Yahoo News The Other Front Line - Meet The Heroic Women Doing The Country’s Essential Jobs
Photographs: Magdalena Wosinska
Words: Farrah Storr, Alice Wignall, Hannah Nathanson, Lena De Casparis, Olivia McCrea-Hedley
They are not NHS workers facing the Covid-19 virus head-on, but their work is no less important. They are the women we see every day – supermarket workers, delivery drivers and public transport attendants, each one putting their life at risk so that the rest of us can safely stay at home. But how do they feel to be standing on a front line they barely knew existed before March 2020?
Over the past week, we asked our social media community to nominate women they know doing these essential roles. The seven featured below were all shot by photographer Magdalena Wosinska, whose only means of communicating with – and photographing – these women was through the camera in their computer or phone. Their portraits and stories are a reminder to us all of the heroes we encounter every day.
Georgia Hayman, 46, from North Kensington, is a customer service supervisor for London Underground
You can tell the doctors and nurses when they come through the gates at my station as they’re giving all the Transport for London (TfL) workers an appreciative thumbs up or a nod of the head to say thank you – it’s their way of acknowledging the important jobs we’re all doing. Showing we’re all in this together, as one team.
I have a 15-year-old daughter at home who is home-schooling. I could choose to stay at home with her, but I want to keep London moving. My stations [in the White City area] have hospitals and a prison near them. I know the nurses need to get around, the carers need to get around, that all the essential key staff need to get around. Coming to work is what I can contribute to my country right now.
It’s scary out there, but not once have I felt discouraged to come in to work. There’s a reduced staff working on the London Underground, so my presence at work keeps everything going.
This is my 17th year working for TfL; you become a close family in the stations. It’s the best thing about the job. From the train drivers to the managers, there’s always someone to support and motivate you. A few days ago, I was feeling a bit down about it all when I arrived at work, but then I called the line controller; him saying ‘Be safe’ to me gave me the push I needed. I know I’m not alone.
The biggest change in the job day-to-day is fewer customers are using the Underground, which helps us to stay safe. We’re encouraging people to only travel if it’s essential. My job now is about being vigilant and checking the platforms for anyone that’s entered the station that might not be feeling well.
At the moment, I’m healthy. I don’t have any symptoms and I’m taking extra vitamins and washing my hands regularly to stay fit so I can keep doing my job. My managers have been really responsible by doing deep cleans of offices if anyone has been sick. And the cleaning teams have been amazing, ensuring everything is disinfected, cleaning more regularly and using extra antibacterial products.
I’m not a hero, I’m just doing what needs to be done. I worked through the London bombings and Grenfell. I was back at work the very next day after the Grenfell tragedy, it was really near my home and I knew people, including close family, who were caught up in it. London needed me then. It’s the same now, I’m here to support my colleagues, support the public and do the service that is required of me.
For us all to be out here during the lockdown is vital. My hope is that people come out of this having learnt to recognise what nurses, shopkeepers packing shelves and everyone who has given their labour through this pandemic has done. I’m more appreciative, I applaud us all.
Catriona Dolan-Lawson, 28, is a school teacher in south London
I’ve only cried once since all this began, after my final lesson with my Year 11 class. That was when I really felt it; the magnitude of what was happening and how much things were about to change. Our school was about to close. We didn’t know how long for, or if we’d even reopen before the year was over. We knew that exams had been cancelled, but we weren’t sure what would happen as a result. We didn’t know when we were going to see one another again. There were so many questions.
As a teacher, when my students ask me something, I’m supposed to have the answers. But at that moment, I had nothing. It felt like the rug had been pulled from under my feet. But this wasn’t about me. I had a class of 30 worried young minds to put at ease. So, as they filed out of my classroom one last time, I decided not to say goodbye. Instead, we said, ‘See you soon.’ It felt less final that way.
I suppose I should have known it would be a poignant moment. I’d felt something like this had been coming. It was happening across the world. And then it was our turn. Our headteacher gathered us all in the staff room after school; every chair was taken, some had to stand – it’s unusual for us all to be there at the same time. We had three days to plan how this was going to work, how we were going to care for our students from a distance – with barely any guidance from the government on where to begin.
