bend in the road.I’ve observed it myself. But I never thought … Oh I never thought … Anyway, I’m very sorry for your trouble.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and looked down at her handbag and her high-heeled shoes.
Mr Wallace studied the wall behind her for a few moments before he spoke again.
‘I suppose you are busy now and would like to get down to business.’
‘Yes,’ she said and smiled.
‘Now,’ he said, still looking towards the wall, ‘I received the cheque from the car dealers, Messrs Rowe. You seem to have bought a second-hand car.’
He said the words with an emphasis which she thought strange. He pursed his lips. His eyebrows, she felt, were too bushy.
‘Well, we’re going to honour that cheque. I should let you know that.’
She tried to think if she had written any other cheques recently. Two or three, she thought, in the past few days. Mr Wallace puckered up his face and knitted his brow as though a difficult thought had occurred to him. She watched him, waiting to see what he was going to say, but he turned his face towards the window again and said nothing. Later, she wished she had spoken to him about what was needed or what she was going to do, and a few times over the days that followed she wished she had stealthily tiptoed out of his office at this point of their interview and closed the door behind her, leaving him to his thoughts.
He straightened himself in his chair.
‘The problem we have is that the repayments are notcoming in. Instead, we are getting cheques, written on the account, and there’s no money in the account, there’s less than no money.’
He stopped and smiled as if the thought of less than no money amused him.
‘And if we were a charity,’ he went on, ‘of course, it would be a lovely situation, because then we’d dole out the money to our hearts’ content.’
He took her in, watching her response as he covered his mouth with his hand.
‘That’s right about the cheques,’ she said. ‘You see, I have to keep the business going.’
‘Oh, it’s going all right,’ Mr Wallace said drily.
She made an effort to sound more businesslike.
‘I mean if I were to sell it, it would be better to sell as a going concern.’
The longest silence was now. She reverted to something she had not done for years. She had done it when her mother had irritated her, and she had done it when she went to work first, and she had done it also to George, but not since the first year or two of their marriage. She traced the word FUCK on her skirt with her finger, quietly, unobtrusively, but deliberately. And then she did it again. And when she had finished, she traced other words, words that she had never in her life said out loud. She kept her eyes firmly on the bank manager as, unnoticed, she continued to write these words, invisibly, with her finger.
‘A going concern,’ he said, but he left no room for her to reply. It was neither a comment nor a question, but it was left hanging in the air above them both. He stared at it now until he said it again.
‘A going concern.’
This time, there was a hint of doubt, disapproval even, in his voice.
‘I mean, that it would be easier to sell it as a business,’ she said.
‘Have you sought advice?’ he asked.
‘No. I have been running the business as best I can and now, since I got a letter from you, I have come to see you.’
Speaking like this gave her courage, made her feel almost defiant.
‘Running is a good word all right,’ he said, pursing his lips again. ‘Now if the manager of Dunne’s Stores or Davis’s Mills or Buttle’s Barley Fed Bacon came in here and told me they were running a business then I would know exactly what they meant.’
His voice tapered off, but not before she had detected for the first time a Cork accent. She held his gaze as she wrote another word, the rudest she had ever attempted, beginning at her knee and moving upwards.
‘One of my problems, and I hope you understand
‘Thank you,’ she said and looked down at her handbag and her high-heeled shoes.
Mr Wallace studied the wall behind her for a few moments before he spoke again.
‘I suppose you are busy now and would like to get down to business.’
‘Yes,’ she said and smiled.
‘Now,’ he said, still looking towards the wall, ‘I received the cheque from the car dealers, Messrs Rowe. You seem to have bought a second-hand car.’
He said the words with an emphasis which she thought strange. He pursed his lips. His eyebrows, she felt, were too bushy.
‘Well, we’re going to honour that cheque. I should let you know that.’
She tried to think if she had written any other cheques recently. Two or three, she thought, in the past few days. Mr Wallace puckered up his face and knitted his brow as though a difficult thought had occurred to him. She watched him, waiting to see what he was going to say, but he turned his face towards the window again and said nothing. Later, she wished she had spoken to him about what was needed or what she was going to do, and a few times over the days that followed she wished she had stealthily tiptoed out of his office at this point of their interview and closed the door behind her, leaving him to his thoughts.
He straightened himself in his chair.
‘The problem we have is that the repayments are notcoming in. Instead, we are getting cheques, written on the account, and there’s no money in the account, there’s less than no money.’
He stopped and smiled as if the thought of less than no money amused him.
‘And if we were a charity,’ he went on, ‘of course, it would be a lovely situation, because then we’d dole out the money to our hearts’ content.’
He took her in, watching her response as he covered his mouth with his hand.
‘That’s right about the cheques,’ she said. ‘You see, I have to keep the business going.’
‘Oh, it’s going all right,’ Mr Wallace said drily.
She made an effort to sound more businesslike.
‘I mean if I were to sell it, it would be better to sell as a going concern.’
The longest silence was now. She reverted to something she had not done for years. She had done it when her mother had irritated her, and she had done it when she went to work first, and she had done it also to George, but not since the first year or two of their marriage. She traced the word FUCK on her skirt with her finger, quietly, unobtrusively, but deliberately. And then she did it again. And when she had finished, she traced other words, words that she had never in her life said out loud. She kept her eyes firmly on the bank manager as, unnoticed, she continued to write these words, invisibly, with her finger.
‘A going concern,’ he said, but he left no room for her to reply. It was neither a comment nor a question, but it was left hanging in the air above them both. He stared at it now until he said it again.
‘A going concern.’
This time, there was a hint of doubt, disapproval even, in his voice.
‘I mean, that it would be easier to sell it as a business,’ she said.
‘Have you sought advice?’ he asked.
‘No. I have been running the business as best I can and now, since I got a letter from you, I have come to see you.’
Speaking like this gave her courage, made her feel almost defiant.
‘Running is a good word all right,’ he said, pursing his lips again. ‘Now if the manager of Dunne’s Stores or Davis’s Mills or Buttle’s Barley Fed Bacon came in here and told me they were running a business then I would know exactly what they meant.’
His voice tapered off, but not before she had detected for the first time a Cork accent. She held his gaze as she wrote another word, the rudest she had ever attempted, beginning at her knee and moving upwards.
‘One of my problems, and I hope you understand
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