The Professional Queue Stander

Oliver Pike had a job that most people did not believe was real.

When he told strangers about it at parties, they usually laughed.

Then they saw his face, and they understood that he was serious.

Oliver stood in queues for other people, and he was very good at it.

He was twenty-nine years old, and he had been doing the job for six years.

In that time, he had waited for concert tickets, for the first slice of a famous cake, for a new telephone, and for a place at the front of a government office that opened at nine o'clock.

Once, he had even waited thirty-one hours to see a baby panda at the city zoo, because a rich woman had been too busy to go herself.

The panda had slept the whole time.

Oliver had taken a photograph of it and sent it to the woman, and she had paid him twice the usual price.

His business was called Pike Queue Service.

It had one worker, one telephone, and one very small office above a laundry shop, which always smelled of warm soap.

On the wall behind his desk hung a sign that Oliver had written himself.

It listed the three rules of his work.

Rule number one was: Never complain.

Rule number two was: Always bring a folding chair.

Rule number three, the most important of all, was: Never make friends with the people around you.

Oliver had made the third rule in his first year.

He had become friends with a man in a very long queue for football tickets, and they had talked for two days about everything in the world.

Then the man had reached the front of the line and bought the very last ticket, and Oliver had gone home with nothing.

After that, Oliver had decided that a queue was not a place for friendship.

It was a place for patience, and patience was a quiet and lonely thing.

On a grey Wednesday morning in October, the telephone on his desk began to ring.

Oliver was eating a cheese sandwich and checking the weather forecast.

He answered with the words that he always used.

"Pike Queue Service.

We wait so that you do not have to."

"Is that Mr Pike?" said a thin, polite voice.

"My name is Arthur Lamb.

I have been told that you are the best queue stander in the city."

"I am the only queue stander in the city who has never lost his place," said Oliver.

"I do not know if that makes me the best."

"It will do very well," said the man.

"I need you to wait in a queue for me.

It is for the new Cloud Runner Nine running shoes.

They go on sale at Fenwick's Sports Shop at eight o'clock on Saturday morning."

Oliver looked at his calendar.

"That is three days away.

Surely the queue has not started yet."

"I am afraid it has," said Mr Lamb.

"A newspaper reported that the first person arrived last night."

Oliver whistled quietly.

Three days was a long time, even for him.

"I will pay you six hundred pounds," Mr Lamb went on, "and I will pay you more if you are the first person at the door.

There is only one thing I must ask.

I would like to remain a secret.

Please do not tell anyone who sent you."

"Customers are always a secret," said Oliver.

"That is Rule number zero."

He wrote down the address, hung up the telephone, and looked at the sign on his wall for a long moment.

Then he took his folding chair from the corner of the room and began to pack.

Fenwick's Sports Shop stood on the corner of Maple Street, between a bank and a small shop that sold only umbrellas.

When Oliver arrived at noon, carrying his folding chair, his sleeping bag, a large flask of tea, and a bag of sandwiches, he stopped and looked along the pavement.

There was one person in the queue.

She was a small woman, and she was sitting at the very front, beside the shop door, in an armchair.

It was a real armchair, green and soft, with flowers on the cloth and a warm blanket across its arms.

Next to it stood a little wooden table with a teapot on top.

The teapot wore a knitted cover in the shape of a chicken.

The woman herself wore a bright yellow raincoat, and she was knitting something long and blue, very fast, without looking at her hands.

"Good afternoon," she said, without looking up.

"You are going to ask me how I got an armchair here.

Everybody asks.

A taxi driver carried it for me, and I gave him a cake."

"I was not going to ask," said Oliver, although he had been about to ask.

"I was going to ask if this is the front of the queue."

"It is," said the woman.

"And I am the front of it.

My name is Dorothy Finch, but everybody calls me Dot.

I arrived at six o'clock yesterday evening, and I have not left my chair since."

Oliver felt something cold in his stomach.

He was not used to coming second.