And so, the students who could went home to be in isolation, leaving a group of 11- to 18-year-olds that still needed to be at school. The group, which varies from 10 to 20 students, are all either vulnerable or have a parent that is a key frontline worker. I’m one of the senior teaching staff who looks after them. So many of our teachers have families to care for, it didn’t feel right asking them to come in when they could teach remotely.
I’ve always seen my role as being more than getting kids to pass exams. I felt like it was my duty to ensure they could get to wherever they wanted to be, helping them through the transition of teenage years and the difficulties that come with that. This is clear now more than ever.
So, I’m trying to create a supportive, relaxing environment at school for them. It’s not the same as being at home like their peers are, but we’re doing the best we can. We are ensuring everyone follows social distancing, and checking their work gets done. But we’re also trying to bring some semblance of normality to their lives. This generation has so much access to information, they know what’s going on in the world. They know it’s scary. These students’ parents are risking their lives every day – so all we can do is try our best to give them a space where they feel safe.
I feel so responsible for their wellbeing. It’s got to the point where I even think twice about turning on the radio, for fear of bombarding them with news about this ever-changing world. Taking exams is a small thing compared to this pandemic, but it’s so sad that my students won’t get to have those childhood moments: the end of school assemblies; the signing of shirts; prom; those surprise exam results that ended up better than anyone expected… everything came to a halt so quickly.
It’s strange not having my usual students popping into my office to tell me something. God, I miss them. I think back to the times when I’ve thought about giving up teaching – the 5am starts, the Saturdays spent marking essays. But I never will. Especially not now this has happened. Even with the worry – having to leave my safe home every day and not being able to be with my family in Glasgow for fear of passing anything on to them or my students – I’m glad to do it.
You can’t even begin to compare my job to those who are working day in, day out, keeping our society going while seeing these horrible things and saving lives. They deserve the praise. I see my job as helping those people who are crucial in getting us all through this time of crisis. I go into work to care for their children, so they can do their important roles.
We’re all so quick to say that nobody cares anymore. Being part of this small group in school every day, I’ve realised that’s not true. We do come together at a time of crisis, and it’s been a huge source of comfort.
Whatever happens over the coming weeks and months, we know it’s going to be hard. Lots of people are going to have horrible experiences, whether it’s the loss of a loved one or the struggle that comes from being isolated for so long. Which is why I think that it’s not just about how we act during this time, but how we act afterwards. I’m seeing that with my students already, how they are managing to stay positive and keep going will hopefully be a lesson to us all.
Hannah Lane, 28, from Somerset, is a funeral director for Co-op Funeralcare Bath
Last Thursday, I watched a son sit alone at his father’s funeral. There were no guests, no celebrations, no one there for him to lean on in his moment of need. Even his mother was not able to be there to say goodbye to the man she called her husband for almost 60 years, because she was deemed too high risk to be there. It is the strangest, darkest time with every day bringing fresh heartbreak.
I first went into a funeral home eight years ago and loved it the minute I walked through the door. People think the job I do is sad, but it is surprisingly full of joy too. Funerals are as much about celebration as they are about mourning and there is nothing more wonderful than seeing different people from someone’s life all come together, often for the first time in years.
Over the past week, however, everything has changed. I’m having conversations with people that I never dreamed I’d be having. It’s devastating to have to tell someone over the phone that they can no longer celebrate their loved one’s life with 100 people they wanted to invite, but instead must choose just 10 people from their immediate family. I have had to phone those in the depths of grief and explain that, no matter how much they are hurting, they cannot reach across and comfort a mother, sibling or friend because of social distancing. Instead we advise that people grieve in their households. It’s hard because for those who live alone, it means grieving without the comfort of someone’s shoulder to cry on. As for those who can’t attend funerals because of safety precautions, it means they may never have the closure they so desperately need. We’re working with crematoriums to offer families alternative choices, such as live streams, for those unable to attend.
If I’m honest, this doesn’t feel like my job anymore. It is alien and heartbreaking to anything I have experienced before. The man who came to his father’s funeral alone sent me a beautiful message afterwards to thank me for my support. I get emotional when I think about it, because I don’t feel I did a good enough job for him and his family. Because of the need to keep everyone safe, I wasn’t able to give them the funeral they wanted and needed.
