Chapter 27

At the beginning of October, Toby received a letter from the Regional Staff Manager of the National Marbaloyd Bank Limited, telling him that he was to report to the Bank’s Nalchester Branch on the third Monday of the month to take up his duties. He suddenly realised, with a pang, that his days of freedom were numbered. When the Stevenson twins and Emma disappeared off to Bristol and Amber to Oxford, to begin their respective courses, the days suddenly seemed long and empty. As she had her car, at least Amber was able to return home most weekends, but he very much missed seeing her during the week.

The Saturday before he was due to start work, Mary Adamson got his one and only dark-grey suit out of the wardrobe to press the trousers. She held it up and looked at it critically. Toby had worn it for the whole of his first year in the Sixth form at the College but had then gone on to a dark blue blazer and a pair of blue slacks which was the standard wear for prefects. Mary had not set eyes on Toby’s suit for over a year and was not pleased by what she saw.

‘I had no idea that the seat of the trousers was so shiny,’ she said worriedly to her husband, ‘And look at the front of the jacket. I don’t know what he got on it but dry cleaning didn’t get it out.’

‘He’ll look like a right scruff in that,’ agreed Charles, ‘I think that you’d better take him into town this afternoon and see if you can get him something better.’

Toby agreed that his suiting was hardly appropriate for an embryo Banker so he and his mother set off for the city as soon as they finished lunch. After an exhausting afternoon they finally found something that they could both agree on. It was a highly impractical pale grey wool worsted three piece suit with a single-breasted, double-vented jacket. They both agreed that it definitely made him look the part. In fact Toby was so delighted by his posh new outfit that he decided to wear it that evening when he went over to see Amber.

‘My Lord,’ she exclaimed when she saw it, ‘I had no idea that you were quite that good looking. Come upstairs to “La Retraite”, I think I’d like to discuss my private affairs with you.’

They started talking about the possibility of Amber opening an account with her new Banker, but when she started unbuttoning his waistcoat things quickly got out of hand. It ended up of course with Toby making a small deposit with Amber, rather than vice versa.

On the following Monday morning, feeling extremely nervous, Toby drove his mother’s car carefully over to Nalchester and leaving it parked in a convenient side street he walked briskly to the front door of the National Marbaloyd Bank, arriving at ten minutes to nine. He rang the doorbell and after what seemed like an eternity it was opened a few inches on the security chain. An eye peered through the gap suspiciously.

‘Yes?’ said a voice.

‘I’m Toby Adamson, I was told to report here for work.’

‘You were?’ said the disembodied voice doubtfully, ‘How do I know that?’

Toby was momentarily nonplussed.

‘I thought perhaps I’d be expected,’ he replied lamely.

‘Hang on,’ said the voice and the door closed in Toby’s face.

About a minute passed before the door opened again.

‘Are you still there?’ enquired the same voice.

‘Yes, I’m still here.’

There was apparently a sudden struggle behind the door and Toby heard another voice say:

‘Get out of the way, Scrote, move you stupid fool.’

The door slammed and Toby could hear the security chain being released. It opened and a head appeared round the gap. It belonged to a slightly-balding man in his early forties. He had an amiable expression on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

‘Got your letter of introduction from the Regional Staff Manager?’ he asked...

‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Toby, taking it out of his inside jacket pocket and handing it over. The man glanced it and then held the door open wide.

‘Come in, welcome,’ he cried expansively.

Toby would have done as he was bid, had his path not been blocked by a small spotty youth with a pencil behind one ear and wearing the shabbiest suit that Toby had ever seen. The slightly-balding man immediately realised the reason for Toby’s hesitation.

‘Scrote.’ he hollered, ‘Dammit boy, let Mr. Adamson in.’

The youth moved slowly out of the way and Toby passed through the portals. The door was closed behind him and he heard the safety chain being re-engaged.

‘Sorry about the delay in letting you in,’ apologised the man as he led Toby through the Banking Hall, ‘Scrote is a buffoon I’m afraid. He thought you were probably a robber. Ridiculous. Everybody knows that robbers wear black and white striped shirts, masks and carry a bag over their shoulder marked “swag”.’

They passed through a door in the anti-bandit screen and Toby found himself ‘back-stage’ for the first time. He looked around in interest at the worn desks, the high stools and the various items of calculating equipment. It was not as glamorous as he had hoped it might be.

‘Take a seat,’ said the man, gesturing at a chair beside a wide desk, ‘Mr. Anchor will want to see you, I’m sure. He’s going through the post with his Secretary at the moment. Here, read the Financial Times while you’re waiting.’ He thrust the pale pink newspaper at Toby, who took it obediently.

The Manager’s Secretary did not emerge until a little after nine o’clock, by which time Toby had looked through several pages of the newspaper and had found, to his dismay, that he understood almost none of what it contained. The man who had shown him in disappeared into the manager’s office and returned a few moments later.

‘He’ll see you now,’ he said, beckoning to the new recruit, ‘Go on in.’

