obviously designed for customers: straight-backed chairs against the walls and under the front window a desk littered with blank bank forms. Facing the window was a counter that divided the staff from the customers.
There was the usual hushed and sacred silence so often found in a bank, telling us we had stepped into the modern worldâs most holy place: the Temple of Mammon. And, as always in a bank, the moment I stepped through the front door I felt as if I was invading their privacy.
The bank was empty except for two staff members. In the tellerâs cage behind the counter was a large, beefy young man, looking more like a farmhand than an office worker. According to the gold-lettered sign on the counter in front of him he was âFranklin Grimm, Tellerâ. Behind him, in the small office area, a young woman tapped in a desultory way at a typewriter.
âGood morning,â said Jack, stepping up to the counter and whipping off his hat. âIâd like to make a withdrawal please.â
âCertainly, sir,â said the teller in a cold voice that suggested he was never in favour of money being taken out of the bank. âDo you have an account with us?â
âNot with this branch,â Jack explained, âwith your Oxford branch, but I do have my passbook with me.â As he spoke he pulled off his rucksack and fished in its depths. After a moment of fumbling he produced a small, blue-covered booklet which he handed to the teller.
Franklin Grimm opened this and perused its contents with a look of deep suspicion on his face. The lengthy silence that followed was broken only by the quiet clattering of the typewriter.
âSo your account is actually with the Oxford branch of the bank then, sir?â was the question that finally emerged from the sceptical teller. He had finally deduced this astonishing fact from Jackâs reference to Oxford and from the word âOxfordâ appearing in large letters on the front of the passbook.
âCorrect.â
âDo you have any identification on you, sir?â
âWhat sort of identification?â
âA passport, driverâs licence, anything of that sort.â
âDo I need something of that sort?â asked Jack with a note of surprise in his voice.
âWell, sir,â said Franklin Grimm with a coldly superior sneer, âhow can I be certain that you are indeed the person whose name appears in the front of this passbook?â
âWhat nonsense!â snorted Warnie. âThis is definitely Jack. Tom Morris here and I can both swear to it. Iâm his brotherâknown him all his life.â
âSo,â continued the teller, âyouâre assuring me that this man is your friend and brother Jack?â
âExactly!â said Warnie, blowing out his cheeks in indignation.
âWell, that does present me with a problem, sir,â said Grimm, âsince the name in the front of this book is not Jack Lewis, or even John Lewis, but Clive Staples Lewis.â
âYes!â insisted Warnie, becoming quite heated. âThatâs him.â
âClive Staples Lewis is also Jack Lewis?â
âYes . . . well . . . â Warnie suddenly saw the problem. âWhen he was quite a small child he told the family that he didnât like his name and wanted to be called Jack. And he has been ever since.â
Another silence followed this explanation with the teller slowly turning over the pages of the passbook. Finally he looked up and said to Jack, âDo you have any paperwork at all, sir, in the name of C. S. Lewis?â
âNot on me, no,â Jack admitted. âAll I have in my rucksack, apart from that passbook, is clean clothing and my sponge bag. And in my pockets . . . â
With these words he patted his pockets and produced the contents. âJust my pipe and tobacco pouch and a couple of books.â Jack set on the counter two small volumes: the Oxford World