TIME and MONEY

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

If you’ve ever travelled on public transport in a big city you will no doubt have occasionally noticed another passenger who stands out. An attractive young man, tall and slim with kind eyes, maybe a young woman striking features and a strong presence, an old man wearing inappropriate clothing more suited to a teenager or an old woman with a very small dog and bright blue hair.

It could be the most banal thing, but something about that person will catch your eye.

If you do notice that person, even in the most fleeting way, they will never work for Hussey and Company.

Due to his profession, Ryan Puddifoot was good at spotting interesting people. His mother was very aware of his habit of staring at people when he was a child and admonished him harshly.

‘Do not stare at people my lad.’ she would say as she nudged him with her elbow. ‘It’s very rude.’

He was therefore very discreet and careful when in a crowded public space such as a bus, tram or train. He never stared at any one person, but he could scan a crowded space and one or two people would always stand out, catch the eye, cause him to wonder why they looked the way they did. It was his job to not only look at people, but to use his skill and the technology he knew so well to make them look as good as possible.

Ryan worked in what would once have been called broadcasting, or television for normal folks. His job had more recently been designated ‘content creation.’ It wasn’t a term Ryan thought about a great deal, what he had noticed was his job description had expanded but this extra workload wasn’t reflected in his day rate.

You may immediately assume that Ryan was an actor, writer, director or presenter. The roles the general public outside the content creation industry might be aware of. He was none of those things, he was a camera operator and editor. He was, to be more precise, a production camera operator, a role that didn’t exist when he started working in the industry twenty years earlier.

In the early 2000’s he was called a cameraman. No one thought about it, everyone he knew who did the same job was a man, and 95% of them were white.

After a few years things really changed in his industry. Women producers, directors and company bosses became commonplace, and with the arrival of Faye Ruskin, a very talented and accomplished camerawoman Ryan regularly worked with, the term camera operator was widely adopted.

Ryan, unlike some of his older male colleagues, did not resist. If there was one common trait that ran through Ryan’s life, when seemingly small things upset people, he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Not just on this topic, but any activity that seemed to stir people into a frenzy. He’d never seriously thought about it, other than to occasionally comment that most annoyances fade away after a bit, so why make a fuss?

On a Tuesday in May, Ryan had been hired to help shoot some interviews in a small studio in Soho. He didn’t need to take his own kit, Faye had hired him to assist her, he just needed to show up and help with the lighting and camera set up.

Due to travelling light, he caught the train from Gerrard’s Cross which took him to Marylebone Station, central London. The early morning train was very full, he had to stand, he glanced around the crowded carriage at the normal variety of people travelling into London. If he’d been asked to describe people he saw that morning would never have included another passenger on the train. Mary Congrieve was seated at the far end of the same carriage.

She was genuinely unremarkable. If you did interact with her and then were later questioned by law enforcement to describe her you would probably say, ‘she was an older lady, between 50 and maybe 65, neatly dressed, with normal hair.’

If you were asked what colour her normal hair was, you might say, ‘sort of light brown, or maybe dark blonde, I can’t remember, sort of mousy but not in a bad way. Neat and normal.’

Basically she had no outstanding features, no big ears, long nose, pinched mouth, she wasn’t very tall, or very short, she wasn’t overweight, or scrawny thin, she was neat and normal. You’d more likely be looking at the young man sitting next to her, slumped down with his legs wide apart making life uncomfortable to those around him. You’d remember him, the selfish fellow with the massive headphones and tattooed neck.

Mary Congieve got the job at J Hussey and Company precisely because of her ability to blend in, plus her immense capacity for discretion. Although married and mother to 3 children, she was not a gossip and no one in her life, her children, her husband, her own mother and siblings, knew where she worked, what she did or indeed had ever shown any interest in finding out.

If the subject ever came up she would tell friends and relatives that she worked in a secretarial role for an investment bank in the city. To most people this sounded dull enough to curtail further investigation.

Although there was some truth in her job description, she knew the location wasn’t strictly accurate.

Mentioning ‘the City’ implied she worked in a specific geographic area within the original city walls of London, walls originally built by the Roman’s during their occupation two thousands years ago. The City of London is an area otherwise known as the square mile.

In fact the building she worked in was just outside what had once been the fortified Roman settlement. An unremarkable building constructed in 1804 by the banks founder, Jerome Hussey. It was a building which had managed to survive the London blitz with only minor damage. The west facing wall was rebuilt in 1954 due to the collapse of the building next door during the Blitz. For many years after the war it stood alone, supported by heavy timber buttresses, not an uncommon site in post war London.

It was now shadowed by enormous glass fronted office blocks, all of which towered above it’s diminutive four floors.

The reason Mary Congieve knew about the story behind this building was because she had a professional grasp of history. Her knowledge was quantified by her degree from Christ’s College, Cambridge in 19th and 20th century history, specifically related to architecture and property law. This was not something she bragged about, but if asked she would be happy to discuss the finer points of Victorian and Edwardian building developments and city planning through the 20th century.

Mary Congrieve knew why London looked the way it did. She didn’t judge, she just understood. She spent many hours of her working week walking around the city and surrounding neighbourhoods, walking quite happily while no one would notice or remember her. But she remembered the history of each street, knew the legend behind their peculiar names and knew in detail the builder, ownership record and multiple residences of a huge number of buildings she passed. Although she had never lived in London, she loved the city and was never bored of it’s chaotic and spasmodic development.

Ryan Puddifoot was a little more conflicted in his relationship with London. He was born and raised just outside, in the small market town of Chalfont St Peter. His father worked in the capital, making the 40 minute train ride into Marylebone station every day where he had a middle management role with a large insurance company. Their headquarters were a 15 minute walk away from the station, down the far end of Baker Street.

Ryan went to London regularly as a young teenager, a day out with his mates, window shopping, eating in greasy spoon cafes, attending football matches and occasionally, meeting girls.

He would also go to London over the Christmas period to meet his extended family, his grandparents lived in an old, run down house in Camden.

The house was owned by the oldest woman he had ever met, his 98 year old great Aunt Maude, the sister of his grandfather Reg.

He remembered Aunt Maude as a tiny old lady, delicate and quiet but clearly very bright and aware of what was going on. As a teenager he’d been warned to be very gentle when he gave her a hug because she was very frail, he was also told to make an effort to be extra nice to her. When he asked why, his mother informed him Aunt Maude was the only member of the family with any money.

He did as he was told and he remembered his tiny Great Aunt with affection, she was a kindly old lady, she held his hand and told him he was very handsome.

Now, as he sat on the train, 27 years later, he didn’t think about his long dead Aunt. If he had done, he would have remembered that he didn’t inherit a penny from her. Her passing barely impacted his teenage life and his lack of sudden riches was never referred to by his family. For all he knew they had inherited something from her, but again, this was not a possibility he had ever considered.

He glanced around at the other people on the train that morning. The majority of them with heads bowed, staring at their phones. Not Mary Congrieve, she sat upright, hands gently clasped on her lap, very unremarkable. Indeed Ryan may have looked at her for a second that morning. Her image simply did not register.

Neither of them would recall this moment, although they would shortly meet.