"I see," he said.

"Then I hope you have good luck on Saturday, Mrs Finch."

"Miss Finch," said Dot.

"I never married." Finally she looked up.

She had sharp grey eyes and a small smile that did not look completely friendly.

"I know what you are, you see.

You have a folding chair that cost forty pounds, a flask with a very good lid, and the face of a person who is waiting for somebody else.

You are a professional."

Oliver stood up very straight.

"I am waiting for myself," he said, because of Rule number zero.

"Nobody waits three days for themselves," said Dot.

"Not unless they are mad.

I should know.

I have been a professional for two years.

Before that, I taught mathematics at Hillside School for thirty-five years.

When I retired, I discovered that I was very good at sitting, and a woman at my knitting club told me that people would pay for it."

"Then we are in the same business," said Oliver slowly.

"No," said Dot.

"We are in the same queue.

And there is only one first place, Mr ...?"

"Pike.

Oliver Pike."

"Mr Pike, there is only one first place, and I am sitting in it." She went back to her knitting.

"You may sit behind me and admire my armchair.

Please do not touch the teapot."

Oliver opened his folding chair and sat down in second place, as close to Dot as he dared.

He remembered Mr Lamb's words on the telephone.

I will pay you more if you are the first person at the door.

The only way to become first was to make Dot leave her chair, and he had a feeling that Dot would not leave it for anything in the world.

He took out a sandwich, then put it back again.

This was going to be a very long three days.

During the afternoon, a few more people arrived.

A tall boy of about seventeen, with a very large backpack, sat down in third place and said that his name was Kevin.

A woman with a small brown dog took fourth place.

Then, at four o'clock, a thin young man in a chicken costume walked slowly up the street, carrying a pile of papers.

The chicken was the famous symbol of Fenwick's Sports Shop, and the young man's name was Gordon.

He was a university student, and the shop had paid him to give out advertisements.

"Is the costume hot?" asked Kevin.

"It is very hot," said Gordon sadly.

"And it smells like an old sofa.

But the shop pays well, so I do not complain."

"Excellent," said Oliver.

"That is Rule number one."

"What?" said Gordon.

"Nothing," said Oliver.

At five o'clock, the door of the shop opened, and the manager came out with a clipboard.

She was a tall woman with short black hair and a very loud voice, and her name was Ms Priya Shah.

She asked everyone to listen.

"Good evening, everybody," she said.

"I want to explain the rules, because I do not want any fighting on Saturday.

First, there is one pair of shoes for each person.

Second, at seven o'clock on Saturday morning, I will walk along the queue and give everyone a numbered wristband.

If you are not here, you do not get a wristband.

Third, if you must leave the queue, you may only do so if the person behind you agrees to keep your place.

Nobody may be away for more than ten minutes.

Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," said Dot.

"What if the person behind me says no?" asked Kevin.

"Then you lose your place," said Ms Shah, "and you may go to the back of the queue and think about your life." She smiled for the first time.

"Good luck, everybody."

Oliver listened very carefully to the third rule.

It was a very interesting rule.

It meant that Dot could not leave her armchair unless he, Oliver, agreed to it.

He looked at the back of her yellow raincoat, and he began to make a plan.

It was a simple plan.

Everybody knew that tea made people need the toilet.

If Dot drank enough tea, she would have to leave, and then Oliver could say no, and Dot would lose her place.

It was not a kind plan, but it was not a cruel one either, he told himself.

It was only business.

"Miss Finch," he said in his friendliest voice, "I have a very large flask of tea.

Would you like a cup?"

Dot did not stop knitting.

"That is very generous of you, Mr Pike," she said, "but I have a rule.

One cup in the morning and one cup at night.

A professional never drinks more than that."

"A very sensible rule," said Oliver, who had been so sure of his plan.

"However," said Dot, "I made four litres of lemonade this morning, and I cannot drink it all myself.

Would you like some?"

Oliver looked at the big glass bottle that she was holding out.

