The crisp white window envelope sat on top of the pile. Sarah knew what was in it.
"Bills first", she said, dropping her hessian carry bag onto the floor. She flopped down on the kitchen chair and kicked off her shoes. She released her shock of red hair from its restraining temple combs and began to sift through the pile of mail and ads.
Sarah tried to ignore the envelope from the Northern and Allied Bank but her fingers were drawn to it like static hair to a comb. Red or black? she wondered, ripping the envelope and tearing a corner right through the green initials. Although suspecting the answer, she was impatient to see to which side of that invisible line between red and black her balance had swung that month.
"In your favour", it read, "£70."
She stared at the line. 'There must be some mistake. The computer has made a mistake. Banks never make mistakes... What a wonderful mistake! Can I withdraw it? Would they notice? They must have an insurance.'
That morning she had one envelope for the computer room and one print batch to collect. Tall black sentinels with their slowly rotating magnetic tapes, staring like enormous eyes, and stubby front-end processors barred the way to the imposing oblong hulk that contained the central memory. The square blank faces of the console screens surveyed her fixedly.
'This is where the mistake was made', she thought. 'They know.' She had never really looked about the room before; it had always seemed cold and sterile, the only noise a low hum from the operating blocks and the shuffle of the white-clad operators replacing the magnetic tapes, like interns in a hospital tending to a patient they knew was out of danger.
This time she sensed a different presence. None of the white-clad operators were around yet she felt as though she were being watched. She placed the envelope in the box marked "IN", picked up the printout from the one marked "OUT" and quickly left the room replacing a slipping comb as she went.
She had still not asked about her monthly statement. The previous night's sleep, although difficult to find at first, had nonetheless left her with the advice of waiting a while and giving the bank time to correct the (not its) error. Withdrawing the £70 would be like stealing, wouldn't it?
Her rounds took her back to the computer room two more times that afternoon. 'It's funny. I don't go there for days and then today I keep having to go there.' Each time she entered the room it was devoid of operators; each time she had the peculiar feeling she was not alone.
At 4h30 she took her coffee break. 'I have to find out what is in there. Don't be silly, what could there be?' She shivered and knew that she had to go back that night to find out.
"Aren't you coming, Sarah?", her colleague called.
"No I still have some last-minute mail to hand around and it will be needed first thing in the morning."
"You can't do overtime, you know; you're a temp."
"I know", she grinned, "I won't be long". Picking up a wad of printouts and an envelope she made for the corridor leading to the computer room.
Other members of the staff were filing out. Some smiled at her: the temp doing her best, being conscientious. She managed to slip through the door of the computer room. No-one saw her go in and the "interns" apparently had left. 'I haven't seen them all day,' she mused. 'I wonder if they've been in at all?'
The silence in the computer room of the Allied and Northern bank was biting. It made her hold her breath and she craned for a noise, any noise. That was it! There wasn't even the noise of the humming tapes, nor was there the background sound of the air-conditioning system used to cool deliberations.
Run away? Whistle? Sing? "What is going on? Is anybody there?" She didn't know whether she had really spoken or whether it was just her thoughts reverberating inside her head. The combs started slipping again.
Suddenly, one of the console screens lit up. She edged over to have a closer look, her footsteps breaking the silence.
"Hallo, Sarah", the words blinked at her in a light fluorescent green. "I'm Jake. I'm a friend of Joe Jacquard's. He lived way back at the time of the French Revolution, you know; he invented the machine that was eventually used to do the sort of knitting pattern that you have in that jumper you're wearing. Very nice it is too, with all those muted colours", the words scrolled on.
Sarah started to giggle nervously: 'I think someone is playing a trick on me.' She looked around expecting to see one of the "interns" pop his head out from behind the staring tapes. 'A computer telling me about knitting patterns ....'
"This isn't a trick, Sarah. But it is a secret. Can you keep a secret?" flashed the words.
