And with those instructions, my second week in banking began. Along with my first day with Eric Mullane, the banker with whom I’d be serving my apprenticeship. After just a week of intensive web-based training, it was determined Mary, Doug and I were “ready”. Ready, I learnt, was a banking term often used in conjunction with “wolves” and “being thrown”. Yes, it was time to mingle with the bankers on staff.
We’d each speculated on our specific placement with the bankers on staff. Doug drew the marginally shorter straw than I, being teamed with the short, pudgy, bundle of nerves named Stephen – don’t ever call him Steve – McIntosh. Stephen appeared to be dressed by a blind hobo and was constantly leaving a trail of food remnants and sweaty smudges from forever clammy hands in his wake. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he also stank of cheap aftershave. The kind bought by the barrel. Mary and I argued over whether or not he was a fire risk. It was no surprise he preferred to conduct his business with clients by phone.
The word on the assistant’s grapevine was that Stephen spent the better part of each morning analysing and fretting over the most current sales report; his nervous demeanour perhaps accounting for the hair loss. To cover up the obvious, Stephen resorted to one of the most extravagant comb-overs ever seen. It sprung from a deep furrow tantalisingly close to his left ear then swept across the barren frontier of his scalp to splash down on the opposite side by his right.
The anxiety inducing sales report, broken down by banker, simply listed: total client assets under management and outstanding loans, growth rates by percentage for each of these two categories and the total number of clients in each banker’s portfolio. All five areas were regarded with equal importance, and all five kept each banker continually on notice. Healthy account and loan balances were fine, but growth in both areas, as well as the overall client base, was also expected. The sum of all parts meant no banker could ever feel comfortable with their position – just as Thom Lewis envisioned.
We discovered last week just how highly the report was regarded when at lunchtime Mark Samuels, a pleasant enough bloke who’d worked at Southern Cross the past four years, was summoned from the lunchroom. After a brief meeting upstairs, he was unceremoniously told to pack his things and hit the road. Being the bottom ranked banker for six straight months, apparently, earned an up close and personal meeting with Mr Lewis. Followed by a brisk walk to the parking lot with Lenny Mansfield, the security guru.
This incident immediately elevated the threat level to the nervous ball of sweat named Stephen McIntosh. Stephen consistently languished in 4th place, one place ahead of Mark. His buffer between continued employment and the removal of his parking pass just slunk out the front door. We never heard from Mark again. The only sign he’d ever existed; a warm can of coke and the remains of a half-eaten pasty.
Mary fared the best of us three, being assigned to Meredith Mathews. Meredith was envied by the other bankers and well-liked by all the assistants. In her mid-thirties, attractive, and smart as a whip, it was no coincidence Meredith carried the most clients in her portfolio and generated the returns to justify their choice.
Thereby leaving me with Eric, known affectionately as “Mr Personality” – though never to his face. Around my height, slightly heavier, but without an ounce of fat. Eric’s deep tan went well with his health club body, blue eyes, strong chin and a full head of well-groomed blonde hair which, in a small act of defiance, he kept long over his collar. His charcoal-grey Italian suit was tailored to perfection. Off-the-rack not in his vocabulary. Female clients were like putty in his hands. And with his swagger and bluster, the less confident of the male species were equally helpless to decline his staccato-style investment pitches.
Eric expected his assistants to be rarely seen and never heard. Unless of course, it was to take the fall if a trade didn’t pan out. He and Meredith were consistently the top two ranked bankers, yet where she charmed her way to the top, Eric was known to take the more aggressive “churn and burn” approach. Churn and burn, I learnt, was another quaint banking term which involved wringing every last cent from a client with regards to investable assets, then re-investing those dollars over and over by switching from one hot tip to the next. But if returns failed to meet Eric’s hyperbole, well, there were always more clients. And as I learnt, the same applied with assistants. The longest any assistant had survived the Eric tsunami stood at eight months. If you weren’t regarded by then as promotable material, then a brushing up of your résumé was highly recommended.
