Of Cow Byres and Elephants
(or How to Elude your Bank Manager)
By Roger Stapenhill
Monday - Of Banks, Bikes, Boots and Beer
It was
another Monday, bloody Monday and it was probably that, that stupid memo and
what the vicar had said in his sermon only yesterday, that made him do it.
'Alpha Omega', the beginning and the end and that was how today seemed to
Martin Bennett as he imprisoned himself in the little cubicle of the
sub-branch of Mid-West Bank PLC to begin his lonely vigil. Both the beginning
of his life and the end. He hung his coat on the peg, placed his flask of hot
tea by his feet, his watch on the desk in front of him, sat down and examined
his customers through the bars of his little cell.
"Sorry
I'm late Mr. Hendleberry." He always thought the name Hendleberry conjured up
a well built cheery sort of person, instead he smiled at a rabbit faced little
man with a twitching nose, who headed the queue. "'Been one of those days."
It had,
it was his thirtieth birthday and he felt frustrated. As he'd stood in front
of the cracked bathroom mirror in his crummy bed-sit that morning, he'd
surveyed his chubby round face with the flick of dark hair overhanging his
forehead as it had for the last thirty years. At least it seemed like it, for
he remembered it no other way and he could imagine looking at it in the same
cracked mirror for the next thirty years. 'Thirty years old and just look at
me, talk about being in a rut. I know what I shall be doing tomorrow, next
week, even next year and it'll all be the same as today, last week and even
last year.' There was his life spread before him and about as interesting as a
monochrome map - alpha omega. And then to cap it all, there was another of
those stupid memos from Mr. Oldenshawe, his area manager, querying Friday
night's balance. He knew full well that it was spot on, as it had been on all
the other occasions.
Martin
began to count the bundles of notes that Mr. Hendleberry, of Hendleberry's
Newsagents and Purveyors of Confection of Fine Taste, had emptied onto the
counter from his grey leather money bag. It was mechanical, he'd done it a
million times before. He never made mistakes.
Excuse me Mr. Bennett."
Martin
counted on.
"I
said, excuse me Mr. Bennett."
Martin
stirred and looked up at the little man, "Eh?"
"That's
the second time you've counted that bundle. I want to be rich, but I'd rather
do it honestly." The newsagent and purveyor of fine confection gave a snort of
nervous laughter at his try of a joke, his nose twitching eagerly.
"So I
have," Martin coughed, in an attempt to sound important. "Been rather busy
today, got a lot on my mind."
"So
have I young man, but if I have to wait in this queue much longer I'll take
root!" A heavily built woman further back in the queue looked in imminent
danger of doing just that. Below her extremely short, yellow skirt and length
of white fatty thigh, her elephantine legs, encased in their tight stockings
were tree trunks leading down to two enormous roots of shiny, black high heeled
shoes. In one hand she carried a big black shopping bag but it was the other
that attracted attention, for the rolled umbrella which she was waving
aggressively in his direction was reminiscent of a branch in a storm whipped
tree. Her small son dressed in blue shorts and a red cardigan stood beside her
picking his nose. He gave Martin a cold calculated stare then stuck his tongue
out.
That
did it, Martin could never be sure what it did but it was enough to change his
habits of a lifetime, he became unpredictable. He didn't even pick up the
phone to warn the main branch, he just collected his coat from the peg beside
him and walked out.
"What
about my money?" the large lady in the short yellow skirt tried to bar his way
to the door.
"Help
yourself Misses." Martin ducked beneath the swinging umbrella and dropped his
keys in the top of her shopping bag, then pushing through the half open heavy
dark oak door he stepped down the old, age worn stone steps to freedom.
The sun
was shining warmly along the narrow street of the market town, holiday makers
in bright colours and cool clothes strolled along the pavements enjoying their
carefree liberty. A large brown dog unhurriedly cocked his leg at a lamp post
and sauntered over to sit outside the butcher's shop, no rush, taking life
slowly. Even the water hurled from the butcher's bucket failed to make it move
more than a couple of yards, where it sat down again and lapped at the muddy
puddle forming in the unevenness of the pavement.
He
caught sight of himself reflected in the charity shop window next door to the
bank, suited, coat folded and over one arm. He felt the runs of sweat dripping
from his forehead to converge into a steady stream down the sides of his nose.
These clothes were the outward sign of his prison, get rid of them and his life
might begin.
Then as
his eyes began to focus on the contents of the musty window space behind the
finger smeared glass, fate took a hand. Clothes, more clothes, an old pin
striped suit with wide lapels and turn-ups on a stand. If he stood on tip toe,
it looked almost as though he was wearing it. He shook his head slowly and
smiled wryly, this was even worse. He turned to move off along the pavement
but something else caught his eye. It was almost hidden by a circus poster and
the notice declaring 'WE BUY NEARLY NEW' stuck with ugly strips of nearly new
brown sticky tape to the inside of the window. He reached into his pocket.
'Sod it.' He'd left both money and cheque book in his tiny bed sit in the
dingy, little, back street, terraced house. He began to move away, then a
sudden idea and he skipped lightly through the peeling paint work of the shop
doorway.
