Keep The Giraffe Burning (18 page)

Nolan rescued the baby, who was crawling around elbow-deep in sump oil. ‘That’s enough, hon. Mommy’ll bring your bottle in just a minute.’ He waved to his wife, who was climbing over a crumpled Buick.

‘You see, Jimmy, our stomachs are different. Everybody has a lot of little helpers in his stomach, to help him digest his dinner. But the way it used to be, the helpers couldn’t handle much of anything. So people had to eat things like – oh, cows, pigs, and so on.’

Jimmy looked up at him. ‘Cows! No kidding?’

‘I used to eat pieces of cow myself. (Hey, did you strip that insulation like your mother said? Good boy.) No, what happened was, some scientists changed the little helpers. See, we were running out of cows and stuff, so we needed helpers that would help us eat new things. Now just about everything is edible.’

‘You’re not supposed to say “et”.’

‘Yes, but “edible” means “eatable”. I used to wonder why myself.’

‘Mumf chmumf –’

‘Don’t let your mother see you talking with your mouth full, son.’

Janet Nolan came back to the picnic site just then. ‘See what? Oh, God, Bill, you let the baby get herself
filthy
. Couldn’t you have spooned up the sump oil instead of letting her crawl right in it? And, Jimmy! What are you doing?’

A large piece of the old tyre was gone, and the boy was now
swallowing a strip of muddy tread.

‘I was hungry,’ he mumbled.

‘Hungry? That’s no excuse for bolting your food. You’ll have a tummy ache.’

‘Stomach,’ the boy corrected.

‘I don’t see why boys who bolt their food should have any dessert, do you? And we’re having polyethylene seat cover.’

‘Aw, Ma, can’t I have some?’

‘Hmm. We’ll see.’

Bill looked at the baby’s bottle in her band. ‘I see you got it.’

She smiled. ‘Yes. Real high-octane lead-free stuff. Only a little rusty water in the bottom. We were lucky to find it, she’s so fussy.’

Janet delivered the bottle into the frantically waving arms of the baby, who rammed it in her own mouth and started sucking. Long before the others had finished twirling up masses of plastic wire insulation on their forks, the bottle was empty. The baby lay back, flushed and drowsy. Nolan gave her a cardboard cookie, but after slobbering at it for a moment without really biting it, she gave an aromatic burp and went to sleep.

‘Utopia,’ he murmured.

‘What, darling?’

‘Nothing.’ He brandished the carving knife and fork. ‘Now for the main course. White sidewall, darling? Or dark?’

The sound of a horse and wagon moving down the street penetrated to the lounge bar. Two fat men sat at a table listening.

‘Nice, that,’ said the younger reporter. ‘The sound of an uneaten horse.’

The older reporter removed his clay pipe. ‘0 thou cynical young man. Soon you’ll get disillusioned with cynicism, and then what?’ He twiddled his empty glass, calling attention to it.

‘Same again, Peter?’

When the young reporter came back with the drinks, he stopped to stare at himself in the mirror behind their table. The mirror advertised a beer that
KEEPS YOU FIT
. His face fit into the decorative letters, so that
YOU
sat upon his forehead and his beard was twined with gilt sheaves of grain.

‘Cheers. Harry’s promised to join us later. You won’t remember Harry. Before your time, Elvis.’

‘I remember him. There’s a stud missing off my hatband.’ Elvis took off his sombrero and examined it. ‘Christ, here’s another.’

‘Cheap Albanian goods,’ said Peter. ‘Or wherever they make them. What you want is a worry-hat. I’m a-fixing to get me one next month.’ He showed the younger man a tattered brochure. Worry-hats were handsome sombreros that grew more handsome with wear. The felt was impregnated with a silicone substance that resisted sweat and hair-oil, leaving a dry design in the usual dark stain.

‘Good old Harry’s gone and got one already. Harry always had all the answers first. You know, he scooped the Miss World kidnapping.’

‘Miss World?’

‘Before your time, son. Those were the days. Before everybody got fat on peanut oil and – do I hear rain out there?’