Whereas the bankers were assigned offices running the length of two of the four walls of our floor, the assistants mingled in an L-shape of conjoined cubicles in the middle. Where our superiors could keep us under constant supervision. My cubicle was mid-point of the longer arm of the “L” with Mary to my left and Doug to the right. With my back to Eric’s office, I faced the two lifts to the second floor, though the view was blocked by a two-metre-high padded partition. To my right, beyond Doug’s cubicle, stood a wall of frosted glass augmented with mahogany panelling. The large doorway positioned midpoint led to the reception area where reigned the ever-present Ms Moustakis.
While logging-in to the bank’s computer systems, I surveyed my meagre workspace. Arrayed before me were a computer terminal, phone and the bare essentials of office supplies. Above the terminal, a locking file space and another under the L-shaped desktop by my left leg. Cabinets, walls and desktop were all in varying shades of grey. It was a two-metre square surrounded on three sides by padded walls, whether for noise suppression or to stop us from harming ourselves was yet to be determined.
Eric’s deep voice dragged me back from my reverie to the present.
Yes sir. How can I help?
First thing, never call me sir. I’m not that bloody old. Call me, Eric. Unless of course, you bugger something up, then it’s Mr Mullane. I’m just kidding. If you bugger something up, I don’t want to hear from you until you fix it. If you can’t fix it, I don’t want to see you. Ever again. Period.
Understood, si… Eric.
Now get in here and bring something to write on. I’ve got one hour or so free, plenty of time to teach you all you’ll need to know about banking.
Eric straightened from the door jamb he’d leant against, turned, and disappeared into his office. I grabbed a notepad and hustled after him. Perhaps the rough edges were just that, not someone suited for the thin-skinned, but surely a heart of gold beat under his gruff exterior somewhere.
Ninety minutes later, I left his office shell-shocked and confident in the knowledge that a heart of gold wasn’t something anyone would be uncovering anytime soon.
I trudged back to my cubicle and slumped forlornly into my chair. A post-it note, plastered to my monitor, from Mr Mansfield greeted me.
Leave your computer terminal unlocked again and we’ll be having a serious talk.
‘Shit,’ I swore under my breath then speculated if the all-seeing, all-knowing, security chief ever missed anything which happened on this floor.
Doug leant back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and peered around the edge of the cubicle. Then he noticed the distraught look on my face.
Doug and I walked outside into the blinding midday sunshine. We gazed skywards soaking in the warmth. A slight breeze blowing from the south ensured the temperature wouldn’t venture too far above 20 degrees, a handful of fluffy white clouds headed northeast without too much enthusiasm. Mary stood at the bottom of the steps checking messages on her phone. She looked up and smiled as we reached her, no one spoke as we strolled around the corner to Jackson Street. Spying three open stools facing the front window at the Fish ’n Grill decided our lunch place. We hurried inside to claim them.
We sat for a moment to relax and contemplate the menu. I wasn’t sure about Mary and Doug, but my head was still spinning from the first morning of “live action”, the mere procedure of ordering lunch still not quite within my grasp.
***
From his tenth-floor office, Garth O’Neal leant back in his ergonomic office chair and studied, through the canopy of oak trees, a northbound tram on St Kilda Road. The sleek white tram with a splash of green and gold was taking on passengers adjacent to the building his firm called home. Looking further east out across St Kilda Road, he could just barely distinguish the north-western most corner of Fawkner Park.
The offices of Williams & Teacher occupied the entire tenth floor of the twelve-story granite and smoked glass building on St Kilda Road, just south of Kings Way. Garth’s view was one many in his profession would die for, but it paled in comparison to those of the offices across the floor. The view from the opposite side of the building was spectacular. Those fortunate enough to be facing westward looked out over Albert Park, the small lake at its centre, and then beyond to the vast expanse of Port Phillip Bay. This was the view Garth coveted, but to which he knew he’d never ascend. These offices were the domain of the firm’s elite – the partners.
