‘You’re a funny man, Ted Saddler.’
‘How so, Miss Wishart?’ They were re-entering the world of privilege and air conditioning as he asked this.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve no right to make any comment about you. I hardly know you. But we can put that right. You can tell me about the real Ted Saddler over dinner.’
She’d better get to know something about this man if they were forced to spend the next few days together. She was aware of his resentment at being pushed around. She knew the signs. Men found her hard to be around, threatening, especially those that worked for her. And for now, that included Ted Saddler. So be it. He was going to help this bank, whether he liked it or not. She knew it would oil the process a little if she showed some interest in him.
Ted ducked her questions right through until his second double bourbon had chinked its way down and they’d ordered food. She pushed him again as he pulled on a large glass of wine. Tackled him while he was still more or less sober.
‘You go first,’ he countered.
‘Typical.’
‘Just being a gent.’
‘Just being a man. Never give anything away.’
‘Self preservation. The more you explain, the more women want.’
‘Hey, I’m not your therapist. What are you hiding?’ she asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘Your light?’
‘Do these qualify as bushels?’ Ted flicked the nearby potted palm. ‘Ok, ok. I’ll keep it simple. I’m 51, born and brought up in Denver, Colorado. Came to New York – a long time ago. Been a hack ever since I can remember. Started with the college journal, then three years in the Army Press Corps – embedded with the Marines. Even had to do the training and carry a gun. Just in time for the Iraq War. Gave me plenty to write about but I struggled with the house style. Not to mention the house message. With the Tribune ever since.’
Erin noticed he didn’t mention the Pulitzer or his wife.
‘For a journalist, you’re short on words.’
He shrugged, and refilled his glass. Her eyes followed the movement.
‘Drinking to forget?’
He lowered the glass slowly and put it down carefully. His eyes narrowed.
‘Anti-malarial. Do you always mind this much?’
‘I don’t care what you do.’
Their eyes locked in challenge, then broke at the same moment. She’d better rein back. She’d spent so long avoiding over-indulgence of any sort – booze especially - that she knew she came over priggish. God help him if he smoked, too. She examined him more closely, looking for any sign of the Marine-trained athlete. Maybe it was still there, if he lost a couple of stone. And gave his liver a holiday. She waved away the wine waiter before he topped up his glasses.
‘Folks?’ she changed tack.
He stretched for the bottle, and with deliberation, poured his own. The departing waiter looked hurt.
‘Mom and Pop still in Denver. Retired now. And a kid brother. Mom was a teacher and my old man used to work in the marshalling yards. I grew up surrounded by trains and cattle. Pop would take me out with him in the summer to the signalling box and we’d watch trains coming through with miles of wagons, two engines pulling and one pushing. Sometimes they’d take forty minutes to pass us by.’ His face took on some light.
‘Your brother?’
‘David works up at Vail. Got a ski shop in winter and rents mountain bikes and stuff in the summer. Wife and a couple of kids. Has it made.’
‘I love Vail! It’s my favourite.’
‘I took you for Aspen.’
‘Ski bunnies.’
Food came and they started in on their meal. Erin sipped water.
‘Do you go home much?’ she asked.
‘It’s been a while. Maybe after this, I’ll take a trip out there. Head up to Vail in the summer. Get Dave to teach me how to ride those bikes of his. I haven’t skied in years. Probably forgotten how.’
‘You won’t. Go do it.’
She touched his arm in her enthusiasm and wrenched it back as if she’d hit a live wire. Quickly she changed topic.
‘Did you always want to be a journalist?’
‘Just wanted to write. My folks always told me I should. Teachers and other kids, too. Line of least resistance.’
‘Lights and bushels, again. Just reporting? What about other stuff? Scripts, novels?’
She was surprised at the flush that suffused his face.
‘I stick to what I’m good at.’
She picked at the spot. ‘We’ve all got a book in us. Where’s yours?’
