Folks I have known: Donald Kirby
I’ve previously mentioned that I worked for the Westminster Bank in the lovely Cotswold town of Chipping Sodbury.
A position was advertised in the Bristol Evening Post, and I took myself by ‘bus for an interview with the branch manager, Donald Kirby.
He scolded me mildly because my shirt was a pale yellow and not the statutory white, but sent me on to the Bank’s Head Office at 41 Lothbury, London. That was a neat adventure. I took the train to London and then the tube to the City. I emerged from the tube in a state of awe, at the Bank of England (the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street) and made my ways to the hallowed Halls of 41 Lothbury, passing hordes of “City Gents” with their mandatory bowler hats and rolled umbrellas.
Having satisfied the Lothbury Pooh Bahs I began work under Don Kirby. The Bank was positively Victorian, and so was he.
We posted ledgers by hand, sitting on high stools at high desks, with the green glass shaded lamps. We weighed coins: ha-pennies, pennies, thrup-knee bits, tanners, bob, florins and half-crowns on an old balance scale (the easiest way, for example, to see if we had enough tanners to put into a 5 shilling’s worth paper bag). I still have one of the old coin shovels.
Our customers were local traders (including the brothers Fairie who ran the local grocer store - and yes we wondered about them!); a red faced publican who was drinking all his profits at “The Globe” (I sometimes had to go to his pub at 2:30 p.m. to collect his mid-day takings so that his brewery cheque would not bounce).
Then we had farmers. There were the Farmer Giles types, old fashioned farmers with small farms, as well as country gentlemen with their rolling Gloucestershire acres.
A few of the local lesser nobility held accounts with us, and we kow-towed to them on the basis of their names e.g. Sir Christopher Codrington, Bart.
Our locals rivals were the National Provincial, Lloyds and Barclays Banks. We still cleared local cheques on a daily basis, and I would set off on my rounds to exchange cheques with the other “juniors” at the rival banks. One of them managed to purchase a small Estate Car of which he was very proud. He told me one day that it was his “shagging wagon”, and I was horribly shocked!!
Donald Kirby lived in Downend, on the eastern outskirts of Bristol, and would take the ‘bus to Chipping Sodbury. He’d sit upstairs, puffing on his ubiquitous pipe, and reading the Times. I’d hate it if we were on the same ‘bus, because then he would want to talk to me, or rather lecture me. And I’d have to “yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir” to this would be demi-tyrant of a small branch bank.
One Sunday night I came out of the Gospel Hall to encounter and unusual heavy snow. Another Church member, Graham Hunt, told me that the Chipping Sodbury road was blocked. People pleaser that I was, I telephoned Mr. Kirby with this news. He responded with “then we’ll just have to hoof it”. We arranged to meet at the end of his road in Downend at an early hour.
The City ‘bus ran on time from Eastville to Downend, and I shivered in a ‘phone box to await my lord and master. He emerged from his street, and no sooner had we started “hoofing it” when the Chipping Sodbury ‘bus came along - this we were in the office by about 6:30 a.m. Mr. Kirby was not pleased. He blamed me for the whole misadventure, notwithstanding that he had made the decision to “hoof it”. I tried to sweeten his disposition by making him hot coffee as soon as the milk was delivered.
Ken Dee, the “First Clerk” arrived at his usual 7:30 a.m. time, surprised to see the lights on, and the Manager in his Office. Donald Kirby told him the sad story, and Ken Dee emerged with a wicked grin and called me a “dafty bugger”.
For the next few days we would creep up behind me and begin to sing “In his masters steps he trod”!
Donald Kirby would use his car once a month. That was on the day that he stayed in town after business for his Masonic Lodge meeting. We knew that it was Lodge night when we saw his black tie. He’d be in a foul mood all day, for he positively hated Lodge meetings. He’d joined of course, for business reasons.
On one occasion another clerk asked me to help her with some task, and I replied “wait for a minute, I am serving a customer”. Don Kirby waited for me to complete the transaction, and them summoned me with his tyrant’s voice.
I stood at the threshold of his office door. He did not invite me to enter, but rather bellowed from behind his desk: “Mr Povey. Bulls serve cows. We attend to customers”.
Don Kirby, wherever you are, “I have never, ever, ever served a customer!”
