Speedy Withdrawal

Helen Markwick

1990

It was 4.45pm on a rainy November in the east end of Glasgow in 1990, and I had just come in from my teaching job in the nearby Barrowfield Scheme and immediately changed into my decorating gear: old track suit trousers splattered with various colours of paint, a t-shirt that sported the face of an imprisoned South African trade union activist, (used for painting now that he had been released) and an old crocheted cardigan I could not bring myself to throw out, even though it had morphed in the tumble dryer into a doily. I was on a mission to complete the painting of the living room in the flat I had just moved to in Dennistoun, and promised myself I would not eat until it was done. I got started immediately.

After about half an hour the phone rang. I sighed and put the paint brush down. It was my boss from work. He was sorry to bother me, but did I remember that charitable application I had made to the Bank to provide the school with laptops? Well, they had agreed and the laptops were now available, and could I collect them from the branch in town at 5.30pm?

I started to explain about the decorating, and then changed my mind. The bank was only fifteen minutes away by car, and I knew there was a car park at the back entrance. All in all it should take less than an hour, and the kids in school would be delighted if I could take in the laptops the next day.

I slipped on my 'hanging out the washing' clogs, and jumped into the car just as I was.

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In the car park, there was not a space to be had. Strange, I thought for the briefest moment. If only I had thought about it for longer the rest of the sorry mess might never have happened. It took a few minutes to find a free parking space. I hadn't even brought any money. I was glad it was fairly dark, given my appearance, as I briskly headed for the bank, noticing that the time on the clock was 5.35.

There were stairs leading up to the bank and I was in such a hurry that I had already sprinted up several of them before I noticed I was walking on a carpet: a red carpet.

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The rest of it is a blur. Like some psychedelic nightmare where all the wrong people were in the same place and the dreamer has no notion what relationship she has to anyone else.

My memory of the event is not necessarily chronological. There was someone asking my name, and looking more than surprised when I gave the answer. I was shepherded into the grand marble hall full of beautifully groomed men and women milling around expectantly and eating delicate little morsels from a huge banqueting table in the middle of the hall.

I was asked to stand beside an obviously mortified young man who turned out to be a Community Police Officer. He told me this before he had to rush off to the toilet, leaving me alone and pondering my grip on reality.

Would I prefer champagne or orange juice? (Recounting this tale to a friend later, he suggested I should have asked instead for turps!) A limousine drew up directly outside the open door, and someone I recognized, it was the mayoress; smiled her way up the stairs, accompanied by a large business-suited man, and everyone shook their hands and bowed slightly. They even shook my hand. The large man was introduced as the managing director of the bank, visiting from London.

Things began to fall into place in an inner-chill kind of way. I was turned to stone as I realized Mr. Suited from London was there to give thanks to the staff for their contribution to the bank's unexpectedly high profits. It dawned on me that I was there to represent the good work the bank was doing in supporting the local specialist school for 'troubled and troublesome' youngsters (as we liked to call them in those days).

I was quietly ushered towards the make-shift stage by bank staff who could not hide their surprise, not to mention disgust, at my apparent lack of the sense of occasion. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I tried desperately to think of a way out of this nightmare. Such was my state of mind that I remember wishing with every fibre of my being for spontaneous combustion! But... no luck. I was on stage, for all to see, covered in paint, wearing the most hideous clothes, mud splattering from my left shoe, with everyone looking aghast and nudging one another with expressions of disbelief.

And of course there was a photographer.

Now, I am a socialist, and at the time I was quite an active socialist, so the irony of the situation was quite apparent. Even in my traumatized state of mind I knew I had a choice: I either meekly accept the gift of the laptops and let myself be photographed as the face of gratitude for the crumbs from the master's table, or I stand proud and defiant, and make a hard-hitting speech condemning the obscenity of the bank's huge profits while education was starved of resources. They were all looking at me expectantly. I chose the former.

I politely thanked them for their kind gift, walked off the stage, and out of the door. The minute my mucky clogged foot hit the air, I ran, and ran, and could have run for ever.

Nobody told me there would be days like this.