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    Banker Pook Confesses
    Banker Pook Confesses
    Banker Pook Confesses
    Ebook192 pages2 hours

    Banker Pook Confesses

    By Peter Pook

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    About this ebook

    Readers who opened a fun account with Banking on Form and Bwana Pook will be delighted by this latest addition to their libraries. When a bank clerk struggles as hard as Pook does to live an eventful life, he is sure to get into trouble with the Manager. Mr Putty and his Chief Clerk, Mr.Pants, disapprove strongly of Pook’s appearance as the nude prude in an all-colour girlie film, and when Pook and our old friend Honners take the Manager to a strip club, their account goes deep into the red.
    Of course, no Pook book would be complete without a bit of wooing, and who better for Pook to woo than the Bank Chairman’s daughter? How his plans are thwarted by the ancient ledger-keeper, Mr. Pills, must be read to be believed. Suffice to say that against an authentic background of commercial practice Pook hits a new high in hilarity.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEmissary Publishing
    Release dateFeb 11, 2014
    ISBN9781310513688
    Banker Pook Confesses

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      Book preview

      Banker Pook Confesses - Peter Pook

      TWO

      You can well imagine how I wielded the shovel on that final night, thrilled to think that I was actually burrowing under the Zenith Bank itself. Dr Hail told me that I was to have the honour of doing the spade-work, while he and Professor Pullinger sieved the debris I threw back.

      Every shovelful I excavated made me tremble with excitement, as I pondered the fame attendant on such an endeavour.

      I piled the earth in buckets for my colleagues to carry back for riddling, and every so often Professor Pullinger encouraged me by bringing our finds into the shaft for my examination. I was particularlv impressed by an ancient gas-iron and the skeleton of a Roman rat.

      At 2 a.m. our President decided to call it a day. Great work, Peter, he praised me. Sorry about your filthy condition but you’ve certainly earned yourself a niche in the Hall of Fame. Just help us carry in the photographic equipment and your share in the task is finished.

      He pushed in a large cylinder stencilled Oxygen, and a wooden box labelled Gelignite. The oxygen is to freshen up the stale air in the shaft—we don’t want to asphyxiate ourselves, he laughed.

      But what do we need gelignite for, Dr Hail? I queried.

      Just an old box to contain the cameras and flashbulbs, Peter. We’ll leave it here and go home to a well-earned rest. Professor Pullinger and I will take the pictures tomorrow—and Bob’s your uncle. Now remember, not a word to a soul. We don’t want the County archaeologists getting in on the dig of the century. We’ll keep all the glory to ourselves, eh?

      You can rely on me for that, I chuckled shrewdly.

      Every morning Mr Pants and I called back the ledgers to check the accuracy of Mr Pills’ posting. Mr Pants read out the surname of each account, then waited suspiciously for my reply, like this: Erge.

      Violet Mary, Lady. Debit-O £1 1s. Credit-O 4s. 9d.

      Correct, Pook, but there is no need to sing your responses. Apart from your flat voice it wastes time and disturbs your colleagues. The terms are Debit and Credit— not Debit-O and Credit-O, as though you are some kind of Italian pedlar. Then he ticked each item with a flourish of blue pencil.

      Fisher.

      George Clarence, Rev. Debit-O a fiver. Credit-O a quid-O.

      Perverse youth, do you never listen to me? I expressly forbade you to sing the responses from the check-sheets. Furthermore, we do not recognize quids and fivers in banking parlance —is that understood?

      The chore was so long and boring that I always tried to enliven the tedium by singing the responses to the tune of 0 Sole Mio, and when Mr Fossil did the job with me in Mr Pants’ absence he entered into the spirit of the thing by singing his part in a fine tenor.

      When you are ill, sir, Mr Fossil and me sings a duet together.

      I wouldn’t put it past you, Pook, but just for the record it should be ‘Mr Fossil and I sing a duet’.

      Then why can’t you sing with me like you do with Mr Fossil, sir?

