The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife

by Gill Davy-Bowker

  It became more and more apparent that this bank in America was just the tip of the iceberg. It looked like with global capitalism, every financial institution was connected to this one huge leviathan. Employees of the bank were seen on the news broadcasts, walking out of their erstwhile employer’s palaces, their whole working life distilled into a cardboard box or two. But at least many of these people had been able to put money away while they were earning. What about the cleaners and the more humble workers? No, surely this couldn’t have far-reaching consequences. Mel fervently hoped that it wouldn’t be as profound and extensive as the news seemed to be predicting. Oh, where was Alan? It was no good … she would have to call the police. She contemplated calling all the accident and emergency units of all the hospitals in and around London.

  ‘Heard anything yet?’ Briony was on the phone. Not so long ago Mel had thought that her birth family didn’t give a toss. She and her sister hadn’t communicated for at least three years but now, just at the time she needed them most, her family had pulled together and for that Mel was infinitely grateful.

  ‘Nothing.’ She tried to stop the telltale catch in her voice, but it was no good for the tears were already welling and tumbling from her eyelashes and she was sobbing like a baby.

  ‘Oh, Melly! We’ve got friends up in the City at this moment. They’re there on a protest march. You’ve met them already. I was telling you about how they met your friend, Kelly, in Brighton and thought you were her girlfriend? Do you remember? I’m sorry I was so bitchy! I knew you weren’t really batting for the other side … I just wanted to bring you down a peg or two. I feel so rotten about it now.’

  ‘You didn’t bring me down “a peg or two”, Briony. But does it matter anyway? It doesn’t seem very important any more, does it?’ said Mel.

  ‘Look. I can phone Sophie. See if she has seen someone fitting Alan’s description, I’m on my way over … I can send them a photo of Alan via my mobile. That’s probably the best thing to do.’

  Briony lived in a teepee! Since when had the organic and ecologically-friendly princess embraced modern technology? Maybe she’d discovered it left a smaller carbon footprint than sending smoke signals, which Mel had hitherto believed may be Briony’s favoured communication route.

  ‘But you’re miles away!’ protested Mel.

  ‘No I’m not. We’re almost at your house. Look down the road!’

  And sure enough, there was the painted hippy bus, turning the corner into the avenue. Mel just wanted to run right now and hug her sister to bits. Blood really was thicker than water. At last she could be herself. She could lean on someone else and not be strong Mummy for the children or funny, entertaining and capable friend. Just for a little while.

  ‘Aunty Briony! Uncle Zeus!’ yelled Amy.

  ‘Gabriel! Jupiter! Whee!’ squealed Michael. It would be good for the kids too.

  ‘We’ll need an extremely clear photo of Alan for this, OK? No, not a wedding one … he’s got more head hair and less nose hair on those. Hardly representative of today’s Alan!’ quipped Briony, trying to cheer her sister up.

  ‘Cheeky sod! How about this one?’ suggested Mel. It was a photo of Alan that she treasured. Unsurprisingly it was taken pre-Alan’s epiphany in banking. He was relaxed, smiling, sitting on a park bench watching Amy and Michael playing. The sun was glinting on his strawberry-blond, slightly thinning hair and his eyes were dancing. It seemed as if it had been taken an eternity ago, but this photo was just one year old. How could things change so much in a few short months? Now he was a complete cokehead, rivalling the snorting prowess hitherto only found within the elite of the rock and pop world. Now he was a success in banking. Now he was … where? In a cardboard box? In some crack den? Floating in the Thames? Mel shook her head in an attempt to flick the thought, like a troublesome fly, out of her head.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Briony, inspecting the photo. ‘That would be just right. Has he changed much since this was taken?’

  Mel shook her head. ‘No, not really. Um, his nose is a bit redder and his eyes rather more hooded, but he’s basically the same Alan.’ Mel hadn’t kept more recent photos, of their trip to Monaco, for instance, as she had wanted to forget that brush with the beautiful people as soon as possible. So Briony put the picture onto her mobile and texted Sophie, who was ready and waiting to receive it. Soon a ‘pling’ sound was emitted from Briony’s phone and the deed was done.

