A Five Year Sentence (18 page)

The bank manager was delighted that she had answered the summons so promptly, but she found his solicitousness very unnerving. She sat opposite him at his desk, as he mulled over the thin file which lay before him. ‘To tell you the truth, Miss Hawkins,' he said, ‘I'm a little worried by the state of your account. Especially your savings account and its dwindling condition.' He looked up at her for some explanation.

‘I've had a lot of expenses recently,' she said, playing for time.

‘They seem to be very regular ones,' he said, ‘and have been going on for some time.' Then mercilessly he itemised her weekly withdrawals, opposing their extravagance with her ludicrous income. She had the impression that she was on trial, and this fed a growing belligerence. She couldn't see that her private spending was any business of the bank manager, and she said as much in the politest possible terms.

‘I'm concerned about
you
,' he said. ‘And your future. If this regular expenditure continues, in a very short time, my dear lady, you will be penniless.'

His statement was unanswerable and there was a silence.

‘Could you tell me how you are spending this money?' he asked kindly. ‘D'you have some debt or obligation?' He paused. ‘All this is absolutely confidential,' he said. ‘You need have no fear about that.'

‘No,' she heard herself shouting. ‘I don't owe a penny to anybody. I pay my way,' she said.

‘Yes, but for how long?'

‘I give my money to a friend. He invests it for me.' She felt she owed something to the bank manager for his concern.

‘Could you tell me what he's invested it in? Is it stocks or shares or …?'

She noted the suspicion in his voice. ‘I'm not quite sure,' she said. ‘I'm going to see him this afternoon. I'll ask him. He said it's a good investment and I'm not to worry.'

He could see the worry on her face. ‘But where are the returns, Miss Hawkins?' he said gently.

‘I'll ask him,' she said.

‘Would you let me know?'

She nodded with little faith that she would ever have anything to tell him. The interview was obviously over. She got up and went towards the door. As she reached it, he said, ‘Is he a particular friend, this gentleman?' She felt a hot flush on her face, and it was an involuntary answer.

‘Keep in touch, Miss Hawkins,' he pleaded. He was genuinely worried now. In his work as Branch Manager in different parts of the country, he had seen enough old ladies who had been conned into parting with their savings, and it was always a ‘particular' gentleman, one who knew his way about the stock market, and would earn an enviable return. The pattern was always the same. He would notice a dwindling account, and he would call for a meeting, such as the one he had just conducted. He would keep a weekly eye on the withdrawals until finally there was nothing left. He wouldn't have to ask for another meeting. The lady in question would present herself voluntarily and in acute distress. And then the whole sorry story would spill across his desk and it was always the same. They had invested a last bid for love, and as the shares fell, they had in desperation, invested more. Then the bottom had fallen out of the market and they were penniless. Miss Hawkins had £500 left in her account. At her rate of spending, she would be back at his desk within three months. For no reason that he could think of, he phoned his wife.

Miss Hawkins laid the trolley for tea and put out the glasses and the bottle of port. She took herself a generous swig to still the rage inside her. When the doorbell rang, all the questions gathered like a hostile army on the tip of her tongue, and when she opened the door, they retreated in humble confusion. She noticed how shabby Brian's suit was, and realised that it was the same one he had worn on their first meeting. Her savings had certainly not gone into his pocket. He was clearly as poor as she was, and she pitied him. ‘A Happy New Year,' she said.

‘And the same to you.'

‘I've a feeling this is going to be a good year,' she said, without any feeling at all.

‘You always say that,' he said, knowing exactly what she hoped by it, and each year ignoring his cue. He sat on the settee while she went into the kitchen to make tea. He looked around the room and suddenly found its familiarity highly irritating. On the trolley, the inevitable sponge cake that lay on his stomach from one week to the next. The bottle of sickly sweet port that she seemed to need before each spending spree, and the bowl of soft sugar that was always encrusted with tea-droppings. He thought affectionately of the dry sherry and savouries on Violet Makins' trolley. Poor old Miss Hawkins had no class at all. He winced at the neat pile of silver spelling out the paltry limits of her investment, and he wondered why he bothered. Then he noticed, underneath the port bottle, a five pound note, a sign that Miss Hawkins was graduating to another category. The prospect of higher profits pleased him and he wondered whether she would ever make the full grade. There were a number of varied services she could buy for five pounds, and all would serve to give her an appetite for further exploration. Who knows, Brian thought, in time she may well turn out to be his best customer. He got up and himself drew the curtains. Then he lit the candles that she'd placed on the table. He waited at her service.

