Open Writing

'And where the hell have you been, Carter?' snarled Victor Cragg, the damson faced branch manager of Tadleys Bank in Brasham.

'Er-' I said.

fEr me no ers,' he said. 'Now listen. Do you remember a chap called Jack Borne? Worked here alongside you for about a year but couldn't hack it. I kicked him out and for some reason kept you. He didn't like it, did he?'

'No,' I said, 'I mean yes, I do remember him. He became a farm labourer didn't he? Well, what about him?'

'Don't you take that tone with me ... Well, this is what about him. He's just been in while you were out skiving and asked for a loan and said that you, Carter, had said that he, Borne, could have one.'

'I don't believe this,' I said.

'Of course I explained that you, Carter, had no authority to tell anybody that they could have a loan, least of all a farm worker like him, Borne, on a low income and with no assets, visible or invisible.'

‘This is ridiculous,' I said.

'After all, I told Borne, Carter is a bloody bank clerk, not a bank manager, and he never will be a bank manager no matter how hard he tries (and that would be a change) because he hasn't got the bloody brains, has he?'

'Hey, this is defamatory,' I blurted out.

'Defamatory is it?' cried Cragg, his face turning from damson to beetroot. 'Where'd you find that long word, eh, Carter? Swallowed the bloody dictionary, have you? Now get on with your work and let's have no more of this nonsense.'

*

'If you want to know the truth,' said Ruth, another cashier, as we left at the end of the day, 'I'm engaged to Jack Borne, and he wants the loan to buy a motor-bike ...I’m just wondering if you could have another word with Mr Cragg about it. He's a nice man, Mr Cragg is, he’s always giving me a friendly pat on my, er -'