A position was advertised in the Bristol Evening Post, and I took myself by ‘bus for an interview with the branch manager, Donald Kirby.
He scolded me mildly because my shirt was a pale yellow and not the statutory white, but sent me on to the Bank’s Head Office at 41 Lothbury, London. That was a neat adventure. I took the train to London and then the tube to the City. I emerged from the tube in a state of awe, at the Bank of England (the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street) and made my ways to the hallowed Halls of 41 Lothbury, passing hordes of “City Gents” with their mandatory bowler hats and rolled umbrellas.
Having satisfied the Lothbury Pooh Bahs I began work under Don Kirby. The Bank was positively Victorian, and so was he.
We posted ledgers by hand, sitting on high stools at high desks, with the green glass shaded lamps. We weighed coins: ha-pennies, pennies, thrup-knee bits, tanners, bob, florins and half-crowns on an old balance scale (the easiest way, for example, to see if we had enough tanners to put into a 5 shilling’s worth paper bag). I still have one of the old coin shovels.
Our customers were local traders (including the brothers Fairie who ran the local grocer store - and yes we wondered about them!); a red faced publican who was drinking all his profits at “The Globe” (I sometimes had to go to his pub at 2:30 p.m. to collect his mid-day takings so that his brewery cheque would not bounce).
Then we had farmers. There were the Farmer Giles types, old fashioned farmers with small farms, as well as country gentlemen with their rolling Gloucestershire acres.
A few of the local lesser nobility held accounts with us, and we kow-towed to them on the basis of their names e.g. Sir Christopher Codrington, Bart.
Our locals rivals were the National Provincial, Lloyds and Barclays Banks. We still cleared local cheques on a daily basis, and I would set off on my rounds to exchange cheques with the other “juniors” at the rival banks. One of them managed to purchase a small Estate Car of which he was very proud. He told me one day that it was his “shagging wagon”, and I was horribly shocked!!
Donald Kirby lived in Downend, on the eastern outskirts of Bristol, and would take the ‘bus to Chipping Sodbury. He’d sit upstairs, puffing on his ubiquitous pipe, and reading the Times. I’d hate it if we were on the same ‘bus, because then he would want to talk to me, or rather lecture me. And I’d have to “yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir” to this would be demi-tyrant of a small branch bank.
One Sunday night I came out of the Gospel Hall to encounter and unusual heavy snow. Another Church member, Graham Hunt, told me that the Chipping Sodbury road was blocked. People pleaser that I was, I telephoned Mr. Kirby with this news. He responded with “then we’ll just have to hoof it”. We arranged to meet at the end of his road in Downend at an early hour.
The City ‘bus ran on time from Eastville to Downend, and I shivered in a ‘phone box to await my lord and master. He emerged from his street, and no sooner had we started “hoofing it” when the Chipping Sodbury ‘bus came along - this we were in the office by about 6:30 a.m. Mr. Kirby was not pleased. He blamed me for the whole misadventure, notwithstanding that he had made the decision to “hoof it”. I tried to sweeten his disposition by making him hot coffee as soon as the milk was delivered.
Ken Dee, the “First Clerk” arrived at his usual 7:30 a.m. time, surprised to see the lights on, and the Manager in his Office. Donald Kirby told him the sad story, and Ken Dee emerged with a wicked grin and called me a “dafty bugger”.
For the next few days we would creep up behind me and begin to sing “In his masters steps he trod”!
Donald Kirby would use his car once a month. That was on the day that he stayed in town after business for his Masonic Lodge meeting. We knew that it was Lodge night when we saw his black tie. He’d be in a foul mood all day, for he positively hated Lodge meetings. He’d joined of course, for business reasons.
On one occasion another clerk asked me to help her with some task, and I replied “wait for a minute, I am serving a customer”. Don Kirby waited for me to complete the transaction, and them summoned me with his tyrant’s voice.
I stood at the threshold of his office door. He did not invite me to enter, but rather bellowed from behind his desk: “Mr Povey. Bulls serve cows. We attend to customers”.
Don Kirby, wherever you are, “I have never, ever, ever served a customer!”
Having worked for a historical society once myself, I can say that there are no doubt historical societies in these various places that would be *delighted* to get their hands on all your reminiscences!
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