It was cold, and it looked very good.

He told himself that it was only lemonade, and that it was rude to refuse.

He drank one cup, and then a second, and then a third.

Later that night, in the dark, he began to understand what Dot had done.

On Thursday morning, it began to rain, and it did not stop.

Oliver had brought a plastic raincoat, but it was a cheap one that he had bought at a petrol station, and after an hour it tore down the middle with a loud noise.

Soon his hair was flat, his sandwiches were wet, and his folding chair made a sad little sound whenever he moved.

Dot opened an enormous red umbrella with white stripes.

It looked like a small circus tent.

She said nothing for ten whole minutes while Oliver became wetter and wetter.

Kevin, Gordon, and the woman with the dog had umbrellas of their own, so there was nobody else to help him.

At last, Dot said, without looking round, "Mr Pike, you are dripping on my knitting.

Bring your chair under here."

Oliver was too cold to be proud.

He moved his chair under the umbrella, which was big enough for a family of four, and he said thank you in a small voice.

"Who are you waiting for, Mr Pike?" asked Dot.

"I told you," said Oliver.

"I am waiting for myself."

"Yes, of course." Her needles clicked.

"Well, I have waited for many people.

A woman who wanted to be first at a bookshop.

A man who wanted to see a royal wedding.

A very rude boy who wanted a computer game, and who never said thank you.

Do you know what I have noticed in two years?"

"What?"

"Nobody ever asks us what we would wait for ourselves." She held up the blue thing that she was knitting.

It was now almost two metres long.

"This is a scarf for my nephew.

He is eight years old, and he told me last week that he hates scarves.

So I am making him the longest one in the world."

Oliver laughed, and it surprised him.

He had not laughed in a queue for six years.

Then he asked himself a question that he did not like.

When was the last time he had stood in a queue for something that he wanted?

He thought about it for a long time while the rain drummed on the umbrella, and the answer was never.

Not once.

Dot told him that she had run every morning for thirty years, until her knee had stopped her the spring before.

She said that she still missed it, and that she sometimes stood at her window at six o'clock and watched the other runners go by.

Then she went quiet, and Oliver did not ask any more questions.

He looked at the sign on the wall of his mind.

Never make friends with the people around you.

He had already broken the rule twice, and it was only Thursday.

By Thursday evening, the queue had become a small village.

More than sixty people were now sitting along Maple Street, with tents, blankets, boxes of food, and one very large television that somebody had brought on a trolley.

A boy on a bicycle delivered pizzas to the queue every hour, and Ms Shah had stopped trying to stop him.

A man with a guitar played songs that nobody had asked for, and the woman with the dog said that the dog liked them, which was a lie.

Dot organised a competition.

She said that she had taught mathematics for thirty-five years, and that she could not sit near so many bored people without giving them a puzzle.

She wrote the first one on a piece of cardboard and held it up in the rain.

"A farmer has seventeen sheep," it said.

"All but nine of them run away.

How many sheep are left?"

"Eight!" shouted Kevin.

"Nine," said Oliver, "because all but nine ran away."

Dot looked at him with new interest.

"That is correct, Mr Pike.

Most people never get that one.

You have won a prize." She gave him a small cake from a tin.

It was a very good cake, and it had a tiny picture of a chicken on it.

Later, Gordon took off the chicken's head to eat a pizza, and the whole queue discovered that he was sweating like a runner at the end of a race.

He said that he was studying physics, and that he hated the costume, but that he needed the money to repair his grandmother's roof.

Everybody cheered for the grandmother's roof.

Someone started a collection, and the guitar man gave five pounds.

It was Kevin, however, who told the story that Oliver remembered most.

Kevin said that his school had a running race every year, and that he had come last for three years in a row.

His shoes had a hole in one side, and his feet were always wet.

He had saved his money for months, and he did not need to win, he said.

He only wanted, once in his life, to arrive at the end of a race in shoes that did not hurt.

"Is that why you are here?" asked Oliver.