‘No.’

The door opened and a young woman came in, shaking her umbrella. She started for the bar, then swerved and came over to their table.

‘Hi, I’m Sue Stiles.
Harrow Express
. You must be Pete and Elve.’

Peter Fry and Elvis Dinsdale introduced themselves, and Elvis offered to buy her a drink.

‘Can’t, they don’t serve women here. Anyway, we ought to be across the street. They’re coming any minute now.’

‘We’re waiting for a mate.’

‘Harry Sheppard? He’s not coming. I’m covering the conference for him.’

Peter threaded the pipestem through slits in his hat, pinning the brim back. ‘Not coming? A conference of world economic advisers, the most important ever, and Harry can’t make it?’

Elvis winked. ‘Maybe he’s scooping his own kidnapping?’

Jeannie thought she would remember this day as long as she lived. The customer’s crazy, dangerous grin – his wild eyes – could this be happening? Even his strange request?

‘I want to draw ten pounds, please,’ he said.

Her first impulse was to pull the alarm string that would jingle a cowbell outside the bank door. But she could imagine blue-eyed Constable Higgins laughing at her fears.
Keep calm, Jeannie
, she told herself.

‘Do you have an account here? Sir?’

‘Of course I have an account here. And it is from that very account that I want to draw ten pounds. If you please.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to see the manager. Won’t keep you a minute.’

She nodded at Jack, who had heard it all. He capped his ‘fountain’ pen. After the gaze of his steel-grey eyes had swept the customer, memorizing his features, he went up to fetch Mr Selly.

In a moment the manager came striding down the stairs, followed by the billows of his smock. His grin looked a bit scared.

‘Well, well, Mr Cutler, is it? No? Ah, no matter. So you want to draw out all your funds, do you?’

‘No, just ten pounds. What’s the fuss about? I mean.’

‘Ha ha, yes, I see. Your money after all. But you will understand that this is just a bit irregular. Have you made an arrangement to draw?’

‘I didn’t know I had to do that.’

‘Well, you don’t, of course. But it’s usual. You see, we’re not really equipped to deal with a sudden large withdrawal. Now the question is, mm—’ Mr Selly pushed back his straw hat and scratched at a scab high up his forehead. ‘The question is, what do you want it for? I can’t believe you’re dissatisfied with our interest rates. National Westmidland Barcminster pay the highest possible return on your capital. You won’t do better elsewhere, you know. The Squatters Building Society pay only eighteen per cent – and anyway, we’re just completing negotiations to take them over. Were you thinking of buying something? Because you know we have easy terms for scrip loans. But your
money
is far better off where it is now.’

‘That may be, but I want to draw ten pounds. I didn’t think –’

‘Nor should you.’ Mr Selly jumped up and sat on the narrow counter, dangling his legs. ‘
Don’t
think, I implore you. That’s our job,
thinking money
. We could invest your savings for you. We know all about shares. Labour camps, disaster area finance, council housing, rollsroycettes – every aspect. You can hear our investment computer right now in the back room, clattering out the answers. Stalk?’

Mr Selly produced two haystalks and offered him one. ‘No? I hope you don’t mind if I indulge.’ He unwrapped one and put it between his teeth. ‘Helps pass the time. Yes. Helps pass the – well, I’ve enjoyed our little chat.’ He jumped down and shook hands with the customer, murmuring what might have been his name. ‘Feel free to drop in again, anytime. I like
to think of our branch as a little – supermarket – you know, where all our friends can drop in anytime for a good natter. I believe that’s the word.’

The man started shouting about his ten pounds, saying he’d walked fifty miles across London to get here.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Is it a question of identification or something?’

‘No, no, of course not. We’re not like the Post Office, fingerprints and all that. Your face is all the identification you ever need with us.’

‘Well then just give me the money.’

‘Hmm. A lot of money to carry about, isn’t it, sir?’

‘If I’m not worried, why should you be? What is it, in the vault or something? A time lock? Why are you stalling?’