He chewed at a nail, inspected the damage, and put his hands in his lap.
‘I guess I’ve spread mine across a thousand columns.’
He shrugged. This was as far as he would go.
‘You were married?’
‘Uh huh. I’ve been going through a messy divorce, like forever.’
Erin had heard a dozen stories like it. Next it would be his wife didn’t understand him. She wondered if he’d make a pass at her? The way he sometimes looked at her.
‘And in the same spirit, what about you, Erin? Marriage, kids? What brought you to New York? It’s a long way from Bonnie Scotland.’
‘It’s not all bonnie, trust me.’
‘Well, is there some sort of master plan?’
‘Good grief no. There was a direction once. But sort of vague. Just a determination to get out of a crummy flat in a crummy estate.’
‘You sure managed that.’
‘But now I’m stuck. Scared to go forward and no idea how to go back.’
‘No guy in your life?’ he asked softly.
‘Hah. Assuming you find the right man – and it gets harder with every year and every promotion let me tell you - it means giving up your own time and space.’
‘Always a trade-off.’
She nodded. ‘I’m not explaining this very well, am I? Look, my Dad died when I was in my teens. Mum lived for him. No matter what he did. There was nothing else. I mean nothing. I came a distant second, and when Dad died, so did Mum. Once I started earning I got her out of the crummy tower block and installed her in a smart wee flat in the West End of Glasgow. She’s just sitting there now, waiting her turn. Is that what it’s about? Because if it is, I’ll stay single thanks and make the best of the chances that come my way. On the other hand, if somebody waved a wand and made me seventeen again, with the same choices, would I take it? Would you? Wouldn’t you like to take another run at it?’
‘Acne again and going back to high school?’ His big hand made balancing motions above his plate. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Or breaking your heart over a new girl? Skiing first powder in Vail’s back bowls?’
That made him laugh. She saw her chance.
‘There! Don’t you see? That’s what this is all about? This isn’t just another story, it’s a second chance. Another Pulitzer Prize. A fresh start!’
Ted wondered who’d mentioned the Prize, and thought he could guess. He studied her excited face. When she let go she was really quite cute. A little of her fire lit a spark. Why not? He straightened his shoulders and his eyes gained focus. As though he was seeing her and the problem properly for the first time.
‘Ok. Here’s the deal. I’ll give this my best shot if you stop organising my life for me.’ His chin jutted forward.
‘I’m not!’
‘Well I sure hadn’t planned to interview the rest of the bank in Delhi. And I’m no teetotaller, is that understood?’
He’d been saving this. His face was red. She denied nothing, but inspected him challengingly.
‘Only if you’re ready to drop all this – this - world weariness. Why don’t we both put our scepticism on ice, open ourselves up to whatever comes our way? Try leading with our hearts instead of our heads for a change. What do you say?’
She wondered where this juvenile bravado was coming from. He eyed her critically, and she thought she’d gone too
far. Then he lifted his glass and let out a grudging smile.
‘I say, here’s to being seventeen again! Cheers!’
They clinked glasses and she wondered just what sort of genie she’d released.
TWENTY SEVEN
By reputation, Air India was the least likely of the local outfits to fall out of the sky, but Ted Saddler was still clutching hard at the armrests as they took off from Kolkata next morning. The lack of booze on board was probably a good thing for his liver, but less good for his peace of mind. While the sun chased them across the northern plains he thought about last night’s dinner and how Erin had manipulated him into taking up a lance. It wasn’t his style. She hadn’t mentioned it this morning. But it was always hard to tell what Miss Cool was thinking.
They bounced to a halt on an empty runway while the tannoy played Ciao Ciao Bambino without visible embarrassment to the Indian crew. They rescued their cases and walked through the new concourse towards the exit and the now familiar crowds of well-wishers with hands out. They were back in the steam bath.
