The banker (Part 1)

 

Findlay Nicholson was a young man in his early twenties. He had recently relocated to Johannesburg from Durban in pursuit of a job at the Barclays Bank DCO, leaving behind a beautiful young lady he had courted. A stable career in banking beckoned.

The year was nineteen thirty-nine.

Findlay’s job description as a new recruit involved fairly menial clerical tasks at the branch on the corner of Simmonds and Market Streets. After a short while he was assigned a mentor and had to learn the ropes while studying assiduously towards his first “Bank Exams.” One of his duties was to shadow his mentor who daily had to take responsibility for a briefcase containing cash and cheques to the value of thousands of pounds. This briefcase had to wend its way along Simmonds Street to the recently completed South African Reserve Bank building on the corner of Simmonds and Fox.

Upon arrival, the day’s transactions would be escorted through enormous, ornate wooden doors to the clearing house floor. The half a kilometre distance between Barclays and the clearing house had to be traversed in haste, as the doors would shut at a precise time each day. A late arrival had severe consequences. At the very least, the added paperwork that would inevitably cause the two to knock off late in the evening. They and other staff would all have to put their shoulders to the wheel to complete the necessary accounting and paperwork.

Findlay’s boss was armed with a .32 inch pistol, tucked neatly into a holster concealed by his jacket. Bank employees were required to wear tailored suits in those days, white shirts with neatly starched detachable collars, appropriate neckties and lace-up dress shoes buffed to a gleaming shine. Even a beginner was required to look the part of a seasoned banker. A bowler or homburg hat was optional. The pair blended in seamlessly with other pedestrians of the day. A casual observer would not have distinguished the fellows from other clerks, shop assistants and most businessmen. No one would have been any the wiser concerning the wads of cash concealed in the nondescript briefcase. “The Boss” exuded an air of nonchalance as he galumphed along the sidewalk, whistling the same tune every day. Findlay hurried along beside him, equally intent to beat the clock.

A twinge of anxiety set in one particular day. The tellers had picked up a discrepancy as they tallied the pounds, shillings and pennies. They had had to trawl through stacks of coins to account for little more than a sixpence that was missing. Huddled around the counting table, several tellers counted and recounted the stacks, the couriers chomping at the bit, fully aware of the looming deadline. At the eleventh hour, the missing coin was traced to a crevice in the table. The official could at last sign off on the day’s takings, a banker’s exacting accounting standards finally satisfied.

The pair picked up their pace just enough to avoid attracting undue attention to the stash in hand. The tune whistled by “The Boss” worked its tempo from andante to allegro as the strides stretched apace. The heavy doors swung shut five paces ahead of them.

The young Findlay knew that his day was ruined. That morning, he had caressed his last tickey of the month and saved his tram fare from Bez Valley, some five kilometres from Central Johannesburg. He had decided that he would rather walk to work than wearily walk home to his doss house. His fate was sealed. The last tram to Bez Valley would depart long before he and his colleagues had any prospect of exiting the doors. They had first to deal with the consequences of being a fraction of a minute late in the world of banking, where precision was of the essence.

©Paul M Haupt

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