The Loan
A short, slight man in a navy blue, neatly tailored suit hovered uncertainly near the double doors. He nervously straightened his tie.
'Wotcher, cock. You want somefink?'
'Um ... yes ... I ... er ... wanted to see Mr Bell.'
'You're in Donald Duck, mate. You got 'im, that's me, old Auntie Nell himself.'
'Oh. Pleased to meet you.'
The timid customer looked at Mr Bell, an obese giant dressed in faded, black, fake Calvin Klein jeans, a scruffy, green, fake Nike T-shirt and worn, grey, fake Adidas trainers which at some time, in the last millennium perhaps, had got off the starter's block as white. With stubble on his chin and a thin, as yet unlit, roll-up between his lips, he looked very much like the kind of aggressive slob nobody would want to meet late at night down a dark alley.
Then Mr Bell beamed benevolently, belying his threatening appearance.
'Let's go up the old apples and pears and chew the fat, eh? Nah, this way, mate. I can tell you ain't bin up 'ere before, 'ave yer?'
'Er ... no.'
'Not from round 'ere, either, eh?'
'No, though I've lived here for some years now. I'm from up north, from a town called Ulverston.'
'Well, stone me, would you Adam and Eve it? The trouble and strife's from up your way. We was living there a couple of years before we had our dustbin lids. I'll say that for it, nice and cheap. We was only paying a Tony Benner a week rent. Then I done some training and got promoted back to the Smoke. Eh, them days were good, know what I mean? I used to swig some darn good Britney Spears in them days. What were the name of the brewery, local one, wannit? Ah, I've got it. Hartleys.'
'Oh, yes. It's a real ale.'
'One of the best, mate. It don't travel well, though. Can't get it down 'ere. 'Ere y'are, this is my drum. Come on in. Park your Khyber Pass.'
'Thank you.'
'Like a cuppa?'
'Oh, er. Yes, thank you. Tea would be nice.'
'Doreen, bring us a couple of Rosie Lees, love.'
A busty blonde barmaid of a woman pouted moodily.
'Yer didn't ought to 'ave that fag in yer mouf,' she sneered. 'Against the law nah, innit. Don't you know nothing?'
'Don't get yer knickers in a twist, Dor, I ain't got nothing to worry abaht, it ain't lit. Get us somefink to drink, will ya?'
Mr Bell turned to his cowering client again.
'Nah, what can I do you for?'
'Well, it's like this .. .er ...'
'Want a loan, eh?'
'Um, yes.'
'How much you need?'
'Well, er ...'
'Coupla million? No sweat, mate. Honest Oxford and Cambridge like yours.'
'Oh. Thank you. Yes, as a matter of fact, that's about what I need. I'm ...'
'Yeah, I checked you out before you come 'ere. No probs. Good solid credit rating, sound business sense, never done porridge and your company ain't exactly boracic, is it?. You're the kind of borrower we like. I can do you a good deal on interest rate, an' all.'
'Thank you. That's very kind of you.'
'Nah, do you want Arthur Ashe or a Gregory Peck?'
'Pardon?'
'Ah, never mind. It's a lot to carry in Nelson Eddys, you'd need a pretty big elephant to carry it in. And a Gregory Peck takes time to clear. We'll just pay it straight into your account. You're with our cab rank, ain't ya?'
'Pardon?'
'You're with our bank, ain't ya?'
'Oh. Yes. Yes, with this branch, in fact.'
'Awright, that's that then. Ta, Dor. Bottoms up, mate.'
'Cheers.'
