Money, Money Money

Unlike previous employment full of bumpy rides, my arrival at the new job at the London travel agency was smooth; a soft landing, one could say.

The hours, 9 to 5, suited me. Travelling time from home to work took about an hour and was manageable.

At the time, my wife and I lived in Chigwell, an area considered to be affluent, although we weren't wealthy. 

We were staying at my mother-in-law's house while waiting to buy our own.

It was a bungalow just around the corner from the Bald Hind pub, where, at Christmas time, most local celebrities enjoyed Stilton cheese soaked in tawny port, a compliment of the house.

Talking of well-known personalities, we knew that Bobby Moore lived nearby, but I never met him. 

I didn't have a car, nor did I drive, but luckily our neighbour, a banker who worked in the City, would give us a lift to Gants Hill, where the three of us would catch the Central Line and the Piccadilly line to take us to our separate destinations.

I liked observing the passengers on the Underground.

I had the silly idea that the carriages would be full of gents in bowler hats, carrying umbrellas and briefcases, on their way to the Square Mile. 

Then, seeing ordinary people all around, it dawned on me that the top brass, the captains of industry, would have been chauffeur-driven to their ivory towers in Daimlers and Rolls-Royces.

The idle people-watching made time fly, and before I knew it, I was in the office ready to attend to my duties.

On my first day, the accounts supervisor, a Maltese who spoke impeccable Italian, had emphasised that I was on probation, so I had to be on my best behaviour.

I learned quite a lot during my stay at the agency about work and about my colleagues as well.

Each day, the supervisor would leave the room and go to a nearby coffee bar for his elevenses, and during his absence, the senior clerk, whose name I thought was Giovanni, lifted the phone and dialled someone, saying. “John Smith, here”.

This baffled me until I later discovered that he was a gambler and was placing a secret bet.

The 9-to-5 working hours proved to be slightly misleading.

At the end of a working day, the booking clerks were required to balance the books between the takings and the transactions recorded, and no one was allowed to go home until this was achieved.

Whenever the reconciliation failed, the accounts department would get a call from the front desk asking for one of us to come to the rescue.

Giovanni decided that this task should be part of my training and showed me what to do.

I began to feel confident in my ability to cope with any eventuality, perhaps prematurely.

What happened when I was standing in for one of the absent clerks at the front desk revealed my vulnerability.

A young, attractive girl came to book a package holiday to Italy. Florence was the destination.

We started to converse, and she said, with a cheeky wink, that she was eager to see Michelangelo's David 'in all his glory'.

To show my knowledge, I told her that the statue in Piazza della Signoria was only a copy and that the original was in the Galleria dell'Accademia.

I advised her to get a 'Rough Guide' to the city that would give useful information on the best and cheapest bars and restaurants.

Because I was trying to impress the young lady with my competence, I lost my concentration.

She took a wad of banknotes from her handbag to pay a deposit and handed it to me. I promptly put the money in the till and gave her a receipt.

The time came to balance the books at the end of the day and, to my horror, there was a shortfall of £10.

To reveal such a discrepancy would have meant severe consequences, I thought.

The only solution was to replace the missing sum with my own money, even though my meagre personal budget would be affected.

I had a hunch that it had to do with the Florence holiday booking and convinced myself that only decisive action would solve my problem: I had to confront the girl who had mesmerised me that very afternoon.

I knew her name and the address she had given during the reservation.

After work, I took the Piccadilly line to Finsbury Park, and roughly twenty minutes later, I rang her doorbell.

She was surprised to see me and wondered what had prompted my visit.

I explained my predicament and, as diplomatically as possible, asked her if she had miscalculated the payment.

“I can assure you that I didn't”, she said with a condescending smile, “I cashed 
 the exact amount at the bank to cover the deposit, and that was the entire sum I handed to you”.

“I can show you that my handbag is empty as proof that I am telling the truth”, she added and proceeded to do just that.

We were both astonished when the bottom of the bag revealed a crisp, new £10 note that had obviously slipped out when she extracted the bundle of money.

Full of profuse apologies, she reimbursed me, and I was so elated that I could have hugged her.

What stopped me was not so much the lack of decorum as the arrival of her boyfriend, who, suspiciously, asked what was going on.

After going through the rigmarole of explaining, he was satisfied that nothing improper had occurred.

I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that my action had not ruined their romantic relationship.

That incident taught me that I needed a lot more training before I became a fully-fledged employee.