Martin was stuffing marketing materials
into his favourite leaflet rack in the banking hall when he saw the top half of
a set of people he half recognised enter the back office and make their way
round towards the enquiries booths.
Debbs was with them. As
they stopped and turned in his general direction he saw that one of them was
Anthony from the video, looking generally much larger and more life-like than
he remembered. He finished his
task, inserting the last of the leaflets wherever he could find a place, and
hurried through the airlock doors to see what was going on.
The group were talking with Lynn the Back
Office Supervisor. Two of them
were wearing what looked like white laboratory coats and Martin hoped for a
moment that they were about to haul his line manager into a white van and take
her away for experimentation. He
had been expecting this for some time.
Then he noticed that the discussion seemed to be focussed on a small
very ordinary looking male person who he hadn’t noticed coming in and who
seemed to be a friend of Anthony’s.
“Lynn, I’ve done the POS. Okay if I take my dinner now?”
Lynn broke off and looked at her
watch. “It’s only twenty to ten
Martin. It’s getting earlier and
earlier. Can’t you wait?”
“Okay. Hi Debbs.”
“Hi Martin. How you doing?”
“Cool, thanks. Cool.”
“Good. While you’re here, this is Anthony and Alf. They’re joining us today.”
Martin was thrown off balance for a moment
by what Debbie said. He had her
down as somebody who had acquired all the usual skills associated with the
pronunciation of common Christian names.
Had he been wrong? Was she
not as clever as him after all?
“Sorry, who and Alf?”
“Anthony,” she repeated. “With a ‘th’.”
“’Fraid that’s how we say it back home,”
said the awkwardly pronounced one.
“And you are..?”
“Sure, sorry. Hi, I’m Marthin.
Very pleased to meet you.”
The short ordinary one who wasn’t Anthony
extended his hand. “Hi there. It’s nice to be interfacing with
you.” He paused for a moment. “It’s nice to have interfaced with you
and to be in the process of getting to know you :-).” He smiled in a way that wasn’t exactly natural, but in a way
that would soon become all too familiar to Martin and his desk-bound
colleagues. Alf glanced anxiously
towards one of the white-coated men who hastily scribbled a note on his
clipboard.
“Yes, it’s nice,” responded Martin, “…for
me too. I’m enjoying it…also…”
“Sure...” began Alf, but his conversational
repertoire was obviously exhausted and he tailed off, staring vaguely through
the glass bandit screens towards Martin’s leaflet rack.
“Good, Martin,” Lynn intervened. “You seem to have a lot in common so
why don’t you show Anthony and Alf round the branch, get to know each other a
bit. After your break you can take
him on till.” She nodded to the
copper-top – “bit of experience of working with real customers for you Alf
love, alright?” She waved the
party in the general direction of the staff room stairs.
“Cool,” he said, turning to Martin to be
led away.
“Alrighty Marthy,” said Anthony, falling in
behind Alf. “Let’s go ;-)”
Did Anthony wink at him? Martin wasn’t sure. Was that a normal States thing or was
he being let into a personal secret?
Hang on, this guy hung out at drive ins with Debbie. Surely he was the one with big shoulder
pads and a small pointy ball barging through rows of similarly attired gents,
not the one with white ankle socks and pompoms jumping up and down on the
sideline.
“Lead the way then Martin love,” Lynn
prompted the temporarily suspended Martin. Debbie leant over and whispered something in her ear. Lynn didn’t look happy about it, but
complied: “Sorry, Marthin. Off you go then Marthin.”
The party dispersed; Debbie and the two
white coated men into the forbidden enquiries booth and Lynn to her desk, where
she noticed the corner of a birthday card peeping out from under her desk
diary.
“Everybody stamped Rachel’s card by the
way?” she broadcast, whipping the card out from its hiding place and waving it
momentarily above her head.
“I haven’t,” said Valerie, approaching from
the back of the office.
“What do you think that is?” asked Lynn as
Valerie arrived.
“It’s a pen.”
“And what do you think you’re doing with that?”
“I thought I might sign the card – it won’t
do any harm will it? Not just
once. Surely.”