In many ways, Williams & Teacher was a law firm with its feet planted firmly in the past. Established in England in the early 1820s, it had grown over the past 190 years to have a worldwide presence, yet, in the various countries they maintained offices, operated very much in a staid and cautious manner. Stability, the catchphrase, not growth. And to serve the complex financial needs of the political and corporate elite. It did not advertise for clients, nor did it need to, only considering referrals for new business from existing clients. Some would say it was more a club than a business.
In keeping with this circumspect approach, the firm shied away from criminal practice, as if these cases would sully its reputation. On the rare occasion when such a need arose for a client, the case would be referred out to another firm with slightly lower standards. Or, after a quick review of the case, the client summarily fired. Garth recalled a case in 2005 when their client, a sitting Member of Parliament, was held in remand for allegedly having sex with a minor. After a brief review of the case and a quiet word with the client, the partners determined the use of the word “allegedly” was not entirely accurate. Garth still recalled the pitying sobs of the disgraced, and soon to be former, Member of the State Cabinet as security escorted him from the building.
At present, Williams & Teacher maintained 15 offices worldwide, the vast majority in Europe. Each office run autonomously by a sole senior partner; however, as was universally understood by the other 14 senior partners, the senior partner of the London office held sway in all matters affecting the overall direction and wellbeing of the firm.
Each location subsisted with anywhere from five to ten partners operating under the senior partner’s guidance. The Melbourne office having maintained just six partners for the past 20 years. In turn, each partner managed a staff of two or three solicitors and an administrative assistant. Garth O’Neal had reported to Marcus Colstrom for the past 15 years. And would more than likely do so, he lamented, until one of the two of them either retired or died.
Garth often questioned why he’d stayed with the firm for so long. But, if he was true to himself, he knew the answer. Marcus was a good man to work for, even allowing for all his idiosyncrasies. Now in his late seventies, and an infrequent visitor to the office, Marcus gave Garth free reign to work within his specialities with their client list. Money was no longer an issue, and as Garth himself aged, there was something to be said for stability. However, the allure of the forbidden fruit of partnership did weigh heavily.
While musing over his lot in life, Garth took a moment to peruse the paperwork, now signed and filed with the courts, from his past week’s work with the Sisters of Mercy. Before him on the leather-bound desk pad sat powers of attorney signed by the two new patients assigning him all rights to transact business on their behalf. In the coming days, he’d contact the Department of Human Services to re-direct pension payments, then begin the process of liquidating their properties. He’d schedule estate sales to sell-off household effects and have the St Vincent de Paul society collect the remainder, then deposit the proceeds accordingly. And, of course, conduct one last search for any living relatives – just to be on the safe side.
What started out as a pro-bono assignment he felt beneath him, at some point turned into an interesting aside, a way to thumb his nose at his senior partner, Ambrose Sinclair, then as the dollar amounts grew, into a serious business. Father Kelly, who oversaw the management of the hospice for the diocese, considered him a financial godsend. Through Garth’s legal expertise, Father Kelly could staff and operate the hospice without having to cut corners or compromise his patient’s dignity. Garth’s banking partner was also just as appreciative of his work, though for a vastly different reason.
And Garth? With fingers interlaced behind his head, he leant back in his office chair, slipped off his brown loafers and, with an effort, propped his feet up on the corner of his desk. He shifted his gaze upward, from the pearl buttons of his designer dress shirt straining to keep his gut in check, past his argyle-patterned silk socks and out the window to the park beyond.
He contemplated his situation, both present and future, and wondered how he’d allowed it to come this far? And for how much longer could he keep it all on track?
He grunted a mirthless laugh and slowly shook his head from side to side.
A jogger on the street below turned from St Kilda Road, onto a trail leading through the park, and promptly disappeared beneath the tree’s thick canopy.
Garth wished it was just that easy.
