The phone rang in the Bar.

“Hello.  Joe’s Wine bar,” I answered.

“Coutts here. Your bank. We are having a bit of a problem with Mrs Phyliss Owen.”

“Mother in Law? Our Phil? Good God. Her? Really? Smash and grab? Fraud? Forged securities? Tell me.”

“It’s just… how can I put this… we all like her very much, and she is a bit of a character … but …. could you … please … ask her not to bring any more bread into the branch.”

“Bread? To the branch? I thought that’s what you fellows wanted!”

Polite laughter from their end.

“Very quick Mr Hepworth. No, it’s real bread we’re talking about.”

Since we had encouraged her to leave her lonely flat in Guildford, where she had gone to ground after Stanley’s death and join us in sarff London, Phyllis had become juvinated or is that rejuvinated.

She had bought a flat in Wandsworth, close to the underpass for she found she had missed the roar of traffic. It was also close to her investment, Joe’s Wine Bar which she wanted to keep a wary eye on. She became part of the team.

As is the norm in the majority of new businesses cash is king. And if you have it, you have to pass it on to those who feed from it (e.g the bank). This is called the flowing of cash and is the outcome of income… or something like that.

Hence the reason for Phil’s job, her thrice weekly trip to Coutts the Bank of the Strand to courier cash.

Taking the bus to the Wine Bar, Phil would alight outside the shop opposite, ‘Thai Treats’ specializing in Oriental Gentleman’s Massage (later raided). Then she would cross the road, enter the bar,  say a cheery hello to the staff, handbag the cash, pop into the kitchen to tell the chef what she wanted for lunch and then turn around and head back to the bus.

When it arrived it would take her to Vauxhall, across the bridge that crossed the river, passed the House of Parliament, up to Trafalgar Square and round to the Strand where lay the bank.

In those days, the eighties, it was a wonder of glass and steel. It was a real looker, modern and up-to-date. Very much the kind of bank with which you wanted to do business.

Phyllis looked up at it. It always gave her such pleasure to be seen so close to its magnificence and to know that those inside would give her such a jolly good welcome.

She stepped on to the escalator to travel sedately to the atrium and the tellers on the first floor. She hoped to see the Queen Mother – as she had once when she had been, no doubt, dropping off her winnings from the horses – but no luck today.

She went up to one of the tellers, opened her bag and deposited the cash. She had her usual conversation concerning brothers, mothers, children and tots before turning to her favourite area.

Now Coutts architects, not content with equipping the Bank with the enormous atrium of palms and fronds, and trees, and bushes and willows had also included a water feature – very much ahead of its time. For hidden amongst this foliage was a pond.

This Phil approached, looking down into its depths.

“Hello there, my little darlings. Phil’s here. Come to make sure you get your proper grub,” she said to the waters.

From beneath, the fish heard her. Their black and gold bodies flashed as they flickered toward her.

“There, there, my sweethearts. Don’t you worry now. There’s plenty for all,” and so saying she undid her bag, drew out a package and launched its breaded contents toward the shoal.

Unfortunately a guard had heard the commotion of  the fish as they  sliced toward the slices and he pounced.

‘Er, ‘er, Phil. Feeding the fish? You can’t do that.”

So that was why the bank had rung. The fish were very expensive and were on a strict diet. Hence the phone call and the plea. “So please, Mr Hepworth. Please tell her. No more bread.”

“OK,” I said. “This is a surprise for I know she likes fish.  Though it’s usually with chips.”

C 2010 J Hepworth Snorban UK Ltd