I have been hard at it for two weeks now. I have found my rhythm and tried hard to concentrate on the bank forms, the deposits, withdrawals. I pull the statements carefully from the tray on the trolley, making sure the account names match the names on the forms, find the relevant numbers, enter them, take a breath, move onto the next. That is all it takes, concentration, nothing more, I try hard to contain my excitement, all it takes, concentration, on every small piece of paper in front of me and all the large yellow sheets of paper beside me. Must make sure my stumpy little fingers stay connected to my eyes and find the right numbers to punch on the keyboard. Stay calm, don’t move too fast. I have reached the pinnacle of my banking career. There is nowhere to go from here.
One thing is clear to me, the statement machine operator position is a job designed by someone who thought that at the end of the Second World War there were too many women who needed to move aside from sensible jobs to make way for men coming home. They need extra jobs they can go to, this person thought. What we’ll do is take the statement away from the ledger. They are the same entries, yes, but why not make two jobs where one would be plenty? We can put the statement and the ledger together, with some carbon in the middle, one entry for both, that would make sense, but why do that with all these women needing to move on, to find new work? There is one major flaw in his idea: he has not considered that in certain towns, in particular those towns bereft of women, the work will be done by men, and these men will hate him for it, resent it, rebel against it and, eventually, seek him out, find out where he lives, bomb his house and hang him by his neck until he begs for forgiveness.
I maintain my sanity with regular visits to the enquiry counter. When I arrived, Timbo the Victorian was the enquiry clerk, but he got sick because he forgot to take his malaria tablets, and he’s now on a plane home. There is no replacement. Franky and I have to fill the gap. It saves my arse. I make a deal with Franky that I will take on the bulk of the enquiries if he helps me find my slowly increasing number of errors. That’s how it is with me: when I start something I look great, like I’ve got everything under control, like I’m some kind of genius, then I get bored, the shit piles up against the fan, I lose all interest and find myself moving on, or being told to move on. Same thing happened in the capital: great start, got complacent, got bored, fucked around and fucked up. It shouldn’t happen, not after all those years I was groomed to succeed. But it does. Franky likes the idea of me taking on the enquiry counter because he isn’t fond of the job, the endless procession of people with questions about bank opening times, about forms long dead, about deposits they were sure they had made and withdrawals they were sure they had not. Enquiry counter doesn’t look very exciting on paper, or sound very exciting when you say it out loud, but it is for me, because I get to get up out of my chair and walk, and talk, and meet some of the wildly attractive and sexy local girls. There is one exception, a nurse from South Australia, who comes in once a week to bank her cheque. Franky has the hots for her. Whenever Jenny comes in Franky gets the counter. Even if I am there, standing, having just completed a previous enquiry and she stands right in front of me. I excuse myself, turn, wink, and Franky jumps up from his great machine, a much bigger monster than mine, and runs to the counter. It is all unnecessary, of course, because she could bank her cheques with one of the tellers, but up here, in the highlands, we have to make our own excitement and take it as often as we can.
Then there’s the books. I have always been a great reader. My school days were full of reading, history mainly, but I loved a good adventure story. Once I got through Treasure Island, The Coral Island, Moby-Dick and others, I headed for those tomes full of sex and mayhem. The first sex-charged novel I ploughed through before I finished high school was Peyton Place and it disappointed me. Yes, there was sex, but not enough of it and no adventure. Just a bunch of randy folk in a town. Then there was Harold Robbins; he knew how to juice a young man’s groin. I didn’t bring any books with me. I was expecting to spend my two years in the capital where there was a library and a trading store with a small collection of books for sale. In Moroki there is no library and no shop with books, but one of the tellers, Paterson, or Prem, is a big reader and his brother sends him a new book every month. The first book he hands me is the Robbins masterpiece, The Adventurers.
It’s Harold Robbins at his best, says Paterson.
No one can tell me why Paterson is called Prem. He arrives with Prem, they call him Prem and he leaves with Prem.
Then there’s Dorothy Sogata.
I am sitting at the Beast. A new sheet has just gone into her slot. And Dorothy Sogata enters the building. Every bank johnny in proximity looks at her, aiming for a smile. She obliges. She is short, of course, they’re all short, but she has a swagger, a gait, a feminine swing and flow and a face that oozes something, fun, joy, and other things I hope to find out. Dorothy has kissing lips and hips that I imagine are perfectly designed for whatever hips do when they do it, make love, have sex, whatever it is called when it happens but, dear Jesus, please let it happen.
The office belongs to Dorothy Sogata. The manager, Jenson, appears at his door, notices Dorothy, blushes, and returns to his den. Haines snorts from somewhere in the stationary cupboard.
I fall out of my chair because I can see she is headed for the enquiry counter, and I want to be there as she arrives. Franky gets out of his chair.
Back off, Franky, I say, this one is mine.
You bastard, he says, grins and sits.
Dorothy has seen the interaction. She is ready for me.
Good morning, I say.
Her eyes take in mine, then the rest of me and she says: You are new.
Yes, I say. And so are you.
Only for you, she laughs, a laugh that sends a shudder all the way down to the lizard.
Can I help you? I ask.
Of course, she says.
Then she tells me what she requires and almost as soon as she is finished I have to ask her to tell me again, as I have not concentrated on her words, I have concentrated on the lift of her chest, the movement in her face, the shift in her shoulders. And her eyes. I can see another world in there and it is screaming at me: Come!
When I sit back at the Beast, Franky leans across the short space between us.
Jack, he says, it’s okay to laugh and flirt, but don’t go any further.
Frank, I say, I’m a virgin. She’d eat me alive.
I can see he doesn’t believe me. I drop my head quickly and return to the forms stacked in front of my machine. I don’t want Franky to see the red creeping over my face.
Dorothy comes in at least once a week. She always finds a reason to front the enquiry desk. When she leaves the building, I go back to the Beast and when the Beast is done for the day, I join most of the others as they head over to the Jungle Bar. Within three weeks, Franky and Prem propose me as a member of the Moroki Club. On my first visit I see a club right out of Somerset Maugham. It is a large rambling building set up high overlooking a golf course. It is late in the day and the veranda is full of men sitting in wicker chairs, smoking, drinking and looking out over a world they command. When their glasses are empty, they call, Boy, and a native man brings them another full glass. As the afternoon winds on, more and more slur their words, until, finally, small groups of two and three stumble to their cars or Land Cruisers and drive erratically towards the main road into town. That first day in the club I play snooker with Haines and beat him. He doesn’t like it but pretends he does and buys me a beer. I don’t like it, the beer, but pretend I do. It’s called Banda Beer and is imported from the Philippines.
Watkins is not a member of the club, but Jenson is, although we don’t see him. No one likes Watkins. He is a classic conscientious accountant, picky, pedantic and forever sober. There is no long lunch with Watkins. In my first six weeks I only see him have one drink.