“Valerie, please put that away. Take it home with you tonight and do
not bring it back.”
“But my stamp hasn’t arrived! I ordered it on Wednesday last week. What am I supposed to do? They said I’d have it Friday.”
“I thought you’d all received them?”
“Mine was written wrong. I had to send it back.”
“Right,” she Lynn, scribbling an aid memoir. “I’ll make a note to chase that with Debbie. In the meantime I suggest you borrow
somebody else’s.”
“What, stamp it with somebody else’s
name? How will Rachel know it’s
from me?”
“Well … your name will be the only one
missing. So it’d have to be you.”
“Any way, what’s
that Lynn?”
“What?”
“That. In your hand.”
“It’s a pen, what
does it look like….”
“You’re all just
stupid,” said Valerie, a sudden and uncharacteristic voltage surging through
her body. Her back straightened,
her eyes flashed. The backs of her
hands clamped onto her hips like electromagnets. “You make these daft rules that you don’t stick to
yourself. Banning biros! I mean how stupid is that.”
“You saw the video
like the rest of use,” said Lynn, visibly shaken by Valerie’s outburst.
“You don’t want
arthritis by the time you’re thirty-five do you?”
“I’m fifty-one,
you clot!”
“Alright Valerie
love. That’ll do. Let’s leave it there. I just want to try and make a good
impression on the younger staff…”
“We don’t want to
be tret like kids - comprehendez? We’re all adults that can chuffing
write – with our hands. Like we
was taught!” She threw her pen
towards Lynn and hurried back into the shadows between the stationery
cupboards.
“If anybody else
has got any of these please hand them in.
The armistice finished a fortnight back…” Lynn didn’t have the energy or inclination to finish. She slumped into her chair, her own pen
dropping onto the desk and rolling into a pile of paper clips. There was an awkwardly quiet
moment. The air conditioning and
traffic noise pooled resources the best they could to cover it. But it was still awkward.
“Lynn,” came a
quite voice from the shadows. “Are
you alright. Didn’t hit you did
it?”
“No, I’m alright
Valerie love. It didn’t hit me…”
She picked up her
phone and pressed it to her ear. A
few minutes later she became vaguely aware of the fact that she ought really to
be either talking or dialing a number.
“Debbie,” she feigned. “Can
you get Valerie’s stamp thanks bye.”
The phone sank
back onto its cradle.
***
Just another five minutes, then she’d go
back down. Rachel stared, as she
had for hundreds of hours over the last five years, at the only very mildly
offensive graffiti on the cubicle door.
It hadn’t changed since she’d started at the branch. Like a cave painting it simply existed
and always had done. The reasons
for it, and the people who had those reasons, were long forgotten. Apart from Martin is a prat. Sign here if you agree and a single name stamped
in red: VALRIE KERSHAW.
She’d already had three customers that
morning who thought they were cleverer than the bank. Why did they insist on making life difficult by asking
questions? The most troublesome of
them had asked why the Bank had thought it fit to fine him for missing a
payment on his credit card. She’d
reminded him, quite properly, that if you borrow something from someone it’s
only fair to give it back as soon as you can. Or else they might not lend you anything else. In that case, he’d asked, why did she
and her colleagues insist on thrusting a personal loan application form in
front of him every time he stepped foot in the branch. And then he ranted on about the Bank
still being rooted in Victorian cap-in-hand values, still expecting customers
to be grateful for its services as if it were some kind of benefactor when it’s
only purpose in life was to take as much money of its customers as possible
(preferably without them noticing) to keep its Chief Executive in Jaguars and
its share holders in as many as possible of whatever it was they liked to
drive.
Why did the Bank fine him for allowing it
to take more money from him. After
all, the bigger his visa debt the more interest they could charge – every
month. Wasn’t that perverse? She hadn’t known what to do, so thought
it best simply to confirm that he wasn’t interested in a personal loan
then. Which had seemed to inflame
him further. She was quite
relieved when he turned on his heals and stamped off muttering something about
returning with a can of kerosene and a zippo – whatever that was. But then he came back and told
her he was sorry. It was the Bank
we was having a go at, not her. It
wasn’t her fault if she was managed by a bunch of halfwits.