"It is the only reason," said Kevin.

"Why are you here, Mr Pike?"

Oliver opened his mouth, and for the first time in six years he did not know what to say.

By Friday afternoon, Oliver had a serious problem.

He had been fighting it since Wednesday night, and it had not been easy.

Three cups of lemonade, two flasks of tea, and a great deal of rain had all become one very loud question that his body kept asking him.

He sat as still as a statue, with his knees together and his eyes fixed on the shop door.

Dot did not look comfortable either.

She had not left her armchair since six o'clock on Tuesday evening, which was a long time even for a mathematician.

Her knitting needles moved more slowly now, and her face was the colour of old paper.

"Do you two need the toilet?" asked Kevin, who was sitting behind them.

"No," said Oliver and Dot at exactly the same moment, in very high voices.

Kevin looked at them for a while.

"I see," he said.

"Well, I think that is the strangest thing I have ever seen." Then he put on his headphones and pretended not to listen.

At four o'clock, Dot put down her knitting.

She turned her head, slowly and carefully, and looked at Oliver.

"Mr Pike," she said, "I would like to ask you a question.

You heard the third rule that Ms Shah told us on Wednesday.

I may leave my place for ten minutes if the person behind me agrees to keep it.

You are the person behind me."

"I am," said Oliver.

"You may say no," said Dot quietly.

"If you say no, I will lose my place, and you will become the first person in the queue.

I would understand.

I would be angry, but I would understand.

It is a competition, after all."

Oliver thought about Mr Lamb's six hundred pounds.

He thought about the extra money that Mr Lamb had promised.

He thought about the sign in his office, and about how long he had been alone in other people's queues.

Then he looked at Dot's tired grey eyes, and he realised that there was no choice to make.

"Go," he said.

"Quickly, please.

I am not going to say it twice."

Dot stood up.

She walked towards the café next door, and she moved a great deal faster than a woman of sixty-seven should be able to move.

Oliver sat in her armchair, because it was the best way to protect the place.

It was extremely comfortable, and he felt very guilty about that.

A man in a long grey coat came along the pavement and tried to step in front of the armchair.

"I only want to ask the shop a question," he said.

"This place is reserved," said Oliver in the voice that he used on the telephone.

"It belongs to a retired teacher of mathematics, and she is in the café next door.

If you try to take it, she will give you a very difficult puzzle."

The man looked at the armchair, the chicken teapot, and Oliver's serious face.

Then he walked away very fast.

Dot came back after eight minutes.

She looked ten years younger.

"You did not take my place," she said.

"I thought about it for about one second," said Oliver.

"I know.

I watched your face through the window of the café." She smiled, and this time it looked completely friendly.

"Now go.

I will guard your chair.

I have a very good umbrella, and I am not afraid to use it."

Oliver ran.

When he came back, he was smiling like a child, and the whole queue was clapping.

Somebody had told them what had happened.

Gordon the chicken did a small dance, and the woman with the dog said that she had never seen anything so beautiful, although she had been crying a little, too.

That night, the telephone in Dot's raincoat began to ring.

It was an old-fashioned ring, as loud as a fire alarm, and it made the whole queue jump.

Dot found the telephone and held it against her ear.

"Hello?

Yes, Mr Lamb.

Yes, still at the front.

No, nobody has taken my place.

Yes, I will call you if there is a problem."

Oliver had been eating a sandwich.

He dropped it on the pavement.

"Did you say Mr Lamb?" he asked.

Dot looked at him.

"Yes.

Why?"

"Arthur Lamb?

A thin, polite voice, like a very old clock?"

"Yes, exactly like that," said Dot slowly.

"He telephoned me last Monday and told me that he needed someone to wait for a pair of shoes.

He said that he had heard that I was the best in the city."

"He told me exactly the same thing," said Oliver.

"On Wednesday morning."

They stared at each other.

Then Oliver took out his own telephone, found the number, and pressed the button for the loudspeaker.

