The gears in my head are turning at the moment, just in weird directions...
Major Quentin Peter Parker returned from his tour of duty from the Falklands and for all intents and purposes was totally unemployable. He didn’t understand people, figures or basic management practices. Somehow he had weaselled his way into the upper echelons of the Royal Bank of Scotland’s hierarchy and had been forgotten. His branches were profitable, his lending arm was turning more than a tidy sum and yet he had not the slightest idea of how this had happened; for that matter he didn’t really have much of an idea of who was in his organisation let alone where they worked.
When Timothy arrived at the head office on the Monday morning, the banking chamber was busy. Queues snaked across the vast expanse of thick carpet that looked more like a blue square lake under a squiggly marble sky far above. Timothy waited for an attendant in a deep leather couch that seemed to swallow him up; when the attendant did finally arrive it was difficult to escape the grip of the couch. They descended down a set of marble stairs under the main chamber and to a lift lobby as equally impressive. Lamp sets hung overhead from the 1930’s but what was to follow paid more of an impression on Timothy’ psyche.
Maj Parker’s office was right on the corner of the building on the tenth storey. Out of the windows were two striking views. The first was over the city towards the mall and the Radio City tower. The second was the expanse of the Mersey from behind the three famous stone buildings and the Wirral somewhere off in the distance.
Maj Parker himself looked like he was straight from the pages of the War Pictorial of 1917. His ruddy moustache hung down to two bushy points and had he been wearing a pith helmet one would not have been so blatantly reminded of his highly polished head.
No comments:
Post a Comment