The Queue

I'm not sure how it's possible, but my hands feel even dirtier after I've washed them. I always feel this way after using that sink. I dry them and once I get downstairs, I reach for the hand sanitizer that we keep on the counter. It's supposed to be for customers of the bank, but we also use it since our job is to handle cash. I turn to Jean. She's busy balancing her till, but looks over at me, raises her eyebrows and gives me one of those close-lipped smiles that tells me she knows exactly what I'm thinking right now - that we need a new cleaner. I open the email software and bash an angry email to the boss requesting a meeting. Somebody needs to speak to him about this.

'Good morning.' I smile brightly at the first customer. He doesn't reciprocate.

'Three hundred please.' He hands over his passbook. His wrinkles look deeper than the last time I saw him. His jowls have puffed out.

'Doing anything nice with it?'

'New hoover for the shop.'

'Lovely!' I try to mean it. I really don't care. I have to ask everyone the same standard questions to filter out those who are victims of frauds and scams. 'What kind of shop do you have?'

'Computer games. Second hand. The cleaner's off again. Have to do everything myself.'

'Aw, we're having cleaner trouble too,' I say, a little absentmindedly since I'm navigating my way around the screen, confirming amounts and printing off withdrawal slips, then counting cash. The woman at the end of the queue frowns at me. I ignore her. I hate every single lazy customer who doesn't want a card because they don't trust ATMs, even though they're my bread and butter.

'She's on her last warning already. She's for the chop.' He smiles with an alarming vitriol that disturbs me as he leaves the counter. I swallow, wondering if my boss will share the same expression when he speaks to our cleaner. I start to feel a little sorry for her.

The next customer approaches. She's elderly. She takes exactly three seconds to place each step using her walking frame. I want to run out from behind the counter and help her. I fight the urge.

'I used to be a cleaner before I had my family.' She smiles wistfully. I consider asking her to apply for the upcoming position. Despite her fragility, I think she'd do a better job. She clearly took pride in her work.

'Morning Mrs. McJimpsy. How much today?' I do believe my face does this smiling thing instinctively when I sit in this chair.

'Two hundred please.' She pushes her passbook over. She groans, I think from the exertion but I can see a tear in her eye.

'Doing anything nice with it?'

'Yes, I'm paying for adverts. Lost dog adverts. I've lost my dog.'

'Oh, not wee Blue,' I say. I used to see her walking Blue around town when she was stronger. Her husband walked Blue as a puppy before the old man passed away.

'It feels like I've lost my husband all over again.'

I reach down under the counter for the tissues. I offer them at least once a day. I never thought for a minute that I would end up counselling people while working in a bank. She hands me the soggy tissue back. I complete the transaction and quickly wipe hand sanitizer on my keyboard and hands while she's putting her wallet back in her bag. I notice a keyring attached to the bag with Blue's picture on it. Finally, she leaves.

'My mum grieved for my grandpa when our goldfish died,' the next customer says. He's a boy of about twelve with freckles and teeth with huge gaps that look like pegs.

'Grief's weird,' I agree. 'How much would you like?'

'Nine hundred please.'

I look at the passbook. That's almost the whole amount. It's in trust for him. He's not allowed to withdraw money without a parent present.

'You'll need to come back with your mum or dad for that, sorry.'

'I don't want them knowing what I'm doing with it.'

I lean forward and conspiratorially wave my hand towards me, ushering him in to share his secret.

'Doing something nice with it?' I whisper.

'I've got a dog. But mum doesn't know. He's got a sore paw and I need to take him to the vet. And I need food. I've been feeding him scraps.'

I glare at the boy. 'Vets are expensive, son, but they won't cost that much.'

'I found him wandering the streets. He's a stray. Look!'

He holds up his phone and there's a picture of Blue McJimpsy. I'm about to tell him I know who he belongs to when I feel something hit my arm and turn to see that a pen was thrown at me. Jean, having now gotten my attention, mouths the word, "confidentiality" at me.

'Tell your mum,' I say, leaning back away from him and adjusting my uniform. 'She might pay for the vet's bill. And maybe the dog's micro-chipped.'

He reaches under the glass, which is easy for him to do since his arms are spindly and young. He grabs the passbook back out of my hand and shoots me a look that says I'm one of... them. The grown-ups. The establishment. The authority figures who won't let him keep this dog he's grown so fond of.

Without missing a beat I smile at the last customer in the queue. She walks forward.

'Oh dear. I think you've upset him.' She pushes her passbook forward along with another piece of paper.

'How much would you like?'

'I'd like to close the account please.'

I examine the name on the account. It's a child's name. He is eight years old. He has twenty thousand pounds. I don't think I've ever had that much money and I'm a proper adult. I then look at the piece of paper. It's a death certificate.

'Doing something…' I stop myself and pass the death certificate back through. 'Do you want twenties or fifties?'

'Whatever you have.'

'I'll need to open the safe which would take a few minutes, or you could have a cheque?'

'Cheque's fine,' she nods.

'I'm sorry for your loss,' I say while I'm printing the cheque. I don't know what else is appropriate. 'Was it sudden?'

'No, he had been ill for a while. Leukaemia. I'm surprised you didn't know. My mother works in here.'

I look over at Jean, who is ignoring the conversation now. She's bowed her head, perhaps having made a connection that I haven't yet.

'What's your mother's name?'

'Rita. She's your cleaner.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know,' I say. That's why this woman frowned at me when I said we were having cleaner trouble. I sign the cheque on behalf of the bank and hand it to her. I hope my face is listening to my brain and not doing that instinctive smile that it always does. I can't tell right now because I'm too busy composing myself and fighting back tears I have no right to cry. This woman has lost her son and she's not crying. Rita has lost her grandson. I've never seen her cry either. But she does miss a shift now and again and sometimes, when she does turn up, she forgets to wash the coffee mugs or clean the sink.

The woman leaves and I swivel round in my chair. I ask Jean to mind the counter for ten minutes since she's finished balancing the till. I pass the boss on the stairs as I'm going up to the toilet.

'Did you want to see me?'

'What?'

'Your email. It sounded like you were furious. Something about Rita?.'

'No, it doesn't matter. I made a mistake. Forget I sent it.'

'Oh, right,' he says. He walks down the stairs. He's whistling. I doubt he knows either.

When I reach the top of the stairs and open the door to the toilet, I survey the job ahead. I take off my jacket, roll up the sleeves of my blouse and open the door under the sink where the cleaning materials are kept. I think Rita should have an easy shift today.