It was clear that taxis in Delhi were no different in style, dents, and age to Kolkata. Same for the driving. But somehow it was better with her beside him. It turned a survival test into an adventure, and they pointed like kids as they wove past elephants and a troop of the scruffiest camels he’d ever seen. Not that he was a connoisseur of the beast, but somehow he could imagine there might be better models around.
They showered and changed at the Hyatt and met in the lobby. Erin switched from jeans into a linen blouse and white skirt. She left her hair in a pony-tail but was back in glasses to rest her eyes. A high-school teacher from the fifties. Ted didn’t trust the transformation; it was just another front by a trained manipulator. Ted himself mustered an off-cream, plantation owner suit that Mary had made him buy years ago. Another item from the discard pile. He’d had it laundered for the trip but it already looked slept in. India was turning out to be a place for second chances all round. It was 4 pm and they had an interview at five with a Mr CJ Kapoor, the local regional head of the People’s Bank in Delhi.
It was New Delhi rush hour. They had to go clear across town, which meant they saw more than their fair share of British architectural relics. Erin pointed out mischievously that America had also left its mark: Big Mac and Coke signs were everywhere. Even Starbucks had penetrated Delhi, and were heading to Kolkata. Soon they entered the chaos of the Chandni Chowk across a throbbing flow of battered traffic hurtling in all directions. Hanging from dented rear bumpers were mocking ‘Green Delhi’ signs coated in their own noxious deposits.
Their driver pulled down a ludicrously jammed side street and gave up. An ox cart was demanding right of way over a truck, and a good sized crowd had collected to watch the fun and rate the quality of the insults.
‘Come on, let’s walk,’ she commanded, opening her door.
She left him no choice. He hated being ordered around, but in the funniest of ways, and not that he’d admit it, he was excited. The din and the heat were twin hammers, the ant-heap in perpetual jostling motion. They stuck out, milky pale, and tall. Even Erin in her trainers had the advantage over these nimble people. Against the onslaught of begging Ted learned fast, persisting with three ‘no thanks’ until a conscious stop and stare into their eyes and a final slow but smiling ‘no thank you’ deflected them. Was it the eye contact? Did they need to be recognised? Or just four times telling?
Erin grabbed his arm and stuck close, which made him feel strong. Which was partly what she intended. The bank was supposed to be on the left, behind a wall. They almost missed it until she yanked him back and pointed out the small but clear plaque in English and Sanskrit. It was timely. They were unpicking beggars’ hands as fast they could without causing offence. Erin was getting most of the attention.
‘That man groped me! He bloody well groped me!’
Erin whirled round, outraged, and pointed at a smirking face as it melted in the crowd. She was ready to chase when Ted took her by the elbow, with maybe a little more firmness than was absolutely necessary.
‘C’mon. Let’s get out of this!’
He pulled her back by his side and ushered her up the steps. He pressed hard on the bell for entrance. The door eased and sanctuary beckoned. They flung themselves inside, into a cool reception area where they were obviously expected. A woman came forward, magnificent in a green sari. She established who they were, and escorted them through to a courtyard a thousand miles from the street. It was hushed and cool under a great Pepul tree. A small lily pond lay at its centre and the four walls of the surrounding buildings were softened by creeping vines. A small round man with glasses was standing by a table with four chairs.
‘I thought it would be nice to have tea out here.’
His voice was clear and friendly. He wore a brown kurta and white trousers, and his round features were dominated by a fine nose and a carefully cut moustache. He beckoned them over and they sat down with expressions of pleasure at the tranquillity and coolness. Erin’s face was beginning to lose its heat. She was rubbing her elbow.
‘This is a great pleasure. Ramesh has told me all about you both. It is quite an unusual meeting, don’t you think?’
‘It certainly is, Mr Kapoor. But then, there’s been a slightly surreal quality about everything recently,’ Ted said.
‘Please, call me CJ. Ramesh said you wanted to have proof of the attacks on their bank?’
