Storytime with Houdi – The Lying Ant…

The song Before You Go, by Lewis Capaldi, is taken from his debut album, Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent. It refers to the suicide of his aunt when he was a boy. Capaldi became synonymous with the Covid lockdown having dominated the music charts during that period. I was in the same state of mental health as his aunt at that time. In four decades of a department store management career, I had never endured such a challenging year.

Before the lockdown, the department store I was managing was underperforming, but Covid travel restrictions forced shoppers to go local. We provided free parking, offering food and essential textiles. Overnight, our sales increased by 120%. I was emboldened by the strong business growth but we had to follow strict Covid protocols. Everyone in the building had to be masked. Social distancing indicators were painted on the floor of the shop which was turned into a one-way system. Perspex screens were erected at all points of sale. Personnel sterilised trolleys in the car park. Sanitising stations were provided all around the building. We had to keep detailed records of staff who were infected by the virus, reporting all cases to Head Office.

My elation about the increased sales lasted as long as a snowflake on a stove. The 100-strong staff team dropped like mayflies. All absence phone calls were directed to me as I was on duty at 7am daily. Within two weeks staff numbers had dropped to 80—a 20% decrease. Covid rules prohibited recruitment of new staff. My anxiety rocketed, exacerbated by arduous physical work which I was not familiar with. I was working so many hours that I felt obligated to show my passport to my wife before she allowed me into the house. Like an incoming prisoner, I had to strip in the garage, before being led to the shower, to prevent any contamination of the household.

In the shop I dreaded the early morning absence calls. The staff had perfected a system for ringing in sick, aware I would be answering. One girl Bernie, had mastered it. She sounded as though she’d pulled the tubes out of her nose, uttering gibberish, just before she collapsed back into a coma.

As soon as she hung up another one rang, sounding like she put cotton wool up both nostrils, whilst speaking through a tea towel. I was at the end of my tether. By the end of the first month, staff numbers had fallen by a third, to 66. I phoned the director of operations in despair. He promised he would get me staff from a branch that was closed (stores that were stand-alone textiles outlets were prohibited from selling goods designated as non-essential goods).

The next morning I was met by a young lad Andy, who was seconded from another branch. He had the appearance of a Lilliputian dipped in bleach, standing no more than four feet six inches in platform shoes like the pair I wore in the 1970s with my Bay City Rollers outfit. He said he would be good on the fruit and veg as his father was a fruit distributor. With immediate effect, we both tore into the 12 pallets of crated produce. I was lifting a single crate while I watched this pale, petite packer tackle three at a time. I couldn’t even see his face. Mesmerised by his strength relative to his size, he may have been a human ant.

—Your dad is in the fruit business Andy?

—No, he gave it up to become a solicitor.

—Oh, what firm does he work for?

—He works for himself.

 

He lifted a bin of Maris Pipers potatoes that I needed a pallet truck to move.

—But he’s giving that up too as he’s appalled at the corruption.

—What’s he going to do instead Andy?

—He’s going to be a landscape gardener.

I suspected this fella was a bit of a Walter Mitty but I was willing to endure him as his productivity was off the scale. As he took the empty pallets off the floor he asked:

—Boss, before you go, could you lend me money for my tea break?

—I forgot mine.

I handed him a fiver.

The next morning he was in the building before me, crates flying in the air like confetti.

—Boss, I need to talk to you in confidence.

—Sure Andy, what’s up?

—MI5 are watching me.

—Why Andy?

—My sister, she invented a cure for the coronavirus.

—The authorities don’t want it to be known as they want to control the population.

—Is she a chemist or a scientist Andy?

—No, she’s a hairdresser, she does that stuff in her spare time.

—Boss, if you see me disappearing off the floor today you will know they are in here.

I thought, is this guy taking the piss or does he think I’m a fool? Considering his work-rate was three times that of mine, I persevered. It was a Herculean struggle though. After we had everything packed out he was at it again:

—Boss, before you go, could you lend me money for my tea break?

—I forgot mine again.

I handed him another fiver.

The next morning I arrived at work with no sign of the human ant. I was in the worst of form after taking sick calls from three members of staff who, by the sound of them, were approaching death. I was tempted to send the priest up to their houses to administer the last rites. The human ant appeared as I slammed down the phone, his eyes half closed like a comatose crocodile.

—Boss, I’m sorry I’m late.

—I had an awful night of it, last night.

—What happened Andy?

—Someone broke into the house boss.

—Did you call the police?

—No, I went to the kitchen to get a big knife.

—I waited under our bed to see if he would come up so I could jump out at him.

—Did he come up?

—No, he must have seen me with the knife and cleared off.

—It’s good that you are safe Andy.

He launched into his work, the giant pallets of fruit evaporated before my eyes as he regaled me:

—I’m renting at the minute boss but I’m building a new house.

—Good man Andy, have you a mortgage approved?

—No, we have saved the money up.

—My wife is designing the kitchen as that’s her specialty.

—Is she an architect Andy?

—No boss, she’s a care worker but she does stuff at night school.

—Fair play Andy.

—At least your dad can do the landscaping for you.

—He might boss, but he’s getting tired of that now too as he’s getting older.

—He’s going to be a mechanic as he thinks that’s a better opportunity.

I had enough. I made for the canteen but considered hitting the off licence first for a bottle of Buckfast. Throwing me a conspiratorial glance he asserted:

—Boss, before you go, could you lend me money for my tea break?

—I’ll square you up for everything at the weekend.

Yet again I handed him a fiver.

The next week we had inclement weather with sleet and snow. I arrived late with no sign of the human ant. The phone rang. I expected the usual muffled phone call from a dying member of staff, but it was the human ant this time.

—Boss, boss, I’m sorry about this.

—I was out last night in the car.

—I was going down the hill and I couldn’t stop.

—The car went straight through a big poster site at the bottom of the hill.

—It overturned twice, landing in the river, but I’m alright.

—My dad is going to fix my car.

—Don’t worry boss, I’ll take it as my day off and I’ll be in tomorrow.

—Andy, how will you get the car out of the river?

—Oh, it’s sorted, my da is a member of a scuba diving club and they’re getting it.

Divinely uninspired, I collapsed onto the reception desk feeling like Sisyphus pushing his giant boulder up the hill.

The ant did report for work the next day, unscathed, having survived such a catastrophic accident. He was still lifting crates three at a time to my one, the sweat dripping off his face mask like the saliva on a newborn calf. He told me he had previously taken a course in how to survive car accidents as part of an advanced driving test, hence he had no injuries or bruises. The accident must have damaged his memory though as he still hadn’t repaid my fivers.

Later that day, by coincidence, we left work at the same time. His father was collecting him from the car park. I turned the ignition on my Jaguar. Dead as Hector. I turned it again. Nothing. The window rapped. I wound it down. A man of indeterminate age asked me was I having car trouble? I wanted to answer, no I’m mowing my lawn, but I demurred.

—I’m Andy’s father.

—I’m a mechanic.

—Open up the bonnet there.

Oh heavens above.

Please Lord, don’t let this be an older version of Andy.

He worked at it for two minutes then instructed me to turn the ignition. It kicked in on the first go. He gave me the thumbs up as he headed back to his son, the lying ant. On the road home Lewis Capaldi sang Bruises,

There must be something in the water

‘Cause everyday it’s getting colder.

Postscript.

I’m retired now.

Andy the ant left to setup his own shop.

That’s no lie.

I never did get my fivers back.