And that would have been okay except for
the fact that he was, of course, totally wrong. As Debbie had said; she, Valerie, Martin, Lynn – they were
the Bank. The bricks and mortar – that she suspected was the intended target
for the kerosene/zippo thing – was only the branch. If he’d burnt the branch down then,
unfortunately (for him anyway) the Bank would have survived in the guise of the
staff. If they’d managed to get
out that is. So was she to blame after all for the customer’s grievances? Debbie had said that they were
the Bank, but that’s only because she’d made them that way. Is she, and all the other suits at Head
Office, wanted them to be the Bank, then wasn’t it their responsibility to make
sure they were up to the job? And
if they couldn’t do that (which she was beginning to suspect was the case) then
why didn’t they get somebody else to be the Bank? Or, even better, be the Bank themselves? Was it so that, when everything went
wrong and the whole network was kerosened and zippoed, they could walk away
from the ashes and say ‘it was nothing to do with us – they were the Bank. We
just ran it’? And then, with their
reputations untarnished, they could go and find something else to disown, while
making a huge amount of money in the process.
She had been pondering this issue for over
half an hour, eventually arriving at the usual conclusion that God was to
blame, but as nobody was bigger than him she’d just have to live with it, and
carry on blaming the Marketing Department instead.
Thank God for the toilets anyway. After that video she’d begun to worry
that even that sanctuary would be taken from her – what with that creepy guy
who was going to be everywhere all the time. They wouldn’t let him in the Ladies would they? She flushed the toilet and ran the tap
for a second to render her exit from it more authentic to the casual on-looker
and unlocked the door…
“Hi Rachel. This is Anthony – from the video – and Alf. They’re moving in.”
Martin made a mental note never to interact
with a woman so soon after the completion of her ablutions. For, as demonstrated by Rachel, the
consequences could be terrible and far reaching. He added this to his secret library of woman-issues, along
with screaming and arm flapping at the prospect of new clothes, holidays or
husbands, and that mysterious devilment that was supposed to happen once a
month but seemed to afflict his one and only girl friend (now deceased) at
least once a week.
“We choose to ignore the potential negative
impact of organisational change on human resource at our peril,” said Anthony
philosophically. Eventually, with
the help of hot sweet tea and Neighbours (which mercifully had just started),
they succeeded in calming Rachel to the point where she would stay sat down
unassisted, and the three turned their attention back to the job in hand.
“Okay Marthy, you were giving us a tour I
think.”
“Sure. Well this is the staff room as you can see; seats, telly,
kitchen area…”
“You getting this Alf?” said Anthony.
“Dedicated human resource leisure and recreational facility with audio-visual
entertainment and limited catering provision. Tell me Marthy, do you have exercise facilities here?”
“Not really. Unless you count the stairs. They’re fairly steep and we do go up and down them a lot.”
“Okay, manual inter-elevation device,
utilised on a frequent basis,” he translated. “No purpose-built cardio-aerobic installation. Do you do training up here?”
“Yeh, sure do. And we watch educational audio-visual presentations.”
“Sorry, what do you mean? Videos or something?”
“Yes, videos. PAL. VHS. With me in most of them…”
“Okay Alf. Looks like we got a secondary resource enhancement function
creeping in here. Facilitating the
delivery of linear, non-interactive media. With auto-participation of some resource units.”
“This is where we put our coats, bags and
that sort of thing,” said Martin moving on. “You know – resource protective ware and non-job related
miscellaneous personal accessories.”
He felt moderately proud that this did not provoke immediate
translation. Anthony remained
silent. With increased
confidence: “And of course here’s
the outlet’s resource bio-waste outlet – where the shit goes…”
“For God’s sake,” said Rachel, getting up
and heading back into the ladies with her tea. “I can’t stand any more of this.” She slammed and locked the door. “The shit’s out there mate,
believe me!” she shouted, flushing the toilet to signal her unavailability for
further discussion on the subject.
The sound of rushing water partially disguised the soft thumping of a
rubber stamp against the inside of the door.