  ‘Have you phoned the police yet? They’re all around the City at the moment, so Sophie informs me … waiting for civil unrest. Somebody was saying there might be a run on the banks … Ah …’ she continued, reading Sophie’s reply. ‘There are rumours floating around that some British banks are going down as well and that no one’s going to rescue Bonkerman Bank in the US after all. She says that we should switch the telly on. BBC is reporting from right outside Alan’s bank now.’

  And there, on national TV, was a scene of protesters shouting up from the streets at the windows of the tower of Ponsonby and Tosser. And the Ponsonby and Tosser employees were hanging out of those windows heckling the crowd and waving big wads of money at them. The police were closing in with riot gear and horses and Mel just hoped and prayed that Alan wasn’t one of the odious, arrogant prats taunting the protestors from above. Well, part of her hoped that, but another part would have preferred that to the possible alternatives. It was certainly rather a threatening-looking scene.

  ‘Look at them, the bastards! People are going to lose their jobs, their businesses, their minds … everything! This is how the last world war started! You wait … there’ll be Fascists marching down this very street in a couple of months because of this! You mark my words!’ raged Briony.

  This was all just a bit too close for comfort and Mel burst into floods of tears.

  ‘Oh my God! What about the kids? What have I brought them into? At least when we had the Cold War, no one would start anything. Now there’s nothing to keep strange little groups and cults from causing trouble and misery.’ She never would have believed that she could miss nuclear weapons. She had been in nuclear disarmament groups from a very young age, going on protest marches with her mad grandmother. But compared with now, in retrospect the Cold War era felt cosy! Briony put her arms around Mel. ‘You’re tired and overwrought! Things will work out, you’ll see. They always do. It’s only money after all. Money is only bits of paper and metal and figures on computer screens. These things only have worth because we attach worth to them. I mean, the way they’re going on, you’d think this was a force of nature, not just some virtual reality thing which we could control if we’d just stop acting like a herd of panicked gnus!’

  Mel looked at her sister in wonderment and new admiration. She really was very insightful at times. She had forgotten that.

  ‘I am so glad you came, Briony!’ Mel sniffed.

  The kids were playing outside and Iggy was drooling all over the carpet (a very posh, expensive designer carpet), as the sisters ate biscuits, when Ozzie entered, carrying what appeared to be a large crow … it was a live crow … Ozzie let go. At first it fell to the floor and remained still, eyes blinking and beak open, panting in fright and shock. Ozzie wound his way around Mel’s legs with a very self-satisfied look on his face. He obviously thought that Mel needed an edible present at the moment and was expecting a reward, as he purred and rubbed against her legs. Iggy, however, was completely disinterested in the live quarry. Iggy didn’t think of anything as food unless it was cooked and well presented with a garnish or unless it was one of the biscuits he was watching disappear down his cruel mistress’s throat at this very moment. After a short while, the crow flapped its wings and was suddenly in the air, whizzing around their heads. Of all the times for a live bird to be in the house … Wasn’t it supposed to be unlucky? Mel started to feel like a cavewoman, believing in omens and portents of doom. She tried to calm herself. The bird was obviously more scared than she was, as the poor bloody thing had just been speared by the dre
aded megahunter, Ozzie. Briony went out to the kitchen and returned carrying a tea towel. Calmly, she opened the windows and approached the bird. Briony firmly but gently wrapped the bird in the tea towel and took it outside, because it was still too stunned to fly through the window. She placed it in a bush to recover and before long it had flown off. Ozzie looked rather affronted as he had obviously intended this bird to act as a balm and a comfort to Mel in her hour of need. Mel stroked his head. At least he had brought it in alive, not disembowelled and eviscerated as was usual.

  ‘Well … it seems OK. No damage done, well not physically, anyway! Poor thing’s probably going to need psychiatric intervention for some time though!’ joked Briony.

  Mel was watching the television in horror, as the police rammed into the protesting crowd with shields and batons. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted them involved in her search for her poor confused, beloved husband.

