The sun shone brightly on the High Street. It warmed the flowers in the ornamental beds outside the Town Hall. It added its golden light to the window boxes on the front of the local branch of the County Bank. Some of it even found its way through the dark windows to lighten the atmosphere of Monday morning that hung like a fog around the tills and file boxes behind the counters where Annie Gibbs and Angela Snoddy were poised ready to start the week.
Mr Abbott, the manager, walked sedately towards the front doors, as he did every weekday. He was forty-two but looked sixty. Angela, who lived on the same street, said he'd looked sixty for as long as she could remember. His face was thin and his receding hair was swept back severely. Rimless glasses were perched on a prominent nose. He took out a large pocket watch and peered intently at it then glanced at the wall clock as if comparing the two, seeking the precision of the moment.
‘Are we ready ladies?’ he said crisply.
‘Yes Mr. Abbott.’ Annie and Angela chorused their part of the daily ritual. Angela turned to Annie and mouthed, ‘Then let us begin,’ matching Mr. Abbott's utterance perfectly. Annie suppressed a giggle. It wouldn't do to start the day under one of Mr. Abbott's severe looks.
The manager of the County Bank, Popington branch, stepped out into the sunshine and, as was his custom, greeted the first passer-by of the day with a crisp good morning. His ritual complete and duty done he returned to his office and closed the door. The ladies would not see him again until lunchtime unless there was a special customer.
Angela passed the time, until the first customer arrived, in dreaming of Mr Right, who, when he appeared, would sweep her off her feet to the nearest church, or registry office, she didn't care which, and would change her name to his. She didn't really care what his name might be just so long as she could get rid of the name Snoddy that had hung round her neck like an albatross for every moment of her twenty-five years.
Annie drummed her fingers on the counter, practising, in her mind, that awkward little drum rhythm that came in the eighth bar of ‘Duet for Tenor Horns’ She needed to get it right tonight or Jenny Phillips would never let her hear the end of it and as for Dwayne; well, it didn't bear thinking about.
She was dragged from her reverie by the voice of William Boulden, member of the Parish Council and local idiot. He demanded some money bags as if he owned the bank, which his grandfather probably had but 'Silly Billy' hadn't inherited the brains, only the money, and had spent most of that. Annie glanced over to Angela, raising her eyebrows. Angela was busy with a real customer, that toffee nosed private nurse Laura Hardwick who wouldn't stoop to emptying a bed pan for less than fifty quid.
It was at that moment, with Annie settling into another boring day, that three men entered the bank. They were wearing enormous black coats, buttoned to the neck, which was strange for such a warm day. What was even stranger were the balaclava helmets that obscured their faces, but most of all the shotguns that the two larger men carried. The third figure, considerably shorter than his companions, carried two holdalls. Gerry Calhoun gestured with one holdall and spoke, with an Irish accent, muffled by the balaclava which seemed to want to force its way into his mouth each time he opened it.
‘Nobody move.’ No-one did. They stared at the shotguns in the hands of the tall figures and froze. William's jaw dropped. ‘You two,’ the man waved at William and the nurse, ‘Go and stand against the wall.’ They shuffled to the wall glancing anxiously at the guns. The short figure moved to them and took a bundle of plastic ties from his pocket. ‘Put your arms round each other,’ he commanded. William Bouldon' s day was looking up. Within seconds the small man had secured the hands of the two customers so that William, who was not particularly tall, was pressed up against the shapely body of Laura Hardwick with his nose buried in her cleavage. William thought, if I live through this day it will be one to remember. Laura was of the firm opinion that today was one to forget.
Annie and Angela had stood still as instructed but Annie's fingers were no longer drumming. They were walking their way slowly towards the silent alarm button under the counter. She glanced at Angela. They both moved as one, ducking beneath the counter as Annie hit the button. One of the tall men remained at the door while the other moved to the counter and tried to aim his shotgun at the two girls. He could not see them below the counter and seemed nonplussed. The little man was jumping up and down in a vain attempt to see over the counter at all.
It was at this point that Mr Abbott decided to leave his office to see what the fuss was all about. Too late, he turned and tried to return from whence he'd come. One of the men with a shotgun grabbed him by the arm.
‘Come 'ere,’ he cried and swung the manager round so that he was face to face with Gerry. Gerry looked up at him with large green eyes.
‘Mr Manager, Sir. Come and let us into the safe. We'd like to make a withdrawal. ‘
‘I… I can' t,’ Mr. Abbott stuttered.