“So the waste disposal facility serves a
secondary resource refuge function – cute,” said Anthony.
“:-)” said Alf.
“Hot beverage?” asked Martin.
“I’m sorry?”
“Coffee or tea? Caf’ or decaff’. Or hot chocolate. Rachel’s got some in
her cupboard. Made with
water. Smells great. Tastes like shit.”
“Give me a black coffee,” said Anthony,
choosing to bypass the usual pleasantries associated with asking somebody to do
something for you on a voluntary basis.
“Cool,” responded Alf.
While Martin made the drinks Anthony strode
round the room nervously, looking under the furniture, knocking on the walls
and repeatedly peering from behind the curtains to check the view of the street
below.
“Looks like you’re expecting some bad shit
to go down,” said Martin just as the kettle began to boil.
“Shit happens,” said Anthony. “Know what I’m saying.”
Alf was standing gazing at himself in the
mirror – or at least the parts of him that had attained sufficient altitude,
namely his nose, eyes and bronzed pinnacle.
“Here you go guys.” Both took their mugs but neither even
attempted to drink from them.
“Is it okay?” asked Martin after several
tense minutes of abstinence.
“We don’t drink coffee,” said Anthony.
“You should have said. There’s tea, hot chocolate…”
“No really, this is fine.”
“But you just said you don’t drink it.”
“We don’t drink it.”
“Well would you like something else?”
“No, thank you. Drinking is the last thing I’d like to do as far as coffee’s
concerned. There’s far more to
coffee than just that. Right Alf?”
“Sure.”
“What do you do with it then?”
“Hold it, talk about, talk about others
like it. Perhaps smell it, feel
it. Sometimes I look at it. Can’t believe you guys over here are still
so into drinking the shit.
Specially shit like this shit. So basic.”
“No, I agree,” said Martin. “I hardly ever drink coffee – in fact I
hardly ever make it, which I also enjoy.”
“You know Marthing, I sense you’re a whole
lot ahead of the game here.”
“Thanks,” he said, picking up an empty
coffee mug to join Anthony and Alf while trying to think of what to say
next. This had to be a career
opportunity. But for the life of
him he couldn’t think of a response any more subtle than prostrating himself
before them and pleading ‘take me with you!” He was about to fall back on the prostrate/pleading option
on the basis that it was better than nothing when his saviors put down their
cups in perfect unison (Alf on the carpet tiles under the mirror) and headed
for the stairs.
“Time to meet some customers I think,” said
Anthony resolutely.
“We have a go on phase one customer
interface test,” said Alf, taking out his till key, pulling it to the full
length of its security chord and pointing it ahead of him like a tiny jousting
pole.
“Come on then gents,” said Martin, feeling
his x chromosomes spark into life.
“Let me show you how we do things down town.”
He bound over to the tills, leaping onto
his stool and spinning the little sign to the ‘Open’ position with one slick,
fluid movement.
“Okay my friend,” he said to Alf who had
pulled up a chair to within inches of Martin’s and was obediently observing his
every move. “The sign is turned.
What have we earned? We’re here to sell, let’s give them hell – can I
help you please!”
An elderly lady approached, parking her
wheeled shopping basket along side the till.
“Hello Mrs Timpson. How’s your husband?”
“Bad,” she reported taking out a huge white
purse and straining at the enormous clasp that kept it closed. “Hopefully he’ll still be with us at
Christmas but put it this way I haven’t ordered the turkey yet.”
She removed a tightly wrapped bundle of ten
pound notes and extracted her gas bill.
“Can I pay this love.”
“No problem, Mrs Timpson…”
Martin took out the necessary rubber stamps
and busied himself with the task.
Then, without warning, Alf stepped forward, yanked out Martin’s till key
and inserted his own.
“Ah, Mrs Timpson, can I introduce Alf. He’s new here …”
Mrs Timpson lowered her purse and gazed
into his eyes that had gained a sudden and irresistible intensity. The flaps of porridge-coloured skin
around her mouth became taught as her jaw dropped.
“Oh my God,” shouted Anthony. “He’s in! Stop him - somebody stop him!” He lunged forward but was restrained by Debbie who stepped
out from behind her temporary desk.
