by Daniel Hurst
All hope is lost. I’ll just have to struggle through to retirement and hope that Alastair doesn’t find some way of stopping that happening when it comes time for it. What a miserable existence. I’m only forty-five, so I’ve got at least another twenty years of being worked like a dog at this bank for nowhere near the reward I deserve for it.
Maybe I will get up from my seat and go and find a member of the cabin crew for another drink. With little to lose at this point, I might as well pay for another expensive glass of wine to get me through the rest of this lonely flight.
39
I’ve been back in the UK for a fortnight, and since then, things haven’t been as bad as I thought they were going to be as I sat on that flight home.
Instead, they’ve been much, much worse.
Every day in the office since my return from New York has been a sorry story about how much work can one man pile onto one woman’s plate. Alastair has not stopped bombarding me with deadlines, requests, and reviews since I left his desk in New York and got back to my own, and he was definitely right about one thing.
He is much worse than Michael ever was.
Thankfully, today is a Saturday, so there is a limit on how much he can wear me down now I’m not in the office, but that doesn’t mean my life will get much easier over the next few hours. While my task today is not quite on the scale of the one waiting for me at the office again on Monday morning, it is a fairly sizeable one, nonetheless. I have to pack up all of my father’s belongings in his house so we can prepare for it to be sold, and that’s a lot of things to pack considering he lived in this home for forty years. I have asked my husband to give me a hand with the packing, and he is about as thrilled with it as I am, but we have little choice if we want to get this property sold and raise much-needed funds that can go towards my father’s continuing care. That’s why we’re currently in the attic of Dad’s house, trying to organise the overwhelming array of old items into boxes that will either be kept or taken to the dump.
‘What the hell is this thing?’ Evan asks me, and I turn around to see him holding up some kind of giraffe sculpture that is very antiquated and very ugly.
‘God, I have no idea,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I didn’t realise he had so much junk up here.’
‘I wonder where he got this from. You certainly don’t see many items like this on the high street.’
‘I dread to think. Chuck it in the rubbish pile, and I’ll be happy to get rid of it.’
‘It might be worth something.’
‘You think?
‘Hell no,’ Evan says with a grin, and he gladly deposits the unsightly sculpture on the pile of things deemed not worth keeping before opening up another box to see what other treasures and trinkets he might find.
I turn back to my own box and delve deep inside, pulling out several old books on financial law that I have no doubt that my father spent time reading in his younger days. Unlike me, he didn’t get his start in banking thanks to having a family member already in the industry. He simply got himself an opportunity in that world by learning as much as he could about it and then never giving up until he was given a chance. I admire that about him as much as I admire the fact that he owned books like this because it only takes me a few seconds of flicking through the pages of them to realise that there is not a chance in hell that I would ever be able to understand most of it. Many things have changed in the banking world over the decades, and I’m glad one of them is the kind of things an employee has to know to progress in that world. Dad definitely had it harder than me in that respect.
I’ve already decided that all books will be kept in a pile of their own so that they can be donated to the local library, so I put the finance books on that same pile even though I’m not sure how many people there are around here who will be desperate to get their hands on texts like this. Then I go back into the box and remove a couple more books before coming across what looks like two very large and very old photo albums.
Putting down the books, I take out the first album and open it, taking care to do so because the spine of this album is very brittle, and I don’t want all the contents inside to spill out onto the attic floor and create even more of a mess for us to sort out. But I’m also aware that this tedious task of tidying my father’s things is also an opportunity for me to perhaps come across some old family photos that I have never seen before, so I am looking forward to that at least.
As the delicate album opens in my hands, I see several old images of my parents, some of them taken in this home, others taken at various events they were obviously invited to. There is a particularly nice picture of the pair of them sitting in somebody’s garden with a drink in their hands and a big smile on their faces, and I feel my eyes watering slightly at the discovery of this lovely past event.
‘What have you got there?’ Evan asks me as he opens up another new bin bag and prepares to explore another old box.
‘More photos of Mum and Dad when they were younger,’ I say as I carefully turn the pages on the album. ‘I’ve never seen any of these before.’
‘Any ones of you as a baby yet?’
‘No, and I won’t tell you if I find any either.’
Evan laughs and goes back to his work, still eager to find some embarrassing pictures of me as a child that he hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing yet.
I roll my eyes as I come to the end of the first photo album and put it down to my right, where it won’t be at risk of getting mixed up with all the items for the dump on my left. Then I take out the second album in the box and quickly go through it, assuming it will contain similar images to the first one. But it doesn’t. This one seems to be made up entirely of photos of my father during his career. There are images of him sitting at desks, holding phones to his ears and standing outside offices, and the handwriting next to some of the pictures provides a little more background.