‘Oh yes you can, it's easy, you walk over here,’ he dragged Mr Abbott to the 'staff only' door, ‘then you type your number into the keypad here and we're on our way. Or you could be stubborn, in which case we'd have to blow off your kneecaps. You'd still be able to press the buttons but it would be more difficult to reach. Or then again, we might just mess up this loving couple,’ he gestured at William and Laura, the nurse was endeavouring to stay as far away from William as possible but wasn't succeeding. When a shotgun was thrust at them she buried her face in William' s shoulder. He really was having quite a day.
Stuart Abbott was not a brave man. He didn't see why he should be hurt. After all it wasn't his money and anyway if the ladies had hit the silent alarm it was possible that the police were not far away and the robbers might be caught as they left. He punched in his code and the robbers were allowed into the safe to fill their holdalls. The man near the door suddenly cried out.
'Hurry it up, someone' s coming.’ His holdalls somewhat heavier now, Gerry Calhoun led his men out of the bank and away around the corner into a narrow alley beside the bank.
They had only been gone about a minute and Annie was cutting the plastic ties with a pair of scissors, allowing Laura Hardwick to push William away and to clutch her blouse where he had so lately been resting his face. Angela was fanning Mr Abbott with a copy of 'Banking News' while he had a fit of the vapours. With a screech of brakes, a police car drew up outside and a couple of officers nervously stuck their noses round the door.
‘Have they gone?’ said PC Roach with the air of a man who hoped that they were far away.
‘They've only been gone a minute,’ said Annie, ‘You could run after them.’
‘Were they armed?’ said PC Anderson.
‘They had shotguns, Roy,’ cried Annie. He was a tenor horn in the same band and she knew what his reaction would be to such news.
'Right then,’ he said, ‘we'd better take some statements.’
‘I’ll call for back-up,’ said Roach and spoke into his radio. ‘They're going to put up road blocks,’ he said, ‘and Sergeant Jones will be here in a minute so look lively.’
The three robbers ran to the end of the alley, paused to look both ways, then sauntered calmly to a nearby garage where a fourth figure opened a Judas gate and let them in.
‘How'd it go?’ asked Harry Gale.
‘Easy,’ said Kevin Foster pulling the balaclava off his head and grinning at his brother, Ian.
‘Yeah, easy,’ replied Ian with a matching grin.
‘Don't stand about, let's get on with it,’ cried Gerry, unbuttoning his heavy coat to reveal a smart morning coat with crisp white shirt and black tie. He walked to the back of a gleaming hearse, raised the tailgate and began emptying the contents of the holdalls into a coffin surrounded by floral tributes.
‘Here, Dobbin, help me get this lid fixed on, Harry get the doors open. ‘Ian ran to help lift the lid into place and make sure that the coffin was secure while Harry Gale swung open the doors. Within seconds four smart and sombre undertakers were ready to take their charge to its funeral. Gerry placed his hat firmly on his head and took his place in front of the hearse walking slowly into the street. Passers-by paused with reverence and one old gentleman removed his hat as the cortege made its majestic way to the High Street. A police car slowed to allow it to pass, and then screeched sharply to a halt before the bank, four men leaping out and rushing within.
‘Look at that, they 'aven't a clue,’ giggled Kevin.
‘Perhaps Gerry's idea wasn't so daft after all,’ grinned Ian, his 'horsey' teeth gleaming.
‘We might just pull this off Dobbin,' said Kevin.
At the end of the High Street Gerry climbed into the hearse and they accelerated towards the edge of town. Ahead of them they spotted a police car pulled across the road.
‘Take a right turn Harry and keep your speed down, we're a hearse going to a funeral.’ Harry turned right and then left onto a minor road. A policeman was busily putting out some saw horses and a 'police slow' sign but he paused and saluted smartly as the coffin slowly passed.
‘Police slow, that's about right,’ Harry chuckled.
‘Keep your eyes on the road, Harry, and slow down.’
The road was deserted as they came to the edge of the Town. As they drew near to St Botolph's Church a figure in flowing white robes darted out into the road in front of them. Harry stopped and wound down the window.
‘Watch it mate,’ he shouted. The vicar rushed to the window.
‘Good your early, I think all the mourners are here but we need to get on quickly. I've got two weddings later today and I don't want this to take too long. Can't have mourners and wedding guests at the same time, bad form you know.’ He opened the door of the hearse to speed them out. Harry was about to tell the vicar where he could put his mourners when a policeman appeared at the lych-gate.