***
Over grilled barramundi, chips and a calamari plate – washed down with bottles of Pellegrino – we discussed our plans for the next day.
January 26, Australia Day, and our first bank holiday. Doug shared he’d be spending the day at his parent’s house in Oakleigh. The barbeque lunch followed by a boozy game of backyard cricket with family members. Then later in the evening lounging around the living room watching the cricket live from Adelaide.
I just hope we take these twenty-twenty games serious for once.
What? You think they don’t try?
Oh, they try all right. It just seems they still treat it as a bit of a hit and giggle affair while testing out a bunch of the young guys.
Mary, who’d polished off the last of the calamari and finished checking various social media sites on her phone, was ready for a change of topic.
We both turned to face her with looks of joyous anticipation for what followed.
We all three laughed.
Mary, born in Melbourne, lived with her parents in Springvale. They were of Chinese descent, having immigrated to Australia in the 1980s. Though she spoke only Mandarin at home, her Australian accent was as heavy as any overheard in a dockside pub. It burst forth from deep in her throat, like a kookaburra trying to shake a cold. A by-product of trying to assimilate at school when your looks clearly set you apart. Now, as a financial professional, she’d soon be advised to tone it down. Not all of the bank’s clients expected those handling their fortunes to be products of Scotch College or Camberwell Grammar, but it certainly didn’t instil confidence if you sounded more at home shearing sheep.
The Australian Financial Services License was a required part of becoming a licensed financial advisor. The move from assistant to banker would never occur until we’d completed, and proved proficient, with the mandated training. The fact Meredith was already pushing Mary to complete her training surprised both Doug and me.
Doug pushed back from the counter, leaning his stool back on two legs.
Shit. Stephen didn’t say a word to me about training this morning. How about you, Craig?
Same thing, not a word. Of course, with Eric, he’ll just ask one day if I’ve finished. Then act surprised if I haven’t. Based on our talk this morning, training seems to be the farthest thing from his mind.
Mary turned to face me, a question forming in her mind. Doug continued to try and balance his stool on two legs while ogling two young shop-girls passing by the window.
I chortled before replying, an easy question to answer.
Doug gave up on the balancing act and plopped back down on all four legs to join the conversation.
Mary was incredulous.
Jesus, Doug! Are you kidding me? Doesn’t he bloody think about anything else? Meredith told me to not even worry about it. If we do our job right, the report will take care of itself.
Sound advice, unless of course, you happen to be last in the rankings. He’s so paranoid; it amazes me the fat bastard hasn’t already dissolved into a pool of sweat with just his hair flapping around on the surface.
Mary grimaced from an involuntary shudder before responding.
It hadn’t taken me long to realise both Doug and Mary were extremely competitive. The festering chip on Mary’s shoulder since being bullied in primary school wasn’t soon going anywhere. And Doug, although feigning nonchalance, seethed over his placement with Stephen. I could already see it in his eyes, him calculating the income lost by training with such a liability.
And me? I was just happy to have a regular pay cheque. Prospective employers weren’t beating my door down after graduation. And steady as she goes was just fine for the time being. My hyper-competitive nature on the tennis court hadn’t yet made the transition to the world of banking. Perhaps the passion would materialise one day, perhaps not. For now, with my life on hold, this job checked a box. One of the few concerns I could cross off of a long list.
***
Mum faced the window looking out towards the courtyard. The sun was low in the sky and the evening’s lengthening shadows stretched into her room. Dappled sunlight covered her bed clothes and highlighted her eyes.
Why concern her with reality.
Mum turned to face me. Seeing her husband, not me.
Her eyes roamed around the room, intently searching but not finding the familiar comforts of home. The internal struggle in her mind trying to reconcile the 20-year leap between person and place.
I stood, removed my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. I’d switched off the television to help Mum focus on our conversation, the only sound filtering into the room the familiar squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the floor as they passed in the hallway and the occasional cry of anguish.