Day 1 – 18 May 1970
Trading Conference – 24 August 1973
Christmas Party – 15 December 1978
I’m enthralled by all the old images of my father in his early days at the bank, and they are a reminder of how handsome and energetic he used to be. There are photos of him in smart and stylish suits, as well as some of him looking a little worse for wear at staff events and corporate gigs. I see one of him standing on a stage with a microphone in hand, dated 1980, which I know was around the time he really started progressing at the bank and moving up to higher management.
This album is like a time capsule of my father’s career, and as well as filling me with pride as a daughter, it makes me feel like these are images that should be shared with my colleagues because they provide a glimpse into the company’s past and what it was like to work in our office thirty, forty and even fifty years ago.
But then I turn the page on the album and see an image that does not make me feel proud or make me feel like I want to share it with anyone. It’s a photo of my father when he looks to be in his forties, and he is standing in front of a small group of men in their twenties as if he is their teacher and they are his pupils. My father has a wide grin on his face, his arms folded, and his posture straight and tall, carrying himself with confidence like I always remember him doing when I was a child. But the men behind him are not smiling, nor do they look like they have any confidence. In fact, they look quite miserable, and I’m not sure why, nor am I sure who all of these men are.
Except one of them.
I recognise him straight away. I recognise him from the photo I saw in the office in New York a couple of weeks ago.
It’s Alastair.
He used to work under my father.
And judging by the photo, he didn’t seem happy about it.
40
I have tended not to visit my father on Saturday nights ever since he moved into the nursing home because I know that is bingo night, and I’d rather not interrupt the residents’ fun. But I have to see him, so I am making my way into the lounge area, where my fath
er and his friends are gathered to hear if their numbers are going to be called out.
‘Two little ducks – twenty-two.’
I hear the bingo caller’s voice booming through the microphone as I enter the lounge and look for my father, and I’m wondering why it has to be so loud until I remember that half the people listening to the speaker are most likely hard of hearing. I imagine I’d be joining them if I had to spend too long in here listening to this, so hopefully, I’ll find Dad quickly, and we can go somewhere much quieter to discuss what I need to talk about with him.
‘Baker’s bun – sixty-one.’
My eyes scan the busy room for my father as everybody else keeps their eyes down on their bingo cards so that they don’t miss anything the caller is saying. Then I spot him on the opposite side of the room by the window, sitting at a table with two other residents, an elderly chap I have seen here before and a woman in her fifties who seems too young to be here, until I notice the vacant expression on her face and realise with much sorrow that she has been struck down early by the terrible condition that is now consuming my father in his later life.
Spending time in a place like this is enough to make anyone dread the future, but it’s the past that I am here about now as I make my way across the room towards my father. He doesn’t see me approaching because he is concentrating on his bingo card, and I hope the game is going to finish soon so I can have his undivided attention. But it won’t be over until somebody has called ‘Bingo!’ and there’s no saying when that is going to happen.
‘Staying alive – eighty-five.’
I try not to think too much about how that call is particularly apt in a place like this as I reach Dad’s table, where he and his fellow residents are engrossed in the game.
‘Hi, Dad. Having fun?’
All three players at the table look up to see me standing beside them, and the elderly man and younger woman smile at me even though they don’t know who I am, but unfortunately, my father’s expression does not match theirs. At first, I fear that the dreaded time has finally come when he has failed to recognise me, but thankfully, his serious expression has nothing to do with that and is instead just about the fact that I have interrupted his social time.
‘Saturday nights are bingo nights,’ Dad tells me a little grumpily as if I needed reminding.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt. Are you winning?’
‘The game’s still going on.’
My father puts his head back down over his card again along with his fellow players, and I realise I’m going to have to wait if I want to have a proper conversation with him tonight.
I take a seat behind Dad and wait for the game to be over, all the while wishing it were so I could talk to him about the photo I have in my coat pocket. It’s the photo of my father and a young Alastair, and I want to ask him about it – as Alastair is my new foe, it will serve me well to know as much about him as possible. But I also want to put to bed the nagging feeling in my stomach that something happened between my father and my current boss all those years ago. I’m not sure what it is, but there is something in the photo that gives me an uneasy feeling, and it’s that feeling that has driven me to come see Dad on bingo night.
‘Unlucky for some – thirteen.’
I look around the room, hoping that somebody will have been waiting on that one number so they can let the caller know and the game will end, but nobody does, so just like my wait, the game goes on. It must be at least ten minutes later when one of the residents finally calls out the word that ends the game and points to their card as though they are the winner, and as the caller goes over to verify it, I tap Dad on the shoulder and ask him if he could talk to me outside for a minute.
He begrudgingly agrees but tells me that he has to be back in his seat in five minutes or he will miss the start of the next game. I don’t want that for him, so I waste no time in opening the door behind us that leads out onto the patio, and I only close it again when Dad has joined me out there.