We’re all human in this business and we see some desperately sad things. But this job has always been about keeping a stiff upper lip – this is, after all, not our pain, but someone else’s. Now, however, my lips quiver behind the scenes. I come home each day and feel overwhelmed with emotion. I’m scared, of course, but then I feel selfish for feeling scared. I’m not a doctor or nurse fighting this face-on. I’m just trying to do my job.
But there are moments you see the true strength of human nature that have given me faith these past few days. This week, I have a funeral for a young man; the family has taken the decision to have only his sister and two others attend. No mother. No father. It will just be me, them and the celebrant talking to an empty room. That is true strength.
The outbreak has also made me appreciate my team so much. We are working every hour right now, largely because many of our staff were deemed high risk and had to self-isolate. We are deemed key workers and so we are taking every call, trying to help every single person in need. Sometimes I lie in bed and think, I can’t go into work today, but I do go in because, like all of my colleagues, our desire to do our job properly is greater than the fear we face.
Kathleen Sims, 37, is head of outreach at homeless charity St Mungo’s
On a typical day, we might have 20 people coming to our office; last Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday it was 150 in a day. People were scared and hungry, and we just couldn’t house everyone on the day. In the end, they were saying, ‘Well, can we just have some water?’ But we’d run out of cups to give them. As well as a health crisis, this is a humanitarian crisis.
It was a few weeks ago that we started to inform our clients of what was coming, and the importance of coming indoors – of taking up a place in the accommodation we can provide. But for lots of people on the streets who are maybe struggling with multiple issues, like mental health or addiction problems, housing is not their immediate concern. It only really started to hit home when unusual things started happening around them, when suddenly there was nothing in the shops, when bars started to close, when The Big Issue stopped selling. It’s much harder to get money now and, with so few people around, it’s much more dangerous on the streets. As well as that, there are lots more people who are newly homeless, who have lost their accommodation because of losing their job.
We’re working with local authorities, the Greater London Authority (GLA) and the Ministry of Housing, Communities and Local Government to get people off the streets, out of shared accommodation and into hotels that are empty because there are no tourists, where they can have their own room and self-isolate. But it’s a forever-changing picture and every time we come up with an answer, we find a new problem. Day centres are closing because you can’t socially distance inside, so people can’t take showers; we need a way to do laundry; we can’t go and buy the food and water we need because shops have imposed limits on how many items you can buy.
I haven’t had a day off in weeks, but it’s about trying to find solutions and keep it together for clients and the team. Everyone I work with has been so amazing, and is choosing to come to work and place themselves at risk in a way that means they can’t be with their families. My dad was diagnosed with leukaemia a few weeks ago and I just thought, Right, that’s it then. I can’t see him, because I have to work. But I know that knowing what I’m doing every day is important for him, too.
Everyone is scared; their whole world is changing in ways they don’t totally understand, and they can take that out on us. But when you can place the last people in your office somewhere, and you see the delight on their faces, that feels good. And there have been some brilliant successes: people who have been out on the streets for more than 20 years, who have never engaged with us, are finally taking up our offers of help – they’ve understood that we are there in their times of need. Because that is our guiding principle: we don’t ever give up.
Hannah Pratt, 26, is a delivery driver from London
I started working as a delivery driver for Amazon Flex a week before lockdown, and life felt pretty normal back then. It’s amazing how much has changed in such a short time. Before the severity of the virus really hit, people didn’t make eye contact or engage with me that much: they would open the door, I would hand over the package and that would be that.
Since lockdown, I’ve been speaking to people a lot more. Customers are engaging more than they ever did before and they’re kinder as well. A lot of people ask me whether I’m working longer shifts, or if I’m going to self-isolate. There’s a new level of respect but also a feeling that they care about my wellbeing, which is nice. People say thank you a lot more, which sounds simple but it definitely makes a difference.
I signed up to Amazon Flex after a friend recommended that I apply; I’m self-employed and work from home on my clothing brand, so it’s a way of making extra money while I work on my own projects. Things changed very quickly after lockdown, I can now work several days a week, sometimes three shifts a day, picking up packages and food shopping from depots in Wimbledon and Croydon, and delivering them all over south London and Surrey. I can drive anywhere from Richmond to Banstead, starting as early as 6.30am and finishing some shifts at midnight.
