One day we all balance early, at around the same time, and Watkins decides we should have a beer at the office. Jenson is down south for a meeting of bank managers and Watkins is a bit full of himself as the acting manager.
All right, says Watkins, gather around, staff. I thought it might be nice if we have a drink and toast our good fortune. I have instructed Timmy to purchase us all a bottle of Banda Beer for that very purpose.
Timmy is the office boy. He runs errands, makes cups of tea and coffee, cleans the offices and walks around with a cloth in his hand, endlessly wiping, brushing and collecting miniscule items of rubbish. We all look at Watkins as though he is a complete gimp and he is. As soon as the beer arrives we scull our bottles and leave Watkins alone in the office with half a bottle of Banda in his hands, cackling like an idiot. As we leave the building, Holden Higgs comes out of the toilet.
It’s you and Watkins, Higgs, says Haines. You think you can handle him? Tell him about the disc brakes on the HD Holden and the new Powerglide automatic transmission unit.
Holden Higgs’ face lights up, just for a second, until he realises Haines is taking the piss.
You’ll keep, Haines, says Higgs.
Haines laughs and leads us over to the Jungle Bar where we get pissed as farts and stumble home in the rain. Most nights we head off to the Jungle Bar, but not Watkins, every night he goes straight home to Mrs Watkins and the two little Watkins. Wato we call him, but not to his face, then it is Mr Watkins. I should admire him for keeping to his beliefs, his code, but there is too much to annoy me: his irritating cackle, his pretended efficiency, his distance and smugness. He believes he is a first-class accountant, but he isn’t.
It’s not him, says Franky. It’s the ledger examiner, Higgs. Higgs makes him look good. Higgs might be a smug prick too, but Higgs has good reason, because he is efficient, smart and he knows the name of every form ever produced or currently used by the bank and their particular purpose and he knows the manual inside out, back to front, side to side, and, would you believe, in German.
German? I ask. Really?
No, says Franky, just thought I’d chuck that in.
He’s not alone, adds Franky. But while we, the regular bank johnnies, might have been chosen for our potential, the managers and accountants up here in the islands have been chosen because their potential has expired, or never existed. It’s like head office has realised people like Jenson and Watkins have risen above their capabilities and the only place left to send them is the islands, where they will be beyond causing harm because of the excellent staff around them. There are exceptions, of course.
Franky looks at me and grins.
Why are you always up at the enquiry counter, Jack? asks Watkins.
What do you mean, Mr Watkins?
The enquiry counter position is a shared position, yourself and Frank. Frank, perhaps you can explain?
Well, says Frank, we just thought it was a job more suited to Jack’s talents than mine, Mr Watkins.
Such decisions in the future will be made by myself, or Mr Jenson. Is that clear?
Please restore the status quo, Frank.
Of course, Mr Watkins.
As he lopes away, Franky and I give him the two-fingered salute.