  ‘My God! Look at them! They’re beating that man with their batons!’ squealed Briony, indignantly. ‘Do you remember Gran telling us about the miners’ strike in the eighties? Remember how she ended up in front of the magistrates for biting that policeman’s ear? She was only four foot ten with grey hair and false teeth!’

  ‘Oh yes!’ remembered Mel. ‘And the policeman was six foot seven with a shaved head and built like a brick shit house! She was great, wasn’t she? Always ready to fight another’s corner! Remember when she carried the Communist Party card? There was a load of trouble about that. Something to do with Dad’s job in the civil service. Don’t know why … he was only an administrator for some little department.’

  ‘Was he?’ said Briony. ‘I often wonder what he really did, you know. Weren’t you ever suspicious? He was always away. And then, what about his recent trip to Algeria?’

  ‘He was birdwatching,’ answered Mel.

  ‘Mmmm. I’ve got friends who say there isn’t any good birdwatching in Algeria. And when can you remember Dad being at all interested in birds? He hasn’t got one bird book. Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?’ asked Briony.

  ‘Well, what do you think he does then? Do you think he’s a spy?’ laughed Mel.

  Briony looked darkly at Mel and Mel looked disconcertedly back.

  ‘Stranger things have happened! And hasn’t he always said “If I told you what I do, I’d have to shoot you”?’

  ‘Surely that’s a joke?’

  ‘Maybe, but many a true word is spoken in jest. And how did he know so much about banking stuff?’ wondered Briony.

  ‘Best not to talk about it any more.’

  ‘Probably safer,’ concluded Briony, nodding wisely.

  He didn’t look like James Bond and judging by his taste in clothes and cars, was not exactly a womaniser. But, deep down, they both knew that their father was a bit of a real-life James Bond.

  Briony’s phone tinkled.

  ‘Oh! Hi Sophie! … You think you’ve seen Alan? Where?! What’s he doing?’

  ‘Oh my God! Is he alive?’ gulped Mel. She felt faint with relief and anxiety combined.

  Briony handed Mel the phone. ‘I’m putting you onto my sister, hold on.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mel. He’s alive. He doesn’t look as good as his photo. His hair’s stuck up on end and he’s drooling a bit, but I can still recognise him. He was jumping up and down in front of a police horse begging them to arrest him! We got hold of him and dragged him away.’

  ‘Is he there?’ asked Mel. ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘He’s just sitting on the curb staring into space at the moment. At least he’s stopped rocking and trying to crawl into a skip. But he’s definitely not right. I would recommend you came down here to pick him up, but the whole of the City is cordoned off. You’ll never get in. It’s like a siege.’

  ‘What’ll we do then? Could I just speak to him? He doesn’t need to answer me.’

  ‘Well, you can certainly try. . ,’ replied Sophie. Mel heard a rustling as Sophie moved the phone from her ear and heard her say to Alan, ‘It’s Mel. She wants to talk to you. I’ll hold the phone to your ear.’

  ‘Alan?’ cried Mel. ‘Alan! Are you all right? I love you! Please look after yourself. Stay with Sophie and her friends. As soon as I can get to you, I will.’

  She looked at Briony for support. Briony nodded her agreement. She would gladly drive her down in the hippy van as soon as it was possible.

  There was no answer, not even a sniff, from Alan at the other end of the line. Not for a while anyway, and then Mel heard a huge gulp and a sob.

  ‘He’s OK, Mel. At least he’s stopped staring into space now. He seemed catatonic earlier!’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll let you know when it’ll be safe to come down here. And don’t worry … we’ll look after him until then!’ and Sophie switched off her mobile.

  The day wore on. Kelly came with her children and offered her services as babysitter to Mel’s and Briony’s children and animals when Sophie gave the all-clear for them to drive to London.

  57

  ‘Did you hear that, a country … an entire country … has gone bankrupt?!’ gasped Kelly.

  ‘A country cannot possibly go bankrupt overnight! That’s not possible!’ said Mel.

