When he saw her sandals he knew he was in trouble. They were these wide, flat things, in a light color, nude you might call it, with a flower pattern applied on top. Closed toe sandals that covered her feet partially, but allowed the eye to rest on the slightly dry and cracked skin. Trekker sandals with a delicate touch. Just what he needed forty minutes before his shift ended.
She waited patiently until he was done with the client before her and then closed in on him with a firm walk. When she sat down he could see that actually she was not very old, only her clothes would give that impression. A white denim dungaree with a faded flower pattern over a yellow t-shirt, hair plaited and coiled in a bun on top of her head, a sturdy canvas bag slung across her body.
He looked into her green eyes when he asked for her ID and made a small bet with himself. Early fifties.
‘Thank you, let me just bring up your account.’, he typed in the name working hard to keep a straight face. Azalea Bush, 52.
‘How may I help?’, who in the world names their child Azalea with a surname like Bush? He is beyond amused, helped only by his extensive experience of dealing with customers to keep his face as cordial, but impassive, as possible.
Without replying she puts her bag on the floor and drags her chair as close as possible to the desk, leaning forward to him.
She whispers.
‘I am so ashamed.’
She looks down and then he can see she can barely contain her tears.
People move about them in a continuous flow causing an ever present murmur.
He gets up, locks his computer and offers her his arm after he picks up her bag.
‘Please follow me.’
Without a word, reassured by his firm manner, she gets up and walks with him to a little glass cubicle placed in a far corner. Although made out of glass the position of it makes it so that they have privacy.
‘Please have a seat. Sound proof space so we can chat in peace.’
Here he sits behind another computer and finds her account again.
‘So, what seems to be the situation?’
He is stunned by the transformation. She is no longer the firm, well grounded woman from before, she has turned into a small hunched creature with wide eyes and a terrified countenance.
‘My lover … stole my money … I mean, I gave them to him … but not to steal …’
Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t it was the only thing he could say in his head. Another one! It seemed cases of romantic scams became extremely frequent.
‘Tell me what happened!’, his voice was reassuring and calm.
As it turns out it was not a scam, it had been actually her partner for twenty years that had gotten up, drew all the money from her account and disappeared.
‘Why are you ashamed? He is the one that stole from you and ran away.’, he was genuinely confused.
‘I should have seen it. How can you spend twenty years of your life with somebody and not see that they are that kind of person?’, he voice was almost a whisper.
‘Did you go to the gardai?’
‘Yes … they will get back to me, but they did not seem very confident. He is long gone by now, little chance they will find him.’
He takes a deep breath.
‘And how can I help you?’, his voice was crisp and professional.
Her eyes filled with a glassy layer of tears but she forced herself not to cry. She needed to be strong.
‘My house, my mortgage, I have absolutely no money … I need your help…’, now she burst into tears having been able to control herself enough to finish the story.
He gave her a glass of water and then sat back down at his computer.
‘Ok, let’s have a look here then.’
Frozen, as if all movement had been suspended, she watched him typing away and making notes on a little pad he had next to him.
‘So, here is the plan. A short mortgage vacation so you can get your footing back, and then we can look at where your income is and how we should structure the payments, yeah?’, she nods, ‘Ok. So take a deep breath, relax, I will print some papers for you to sign and then I will see you in three months, or sooner if you want, and we can take a look.’
She reads the documents he places in front of her carefully and finds there is no catch, it really is just a mortgage break, just the time she needs to recover and get to grips with the shattering event that rocked her entire life.
‘What if you will not be here when I come back?’, worry clouds her eyes as she looks up at him.
He gives a small laugh.
‘I will be here, and if I am not any of my colleagues can help you, but I will be here. I already had my vacation for this year.’, a happy smile brightens his features.
Stepping out she takes the precious piece of paper that gives her space to breathe and that means she will not lose her house.
‘I am truly grateful to you … for making this so smooth and for … not … you know, laugh.’
He walks out with her.
‘I really am just doing my job, but I am pleased I was able to make a difference for you. Please don’t worry, take care and I will see you in a few months!’
She leaves and he goes back to the desk in the open space. The door to the bank is already closed and the customers that were inside are already attended to. His shift is almost over, just a few papers to sort out and he can leave.
I wonder what we are having for dinner, I am starving.
He picks up the phone and types:
‘Chinese or at home?’
‘Ha, ha! In your dreams! Diet, remember? The chicken is already prepped and will land on the grill soon.’
‘Fine! I will bring the lettuce! :)’
Twenty years and she did not know. He puts the phone away sighing gratefully.
That would never happen to him.
Would it?