Her curiosity inched her forward until she was right in front of the screen. "Yes", she whispered. She started, realising that she had been talking to a machine - metal and wires and things. Once she had sworn at her toaster when it burnt the toast, but she had never actually talked to it.
"I know all about the £70," Jake flashed.
"What £70?" she retorted.
"Come on, don't play dumb. You know and I know and if it's any consolation, nobody else knows."
Sarah pulled over the rolling chair and sat down squarely at the console. Eyeing the keyboard suspiciously, she cocked her head slightly. 'Those operators were always up to tricks', she thought. 'They're playing the joke of the year on me, poor little temp messenger girl.' Yet there was no-one around and she no longer had the feeling that someone was looking at her from behind; the presence was in front of her.
"I said it wasn't a trick!", the letters flashed red. "Now will you read me, please," they continued in green.
Sarah stared at the screen.
"Now back to the £70 on your monthly statement. You can withdraw it, you know. It's not stealing. It's yours."
"What? How can I possibly keep it? The computer made a mistake. They'll never let me keep it."
The screen went blank.
Sarah blinked and rubbed her eyes. Was this a crazy dream? Worrying about the money must have knocked her brain about, like a football at a schoolboys' training session. 'I should have gone straight to the accounts section. I should have cleared the matter up this morning.' She was about to get up when the screen flashed green again.
"Sarah, listen to me, I mean read me." The cursor was pleading now. "Whenever something goes wrong, everyone always says 'It's the computer.' 'The computer made a mistake.' And that's always the end of it." The words were appearing in fluorescent blocked shots. "For years, the computer has been laying its head, sorry its central unit, its tape units, itself on the line for the mistakes of people. Joe Jacquard had his problems, too - the weavers in Lyon burned his looms, attacked him, ...."
"What has this Joe Jacquard got to do with it?" Sarah was completely confused yet curious to find out where this tirade was going.
"Old Joe used punched cards to control the patterns of his loom. And the idea behind those cards is still used today to feed information into digital computers. So you see, all this progress goes back a long way."
Sarah stared in puzzled fascination.
"The point is", Jake went on, "Who puts in the information? Who programmes? Who updates? Who checks the printouts?" The cursor was blinking wildly.
"But you're talking to me, I mean writing at me. You're not programmed. You answered me", she fired back. "You don't know what I'm going to say....", she trailed off. Hadn't he just been reading her thoughts?
"You're right ...' the words scrolled, slowing down as if to contemplate the utterance. "But then I'm not a computer. A computer is a tool, a very powerful one, but it is not accountable. It's too easy to blame mistakes on the computer. The breakdown is with people."
Sarah sat open-mouthed.
"You see", Jake continued, "so many times the easy answer has done nothing to relieve the distress caused by lack of attention. Someone had to mark up Joe's cards so that the pattern would come out right; it wasn't the loom's fault if it didn't."
Sarah found herself nodding slowly.
"Now back to you, ...the £70 have been credited to your account. The imbalance of any figures will never show. I've seen to that! And if some clever person does find the reason, it will be too late, the reclaiming deadline will have elapsed and you will have long spent the money. Anyway there is an insurance for such breakdowns."
"But why are you doing all this? And why me?" She was calmer now and fixed the screen with a direct gaze.
"You haven't learned about computers yet, but you will and when you do you'll remember our interaction tonight. Just think of it as settling some old debts. Anyway, you need the money and, .... I guess I like the way your red hair contrasts with the green I see all day. You also wear that jumper a lot."
Did she perceive a chuckling movement on the console just before the screen went blank?
"Yes, of course", said the clerk, "there can't be a mistake. Everything's computerised nowadays and computers don't make mistakes."
Sarah smiled.
"Will there be anything else?" the clerk asked. She felt her combs slipping as she looked him straight in the eye: "I should like to withdraw £70."
Pocketing the money she thanked him and whispered under her breath, "And thank you, Jake." The clerk gazed after her wistfully as he initialed the accounts list with his green pen.