  ‘Look! Daddy’s on the telly!’ Amy was indeed pointing at her father. He looked just as he had in his early university photos,- hair scruffy and a little long, face covered in ginger stubble and eyes full of … well, actually full of spirit. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other protesters, holding aloft one huge banner carrying the slogan,

  ‘No to global capitalism! Yes to life!’

  And there on the screen with him were Sophie, Tracey and Felicity from that memorable day at Brighton.

  Amy and Michael watched, boggle-eyed, as their father marched with his newfound comrades towards the line of police with shields. It was like a scene from outside the palace of Nikolai and Alexandra of Russia except that the backdrop was of buildings so tall and packed together and glinting with glass that the humans looked like tiny little bugs. Mel watched too, fervently hoping that this particular protest wouldn’t end in the same bloody way as the one in pre-revolutionary Russia had. As she, Briony, Kelly and the children stared transfixed at the screen, they saw the foot police closing in, backed up by a cordon of police on horseback. They waited with bated breath and thanked God the police didn’t carry guns in Britain. It would have been so easy, in that tense atmosphere (claustrophobic with people and animals, huge buildings and bank employees goading from the windows above) for someone to let off a shot. And then the boiling scene was replaced by the newsreader reporting about Members of Parliament and their ridiculous claims from public money for nights at ‘massage parlours’ and personal castle-moat cleaning. Here they were staring into who knows what? People losing their livelihoods, their homes? People starving to death because money had been sucked into a black hole? And the people representing them were chucking these poor buggers’ money about like a bunch of mad Marie Antoinettes.

  ‘When’s Daddy coming home, Mummy?’ whined Michael.

  ‘Soon, lovely … very soon,’ although Mel was worried that the scene could turn violent in the City, she felt more hopeful about Alan and her family’s survival than she had in ages. Her husband looked much younger, which was strange, because he must have been on the street for a day or so. He looked grimy, but his eyes were full of life.

  The siege of the City of London went on for another day and another night until, at last, the long-awaited phone call came from Sophie. Mel even got to speak to Alan, who sounded tired but full of conviction. They were, however, all incarcerated in a police cell at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, which took the triumphant edge off somewhat. This was the phone call they were allowed to make by law when arrested.

  ‘What are you charged with?’ asked Mel, incredulous.

  ‘Not sure yet. I think they’re trying to come up with something. Disturbing the peace maybe? Who knows. Anyway … will you come down and visit me? We need to get a
lawyer,’ said Alan. Rob then phoned to speak to Kelly.

  ‘Was that Alan on the TV with a bunch of hippies? What does he think he’s doing? He was right outside his bank!’

  ‘He was, wasn’t he?’ said Kelly simply.

  ‘Won’t he lose his job? He can’t go around protesting outside with a load of lefties and transvestites!’

  ‘Why not? Sounds like a bloody good idea at the moment! It makes as much sense as anything else today!’ said Kelly.

  ‘You’re impossible!’ declared Rob as he put the phone down.

  Kelly thought about it for a moment. How very strange that Rob of all people should be prejudiced against men dressing up as women. Last time she saw him, he was forcing his feet into a pair of stilettos and moaning to her about the impossibility of finding size twelve patent red stiletto slingbacks in the high street these days.

  Oh well. ‘Nowt so queer as folk’, she thought to herself.

  ‘Hi darling!’ said Mel as she met her husband at the police station. ‘How are you? I was so worried! I thought you had thrown yourself off a bridge or something!’

  ‘I spent a while looking at the river the other night, I must admit. I’ve never felt so lost and alone in my life. If I hadn’t met up with those friends of Kelly’s I don’t know where I’d be now.’

  Alan buried his head in Mel’s hair and they hugged as if they would never stop.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want me back. I’m damaged goods, Mel. I’m finished in the City and I don’t think all the cats are out of the bag yet. This little lot is going to be like a Pandora’s box. I was all right when I used my brain but I couldn’t be successful that way. Now I’m in it up to my neck. But I’m not the only one. The whole financial world is crawling with the infestation of fraud and dirty deals.’