      For heaven’s sake shut up! I never sing, except hymns in their proper place.

      Then let’s do the check-sheets as a hymn, sir. What about Jerusalem?

      An excellent place for you to emigrate to forthwith.

      I always laughed uproariously whenever Mr Pants made a joke, in order to put him in a better mood. "You’re the funniest Chief Clerk I’ve ever met, sir. How lucky I am to serve under such a witty Chief Clerk, sir.

      Fitzsimmons.

      Alice Maude, Miss. Debit-O 10s. 6d. Credit-O £3 7s.1d. 

      Mr Pants was on the discrepancy like a tiger. Credit should read £3 7s. 7d., Pook. A distressing error has been disclosed which must be remedied without delay.

      It’s only a tanner, sir.

      Sixpence or six thousand pounds—it is all one in accountancy. Bring me the relevant voucher this instant.

      I flicked through the gubbins to produce Miss Fitzsimmons’ credit voucher. It recorded £3 7s. 1d., half-yearly dividend from Cudford Building Society.

      I’ve located your distressing error, sir. I was right—it says £3 7s. 1d.

      I am not in the habit of making errors, Pook. The fault lies with Mr Pill, who has committed a wrong-post in the ledger. If this had escaped my vigilance our general balance this evening would have differed by sixpence.

      How shocking, sir.

      A serious blunder indeed, Pook.

      Black mark for Mr Pills, sir.

      So what valuable lesson do we draw from this regrettable lapse, Pook?

      We can’t trust Mr Pills with our money, sir.

      Don’t be more stupid than usual. Mr Pills has been in the service of our bank for over forty years.

      Then he’s breaking up, sir, and not being all accurate and tiddly like you said we must be, sir.

      This was my standard dialogue most mornings during ledger call-over with Mr Pants, always with the same result—whoever made the error got off, but God help me if I made one. Only Mr Pants never erred in any way, being all-wise and perfect.

      Did you ever make a mistake or do anything wrong when you were a thrusting young newcomer to banking, sir?

      Mr Pants never tired of answering this question, so I found it advantageous to ask it every day, to humour him and take his mind off my own shortcomings.

      Though I say it myself in all modesty, Pook, the answer is no. I was ever zealous in the performance of my banking duties, taking care not to perpetrate any errors of commission or omission. Mr Pants always said this with a smile of supreme satisfaction. This was my cue to wipe it off.

      Is it true you won the Fingelstein Award for abortion in private banks, about 1813, sir?

      It is true insofar as I had the honour of being presented with the Fingelstein Award for my thesis on the absorption of private banks. Furthermore, despite your assessment of my age, you will be surprised to learn that far from being a centenarian, I had the good fortune to receive this milestone in my life during the present century.

      Just before you won the Great War, sir? This was my favourite question, which enabled me to think about Lily while Mr Pants re-told the history of the war, not as a death struggle between the Great Powers but as an unprecedented interference with normal banking routine. While Mr Pants droned on about sighting the German Grand Fleet at Jutland—when all the time his heart was back in Cudford, wondering how the new lady clerks could possibly balance our ledgers in his absence—I forgot about Lily in order to think about my cultural excavations beneath the very spot where I was now standing with our revered Chief Clerk. So often had he said he was ashamed of me for bringing disgrace on the bank’s good name that I wanted desperately to make him proud of me for once. It was difficult to keep the startling news to myself, but—apart from my bond of secrecy—I intended to spring the glorious tidings on him only when all was achieved.

      ". . . On May 31st, 1916—monthly balance night and Overdrafts Return Day, I noted in my diary—we steamed ahead to engage the Lutzow. Both Admirals Beatty and Jellicoe were determined to cut the German Fleet off from the shelter of its minefields. The real chase began at dawn on June 1st—Cudford Building Society half-yearly dividend day, I reminded myself as I manned the for’ard gun-turret of the Expendable, leading the First Destroyer Flotilla. . .

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