The Herring Seller's Apprentice by L. C. Tyler

it was a series of random splodges of colour – very pretty, but not adding up to much more than that. It was only when you stood back that you were obliged to gasp at the daring and supreme economy of effort in the grand plan.
    But what was the grand plan this time? For a moment I thought that I had caught a glimpse of it. Now I had begun to wonder whether that grey smudge was a boat or a cloud on the horizon. And was that figure in the foreground turning towards me or away from me? I needed to step back a little further, and question some of the things that I had taken for granted.
    My next stop that autumn morning was at a bank on Upper Street. Geraldine had abused it for many years, both for her business and private banking. I too had been a customer in the days when we were together.
    I suppose there would have been a time when, under these circumstances, I might have expected to have been met personally by the bank manager and offered condolences. I was not surprised however to be met by a young lady with a large file and a clipboard that she checked from time to time to remind herself of my name.
    ‘I have prepared these papers for you to sign, Mr … um … Tressider,’ she announced nasally. ‘They will enable us to set up an executor’s account for you, into which we can transfer your wife’s assets.’
    ‘Which are relatively modest.’
    ‘But in credit.’ She smiled. My wife was dead but she was in credit, which would be a great comfort to me.
    ‘So, it’s all straightforward from your point of view?’ I asked.
    ‘Perfectly. As Mrs … um … Tressider’s executor you are however aware that there may be funds of hers in Switzerland?’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Well, we’re not terribly sure, but there were two large transfers from her personal account to an account in Geneva. I had assumed that you would know about it.’
    ‘I’m sure it is all quite in order,’ I said.
    She smiled. ‘That’s what we had hoped.’
    I signed the papers.
    ‘Thank you Mr … um … Tressider,’ she said.
    I had already gathered together my papers and shaken her hand when the phone next to her rang.
    ‘Yes, Mr Smith, we’re just tying everything up now. No, Mr … um … Tressider is about to leave. Yes, certainly, I’ll ask him.’ She turned to me. ‘The manager would like to see you, if you have a few minutes.’
    I looked at my watch. ‘A few minutes?’ I said. ‘Why not?’
    I had met Smith, the manager, before, in the days when he had watched over our minimalist joint savings and our quite substantial joint mortgage. I had good cause to remember him for all sorts of reasons, but, as with Rupert, I failed for a brief instant to recognize the plump figure behind the mahogany desk, though I would have been hard put to say in exactly what ways he had changed. At all events, he now looked very much like the bank manager he was: of medium height, rapidly thickening waist and gradually receding hairline, disguised for the moment by none-too-skilful sideways combing. His lips were of the rather prominent variety that can sometimes look full and sensuous in youth, but which become increasingly flabby and unattractive with age. His skin was distinctly oily. His suit, a cheap but still new-looking grey chalk-stripe, was easily the most presentable part of him. He seemed both to have remembered me and to have forgotten our last painful interview some ten years before, because he greeted me with a firm handshake and a sympathetic smile. Perhaps, after all, these old-fashioned niceties had not been completely forgotten.
    ‘Ethelred … my condolences. Terrible business. Terrible business. Coffee?’
    He poured me a cup from a pot that was sitting on a warming device on a side table. I had not been offered coffee the last time we had met.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ve already been through things with your assistant. I’m told that everything is in order.’
    He coughed, and he took a sip of coffee. For a moment a