‘Alright Harold, dear chap, let's get on with it,’ said Gerry in an attempt at a cultured voice. They climbed out of the hearse and went to the back.
‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Kevin.
‘Well we can't just drive off, that copper would get suspicious. Look we 've got a coffin they want a funeral. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes and then we're on our way again. Meanwhile we' re out of sight while the filth is running about chasing shadows.
They carefully rolled out the coffin and raised it to their shoulders. It was at this point that Gerry realised they had a problem. He was a good six or seven inches shorter than the rest of them and he couldn't get his shoulder anywhere near the coffin.
‘Bend your knees a bit guys,’ he muttered.
‘We can't bend too much we won't be able to walk.’ They bent a little and Gerry walked as tall as he could and with one shoulder shoved high in the air but it was a strange sight to see as they made their way up the church path.
A single bell tolled as they approached the church door and in the distance, they could see a small figure rising and falling in time with the bell. As the figure rose, its legs waved about in the air then as it fell its feet landed on a stool and then took off again. This was Alice Bourne the church warden and bell ringing fanatic. She normally rang the treble bell, which was just light enough for her four feet eight-inch frame to control. Her son, Peter, usually rang this great bell, he was six feet four and 'big boned’. He was at work today so she had to manage on her own. At this moment, she was wondering how she was going to stop the thing, as she could see the vicar approaching, intoning the service as he walked before the coffin. Without breaking stride and without pausing in his speech he caught the sally with his left hand as Alice hit the stool, took the weight off the bell and continued on his way.
‘Thank you, vicar,’ gasped Alice as she caught her breath and tried to compose herself for the service.
She followed the coffin into the nave and watched puzzled as the little figure at the right of the coffin lurched and hopped uncomfortably down the aisle like a demented frog. They stopped before the altar steps and struggled to get the coffin onto its waiting trestles. Then they shuffled off to one side.
‘Funny,’ thought Alice, ‘they usually bow to the cross above the altar and come back here, must be new.’
The vicar raced through the service, leaving the mourners feeling breathless and finding the words of the eulogy almost unintelligible.
‘Vicar's going for the speed record,’ thought Alice, ‘That' s what you get for booking two weddings and a funeral on the same day.’
It was just as the undertakers had got the coffin back on their shoulders and prepared to bear it out, feet first Alice noticed; that there was a commotion at the back of the church. A shadow appeared at the doorway and six burly gentlemen entered bearing a second coffin. The coffin bore a uniform cap on its top and the burly gentlemen wore smart police uniforms. An officer pushed past them and called to the vicar,
‘Sorry to be late, got stuck in a traffic snarl up, robbery at the bank, don't you know, road blocks and such.’ He looked at the vicar, then at the men bearing a coffin out of the church. Then he looked at the coffin that contained his late Chief Inspector. You could almost hear the words, Hello, hello, what's going on here?
At the end of the funeral for Chief Inspector Alf Rodgers, two coffins left the church. The leading coffin was carried by four dejected looking undertakers, each of them handcuffed to his neighbour. The coffin rocked and swayed because Gerry had given up all pretence of trying to bear up his corner. Behind came the coffin of the Chief carried smartly by six burly and very smug looking men. As Alice stood by the vicar and watched the departing corteges she said,
‘Looks like a nice man that little fellow.’
‘Just about your size, Alice,’ said the vicar softly.
‘Yes. I wonder if he'd like a prison visit?’
On the roadway, the coffins went their separate ways, the one to the crematorium, the other to the police station. In the charge room four formerly smart gentlemen sat side by side just beginning to look a little shabby and the worst for wear. The coffin was carried in, rather unceremoniously, by some jeering officers who seemed to feel the whole thing was very funny.
‘Book this one down to the Chief, Sarge, one last ‘collar’ to end his career,’ PC Roach chuckled and left for a well-earned cuppa. A police Inspector bustled in.
‘Right then, Sarge, let's have this coffin open, break out the evidence, as it were.’
The sergeant carefully unscrewed the lid and removed it to reveal its contents.
‘Good God, Sarge, get on the blower quick.’
The Chief looked very peaceful in his best uniform but his Inspector had the better colour, as he danced around the charge room screaming at his sergeant to hurry up.
Gerry and the lads crowded round the coffin with their heads bowed in prayer. They weren't praying for the Chief Inspector of course. Rather, they were praying for the efficiency of the crematorium staff. It wasn't every day that you got six burly officers to dispose of the evidence for you.
Gerry spared a thought for the bell ringer. Nice looking woman, she was, just about his size.