Before leaving the kitchen, she made herself read the diary's order, so that it was on her tongue as she poured the tea. But it turned into an offer for a nice piece of sponge and a little port to wash it down with. Brian had a distinct feeling of words unspoken or substitute words for a subject that refused to surface. He shifted uneasily on the settee.

‘I wanted to ask you something, Brian,' she said.

Here it comes, he thought, and he postponed it with a request for more sugar. Then, as he stirred his tea, he considered it more expedient if he himself were to introduce the subject, and fraudulently set her silly mind at rest. ‘Before I forget,' he said, ‘I must tell you about your savings.'

She almost dropped the cup from her hand in gratitude.

‘I've put them into tin shares,' he said. ‘A friend of mine who
knows someone on the Stock Exchange recommended them. They're very steady and they've even increased a little in value.' He had no idea what he was talking about.

She took the plunge. ‘Can I get my money back whenever I like?' she asked.

‘Not immediately,' he said, playing for time. ‘You see, they were the sort of shares that you had to invest in for a minimum of five years. That's why I got them cheaply,' he said. ‘But after five years,' he said, confidently giving himself extra time, ‘they'll be yours with interest.' He sensed that he was probably talking a lot of poppycock, but he could depend on her ignorance of stock market practices as being equal to his.

She sipped her tea, reasonably satisfied. She had obeyed the order at least, or rather, it had obeyed itself. But she wanted to ask the full name of the shares so that she could tell her bank manager. But she was afraid that Brian might suspect that she didn't believe him and that she was making enquiries like a police woman.

‘What did you want to ask me?' he said, now that he felt on safer ground. She hesitated and her eye caught the five pound note under the bottle. ‘I thought I'd ask for your services in the third category,' she giggled, and blushed and spilt her tea, then added, ‘now that I know that I can afford it.'

When the tea was finished, she took a fortifying swig of port, then trade began. In view of his nagging conscience, he threw in a few services for free, but he worried about the poor lady's greedy appetite knowing that her pocket would never stretch to her full satisfaction. ‘Who knows,' she was saying dreamily, ‘if my ship comes home, I'll be able to pay for everything you offer.' Just saying it was a form of gratification and she was delighted with the idea that she had discovered all on her own a verbal source of ecstasy that was entirely free. She said it again and trembled all over. She would try saying it to herself when Brian wasn't there, or if that didn't work, then to Maurice, who would have to listen because he had no alternative. She had a sudden surge of pity for her bank manager, who didn't understand life at all.

Brian collected the money and decided to go home and change and take Violet out to dinner. As he was pocketing the change, she said generously, ‘That's your New Year present. Don't use it for the tin. Put it towards the cost of a new suit.'

He shuffled down the road knowing she was watching him from the window. It irritated him that he felt such a heel.

Miss Hawkins ticked off her diary's order. She tried out her verbal discovery in the silence of her curtained sitting-room, and found to her dismay that it didn't work. Maurice would have to come to dinner. But before that, she had to buy her wedding dress material. She was glad that she would draw another cheque to annoy the bank manager. She gave Brian time to leave the vicinity, then she put on her coat and left the house.

‘Tin,' she said to herself, and again ‘Tin,' regretting its syllabic shortage which seemed to reflect a lack of worth and returns. Yet it was an essential commodity even if not a luxury one. As she walked along she noted everything that required some form of tin in its making, and by the time she reached the shop, she concluded that the world would fall apart were it not for that monosyllabic piece of merchandise, and that Brian had made a very sensible investment indeed. ‘Tin,' she said once again as she entered the shop, and already her shares had soared.

