Making Money by Terry Pratchett Page B

trove that helped you to rebuild the Post Office. What really happened? You can tell Topsy.”
    He probably could, he decided, and noticed that although her hair was indeed thinning and almost white, it still held a pale trace of orange that hinted of more vivid reds in the past. “It was my stashed loot from years of swindling,” he said.
    Mrs. Lavish clapped her hands. “Wonderful! A sausage indeed! That is so…satisfying. Havelock has always had an instinct for people. He has plans for the city, you know.”
    “The Undertaking,” said Moist. “Yes, I know.”
    “Underground streets and new docks and everything,” said Topsy, “and for that a government needs money and money needs banks. Unfortunately, people have rather lost their faith in banks.”
    “Why?”
    “Because we lost their money, usually. Mostly not on purpose. We have been badly buffeted in recent years. The crash of 88, the crash of 93, the crash of 98…although that one was more of a ding. My late husband was a man who loaned unwisely, so we must carry bad debts and other results of questionable decisions. Now we’re where little old ladies keep their money because they always have done and the nice young clerks are still polite and there’s still a brass bowl by the door for their little dogs to drink out of. Could you do anything about this? The supply of old ladies is running out, as I’m well aware.”
    “Well, er, I may have a few ideas,” said Moist. “But it’s all still a bit of a shock. I don’t really understand how banks work.”
    “You’ve never put money in a bank?”
    “Not in, no.”
    “How do you think they work?”
    “Well, you take rich people’s money and lend it to suitable people at interest, and give as little as possible of the interest back.”
    “Yes, and what is a suitable person?”
    “Someone who can prove they don’t need the money?”
    “Oh, you cynic. But you have got the general idea.”
    “No poor people, then?”
    “Not in banks, Mr. Lipwig. No one with an income under a hundred and fifty dollars a year. That is why socks and mattresses were invented. My late husband always said that the only way to make money out of poor people is by keeping them poor. He was not, in his business life, a very nice man. Do you have any more questions?”
    “How did you become the bank’s chairman?” said Moist.
    “Chairman and manager,” said Topsy proudly. “Joshua liked to be in control.
    “Oh, yes, didn’t he just,” she added, as if to herself. “And I am now both of them because of a little bit of ancient magic called ‘being left fifty percent of the shares.’”
    “I thought that bit of magic was fifty-one percent of the shares,” said Moist. “Couldn’t the other shareholders force—”
    An inner door opened at the far side of the room and a tall woman in white entered, carrying a tray with its contents concealed by a cloth.
    “It really is time for your medicine, Mrs. Lavish,” she said.
    “It does me no good at all, Sister!” snapped the old woman.
    “Now, you know the doctor said no more alcohol,” said the nurse. She looked accusingly at Moist. “She’s to have no more alcohol,” she repeated, on the apparent assumption that he had a few bottles on his person.
    “Well I say no more doctor!” said Mrs. Lavish, winking conspiratorially at Moist. “My so-called stepchildren are paying for this, can you believe it? They’re out to poison me! And they tell everyone I’ve gone mad—”
    There was a knock at the door, less a request to enter than a declaration of intent. Mrs. Lavish moved with impressive speed and the bows were already swiveling when the door swung open.
    Mr. Bent came in, with Mr. Fusspot under his arm, still growling.
    “I said five times, Mr. Bent!” Mrs. Lavish yelled. “I might have shot Mr. Fusspot! Can’t you count?”
    “I do beg your pardon,” said Bent, placing Mr. Fusspot carefully in the in tray. “And I can count.”
    “Who’s a little