“Don’t Anthony. Leave him. We
need to know!”
On the next till Valerie stopped what she
was doing and watched with the dumb neutrality of the next cow in the abattoir
queue. Debbie kept a firm arm
around Anthony’s shoulders and observed proceedings with a look of grim
fascination. Alf took a step
towards the counter and stopped.
A tide of energy surged suddenly outwards
from the till position, flowing between the desks, lapping round the waste
paper bins, gurgling into the gaps between the filing cabinets and slurping
into the stationary cupboards. The soft thump-thump of rubber stamps petered
out as staff were taken up in the swell and swung round on their moorings to
face Alf and the fateful Mrs Timpson. An oily calm descended on the back office as the Bank
held its collective breath and waited to see what would happen next. Alf spoke,
quietly at first, growing in volume as his attack gathered momentum.
“We have a critical cross sell situation on
November fifteen nineteen hundred and ninety five. Product match.
I repeat, this is a product match-positive situation.
He paused for a moment, as though gathering
himself. And then it began.
“Can you confirm that you are Mrs Agnus
Timpson, wife of Norman Timpson, of 17 Windsor Close, LS12 4NJ, Account number
7044209?
“I…I…”
“You may as well cooperate Mrs
Timpson. I assure you that your
resistance is futile. Once again,
can you confirm that you are Mrs Agnus Timpson, wife of Norman Timpson, of 17
Windsor Close, LS12 4NJ, Account number 7044209.”
“Yes, that’s right…”
“In that case I have no choice but to
inform you that the Bank has identified several products for which you are
ideally suited but have not yet been sold. Consequently I cannot allow you to leave this branch without
at least giving you the opportunity to purchase one or more of these
products. Do you understand?”
Mrs Timpson began to keel slightly to the
left and a string of saliva began its journey to the floor from the corner of
her mouth. Her eyes widened; her
pupils darting back and forth like drowning rats in two buckets of milk.
“Mrs Timpson, do you understand your
rights?”
“Rights…?”
“The opportunities are based on a detailed
analysis of your personal and financial circumstances and are not open to
question either by yourself or any third party you choose to speak on your
behalf. Do you understand?”
“Stand…?”
“You have the right not to purchase any of
the products I am about to offer on this visit to the Branch, however you will
be continually reminded of them as though your refusal never took place on all
future visits to the establishment or telephonic conversations with the
same. Do you understand?”
As the urge to die on the spot was already
almost overwhelming she could muster little more than a grunt in response. The group of customers who
initially crowded round her to help were backing away, sensing a terrible
danger that their involvement could not allay. Their basest human instinct told them to get away. Their time would come soon enough, but
in the meantime it was their God-given responsibility to preserve themselves
and their loved ones for as long as they could.
“Match
one. Circumstance: Husband
(aforementioned Norman) due to terminate. Product: Bereavement financial
services package.” His voice
suddenly changed: “Insure your baby – and any other family members you value
highly. It can’t bring them back but it can make the funeral arrangements a lot
more straightforward. And make the
mourning more comfortable. Do it now…”
It was the
voice of Mother A from the Life Assurance video, Martin realised. It wasn’t Alf in the video was it? Mind you, most of the shots were distant and in slow
motion. Was that done to
disguise the fact that the tall English mother was actually a short American
nurd?
“Mrs Timpson, do you accept that you have
failed completely to provide the necessary financial cushion for you and your
family against this inevitable tragedy?”
“Norman…?”
“Can you come to terms with your inadequacy
and callous disrespect for the wishes of your loved ones in their most
desperate hour. Or will you agree
to meet with one of our financial advisors next Thursday at 10.15 at the
aforementioned address?”
“But I love Norman…”
“Appointment booked. Match two. Circumstance: Medical
records indicate projected husband termination February 14. Industrial Fowl Index due to rise by
25% by December 24. Product:
Personal Loan to ease seasonal financial burden.” Once again, Alf’s voice shifted to soothing female tones
that reminded Martin of a soap powder advert. His elocutionary skills were astonishing:
“We all like to do our best at those
special times of year. Those times
we have fond memories of from our youth and try tirelessly to recreate on an
annual basis. But sometimes
financial pressures mean that we can’t always achieve the massive food surplus
that we might want to on these occasions.