Toby nodded and rising to his feet he went through the door which the man was holding open for him. He found himself in a large imposing room with a huge desk placed some five feet in front of the window. The man behind it looked up from what he was studying and gestured at the chair in front of it. Toby sat down and waited. After a minute or so the Manager put down the file and standing up, he leaned across the desk and offered Toby his hand.

‘How do you do, Mr ... er ... Adamson,’ he said, ‘Welcome to the staff of my Branch.’

‘Thank you sir,’ responded Toby politely, taking the man’s hand and shaking it firmly.

Mr. Anchor sat back down and regarded Toby mildly from behind his gold-framed half-glasses.

‘I gather from the R.S.M. that you’re a high-flyer,’ he said.

Toby smiled modestly.

‘I wouldn’t know about that sir,’ he replied, ‘Though I understand that I’m to be put through an accelerated training program.’

‘Yes, that’s the general idea,’ nodded the little man behind the desk, ‘Now I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of my First Clerk for the time being. He’ll show you the ropes, I’m sure. After a few days we’ll have a little chat and you can tell me how you’re getting on.’

He pressed a button on his desk and Toby realised that the interview was over. The door opened and the man that he had originally seen put his head round it.

‘Ah, Mr. Shagwell, will you take Mr. Adamson and show him round please,’ said the Manager and then went back to the file that he had been studying in the first place.

Perceiving that he had been dismissed, Toby got up and scuttled from the office.

‘What did he say?’ asked the man amiably.

‘Well ... nothing much to tell the truth,’ replied Toby, ‘I believe I’m to be left with the First Clerk.’

‘Typical,’ laughed the man, ‘Did he know who you were?’

‘He called me by name,’ offered Toby.

‘Oh well, that’s a start I suppose. You’ll have to forgive him, he’s a daft old bugger. All Bank Managers are like that you know. I’m the First Clerk by the way. Beevish Shagwell.’ he held out his hand and Toby took it. ‘Beevish by name, peevish by nature,’ quipped the man. ‘You may call me Uncle Beevish if you like. The polite ones do. I shan’t tell you what the rest of them call me. And talking of the rest of them, you’d better come and meet them before we open for business.’

Beevish took Toby round the office and introduced him to the rest of the staff.

‘That’s Lillian Blenkinsop, our First Cashier,’ he said, pointing over at a simply mountainous woman at the far end of the cashier’s run, ‘Lil, this is Toby Adamson, the new boy,’ he called. The woman nodded, her many chins wobbling in sympathy as she did so.

‘Next to Lil is Clive Hamilton Brick,’ explained Beevish, ‘He’s number two and also looks after the cheque books.’

The tall thin individual, who was at that moment sorting a pile of new cheque books into alphabetical order looked up and waved.

‘Welcome to the work house,’ he said and Toby grinned in reply.

‘Number three and king of the cash-book is Ernie Danglers,’ continued Beevish, taking Toby over to meet a fresh-faced young man in his early twenties who was standing behind the cashier’s run obviously looking through his post tray. ‘Ern, this is Toby Adamson. He’s Chief General Manager material, so you’d better be polite to him or one day he’ll see that you’re fired.’ The young man laughed and took Toby by the hand.

‘Take no notice of Uncle Shag,’ he said, ‘His heart’s in the right place but he’s a raving lunatic.’

‘I warned you about the rude ones.’ sighed Beevish and led Toby towards the back of the office.

‘Is his name really Ernie Danglers?’ enquired Toby, thinking how absurd it sounded.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ agreed Beevish, ‘Nobody in this entire office has a sensible name, except of course you and I. Even the Manager is cursed. His first name is William. W. Anchor. What sort of name is that for a Banker, I ask you?’

Toby repeated the name to himself and his eyes widened in amusement as the penny dropped.

‘You don’t need much imagination to work out what his nick-name is,’ chuckled Uncle Shag.

Toby was next introduced to a minute young lady sitting behind a large desk littered with piles of paper.

‘This gorgeous creature with the body of a well-developed seven year old is none other than our Supervisor, Miss Mary O’Toole.’

The tiny girl turned her enormous waif-like brown eyes onto Toby and regarded him with interest.

‘Mary, this is Toby Adamson, the latest recruit to this hell-hole of ours.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said in a surprisingly deep voice.

‘Mary, by the way, is the branch nymphomaniac,’ added Beevish casually, ‘No branch of the National Marbaloyd should be without one.’

Mary giggled and dimpled deliciously.

‘Now don’t go putting ideas into his head,’ she admonished, ‘I have enough trouble with Ern as it is.’

‘The lady behind our Mary is Cynthia Crunn,’ said Beevish, apparently ignoring his Supervisor’s protest completely. ‘She’s the Manager’s Secretary but she’s only here in the mornings. We don’t like to ask her what she does during the afternoons.’

Mrs. Crunn gave the First Clerk a long-suffering look.

‘This here’s the flying Felicity Foxx,’ declared Beevish, swinging round and pointing at a homely-looking girl who was listing cheques on an adding machine at a simply incredible speed. ‘Fastest and most accurate machinist in the West of England,’ enthused Beevish,’ she looks after the Branch “Waste” system and processes batches of debits and credits through our wonderful new computer terminal.’