'Does she know what you're like?'

'Yes. I keep telling her.'

'Doesn't believe you, eh? Ah, such is the way of a woman in love,' sighed Mrs Lavish.

'I don't think it worries her, actually. She's not your average girl.'

'Ah, and she sees your inner self? Or, perhaps, the carefully constructed inner self you keep around for people to find? People like you...' She paused and went on:'... people like us always keep at least one inner self for inquisitive visitors, don't we?'

Moist didn't rise to this. Talking to Mrs Lavish was like standing in front of a magic mirror that stripped you to your marrow. He just said: 'Most of the people she knows are golems.'

'Oh? Great big clay men who are utterly trustworthy and don't have anything to declare in the trouser department? What does she see in you, Mr Lipwig?' She prodded him with a finger like a cheese straw.

Moist's mouth dropped open.

'A contrast, I trust,' said Mrs Lavish, patting him on the arm. 'And now Havelock has sent you here to tell me how to run my bank. You may call me Topsy.'

'Well, I - ' Tell her how to run her bank? It hadn't been put like that.

Topsy leaned forward. 'I never minded about Honey, you know,' she said, slightly lowering her voice. 'Quite a nice girl, but thick as a yard of lard. She wasn't the first, either. Not by a long way. I was Joshua's mistress once myself.'

'Really?' He knew he was going to hear it all, whether he wanted to or not.

'Oh, yes,' said Mrs Lavish. 'People understood more then. It was all quite acceptable. I used to take tea with his wife once a month to sort out his schedule, and she always said she was glad to have him out from under her feet. Of course, a mistress was expected to be a woman of some accomplishment in those days.' She sighed. 'Now, of course, the ability to spin upside down around a pole seems to be sufficient.'

'Standards are falling everywhere,' said Moist. It was a pretty good bet. They always were.

'Banking is really rather similar,' said Topsy, as though thinking aloud.

'Pardon?'

'I mean the mere physical end in view is going to be the same, but style should count for something, don't you think? There should be flair. There should be inventiveness. There should be an experience rather than a mere function. Havelock says you understand these tilings.' She gave Moist a questioning look. 'After all, you have made the Post Office an almost heroic enterprise, yes? People set their watches by the arrival of the Genua express. They used to set their calendars!'

'The clacks still makes a loss,' said Moist.

'A marvellously small one, while enriching the commonality of mankind in all sorts of ways, and I've no doubt that Havelock's tax men take their share of that. You have the gift of enthusing people, Mr Lipwig.'

'Well, I... well, I suppose I do,' he managed. 'I know if you want to sell the sausage you have to know how to sell the sizzle.'

'Well and good, well and good,' said Topsy, 'but I hope you know that however gifted you are as a sizzle salesman, sooner or later you must be able to produce the sausage, hmm?' She gave him a wink which would have got a younger woman jailed.

'Incidentally,' she went on, 'I recall hearing that the gods led you to the treasure trove that helped you to rebuild the Post Office. What really happened? You can tell Topsy.'

He probably could, he decided, and noticed that although her hair was indeed thinning and almost white, it still held a pale trace of orange that hinted of more vivid reds in the past. 'It was my stashed loot from years of swindling,' he said.

Mrs Lavish clapped her hands. 'Wonderful! A sausage indeed! That is so... satisfying. Havelock has always had an instinct for people. He has plans for the city, you know.'

'The Undertaking,' said Moist. 'Yes, I know.'

'Underground streets and new docks and everything,' said Topsy, 'and for that a government needs money, and money needs banks. Unfortunately, people have rather lost their faith in banks.'

'Why?'

'Because we lost their money, usually. Mostly not on purpose. We have been badly buffeted in recent years. The Crash of '88, the Crash of '93, the Crash of '98... although that one was more of a ding. My late husband was a man who loaned unwisely, so we must carry bad debts and the other results of questionable decisions. Now we're where little old ladies keep their money because they always have done and the nice young clerks are still polite and there's still a brass bowl by the door for their little dogs to drink out of. Could you do anything about this? The supply of old ladies is running out, as I'm well aware.'

'Well, er, I may have a few ideas,' said Moist. 'But it's all still a bit of a shock. I don't really understand how banks work.'

'You've never put money in a bank?'

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net