But with a FastFunds Personal Loan money is no object – and you can go
on reliving those precious moments with every monthly bank statement…” He faded out and reverted to his usual
voice.
“What’s it going to be this year – another
economy mashed turkey loaf from Netto?
Or do you think you love your grand children enough to treat them to a
whole-bird product with peripheral edible morsels? For which you’re going to need a new, bigger oven. It’s going to take more than the usual
glitter-me-happy synthetic Christmas tree to keep them distracted from grand
dad - who, believe me, will not be a pretty sight by then. Shouldn’t you really be investing in a
tree that sings? With accompanying
luminous reindeer ensemble? And
shouldn’t you be getting your crackers from Marks & Spencer?”
He smiled with the callousness of one who
had killed before. “Can I organise
for an application form to be sent to your home, or is second best good enough
for Norman’s last Christmas?”
Mrs Timpson’s pupils gave up the ghost and
rolled back into her skill. She
managed a perfunctory nod just before her support stockings gave way and her
nose hit the bandit screen.
“Good, it’s in the post. Match three. Circumstance: evidence of substantial
insecure cash retention in large white purse. Product: Instant Access low interest savings account with
QuickCash card. …”
There was a clunk and a clink as the gaping
purse hit the floor, sending coins rolling as far afield as the leaflet rack
next to the windows. The
retreating customers skipped around them to avoid contamination. Another tussle broke out in the back
office as Anthony attempted to break free from those restraining him.
“Enough. That’s enough.
Stop it now!”
Debbie positioned herself as a human
barrier before him, arms wide apart.
“If we stop it know we’ll never know,” she implored. “Leave it Anthony. It can’t go on for much longer. Look – she’s weakening.”
Mrs Timpson sank down behind the counter,
the palms of her hands raised in an attempt to shield herself from whatever it
was that was so effectively hastening her end. She settled into the fetal position – or as close to it as
she could manage without undoing her overcoat – and covered her face.
“Match four. Circumstance: Imminent pay out from Life Insurance Policy
held by Timpson, N. Opportunity
for lump sum investment.
Product: Life Begins at Seventy pension scheme. Wheeled shopping accessory suggests
high gullibility factor plus high Sales Vulnerability Rating on account of
newly acquired widow status….”
Nobody had been paying very much attention
to Martin who chose this moment to fall off his stool, executing a near perfect
parachute role which deposited him safely out of sight beneath the
counter. Valerie managed to
free herself from the torpor that had rendered the rest of staff inanimate and
made a dash for the airlock doors.
“I can’t believe you’re all going to just
sit and watch. She needs our
help! For God’s sake she’s been
banking with us for sixty years – we don’t want to kill her now…”
She threw herself against the glass door
which failed to yield in the usual way.
“Who’s locked this for chuffin’s sake! Debbie? Lynn?
Somebody…”
Match five. Circumstance: evidence of bus pass (aforementioned big white
purse – now discarded) indicating a public transport dependency scenario.
Product: Gimme Gimme Car Loan.” He
assumed an aspirational mid-Atlantic accent. “As members of a modern and democratic society we take for
granted our right to freedom of speech, justice and home ownership. But there is another right that we
believe all our customers should have.
The right to own things they can’t afford…”
Malcolm emerged from his office and was
half way across the back office before he sensed all was not well. The main indicator was the fact that
everybody had stopped working and was looking towards the little American guy
who was stood at the counter talking to a cloud of thin air at the other side
of the bandit screen. Valerie
seemed to be in a hurry to get out and was frantically working the door handle.
“Steady Valerie love, you’ll have that
off. Less speed, more haste. Here, I’ll do it.” He applied himself to the door with
much the same result. “I see Alf’s
getting some practice in while it’s quiet. Good idea.”
“Match six. Circumstance: Reeks Margarine and Fat Smelting Ltd. Impending insolvency. Business overdraft facility withdrawal
due 18 October. Current employer
of Colin Timpson, next of kin.
