception. Can’t beat a good knees-up.”

But all good things come to an end; some grind to a slow depressing halt; others crash down with unexpected devastation.

Pinky had noticed his mother’s persistent cough for months now. When he asked for Jeanette’s advice, she suggested that the supermarket’s own brand cough mixture would be the ideal solution.

“It comes in a nice black currant flavour. I’m sure it’ll put your mum right in no time.”

When the cough became even more persistent, Pinky insisted that his mother finally consult with their local GP. The cancer diagnosis was shocking; her death three short months later a blow he would never recover from.

At the wake, a sober, respectful affair in the same fancy hotel they’d taken her for cream tea, Jeanette tried to console her fiancé.

“Don’t even mention her name,” he hissed. “She was twice the woman you’ll ever be!”

Grief had made him see Jeanette as the enemy and sole cause of his mother’s death. If only Pinky had remained as devoted to his dear old mum as he had been in earlier years, she would never have succumbed to her illness. Fuzzy logic in any circumstances, but he inexplicably pushed away the one person who could comfort him in his time of most need.

Even though the supermarket told their star employee to take off as much time as he needed to come to terms with his loss (understandably, checkout dynamos of his gold-star calibre only come around once in a lifetime), a nine-week absence was far too long, and the manager Mr. Burke sent his assistant Jeanette Green round to his flat to ascertain exactly when he intended to return to work. A dual-purpose operation (Jeanette had willingly volunteered for the emotive assignment as she still harboured hopes of effecting a full reconciliation), she was shocked to see the full extent of his decline.