It was later, in real time only about five minutes, but nevertheless it was a
change of lifetime later that he emerged. His white legs were now bared to the
elements from beneath a pair of cut off shorts. A bright green tee shirt with
a large yellow patch on the front adorned his body and a pair of scuffed and
badly whitened trainers worn over his every day pair of socks protected his
feet from the warmth of the pavement. He stopped just long enough to thrust
the few notes of change into one of the deep pockets and glance back into the
window. The old pin stripe suit with its wide lapels now had company. A dark
blue suit, smart and formal and ideal for bank work hung along side it. A
price bearing card was pushed into the top pocket. It didn't deserve a second
glance and he stepped off the pavement.
"Hey!
Watch out!" A swoop of cyclists came pouring past, bottoms encased in tight
black shorts raised high above piston thrusting legs. Helmeted heads were held
low over the handle bars where gloved hands kept the machines on course.
He
watched the splash of pulsating colour stream into the distance and disappear
beyond the Red Lion where crowds of enthusiasts stood applauding and cheering
their champions on.
"Grand
sight that, grand sight." An elderly man with knobbly veined legs that toned
in colour with his baggy, long white shorts and bushy white eyebrows, and
wearing a yellow and white cotton cap over his snowy hair stood holding an
ancient racing cycle. A gleaming framework of burnished rust. "Time was when
I used to do that - open road, yellow jersey, 'Course we used to wear caps in
them days. Little cotton ones." He patted his head with one hand, as if
comforting himself that he still wore his, his watery old blue eyes looking
beyond Martin into the vastness of time. "Bikes weren't so light neither.
Hard work it was. Had to be fit. Even had a go at the 'Tour de France' once,
but I hadn't got the cash. Couldn't compete, not on the same terms anyhow.
But I finished!" His eyes suddenly snapped back into focus, penetrating,
holding Martin so that he felt transfixed. "You done any."
"N..no,
never thought about it."
"Huh,
thought as much. Soft - You need muscle lad, muscle. The old man's eyes
relaxed, he reached out and pinched Martin's upper arm, a disgusted look on his
face, "Flab, that's what you've got. Office flab. What are you son, thirteen
stone?"
Martin
nodded weakly. "Thirteen and a half."
nbsp; "Thought
so. 'bout time you did something about it. You'll end up like that bloke over
there." He pointed across the road.
Martin
looked. A portly, trilby hatted, blue suited figure with a carefully folded
coat hanging over one arm was sweating his way along the opposite pavement from
the direction of the car park. The deep frown contorting his face and the
pounding of his feet on the hard concrete slabs bore reflection to his anger.
Martin knew exactly who the man was, Mr. Oldenshawe, area manager of Mid-West
Bank.
"Office
worker! s'obvious."
"Bank
actually."
"Same
difference. d'you know 'im."
"My
boss - at least he was."
The big
man stopped, he wanted to cross, he looked to see if the road was clear. As he
glanced across, his eyes caught sight of Martin, he looked away. He looked
back, recognition. His face became ashen before he uttered just one word,
"You!"
He
stepped into the road, a green lorry with flapping canvas screeched its brakes
and swerved violently, its horn swearing in disgust. The bank manager jumped
back, his heels catching the kerb but even as he flew through the air and
before landing in the muddy recesses of the uneven pavement with a resounding
but squelchy thump beside the large brown dog, he emitted a loud cry.
"Bennett!"
"How
much?" Martin grabbed the little man's arm urgently.
"Eh?"
"I said
how much? - for the bike." A crowd was beginning to gather across the road.
"T'aint
for sale."
A tall,
thin policeman was pushing his way into the crowd.
Martin
pushed his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the few notes of change. The
snowy haired old man looked at them, bunched in his hand. "How much?"
"T'aint
for.."
The
large man was pushing out of the crowd. His face was a purply red, his blue
suit was ripped. The policeman was holding his arm, he was hanging on like a
terrier dog. "Sit down sir, sit down, you'll be having a heart attack."
"I'll
give you thirty." Martin started counting out the money.
The big
man raised his arm, he was possessed with demonic strength. The policeman's
feet left the pavement but somehow he hung on. The big man shook him and he
was swung out into the road, his legs straight, his trousers tight, his boots
black and shining beyond his bright yellow socks.
"Forty."
"Thirty
five."
The
policeman could hold no longer, he let go and sailed out into the road. His
feet caught the steel of a manhole cover, it was slippery, he scrabbled, his
arms flailing. He sat down - hard. The big man was running across the road.
"OK,
forty." Martin thrust the forty pounds into the old man's hand, grabbed the
bike and threw his leg across the saddle. Locating the pedal he pushed and
wobbled away. The buckled front wheel wanted to go its own way and he had to
fight hard to control it. Then a large fat hand reached out, grasping, trying
to catch at his saddle stem. He pushed harder, his bottom raised, his head
down low over his handle bars as he'd seen those other cyclists do. He stole a
glance back under one armpit. His extra thrust had been just in time, for it
coincided with the moment his large antagonist had attempted to close his hand
on the rusty strut of metal and he was now sliding on his knees along the hot
Tarmac of the road's surface, one fist raised in temper. The policeman was
still sitting by the manhole, he had his notebook in his hand. The large brown
dog sauntered out from his position by the butchers shop, sat beside the
policeman and started licking his ear.
The old
ex owner of the bicycle stepped out into the gutter, his skinny arm extended so
that he could wave his little cotton cap high above his head. "Go on son,
that's the way."
Martin
heard no more, he put his head down again and pushed all of his thirteen and a
half stones onto the two metal pedals, swerving only once to avoid the speeding
police car that had cut across in front of him to go in the direction from
which he had just come.