The lady in green brought tea as he asked this. The ceremony of setting out the fine white china and the serving of the lemons and finally the pouring of the ‘chai’ itself took several minutes. Finally they were left to themselves and they got down to it.
‘CJ, we want to help.’ Ted and Erin’s voices collided with each other. CJ looked amused. Erin deferred.
‘Both of us,’ said Ted. ‘But just so it’s clear; I report the news. I don’t make it. I can get your story some international exposure, but I have to be certain about what I’m writing.’
‘It is refreshing to find a reporter who only deals in the facts, Ted.’
CJ said it with an absolutely straight face. Ted didn’t look at Erin.
‘Whereas, I can act CJ,’ she said. ‘As Ramesh will have told you, there is a possibility that my bank is involved. Though I’m not sure I can refer to it as my bank any more. There seem to be a number of burnt bridges immediately to my rear.’
‘I would not worry if I were you. If this is what your heart is telling you, then it is the right path, this time. Each time we return to earth we learn if our past life has been spiritually profitable and try to make the next one richer for others.’
‘I prefer the carpe diem philosophy myself,’ she said.
‘That too has its place. Shall we meet some of my people?’
He led them from the cool sanctuary into a huge noisy hall that looked like it had once been three separate rooms. It was an incongruous blend of oak panelling and racks of modern technology, crammed with people. Enough computer screens to fight Star Wars. Ranks of air con units pounding away in a losing battle against the sauna temperatures.
They threaded their way to the epicentre of the maze, tripping over cables as they went. They found themselves at a small round table that seemed to be used for ad hoc meetings. Around it, with their backs to them and their fingers clacking over keyboards, was a circle of young men and women. Most wore headsets and were talking as they typed. The hubbub was immense.
CJ raised his voice. ‘This is the heart of the bank. Around you is the core technology that handles all our customer accounts, and networks together the call centres we’ve set up in other cities. Over there is our Internet banking team. And over there is the control centre of our branch banking network. This circle of people,’ he indicated the group ringed about them and the table, ‘are the lead technicians for each of the sections.
‘They all look about sixteen.’ Ted cupped a comment to Erin.
‘Young and quick. Lovely.’ She was
chirpy. This was her element.
CJ was tapping shoulders and signalling. About half the young people in the ring turned round and rolled over to the centre table on their wheeled chairs. They gazed curiously at the Westerners.
‘Ok, Action Woman, this one’s yours,’ Ted said gallantly.
Erin pulled up a spare chair and sat down at the table. Ted joined her. CJ made the introductions. A young man touchingly raised his hand.
‘Please, shall I go first, CJ?’
‘Why not? This is Vikram Vajpayee. He is the team leader of our branch banking division. Tell them what has been going on Vikram.’
Ted didn’t understand all of it, but Erin clearly did, from the way she kept asking questions and the way the conversation got increasingly heated as Vikram showed her examples on his main screens and on his tablet.
The bank was broken down into districts and branches. The branches operated autonomously day to day, apart from central direction about bank rates. As often as not, the branches were little more than a secure van equipped with a computer and satellite phone. The branch ‘manager’ – usually a woman, drove round her district, setting up mobile phone accounts, and then organising savings and loans and collecting repayments. Vikram called up a Google map of India on his tablet, zeroed in on some areas to show how huge a slab of territory could be covered by one branch.
They appointed local representatives in selected villages and gave them laptops with solar power units and satellite internet links with the rest of the bank network. Each day they’d do their entries and email the information to the branch officer and then to head office here in this room in Delhi. Every few days the branch manager would make for a district office and deposit the cash. For security they were never allowed to hold more than the Rupee equivalent of $500 in their van.
Vikram got onto the dirty tricks. It varied between jamming transmissions so that half the branches were unable to report, or sending waves of dummy transactions to flood the servers at head office. Sometimes the floods went the other way, as if from the Delhi centre, and knocked out the district computer and the van laptop when they logged in.
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