BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 3

 BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 3

MEN MAKE PLANS WHILE GOD SMILES        MONDAY

 

The Chairman of IBB sat in the back of the vintage Rolls Royce Silver Cloud as it purred along the Georgian Streets. Heads turned as the magnificent antique car glided serenely and came to a stop outside IBB in Merrion Square. Jim Whitty lifted the barrier and gave a military salute, touching his forehead. He made his way to the back of the car and opened the door for Sebastian Shackleton, the silver haired patrician Chairman of the Bank. IBB had offered to provide a company car to Sebastian but he loved his thirty-year old Rolls. It looked magnificent but was probably the cheapest car in the car park. Sebastian was a committed pacificist and tried over the years to persuade Jim to dispense with the military salute. But to no avail. Both men of a similar generation had their principles.

‘Good morning, Mr. Shackleton’

‘Good morning, Jim. All well with the family?’

The Chairman always enquired. Not just out of politeness. He had paid the university fee of Jim’s only child, Claire. She was now a successful and sought after cardiologist in the U.S. Sebastian wore his Quaker roots lightly and quietly. Jim had been sworn to secrecy. Perhaps Claire had become the adopted child that Sebastian and his wife Lily had longed for.

‘All fine, Mr. Shackleton, thank God.’

 

Sebastian thought momentarily of taking Jim aside to inform him of his decision to step down at the Board Meeting later that day. After fifteen years in the job and after celebrating his seventieth birthday, he felt the time was right. Besides the world of Banking had changed since he had taken his first job fifty years ago during Second World War, known in Ireland as the' Emergency.' His first job was in Donegal town as a humble cashier. It was Bank policy to post staff as far away from their home town to avoid conflicts of interest. The Bank Manager lived in the Bank House on the second floor with his family. Sebastian would enter the bank to find the Manager still dressed in his pyjamas reading the newspaper a half an hour before the Bank opened. Simple days indeed. Banking was a gentleman’s profession. Bankers were recruited from the upper middle class whose families were known to the management.

 

It was a time when a man’s word was his bond. Now corporate lawyers drew up gargantuan legal documents to be signed by people who didn’t trust each other. Sebastian often reflected the more the paper, the less the certainty of recovering the money. Money then was lent reluctantly to those who didn’t need it.  Every self-respecting town in rural Ireland had a handsome Bank building, often more than one. After fifty years the day had arrived. It would be at his timing. He would announce his decision at the Board Meeting, again. In the past they had persuaded him to serve a further few years. This time it would be different. The world had changed, he had changed. He had suffered a few health reverses. He would carve out a few remaining years with his darling wife Lily. They would go on the cruise through the vineyards of France they had always promised themselves. Lily could take a break from her numerous charitable works. He would persuade Lily they could manage without her. Some day they would have to. Over the past few months he had quietly retired from various Boards, charitable and otherwise and from innumerable Quaker Committees (an occupational hazard). His desk would be free for the first time in fifty years. Over to the young people, he thought. He stepped into old rattling lift that would take him to the second floor. Normally he would walk the stairs and greet staff on the way. Not today. He needed to be clear and focussed. After fifty years, this was a big moment.

 

Jim O’Sullivan was unusual for a Bank Managing Director. He sported a bushy ginger beard with a mind and life of its own. He spoke with a strong North Dublin accent in a world where merchant bankers often spoke with a refined South Dublin pitch and not a few with English accents developed in boarding schools decades previously. In Banking circles it was the end of the Raj, where British Bank accents and practices were yielding to the new and thrusting tone of a developing Irish business class unapologetic for native customs. Even so, Jim was different. He got the job of Managing Director through ambition, hard work and intelligence. Jim was equally comfortable chatting over a pint in a Dublin pub as explaining the intracies of foreign exchange contracts. He could discuss literature and history too.  He lived a quiet domestic life. He had been married to Maureen for twenty-five years. He had no interest in corporate entertainment. Where possible he included Maureen. He had no time for the jaunts to the golf resorts of Andalucía or the Algarve. The Board didn’t insist. As long as he got his work done, which invariably he did. He was early into the office and early to leave, missing the heavy traffic on the road back to Howth. He didn’t judge others who played differently. He could see it took many different talents to assemble a successful team.

