husband would be to suggest that he was incapable of keeping food on the table; I
didn’t need Dr Fraud to tell me that. Males live by pride. Kill their pride and they
won’t support wives and children. It would be some years before Brian and I would
learn to be utterly open and easy with each other. Brian knew that I had a savings
account but he never asked me how much I had in it, and I would serve fried mush or
do any symbolic equivalent as often as needed before I would buy groceries with my
own money. Savings were for a rainy day. We both knew this. If Brian fell ill, had
to go to a hospital, I would use my savings as needed. We had no need to talk about
it. Meanwhile Brian was the breadwinner; I did not intrude into his responsibility.
Nor he into mine.
But what about Foundation moneys? Didn’t that hurt his pride? Perhaps it did. It may
be indicative to take a look into the future: in the long run every dime we received
from ringing the cash register wound up with our children, as each got married.
Brian never mentioned to me any such intention. In 1907 it would have been silly to
do so.
By early 1907 my savings account had grown to over three hundred dollars, by nickels
and pennies and tightest economies. Now that I was working at home and could no
longer go to school downtown it seemed smart to me to move my account to a little
neighbourhood bank near the southside post office substation. One of us four had to
go to our post office box each day; whoever did it could make deposits for me. If
ever I had to withdraw money, then that one could be I.
– Nelson parked his runabout on Grand Avenue and we walked around to 920 Walnut. I
took my passbook to a teller – did not have to wait; the bank was not crowded – and
told the teller that I wanted to withdraw my account.
I was referred to an officer of the bank, over behind the railing, a Mr Smaterine.
Nelson put down the newspaper he had been glancing at, stood up. `Difficulty?’
`I don’t know. They don’t seem to want to let me have my money. Will you come with
me?’
`Sure thing.’
Mr Smaterine greeted me politely, but raised his brows at Nelson. I introduced them.
`This is Mr Nelson Johnson, Mr Smaterine. He is my husband’s business partner.’
`How do you do, Mr Johnson. Please sit down. Mrs Smith, our Mr Wimple tells me that
you need to see me about something.’
`I suppose I do. I attempted to withdraw my account. Ht told me that I must see
you.’
Mr Smaterine gave a smile that displayed his false teeth. `We are always sorry to
lose an old friend, Mrs Smith. Has our service been unsatisfactory?’
`Not at all, sir. But I wish to move my account to a bank closer to my home. It is
not too convenient to come all this way downtown, especially in this cold weather.’
He picked up my passbook, glanced at the address in the front, then at the current
amount further on. ‘May I ask where you propose to transfer your account, Mrs
Smith?’
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I was about to tell him, when I caught Nelson’s eye. He didn’t actually shake his
head… but I’ve known him a long time. `Why do you ask that, sir?’
‘It is part of a banker’s professional duty to protect his customers. If you wish to
move your account – fine! But I want to see you go to an equally reliable bank.’
My wild animal instincts were aroused. ‘Mr Smaterine, I have discussed this in
-detail with my husband’ – I had not – and I do not need to seek advice elsewhere.’
He made a tent of his fingers. ‘Very well. As you know, the bank can require three
weeks notice on savings accounts.’
`But, Mr Smaterine, you yourself were the officer I dealt with when I opened my