‘Stalling? Not at all. Ha ha, the fact is, we don’t have it here at all.’

‘A bank without money?’

‘We’re only a small branch.’

‘A bank without m– and you call your adding machine a computer – I’ve heard bloody everything now.’ The customer did a little shuffling dance. Jeannie saw he would hit Mr Selly if someone didn’t do something.

‘We could give you a
post-dated
scrip,’ she suggested. ‘Then you could spend it whenever you liked.’

‘I don’t want
scrip
. I want a nice new ten-pound note with the King’s picture on it. I want a real banknote in my hands.’

Mr Selly’s shoulders drooped from 9.15 to 8.20. ‘Yes, I see. Very well, you shall have it. But there are a few formalities, you understand. Jeannie, will you and Jack take care of this
customer
?’

Jack asked him the questions for the form, while Jeannie wheeled over to the phone and dialled the number of the Secpol Agency.

‘Tea,’ said the voice on the line.

Jeannie ran her finger down the day-code sheet. ‘Milk and sugar,’ she replied. ‘Three lumps.’

‘Oh, hello, Jeannie. What is it this time? A transfer?’

‘Use the code,’ she said crossly. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Edna’s force parts wishbone buzz three. Buzz buzz two, Everest dingy omelette. How far? Portage seventeen nought wedding cake.’ Her legs ached, as they always did when things were upsetting. ‘Coffee.’

‘Coffee.’ The voice read back her message. ‘Seventeen nought wedding cake? Jesus, that comes to ten knicker. Is it a run on the bank?’

‘Coffee and cream,’ she said firmly and hung up. What was the use of even having a code if someone was going to spell it out like that? Anyone might be listening. Banks were supposed to represent security, for heaven’s sake.

‘Any identifying scars?’ said Jack. ‘Any birthmarks or tattoos?’

‘Are you a newspaper man?’

‘No, I’m a real man.’

–
Chafed Elbows

The newsmen were sheltering in the lobby. As the time of arrival approached, they began to bunch together near the door, so closepacked that the microphone of A was entangled with the fringe on B’s leather-style jacket, while C’s sombrero was knocked to the floor by D, as he craned over E’s shoulder. F trampled on the hat while trying to get his camera clear of G’s knapsack and blanket roll. E was leaning at a funny angle, having already found out that every time H sneezed, whoever was behind him got spurred.

Outside it was raining and would rain again. Other men set up tripods on the wet grass of the street, aiming their cameras at the place where the official rollsroycettes would stop.

Prof. Dr Schollfuss of East Germany came first. His sleek machine pulled up and, while the driver tied to look more arrogant and less wet and exhausted, Dr Schollfuss explained to the newsmen that he had no comment to make at this time. The situation was grave, but this conference could, as they said, produce a lasting solution.

‘Currency reform?’

‘Certainly currency reform,’ he said, hefting a large suitcase from the roof of his vehicle. ‘But what kind, and how – how extensive, is too early to say. We hope. We hope.’

The American and Tunisian economists arrived together, and had no comment to make. The Mexican expert took a pessimistic view, but hoped that export balance agreements would be the main area of improvement. None of the others had anything to say, and the reporters taped it all.

‘Our own finance minister, Mr Norman Coutts, looked fit for the inevitable battle at the conference table,’ reporter E later wrote. ‘Like the others, Mr Coutts wore the traditional black cut-away coat and striped trousers, but relieved the sombre tone by adding a bright yellow tea-rose to his buttonhole. Thus Britain brings to the table at least the appearance of hope.’

Better not to mention that the minister had also inked his ankle to hide a few sock-holes, thought E. Searching for a punch line, he scratched at the spur marks on his own ankle.

‘But is a brave front enough?’

‘But it isn’t a question of class war at all,’ Mrs Fordyce was trying to say. ‘This is a threat the whole community must meet.’

What was the point? If even Prouty, with his bullhorn voice and a face that reminded Mrs Fordyce of the young Uncle Sam, if even he couldn’t get through, how could she hope to make them hear over their own shouting?