Unfamiliar with banking practices, all Susan could do now was to sit behind the tellers feeling useless. She could not leave while the run was on, even though she really needed to call George. Without Porter she really did not know enough about bank runs to be sure what she should do next. This was not a part of history she was familiar with, and even with the packets speeding up account closures, the queue was growing increasingly impatient.
It was a moment later that the flashpoint was reached. The customer at the end had been growing louder and louder and finally snapped. In an instant he reached across the high counter through the bars, catching the cashier by the collar and pulling the young man off his chair towards him. The cashier’s head struck the bars as his hand came up too late.
On reflex Susan snatched up the wooden ruler and cracked it hard across the customer’s wrist. The man let go with a cry and she raised her voice in a stentorian bellow.
“Sir, you are delaying the entire queue!” Every head in the bank snapped round. She fixed him with a gimlet glare, not daring to look away. Beside her the teller had been hustled away and the senior clerk had taken his place. “If you continue this behaviour you will be sent to the back of the queue. It is not fair for you to inconvenience everyone else.”
The man’s belligerence drained away as he looked round. The rest of the queue were watching him with disapproval and barely concealed hostility. Susan hardly dared breathe. If any of the crowd got the idea to rush the positions she did not trust the bars to keep them safe. From beside her, the chief teller spoke up smoothly.
“Now, sir, if you’d like to continue your transaction, please step up here and I will complete it for you.” A little dazed, the customer did as he was told. Susan stepped back, watching closely as they resumed the transaction. With no police or security here that could manage a crowd of this size she was beginning to feel very vulnerable. She was not sure how the tellers were staying so calm. It only took one idiot with a gun.
Susan stayed standing there until the steady pace of transactions resumed and the feeling of threat dropped. Only then could she turn to check on the teller. He was in Porter’s office with another clerk, a cold compress pressed against his head. The other clerk was trying the phone with no luck. Susan pulled her gloves on and reached out for the compress as the teller tried to object.
“It looks bad. A lady like you doesn’t need–”
“I’m medically trained, and scalp wounds always bleed,” Susan said, as she peeled the compress back. The cut was long and jagged. “And that will need stitches. Can someone go next door and phone an ambulance?” Her medical equipment was back in the laboratory, and the bank was hardly sterile. She carefully pushed the edges together with the compress.
“Keep pressure on that and don’t–” The bang of the back door made her look up and she turned. The office door opened.
It was with a sense of relief that she saw Porter and the clerk he had sent earlier, carrying two discreet brown briefcases.
“What happened?” Porter asked immediately.
“Mr. Porter, a customer grabbed him,” the other clerk said. “We need an ambulance.”
“Then go and get one. And contact any staff not on duty. We’ll need support.” He passed a contacts list across.
“And the police,” Susan reminded him.
“I’ve already called them. They’re coming.” The bank manager seemed almost in his element. “We will have banking support shortly. Charles, get the money counted and out on the front.” He stepped out of his office, looking at the packed front of the bank. Susan spent a moment more cleaning the blood from the teller’s face and checking that nothing vital had been damaged. The bruise beneath the cut was beginning to swell.
Aware there was nothing else she could do for him, she stepped out to see what Porter was doing. He barely acknowledged her, lost in discussion with two of his junior clerks, and Susan had no desire to interrupt until he had finished. To her relief two police patrolmen were standing just inside the doors of the bank, casting a calming eye over the customers. As the clerks hurried off, he turned to Susan.
“We need to split the queue,” Porter said, by way of explanation. Susan nodded, uncertain as he walked across to a teller. There were only four teller positions and she could not think of anyone who would volunteer to go out and split that queue after what had just happened. “Matilda. When you’ve finished with the gentleman, close your position.” The cashier, a stern older woman, gave him a gracious nod.
“Yes, Mr. Porter,” she said, turning back to her client with a quick acknowledgement. The moment it was finished the position flicked to close. The chief clerk stood on a chair, affixing a new hastily-written sign above the position — “Williams Customers” — even as Porter spoke quickly to the teller. The junior clerks walked out into the main area, rearranging the ropes to create a second queue, and then approached the first person in line. Susan watched, hoping her feelings did not show on her face.
“Are you here about an account opened for Williams?” The customer nodded without thinking, and was gestured to a new queue for the Williams position. The one behind him balked and the cashier kept his voice calm.
“Are you sure, sir? We can’t handle those accounts on the main tills, so we’d hate for you to have to go to the back of the queue.” With ill-grace the man shuffled to the new queue. The one behind, a mortgage holder, was sent to the next standard teller available. The people were restive as the queue split, but under the watchful eye of the police the tension was quelled somewhat. As a final touch, Porter sent out a few of the notice boards within the bank lined up along the queues outside, making it clear how the custom was split.
It was further than Susan would have gone, but it gave the stressed staff a break. The lady handling the Williams transactions started to pick up the pace, while the other three tellers dealt with everything else. There were far fewer genuine customers, but the transactions were more complex and took longer. It was obvious that even without Williams’ run, today would have been busy.
Porter vanished into his office to handle the mortgage and loan requests, and slowly another queue built for his office: men and women with quiet desperation on their faces, clutching papers or briefcases, sitting in the chairs lined up by the door to the offices, and then more standing until the queue went to the door.
Susan could only sit and watch, as a sign that everything was under control, when she knew too well it was not. So many people, thinking the worst was over, trying to get on with their lives. They could not have known the worst was yet to come. With banks across the British Empire raising rates to follow the Bank of England, Europe still recovering from the war, and Russia in the transition to full collectivism announced by Stalin, the US was the last place in the world where money was cheap. Once that supply closed, recession was inevitable.
There had been economic downturns before and after, even into Susan’s time and a post-scarcity society. The difference was that in this one, in a country with telegrams and medicine and railways, people would starve. The employment rate would be one in three or worse: if women were factored in only one in three adults would have jobs in some regions. And after what she had seen in the last few weeks, if she had wanted to stop it, she would not even have known where to start.
Susan kept the thoughts off her face, projecting serene confidence as Porter opened the office door, showing a woman out. As the downcast customer shuffled out, Susan saw Porter cast a quick look at his watch. She stood up, cutting in.
“Might I have a word?” she asked, and Porter glanced discreetly at the queue before he showed her into the office.
“How are we faring?” she asked quickly, and Porter sat down.
“In cash, we still have ten thousand. Reserves to liabilities are now at eight percent.”
“That’s low.” Susan said and stopped short. “Have you been agreeing loans?”
“Mortgages and secured loans only. Our property portfolio has doubled,” Porter said with resignation.
“Will they be able to pay us back?” Susan asked, and Porter looked away with a quick, almost unconscious, shake of the head.
“If not, we will either arrange terms or foreclose,” he said, with a slight tremor in his voice. “That is not the problem.”
“Then what is?” Susan asked, taken aback.
“Two of the people in the queue represent our largest clients, Mr. Travis and Mr. Moody. If either of them are here to close their accounts we don’t have enough to pay them,” Porter said.
“Do you think they will take a banker’s draft?” Susan asked. The bank had enough in its reserves to write plenty of them.
“If they need to the funds urgently, no. Do you think you can contact Mr. Killgrace for extra funds?”
“Not quickly,” Susan said, reluctant to reveal that Killgrace did not actually have any more available funds. The last thing she wanted was Porter losing faith in her. “What did the bankers say?”
“I arranged a secured loan. They will deliver it here today.”
“That’s our best chance.” Susan said quietly. There was no guarantee that either of the two were here to close their accounts, but the bank had to be prepared.
~