There’s chatter with customers now, too, and more of a sense of people helping out others: I delivered a food shop for a woman who told me that everything was for her parents who had been abroad and were coming home to empty cupboards and even emptier supermarkets, so she was helping them out. I’m delivering a lot more cat food and toilet roll with people’s shops. When I delivered toilet roll to someone recently, they cried out, ‘Thank you! It’s like gold dust!’ after I left the bags at their door.
The day after lockdown, the first thing I noticed was that there was no traffic on the roads, everything was eerily quiet. It does make my job easier in a way and I’m now always early for my shifts. Because I’m in the car so much, I try not to listen to the news all the time, just to keep peace of mind and not become overly anxious about the situation and being out all the time. Instead, I’ll put on a podcast like Naked Beauty or listen to a Spotify playlist. I’ve got one that’s 1990s old school R&B and one that’s party music with lots of drum and bass. The party one is quite nice to drive to on my way home, especially when the weather has been nice. I don’t normally listen to that kind of music unless I’m going out, but obviously I’m not going out anymore, so it’s nice to get an injection of energy. At 6am, I put on a radio station called Mi-Soul, which isn’t very newsy. But at that time in the morning, I’m not taking anything in, I’m just in the car trying to warm up.
Sometimes there are signs on people’s doors saying they are self-isolating; when I see those, I realise that I am making a difference. The other day I dropped off a big food shop to a flat in London. Flats are tricky because there isn’t always a good place to park nearby, so I found myself doing several trips to the flat’s concierge. I then had to take as many bags as I could – two over my shoulders, four in my hands – up four floors in the lift, then through another external door and up another four flights of stairs. When I got to the door there was a note saying the person was self-isolating, asking me to leave everything there, which I did. When you do see a self-isolating sign, it reminds you how real it is. It’s those moments when you think, You really do need me. It makes me feel like I’m being helpful.
I don’t wear gloves because I want to be extra conscious about washing my hands and hygiene. I have antibacterial gel and wipes in the car, there’s antibac at the Amazon depots and I wash my hands as soon as I come home, something which I would never think about as important before. Because of what we know about the nature of the virus, there’s only so much you can do in terms of social distancing and good hygiene, but sometimes I do question myself and think, Am I doing enough? Before the tighter restrictions, there were elderly people opening their doors to me. Now, I think back and feel frightened because we didn’t know then what we know about the virus. Most elderly people don’t come to the door anymore while I’m there but other people rush to see me before I go. There was one woman who opened her door as I was walking back to my car and said she’d wanted to open the door but she was self-isolating with her young daughter who wanted to escape every time the door was open so she had to keep her back!
I don’t think of myself as a hero, not when you think of heroes being the people who are in danger or doing a lot like the NHS staff. But I am a delivery driver and I am out there helping people get what they need to survive the lockdown.
I think there’s definitely more of an appreciation for what we’re doing. In London, especially, we can be guilty of getting sucked up into the hustle but it’s nice that people stop to remember the jobs people are doing and the different roles there are in society. No matter what happens, when this is all over, I’ll definitely keep delivering.
Emily Deeley, 26, is a customer experience manager at Sainsbury’s in Torquay
I started at this branch of Sainsbury’s when I was a 16-year-old student. I had a 12-hour contract and worked in the evenings after sixth form. It was just a job to earn extra money at first, but over the years that changed. I was a shy, anxious young woman when I first started at Sainsbury’s. Now I find myself at the front doors in the morning trying to ensure the safety of each and every customer that comes into the store.
Work has always been my haven. It’s a place where I feel in control. I suffer from a rare disorder known as vasovagal syncope, which means too much stress can cause me to have panic attacks or, at worst, pass out. But over the years I’ve been able to keep it under control, in part thanks to the support of my manager at the store, but also because I know every single inch of this job.
But not any more. Every day is filled with so many new rules and decisions but I’m managing to control my anxiety and condition. I used to feel like I knew the answers, now I’m just trying to do the best I can, moment by moment. A big smile and a deep breath are what help me face the day in the morning.