 

Jim’s discretion was legendary. Some ascribed it to the three years he had spent in a Jesuit seminary immediately after school. He was a regular churchgoer but not fanatical. He played golf once a week in local Howth Golf Club. He played off twenty. His job rewarded him handsomely but not extravagantly. Many of his chums in Banking had moved to London, the Middle East or New York and had become seriously wealthy. Some chose to remain abroad, having carved out a new life. Some returned to Ireland and bought vast homes for eye watering sums. Jim did not wish for any more money. Or very much less either. He had received overtures to move to London. He was not persuaded they would understand or appreciate his Dublin accent of worldview. He was right probably on both counts. He had five years to serve before retirement at 60 and he was practically counting the days.

 

Jim sat in the comfortable chair in his comfortable office. He could see the early February daffodils wave in the February breeze along the paths of Merrion Square. He wondered if the golf course would be waterlogged again this weekend. He scolded himself. Only Monday and he was already thinking of the weekend! The monthly Board Meeting would start at 11.00 and barring the end of the world would end at 12.30 sharp when the Board would retire to the Executive dining room for pre-lunch dinks. Just two or three bracing gin and tonics followed by a delicate white Chablis. A robust Bordeaux would follow and finally cigars and brandy. It was days like this he thanked God Tom who led by example. He was a natural raconteur and could consume enormous quantities of alcohol without becoming sozzled. Without even slurring. Perhaps years of practice reflected Jim. All the same he worried about Tom. He was working late and drinking hard. Something had to give.

 

On the surface all was well in the gentle and genteel world of IBB. Profits had been growing slowly, consistently if unspectacularly. The loan book was sound. Tom minded the loans like a car minding mice. Deposits had never been a problem. IBB paid handsomely and the admin under Steph was second to none. Maura’s appointment had come out of the blue. After a very short period Maura had been moved sideways into Compliance where she could do no harm. In time Jim would post her back to London and to Ben who had recruited her. Jim had dealt with bigger problems. In the meantime Ben owed him one, and Jim would not let him forget. It was always good to have something on Head Office. History had taught one never knew when it might come in useful.

 

All is well, thought Jim to himself. But he worried. It was always on innocent days that unsuspected things happened. He looked down the Agenda. Nothing surprising or unusual. Coming to year end Sebastian would offer his retirement again. As before Jim would deal with it. He knew he couldn’t offer Sebastian money. He was comfortable and never valued money. Strange for a man who chaired a Bank. He would appeal to his better nature. It should be fine. It always had been.

The taxi from the airport pulled outside of IBB. A fit youngish man with fair hair brushed back sprang lightly out of the car. He handed the fare to the taximan who waited patiently for a tip that never arrived. Most people arrived to IBB by taxi were generous tippers. Not this young scoundrel thought the Dublin taximan. In a bound Simon Whyte alighted the granite steps and entered the door held open by Jim without acknowledging him. Simon was London’s hatchet man. His title was Legal Counsel. His responsibilities were ill defined. Essentially, he put out fires around the BBB world when he was not lighting others. Simon was the classic corporate lawyer who trusted nobody. Invariably the feeling was mutual. This suited Simon fine. He was far more comfortable with a five-hundred-page legal document than a nod and a wink, which is the way it seemed to him the Irish ran their business. “my word, my bond, my arse’ was his favourite bon mot, followed closely by ‘See you in Court’. Of course he was rarely seen in Court, because deep down he was a coward in lawyer's clothing and a bully. His brief was always fiercer than his bite. Simon avoided coming over to Dublin the night before as once was his habit. He knew the Irish would always win on the battlefield of drink. He had come to accept he was a messy drinker. People had kindly chosen forget or at least mention the Christmas Party when he tried to snog Brian in Accounts.

 

He had given little thought as to how he would deliver his big news to the Board. He decided it would be midway through proceedings. He would later lament his lack of preparation. Simon was shown into an ornate reception room which had been reserved for him. He dismissed the secretary who had offered him coffee. He needed to be battle ready.