Product: Shit I’m Out Of
Work Suddenly express personal loan.”
An octave lower: “He was a man who had everything: a career to kill for,
two beautiful kids, a pleasant enough wife and a deceptively spacious
three-bedroomed semi. Until one
day his world changed forever…”
“No, that’s not for opening.” Malcolm gave up on the door. “All this technology about and the
bloody door breaks. Prisoner in me
own branch. Still, we can always
use the fire escape at dinner. If
that’s working. Haven’t tried it
for a bit.”
“You have the right not to purchase any of
these products. However your need
for them is an undeniable fact.
You will, therefore, be reminded of the shortcomings of your current
existence, and that of your immediate family and dependents, on a regular basis
for as long as the need remains, or until the end of your natural life,
whichever is the shorter. Thank
you for your time. Is there
anything else I can help you with?
No? Okay ;-)”
And that was that. Alf sat back on his stool and the
branch resounded with a post cease-fire calm.
“Looking good Alfred,” said Malcolm,
curling his arm around Alf as he passed his stool on the way back to his
office. “Settling in okay?”
“Cool.”
“Well keep up the good work. We’ll have you serving real people
before you know it.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
He turned towards the line of customers who were edging cautiously
towards Mrs Timpson’s carcass.
“Next?”
Nobody moved.
The statuettes in the banking hall were
jump-started back into life by a click and a thump as the inner door suddenly
opened (the click) and Valerie fell heavily into the air lock (the thump). The white coated men emerged cautiously
from the forbidden enquiries booth applying rubber gloves as they approached
the American who was sitting with a quizzical look on his face.
“Is there a problem?” he said.
“Good, well done,” said Debbie stepping
forward and putting her arm around him.
“You’ve certainly made an impression. Time for a break now love?”
“Anthony, that’s cool right?” he said
looking to his companion for confirmation.
“Yeh, that’s cool,” he sighed. “Come on, let’s go.” He helped him off
his stool and led him back into the booth.
One of the white-coated men helped Valerie
to her feet. He was a stocky,
vaguely distinguished, looking man with a balding head and clumpy white beard
which had established a presence on practically every part of his face - albeit
clumpily. His ruddy red cheeks
were at least eighty percent obscured leading Valerie to wonder how big a job
it was to keep his eyes clear. His
teeth were prominent yet imperfect - in the same way as a druid circle. This must be what Santa really looks
like, thought Valerie as he helped her out of the airlock. But then she wasn’t feeling quite
herself.
“Can someone help me with Martin – he’s
been sick. Someone get the mop for
me from upstairs.” Lynn was
attempting to prize the cashier out from underneath the counter. He didn’t seem to be co-operating. The technician balanced Valerie on
Alf’s stool and turned his attention to the inert Martin who had now been
successfully leant against the till drawers. He lifted both his eyelids, and
felt his pulse.
“Are
you lot ared yet?” the bearded one asked Valerie.
“Sorry, are
we...?”
“That's
right, are you?”
“Are we
what?”
“Ared - Are
you ared?”
“I’m
sorry. I don’t seem to be quite
understanding what you’re on about.”
“Accelerated
– ARE – are. Have you lot been
accelerated?”
“Oh the video
you mean. Tennis, picnics,” said
Valerie, grasping at straws somewhat.
“No we haven’t yet. But
we’ve seen the video. Is we
supposed – sorry – are we supposed to have?”
“Don’t ask
me. I don’t make the
decisions round here – I just do what I’m told. Ask her.” He
motioned towards Debbie who was trying to stabilise the rest of the tremulous
staff through a group change management exercise. “Debbie”, he called.
“Have these been done or not?”
“No, not
yet.” She cut the exchange short
and returned to the folded paper napkin she was skillfully tearing into little
white people who were managing to maintain individual characteristics while
acting together as a cohesive and effective team (by virtue of the fact that
they were inseparably joined at the hands and feet).
“Shit,” he said quietly under his
breath. “Anyway, he should be
okay. Might feel slightly nauseous
for a few days, have difficulty sleeping and so on. Perhaps a slight loss of appetite, but no lasting
damage. Just keep him warm and
rested. You’re his mother right?”