‘I thought you were visiting tomorrow,’ Dad says in a slightly grumpy tone, and I would be amused at his ways if I didn’t have something a little more serious on my mind.
‘I found this photograph in your attic while I was tidying some things up,’ I say as I take the picture out of my pocket and hold it out for him to take.
‘There’s lots of photographs in the attic,’ Dad replies, and his eyes are not on the picture in front of him but rather on the progress of events in the lounge through the window behind me.
‘Can you just have a look at it?’ I try, and Dad takes a sigh before doing as I ask and taking it from me. ‘There’s a date on the back. It’s thirty years old, so you would have been in your forties then, and I’d have been a teenager. I know it was a while ago.’
I hope my light-hearted mention of how much time has passed will make my father a little more receptive to me after my interruption of his evening, but I don’t think it works. He furrows his brow slightly as he looks at the image, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to read anything into that or not before he speaks again.
‘It’s a photo of me at work,’ he tells me with a shrug. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you know who this man is?’ I ask, pointing at Alastair’s image.
Dad takes a few seconds to think about it before shaking his head and giving me another shrug.
‘I’ve no idea.’
That wasn’t what I was hoping to hear, but I assume his memory might need a little jogging.
‘His name is Alastair. Do you remember him now?’
‘I worked with hundreds of people over my career. I can’t remember them all.’
‘Alastair Clarkson. It looks like he was in your team, maybe as a trainee? But he’s now the CEO in the head office in New York.’
‘I don’t know, Imogen. Sorry,’ Dad says as he hands me back the photograph before heading back inside. ‘The next game is about to start.’
I think about calling after my father, but I leave him to return to his game and his friends at the table, still none the wiser about what Alastair might have been like back when my dad used to work with him. I had come here tonight hoping that my father would be lucid enough to not just understand what I was asking him to do but also accurately recollect the memory of the man in the photo, and while he was certainly sharper than the last few times I’ve been here, he wasn’t able to help when it came to any memories he might have of Alastair. But my father’s inability to remember him could very easily be due to how much time has passed, and as Dad said, he did work with a lot of people over the years at the bank. Maybe there really is nothing significant in the fact that Alastair was once a junior member of my father’s team, and me coming here tonight was probably just a complete waste of time. I guess I’ll just go home then and put this photo back with all the other ones in the album.
But as I stand there and watch my father through the window as another game of bingo begins, I realise there is another person I could ask about this photograph. I could ask Alastair himself – I’m sure he remembers working with my dad, even if my dad doesn’t remember working with him. That way, I could find out the extent of their relationship, and maybe I can tell him about the plight of my old man now, which might help garner me some sympathy. I get that Alastair hates me, but I doubt he hates the man I am now helping look after. Perhaps if I explain why a promotion and a pay rise would help me so much financially, Alastair’s burning hatred of me might thaw out a little. But if that doesn’t work, then I have a backup plan. I will record my conversation with Alastair, and if it’s not going the way I want it to, I will steer him onto the subject of his hatred for me. That way, I will be able to have hard evidence of the man he really is, and it will be evidence that I can take to HR to hopefully have him removed from his position.
I am aware that bringing him down might result in him bringing me down alongside him, but at this point, I have to try something.
Just like the games of bingo going on i
n that lounge now, it has to be worth a shot.
41
I’ve spent the last few days trying to come up with the best way of speaking to Alastair about my father and their past together in the company that wouldn’t result in him either hanging up or failing to answer in the first place. But it turns out that I need not have put so much thought into the best way to contact him in New York because, to my surprise, he is no longer in America.
He is in the UK.
And he is on the way to my office right now.
There is a buzz of excitement around the UK branch today, as there tends to be whenever any of the top chiefs come over from the States to pay us a visit. It’s been a while since anyone from head office called in on us, and it’s definitely been a long time since Alastair was here, but that streak is coming to an end today, and it was confirmed in an email from HR this morning.
Alastair Clarkson will be addressing all staff in the conference room at midday.
There was a little more to the HR email than that, but that was the gist of it, and it was all I needed to know to get myself ready for my first face-to-face meeting with the CEO since I stood across his office from him in New York and learned exactly how much he despises me.
A quick check on the time lets me know that Alastair is due any second now, and I look around the conference room at the rest of my colleagues, who are all seated and ready to be graced with the presence of senior management. Samantha is up at the front, fretting over something to do with the projector screen, no doubt afraid that there will be an IT issue that might render Alastair’s presentation a disaster and leave her in the firing line to suffer his wrath. I have spent most of the last few weeks watching Samantha work from behind the desk that Michael used to sit at, thinking about how it should have been me sitting there completing all the important work that she was completing. But right now, I am quite enjoying watching her stressing out over the imminent arrival of Alastair as she continues to try to get this conference room ready for whatever he has planned.
