A natural history of bankers 3

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When her dad’s pension fund dwindled to beer money and he was required, along with fellow employees, to take one month’s unpaid holiday, Harriet Walker felt more apprehensive than is customary about bringing home her new boyfriend, Oliver. Oliver was presentable, with Home Counties, privately-educated provenance, no overt addictions or twitches and a reasonably restrained taste in sports cars. He worked, nonetheless, for a bank in the City. He had received bonuses for diligence and assertive behaviour, which, no doubt her father would see as the fruits of rampaging greed, and other men’s gullibility.

The moral standing of a coprophagic child abuser sat easily on Oliver’s shoulders, as he entered the garden where Harriet’s father was listlessly cutting back wisteria. Oliver’s guileless demeanour reflected a complete innocence of his profession’s tarnished reputation in the Walker household, and indeed the world at large. Oliver was a personable young man and determined to be liked by everyone he chose for the privilege.

“My God, Mr Walker,” he offered politely as he surveyed the truncated shrubbery. “You do have green fingers.”

Mr Walker hyperventilated at this sudden intrusion; he forestalled cardiac arrest by inquiring, “Are you Harriet’s bloke?”

“That’s right,” Oliver saw the state of Mr Walker’s gardening gloves and decided to forego shaking hands.

“Met her at that damn estate agents, I suppose,” Mr Walker essayed.

“Oh, no. I work for a City bank,” smiled Oliver, and added with mock sincerity, “Sorry about that!”

“Come on you two! I’m sure lunch must be ready!” Harriet sprinted down the garden path, wondering how on earth she had missed Oliver’s arrival; all her nightmares about to take shape, all her precautions redundant.

.As they walked into lunch, Mr Walker stuck a garden fork into the back of Oliver’s leg; he hoped the brute got tetanus.