I don’t know why you need a new suit; your other one was perfectly fine. And that tie? Far too flash. Who are you trying to impress?
No one, Mum. I was just wondering if you liked it.
Mum fell silent while the battle within raged. I sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. She gripped it tightly as if I alone could pull her back from the dark abyss of insanity. At this stage of her struggle, I wondered what portion of her mind remained and what level of understanding did it represent. And if presented with a choice, would she wish for this shell of life to go on.
From down the hall drifted a soft ballad from another patient’s radio. I wasn’t able to make out the tune, but the distinctive voice could only be Missy Higgins. Listening to the hurt and emotion in her voice while staring at the forlorn look on Mum’s face overwhelmed me.
Slipping my hand free, I gently placed hers back on the covers and strode from the room. I prided myself on keeping my emotions in check in front of Mum. The doctor warned me getting her overly stressed or emotional would only exacerbate her condition. Why did I think, with time, it would get easier?
The hospice kept vending machines in the small kitchen area where the staff ate their meals. I’d made my selection and bending over to retrieve my drink when I heard the door open behind me.
It was the familiar voice of Judy and in her usual jovial mood. I turned to face her as I opened the can of Coke.
What, no snappy comeback?
Sorry, Judy. I’m not really in the mood today.
She sat with me at the small Formica table in the corner of the kitchen.
The look I gave said it all.
Oh. Not good, huh?
I… I don’t know. It’s just taking some getting used to.
So, what are you doing to relieve some of this stress? Your mum. New job. You’ve got a lot on your plate.
I run a few times a week.
You run? You stress your body even further? On purpose?
Her comment brought a smile to my face. She made a good point; it did sound nonsensical.
Believe it or not, for me, it helps relieve stress.
And the more stressed you get…?
The more often and further I run.
You sure you aren’t just running away?
In a way, yes. But I saved the truth for my own consumption.
Well, I haven’t forgotten to turn around and return home… yet.
Have you any other less strenuous hobbies? Some that, say, involve other human interaction.
Sure. Dayne, my friend from school, and I will catch a concert once every few weeks or so. He also has a band; maybe I could take you to see them perform sometime?
The words tumbled out before I was even sure what I was saying. I looked down, sheepishly, at the table top and waited for the stinging words of rejection. We’d gotten along well enough over the past few weeks, but asking Judy out on a date was, I assumed, probably out of bounds.
Um, you know, it’s discouraged for us to see visitors outside of work.
I understand. I’m sorry, I should have realised.
Judy leant across the table and placed her hand on mine.
I looked up and smiled.
But didn’t you say…
Are you questioning a medical professional’s decision?
I thought you were just a…
Judy rose from the table and made for the door.
Before she disappeared around the corner, she left me with a smile. The one where the left side of her mouth raised ever so slightly higher than the right. The one constantly leaving me a little off-kilter. And left me wondering exactly whose idea this had been.
While talking with Judy one of the nurses delivered Mum’s evening snack. She sipped the apple juice with little enthusiasm and stared blankly at the wall. I switched on the television before sitting down beside her and, together, we watched the tennis for the next hour.
The night session was in full swing from the National Tennis Centre. The second-ranked player in the world, Andy Murray, was handling Australia’s number one in a perfunctory manner in their fourth-round match.
I answered with little enthusiasm.
Yeah, you never know.
I do love our boy so.
She fell asleep soon after. I gently kissed her on the forehead and crept silently from the room.
Another day spent together, who knew what tomorrow would bring and how many more there would be. At least on this occasion, with her final words still on my mind, my heart was a little lighter than normal.
Before leaving the parking lot, I searched for and found a compact disc by Paul Kelly and slid it into the Beast’s disc player. Mum liked to sing along to this one of an evening as she prepared dinner. I sat for a moment listening to the plaintive opening tune about a man wishing he could turn back time and to start the day again. Thinking 24 hours fell far short of the mark, I exited the parking lot and pointed the Beast in the direction of home.