The scariest day was when photographs of empty supermarket shelves started appearing on social media. Suddenly we were flooded with people emptying every shelf. UHT milk, eggs, flour, pasta and, of course, toilet roll… people were filling their trolleys to the brim. As a management team, we had to take control but we didn’t have a plan at that exact moment. So we just decided to have as many people running between the shop floor and the delivery lorries as we could. It was unreal. People were taking toilet rolls off the pallet before we had even put them on the shelves. Some customers shouted at us, accusing us of keeping stock back for ourselves. That was when it hit home: this is serious.
Every day, we get news from head office about what to do – the number of products we can allow people to take, the two-metre social distancing rule, the strict opening hours for the elderly and the NHS workers… We have masks, hand sanitiser, gloves and now screens for our cashiers, but most people break the two-metre rule with staff on the shop floor. It’s hard because I understand why it might be easier to reach over someone’s head to get a grocery item rather than to ask them to move. And when people come towards me to complain, their natural instinct is to move closer to me.
Thousands of people come through our doors every week so it’s a risk for my colleagues here. But we do the best we can, largely because we know we are providing an essential service. We have someone whose job it is to clean every single trolley as soon as it’s put back, and another person who cleans the door handles every few minutes.
I do a three-hour stint on the door in the morning and, in that time, I get about 10 people who want to vent their frustrations at me. You want to tell them you’re scared and anxious too, but you can’t. The majority of customers are so thankful. They catch your eye and give you the warmest smile.
I have bad days, naturally, and there are moments at home alone when I’ve cried. It’s only for a few minutes, just to let it all out, and then I’m like, ‘C’mon, you can do this.’
And we can do this. Our teams have a hashtag that says #feedingthenation. It keeps us going, it really does. It brings me so much pride to be a part of something like that and, to be honest, I’m also so grateful right now that I have a job.
We have had cards and boxes of chocolates from customers, and our delivery drivers often find beautiful little notes left on the doorstep for them. It makes you realise it’s all worth it.
But perhaps the most humbling thing we have seen is in the mornings, when we offer free flowers to NHS workers.
We have had doctors and nurses who have taken them and then turned to us and said: ‘You’re heroes too, you know… Without you, we wouldn’t be able to keep going.’ When that comes from the mouths of those who are literally sacrificing their lives every day, it means so much.
Angela Fernandez, 46, is community kitchen manager for Good Food Matters in Croydon
I’ve worked at Good Food Matters for about four and a half years, running the ins and outs of the community kitchen and leading cooking classes, often for vulnerable groups like low-income families, young offenders, the elderly and people with mental health problems. We have a great team of volunteers in the kitchen and the garden: we have an acre and a half where we grow fresh produce for the kitchen.
A few weeks ago – when we realised we had to cancel our classes and the scale of what was happening – it was quite daunting. So we had to look around and ask ourselves, ‘What can we do?’ We are here to support the community with the skills, knowledge and resources that we have, so we decided to provide healthy cooked meals for people in need. We’re working with other organisations to distribute to them. That might mean people who rely on food banks, people who were previously supported by their families but now aren’t because of illness or changed circumstances, or people who are sick themselves. There are so many more people in need now; families who aren’t able to support themselves but have never been in that position before.
We are doing everything we can, but there’s only a handful of us and there’s always a demand for more. The stores in our pantry are dwindling and we’re struggling to get funding. We’re going to be in this for the long haul, so we need money to buy supplies. We are getting more people offering their services, though, and local restaurants and coffee shops are donating food that they won’t be able to use. When you see the impact it can have, it is incredible.
The other day, my colleague Amanda was making a delivery and an elderly gentleman came up to her and asked, ‘Is that cooked food? And can we take it?’ When she said yes, his eyes welled up as he explained that his wife had recently passed away and he hadn’t had a cooked meal for months. That’s when you realise that what we’re doing is making a difference.
The situation is scary and sad, but the community is really pulling together. We’re working so closely with our partners and other organisations, trying to think on our feet and work things out. The other day there were 20 different organisations on a Zoom call; it was very touching and quite emotional to see the way people are coming together. That is the most positive thing, and it will only get stronger. The enormity of what is going on has hit, but there’s an overwhelming sense of support. I think everyone is asking themselves, what can I do? But we just have to do what we can.
Check Out Good Food Matters Here
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