It rang twice, and then the thin voice answered.

"Mr Pike?" said Mr Lamb.

"Is everything all right?"

"Mr Lamb," said Dot loudly, "I am sitting next to Mr Pike.

He tells me that you hired him as well."

There was a very long silence on the line.

"Ah," said Mr Lamb at last.

"I see that you have met."

"Why did you hire two of us?" asked Oliver.

"And why did you not tell either of us about the other?"

"I am a private person," said Mr Lamb, "and I did not want to explain myself twice.

I only knew that nobody could wait for three days alone.

I thought that if I hired two people, you could take turns.

One of you could sleep, and one could stand.

One could go to the toilet, and one could keep the place." He stopped.

"You did not take turns, did you?"

"No," said Dot.

"Dear me," said Mr Lamb.

"Then you have been sitting there for two days without a break."

Oliver looked at Dot, and Dot looked at Oliver.

Then they both began to laugh, and they laughed so hard that Ms Shah came out of the shop to ask if they were ill.

Oliver had tears on his face.

He said that he had spent three days trying to defeat the one person who had been working for the same man, and Dot said that she had thought he was a spy.

"I had a plan with tea," said Oliver, wiping his eyes.

"I know," said Dot.

"I made a plan with lemonade."

"I know," said Oliver.

"I drank all of it."

Mr Lamb coughed politely on the telephone.

"I do not entirely understand what is happening," he said, "but I am very pleased.

Please remain exactly where you are.

I will see you both tomorrow morning."

The sun rose on Saturday at a quarter past six, and it shone on a queue that was now four hundred people long.

It reached from the door of Fenwick's Sports Shop, around the corner, past the bank, and almost to the end of the next street.

People were singing.

Somebody had brought a small drum.

Gordon, who was very tired, had fallen asleep inside his chicken costume, standing up.

At seven o'clock exactly, Ms Shah walked along the queue with a large box of wristbands.

She gave Dot a bright green one with the number one on it, and she gave Oliver number two.

Dot held up her wrist and looked at it as if it were a gold medal.

A few minutes later, a long grey car stopped at the side of the road.

The back door opened slowly, and a tall, thin man stepped out with a walking stick.

He had silver hair, a very straight back, and a dark blue coat that looked older than Oliver.

He turned and held out his hand, and a small old woman climbed out beside him.

She wore running shoes that were so old that they were almost brown, and she looked around her with bright, curious eyes.

"Arthur," said the old woman, "you told me that you were going to the dentist."

"I told you a small lie, my dear," said the man.

"I am very sorry.

It is for a good reason."

He walked to the front of the queue, and Oliver knew his voice at once.

"Miss Finch," said Mr Lamb, "Mr Pike.

I am Arthur Lamb, and this is my wife, Margaret.

It is her birthday today.

She is seventy-five years old."

"Happy birthday, Mrs Lamb," said Dot warmly.

"Thank you," said Margaret.

"I am sorry.

I do not understand anything that is happening."

"Please let me explain," said Mr Lamb.

He turned to the queue, which had become quiet, and spoke in his thin, polite voice.

"Fifty years ago, when my wife was twenty-five, she won the Brightwater Town Race.

She wore the first pair of Cloud Runners that Fenwick's ever sold.

Afterwards she kept them for forty years, and she wore them every Sunday, until they fell to pieces in the garden last spring."

"They were very comfortable shoes," said Margaret quietly.

"This week, the company is selling a new pair, made exactly like the old one.

It has the same blue stripe.

It has the same silly little chicken on the back.

I wanted to give it to her on the day that she turned seventy-five.

But I have a bad back, and I could not wait three days in the street.

So I asked for help."

Nobody spoke.

Then Margaret began to cry, very softly, and Kevin took off his headphones.

Gordon, who had woken up, tried to wipe his face, but he forgot that he was still wearing the chicken's head.

The whole queue laughed and cried at the same time, and the guitar man began to play a very slow song.