“God no!”
“Well who is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he has one.”
The technician got to his feet. “Anybody
here this lad’s mother?”
He was answered with a series of emphatic
smirks of denial.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s alright,”
said Valerie.
“Thanks love. He should be okay.
I don’t hold out much hope for the drone though.” A small crowd of customers and passers
by had plucked up the courage to gather round the prostrate Mrs Timpson. A few of them were wafting her from a
safe distance with brochures from the leaflet rack.
“Oy!
Get that stuff away from her,” he shouted. “That’s the last thing she needs.”
“The what – drone?”
“Sorry, customer.” He seemed suddenly very keen to detach
himself from the conversation and from Valerie who had taken hold of his
sleeve.
“Excuse me. Not so fast young man.
What’s this drone business then.
I may be stupid, but I’m not daft!”
“Eric, the name’s Eric. And I’m not that young,
but thanks for the thought.”
“Excuse me Eric then – I’m Valerie by the
way hello – what’s this drone thing all about then? You might think I’m daft but I’m not you know. Oh no. I was sat behind these tills before you were having hot
dinners in your short trousers.
And I know a thing or two about banks. I also know a thing or two about
bees (my sister’s husband used to keep them on Guernsey –doesn’t any more –
just bantams now) and that’s not a drone.
It’s a customer.”
“Yes, sorry. My mistake – it’s a bantam.” He turned away.
“Now you’re just been daft.”
“I mean a customer. You’re right, it’s a customer – can
someone go round there and shut the branch.”
Valerie seized his lapel and thrust her
face to within inches of his longest whiskers. “I am sick to death of being tret like an half-wit”, she
said, emphasising each word with a tug on his jacket. “What exactly happened here?”
“Alright, keep your hair on love. Index exposure. Severe dose.”
“Thank you,” she said, struggling to simmer
herself down a bit. “That wasn’t too difficult was it.”
She usually avoided physical contact with
all but her closest friends. Today
was turning out to be very unnatural in all kinds of ways. She released his jacket and flopped
back onto her stool, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with it all. She began to cry. She hadn’t been listening to his
answer. At that moment she wasn’t
even aware she’d heard it. But
unfortunately she had.
“I’m sorry. Is your jacket alright?” she
asked between sobs.
“Don’t worry about this old thing
love. Worry about yourself. You’re in the dark aren’t you. All of you. It’s not right … Jesus!”
Mrs Timpson suddenly rose up like an
apparition from behind the window.
Failing to get a purchase on the glass she slid back down to the floor,
her tongue like a free fall slug leaving a mucus trail down the bandit
screen. Martin stirred.
“Feeling better now love?” asked Valerie,
descending to his side.
“Debbs” he began to murmur, lolling over to
her and nestling his head into her full breast. “I shall be cometh…fear not my Quark…”
Valerie tried to force him away from her
but gave up. She patted his head
with as much affection as she could muster.
“There, there. It’s alright. It’s over now.”
Then suddenly he sat up bolt upright
banging his head on the cashiers’ draw still open above his head.
“There, you see. You know you’re supposed to close and lock those when you’re
not on till. Now you know
why. That’ll learn you.”
“But I sense a sales opportunity. We all have fail ‘till we close
that sale. Come Alf my
friend. To the till we go…”
“Passive Index Amnesia – he probably won’t
remember a thing,” said the scientist getting up and leaving them together.
“Not Alf. It’s Valerie love.
Alf’s gone.”
Malcolm passed Rachel on the stairs as he headed
up to put the kettle on. She
emerged into the back office and couldn’t believe what she saw. It wasn’t that none of the staff seemed
to be doing any work and were instead watching an origami display by a senior
Head Office manager. Nor was it
that the branch doors had been closed trapping a group of customer who were
clustered around a low-lying object of particular interest opposite till three.
It was Valerie, who was kneeling, holding a
vomit-stained Martin tenderly in her arms. Even graffiti couldn’t be trusted these days.
She turned and headed back to the cubicle.
She turned and headed back to the cubicle.