Finally, the finish line to this never-ending week was in sight. Eric departed at three o’clock, dropping the last of his client notes on my desk before disappearing through the frosted glass doors. ‘Going waltzing with Matilda for the weekend,’ I was informed. Matilda was his 12-metre Sea Ray Sundancer 400; I shuddered to think how much his little “toy” cost. Eric could tell me, of course. The man knew the price of everything, but I doubt he embraced the value of any of it.
Doug leant back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and waited until the retreating figure of Eric disappeared before speaking.
Now Doug mentioned it, I hadn’t heard a sound coming from her side of the padded divide in quite a while.
What do you mean?
She’s been upstairs with the boss for the past 45 minutes. She’s angling for Meredith’s job. I doubt she’ll get it, but I don’t blame her for dipping her oars in the water. What about you, Craig? Starting to spend the big commission cheques in your head yet?
Nah! I’m too busy trying to keep up with everything thrown at me by Eric.
Jesus, you aren’t still doing his “know your customer” shit, are you? We finished days ago with our updates. Stop writing a bloody book on everyone and keep it simple. It’s not like the Feds are ever going to want to see that stuff.
Doug was probably right. The more I tried to learn, the more I realised I was woefully underprepared for the real world of banking.
Don’t you think Eric would’ve told me if that’s what he wanted me to do?
Ha ha! Good one! Eric’s just yankin’ ya chain, mate. He expects you to learn from the rest of us and get efficient and proficient, or get gone. How much crap have you got left?
Probably another two hours.
Well, I’m just finishing up training module IV. Toss something in there for the last few clients and let’s get out of here and grab a beer.
My frustration deepened, I hadn’t even started on the third training module yet.
You go ahead and take off, I’ve gotten this far, I’m not going to half-arse it now.
Okay, your loss. Enjoy what’s left of your weekend.
I knuckled back down into the last few pages of work, but Doug’s words, the enormous amount of wealth held under management by Eric, my career choice, my life, all began to scramble together in front of my eyes creating an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
And then there was Judy. We hadn’t spoken since she stormed off two days earlier. Baby steps forward towards happiness, turning into a huge stumble backwards. In my darkest moments, I wondered if I was destined to forever keep stubbing a toe on the steps of life. Before drowning in self-pity, I summoned all the energy I could muster and burrowed back into Eric’s notes.
I’m not sure what drew my attention to the name. It was one of the final one’s listed on the next to last page of notes. The name in itself wasn’t unusual, Angelique Gonsalves, but the note accompanying it piqued my interest:
No change to current situation.
I’d seen this same note hundreds of times over the past week, but this one stopped my typing in mid-stream. I toggled over from the notes screen to the accounts screen just on a whim.
At first glance, everything appeared in order other than the balance – $78,568 – incredibly small to be a regular client of Eric’s. Like clockwork, 80-year-old Angelique’s pension cheque was auto-credited into the account every two weeks. I also noticed from the transaction screen Eric purchased an emerging Tech company’s stock on her behalf three week’s previous.
I leant back in my chair wondering just what I’d discovered. It wasn’t the fact Eric was handling such a minuscule account which caused my feet to tap nervously on the carpet below my desk. Nor the fact he’d placed an incredibly inappropriate trade for an elderly lady.
It was because I knew Angelique Gonsalves, a lovely lady of Portuguese descent, as my mother’s first roommate at the Sisters of Mercy.
And she’d been dead for six weeks.
During Mother’s admittance to the hospice I’d signed a multitude of forms. After a while, one blended into the other. I remembered signing one form where it explained I was required to re-direct Mother’s pension to the hospice. The meagre amount, combined with any insurance payments, would in no way cover the full cost of her stay, but I was assured the hospice covered all additional costs and I would never see a bill. I thought no more of it.
On a whim, I typed my mother’s name into the bank’s client search function. The message quickly came back:
No account found
But why Mrs Gonsalves and not Mother? I toggled back to the Gonsalves account screen and noted under the account title it listed a power of attorney – Garth O’Neal.
The realisation hit me like a load of bricks. The hospice traditionally only catered to patients with no next of kin, Mother being the rare exception. Which explained why my mother hadn’t needed an account; I was able to complete the transfer of funds each month to the hospice from her existing bank account. Was Garth O’Neal, as the solicitor on record for the hospice, holding powers of attorney for all of the patient’s accounts? And was he giving Eric permission to trade in those accounts? And why did the poor deceased Mrs Gonsalves still have an open account?
One part of my brain wanted to believe it was all an honest mistake. An error in the paperwork. A ball dropped somewhere by an assistant more incompetent and clueless than me.
Then another part of my brain, the part recalling what I’d learnt over the past six weeks in banking, told me not to be such a bloody idiot.
The remainder of Eric’s notes could wait until Monday, I shoved them into the draw by my side, locked it and shut down my computer. I needed to get away from this place, clear my head, and think this through.
A million notions danced around my brain while I waited in traffic along Toorak Road. Ahead, the #8 tram disgorged passengers at the Kooyong Road intersection. Was I missing an obvious explanation? Should I approach Eric Monday morning? Go over his head to Mr Stephens? The honking of horns from behind dragged me from my trance, traffic had cleared leaving a clear space ahead. I hit the accelerator and the Beast coughed and spluttered before lurching forward. It seemed nothing in my life was destined to run smoothly.