At eight o'clock exactly, Ms Shah unlocked the door of the shop and held it open.

The queue clapped.

Dot stood up from her armchair for the last time, and she folded her knitting very carefully.

"Come along, Mr Lamb," she said.

"I have been sitting here for eighty-six hours, and I would like to buy some shoes."

She walked into the shop with the Lambs on either side of her, and she bought a pair in size five.

When she came out again, she was carrying a white box with a blue stripe across the top.

She handed it to Margaret, and Margaret held it against her chest as if it were a baby.

Then Dot turned to Oliver, who was standing in the doorway.

"Mr Pike," she said, "you are next."

Oliver walked up to the counter.

A young man with a name badge asked him what he wanted.

"A pair of Cloud Runner Nines, please," said Oliver.

"Size ten."

"Is that for a client?" asked the young man.

"Many people are buying them for other people today."

"No," said Oliver.

He felt his heart beating, and his hands were shaking a little as he took out his own money.

"They are for me."

He had waited in a queue for six years.

He had waited for pandas, for cakes, and for telephones.

But this was the first time that he had stood at the front of a line and bought something for himself.

The shoes were light and soft, and they smelled of new paper.

He held the box in both hands and did not want to put it down.

Outside the shop, Kevin was sitting on the pavement, already putting on his new shoes.

He stood up, jumped twice, and said that they did not hurt at all.

Beside him, Gordon had finally taken off the chicken's head.

He told everyone that the collection for his grandmother's roof had been so generous that the builders could start on Monday.

Nobody in the queue had ever expected to be so happy about a roof.

Mr Lamb paid Oliver the money that he had promised, and then he paid him the same amount again.

"You and Miss Finch have done the work of four people," he said.

"It is the least that I can do."

Three weeks later, there was a new sign on the wall of the small office above the laundry shop.

Oliver had painted it himself, in blue and white.

It said:

PIKE AND FINCH QUEUE SERVICE.

WE WAIT TOGETHER.

Underneath, there were three rules.

Rule number one was still: Never complain.

Rule number two was still: Always bring a folding chair.

But Rule number three had changed.

It said, in very careful letters: Always make friends with the people around you, and bring tea, but not too much.

In the corner of the room stood a green armchair with flowers on the cloth.

Beside it, on a wooden table, sat a teapot in the shape of a chicken.

Dot was knitting, and the scarf for her nephew was now more than four metres long.

Oliver was wearing his new shoes.

That morning he had run all the way to the office, slowly and badly, and Dot had told him that his arms were in completely the wrong place.

At ten o'clock, the telephone began to ring.

Oliver picked it up and used the words that he always used.

"Pike and Finch Queue Service.

We wait together."

"Ah, Mr Pike," said a thin, polite voice.

"It is Arthur Lamb.

Margaret is very happy with her shoes.

She has already run round the park four times, and she says that she will run in the Brightwater Town Race again next spring."

"That is wonderful news," said Oliver.

"I would like to ask for your help again," said Mr Lamb.

"The new film about the singing penguin opens on Friday.

My wife wishes to see it on the first night.

I am told that there are already two hundred people in the queue."

Oliver looked at Dot.

Dot looked at the armchair, and then back at Oliver, and she smiled her small, sharp smile.

"Three days?" asked Oliver.

"Two and a half," said Mr Lamb.

"I would like to hire both of you.

And Mr Pike, I have learned something.

This time, I will not keep it a secret."

"Good," said Oliver.

"Then please remember that you do not have to wait for the next one by yourself.

If you would like to come and sit with us, there will be tea.

Not too much."

There was a short silence on the line.

Then Mr Lamb said, in a voice that was a little less thin than usual, that he would think about it, and that he would bring a very good cake.

Oliver put down the telephone and folded his arms.

Dot was already standing up.

She put her knitting into her bag, picked up the teapot, and looked at the heavy green armchair in the corner.

"Mr Pike," she said, "I think that we will need a taxi."