She was not going to skimp on the material, she decided. She was going to buy the very best. A heavy white satin, Mrs Church had said, and a length of silk net. She would not have to explain that it was for her wedding. The choice of materials made that abundantly clear, and she looked forward to showing off to the salesgirl that she, Miss Jean Hawkins, was a wanted woman.

She went up the lift to ‘Materials.' She was disappointed to find that all the assistants were male. What's more, they were all young and cocky-looking, and their self-confidence and youth unnerved her. She looked around and picked on the very youngest of them, who perhaps had not yet caught the arrogance of those who thought they'd inherited the world.

‘Can I help you, Madam?' he said.

‘I'd like to see some heavy white satin,' she said, ‘and some silk net.'

He winked at her and disappeared, but he was back before she had decided whether or not he had insulted her. He laid the cloth on the counter. She fingered it.

‘It's a wedding, isn't it?' he said, marvelling at his powers of deduction.

She felt herself blushing. ‘That's right,' she said.

The assistant was a chatty lad, and new at the game. He was a nosey-parker too. ‘Your daughter getting married, is she?'

Again Miss Hawkins had to consider whether or not the lad was being offensive. On the one hand, he'd not entertained the possibility of herself as a bride, yet on the other, he'd happily envisaged her as a mother. Miss Hawkins decided that the balance was even.

‘Is that the best you have?' she said.

‘It's the only white satin. It's specially made for weddings,' he said.

She was glad not to have a choice. ‘I'll have eleven yards,' she said as Mrs Church had ordered her. The silk net, too, was a straightforward purchase. She watched him as he measured the cloth. He gave her a little extra. ‘That's for luck,' he said, and he winked again. He wrapped it carefully. ‘That'll be £37,' he said.

‘Will you take a cheque?'

‘Of course,' he said.

She wrote it out, chuckling to herself with tin and bank-manager thoughts. The boy took it to his superior who was standing at an adjacent counter. He looked at the cheque and motioned to the boy that he would deal with it himself. Miss Hawkins trembled. The man was courteous.

‘We're not allowed to take cheques over £30 without checking first with your bank. So if you'll give me a moment, Madam, I'll make a phone-call.'

She nodded, trying to hide her fear. When he had gone she looked about her, expecting immediate arrest It crossed her mind to leave the shop there and then. There'd been no order in
her diary to buy the material. The act, she thought, was so easily executed, it was too unprofessional for her little book. So she could leave the shop without any risk of disobedience. Yet Mrs Church could not lift a finger without the material, and so in a roundabout way, she would be revoking an earlier order. She decided to stand her ground. She looked about her haughtily as if nothing were amiss or ever likely to be, while she imagined the conversation that was buzzing over the wires between the well-intentioned assistant and her speechless and spluttering manager. She fully expected that in his tin-ignorant rage, he would simply replace the receiver. And she worked herself into a state of indignation that anyone should question her solvency. But the counter-hand returned smiling.

‘That was all right,' he said, and he handed over the parcel. Now she had nothing to do with her gathered indignation, so she modulated it to dignity, and with her head held high, she left the shop.

On her way home, she called in on Mrs Church. The dressmaker told her that she could fit her in sooner, since the wedding she had been preparing for had been cancelled. ‘They changed their minds,' Mrs Church said. ‘Well, better before than after.' Miss Hawkins took it as an ill omen, and wondered whether she should change her dressmaker. But Mrs Church was stroking the material with such affection that it would have been cruel to deny her, and an arrangement for fitting was made for the following week. Miss Hawkins looked once more at her cherry-blossom pattern and was delighted. She would tell Maurice about it at dinner.

As she passed the newspaper stand.at the corner of the street, she saw a headline in the early evening paper. ‘Fulbright freed.' The name was familiar and attached to a gruesome affair of many years ago. She could not remember the exact story, so she bought a paper to jog her memory. When she reached home, she put Maurice on the wall, dusting him down gently with her handkerchief. There was no need for him to be alone until supper-time. He could watch her while she read.