were four young men and then a youngish woman who sported the most enormous bosom and stomach so that she appeared to be close to giving birth to Sheffield Wednesday. Behind her in the queue two other men had arrived.
The bank door was opened with a flourish at 9.30 by a man in a black uniform with silver buttons down the front.
The queue shuffled inside the bank, but as the young woman approached a till, her breathing became uneven and her face contorted as if in great pain; she held her stomach, then collapsed in a heap on the floor.
A few customers turned to assist her. There wasn’t much they could do. Her forehead was moist and she was saying, ‘I need to go to the bathroom. I need to go to the bathroom.’
The security guard, Cyril Widdowson, the man with the buttons, came up. ‘Now Miss, whatever’s the matter?’
She gasped. ‘I need to use your … bathroom, very very quickly. Very quickly indeed.’
A woman rushed up and said, ‘If you’re not careful, she’ll have it in here! You should call for an ambulance.’
Widdowson’s face went white. ‘Right,’ he said helping the lumpy woman to her feet. He called to a girl on one of the tills, ‘Dial 999 and get an ambulance! Then tell Mr Hobson.’
The lady teller quickly took in the situation. ‘Right, Cyril,’ she replied.
He put his arm boldly round the big woman and assisted her up to the door leading to the bank vaults, stationery store, back door and lavatory. Then he looked around nervously. He still had certain security procedures to observe. However, there was nothing he could recall in standing orders about collapsing, pregnant women. He peered through a tiny window in the security door. Everything inside seemed normal. There was nobody near them on this side. He checked that the CCTV camera had them in its range. The situation seemed secure. He tapped the day’s code into the lock and the door clicked open.
‘Where’s the bathroom,’ she wailed as they went through the door into the secure area. The security door closed behind them.
Widdowson directed her to the lavatory door. ‘Will you be all right?’
She staggered through the door without replying and quickly slammed it shut. She shot the bolt across with a bang.
He stood outside, sighed and tried not to be alarmed as he heard groans and moans. He dreaded to think what the result of all the noises might be.
There was the sound of a buzzer. It was the noise caused by somebody wanting to get into the secure area.
He crossed over to the security door and looked through the tiny window. It was the bank manager, Mr Hobson.
Widdowson rushed to open the door to admit him.
Hobson came blustering through. He was not a happy man. ‘What’s happening?’
‘A pregnant women, sir. She’s in the staff toilet, Mr Hobson. Sounds like she’s having it now. Miss Phipps has phoned for an ambulance.’
‘Yes. I know. Well, be very careful. We must not lower our security, you know.’
‘I couldn’t very well deny her use of the lavatory, sir.’
‘No. No. I see that. But, well, we’ll have to escort her back out of here. Before anything.… Just as soon as we can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hobson banged on the staff toilet door. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’
‘Yes,’ a quiet little voice said.
Hobson said: ‘I’ll go out and see if there’s any sign of that ambulance.’
He crossed over to the security door, peered through the tiny window at the customers queuing at the tills, and beyond them to the front door. He was just in time to see two men with beards in bright blue and green uniforms rush into the bank hall. The one with ‘Paramedic’ printed in white across his chest and back was carrying a shoulder bag. The other was carrying a stretcher. They rushed up to a teller’s window.
Hobson dashed back to the staff toilet door. ‘The ambulance is here now, Miss!’
‘I’m coming out now,’ she said.
They heard the bolt on the door slide back, the door slowly
The bank door was opened with a flourish at 9.30 by a man in a black uniform with silver buttons down the front.
The queue shuffled inside the bank, but as the young woman approached a till, her breathing became uneven and her face contorted as if in great pain; she held her stomach, then collapsed in a heap on the floor.
A few customers turned to assist her. There wasn’t much they could do. Her forehead was moist and she was saying, ‘I need to go to the bathroom. I need to go to the bathroom.’
The security guard, Cyril Widdowson, the man with the buttons, came up. ‘Now Miss, whatever’s the matter?’
She gasped. ‘I need to use your … bathroom, very very quickly. Very quickly indeed.’
A woman rushed up and said, ‘If you’re not careful, she’ll have it in here! You should call for an ambulance.’
Widdowson’s face went white. ‘Right,’ he said helping the lumpy woman to her feet. He called to a girl on one of the tills, ‘Dial 999 and get an ambulance! Then tell Mr Hobson.’
The lady teller quickly took in the situation. ‘Right, Cyril,’ she replied.
He put his arm boldly round the big woman and assisted her up to the door leading to the bank vaults, stationery store, back door and lavatory. Then he looked around nervously. He still had certain security procedures to observe. However, there was nothing he could recall in standing orders about collapsing, pregnant women. He peered through a tiny window in the security door. Everything inside seemed normal. There was nobody near them on this side. He checked that the CCTV camera had them in its range. The situation seemed secure. He tapped the day’s code into the lock and the door clicked open.
‘Where’s the bathroom,’ she wailed as they went through the door into the secure area. The security door closed behind them.
Widdowson directed her to the lavatory door. ‘Will you be all right?’
She staggered through the door without replying and quickly slammed it shut. She shot the bolt across with a bang.
He stood outside, sighed and tried not to be alarmed as he heard groans and moans. He dreaded to think what the result of all the noises might be.
There was the sound of a buzzer. It was the noise caused by somebody wanting to get into the secure area.
He crossed over to the security door and looked through the tiny window. It was the bank manager, Mr Hobson.
Widdowson rushed to open the door to admit him.
Hobson came blustering through. He was not a happy man. ‘What’s happening?’
‘A pregnant women, sir. She’s in the staff toilet, Mr Hobson. Sounds like she’s having it now. Miss Phipps has phoned for an ambulance.’
‘Yes. I know. Well, be very careful. We must not lower our security, you know.’
‘I couldn’t very well deny her use of the lavatory, sir.’
‘No. No. I see that. But, well, we’ll have to escort her back out of here. Before anything.… Just as soon as we can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hobson banged on the staff toilet door. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’
‘Yes,’ a quiet little voice said.
Hobson said: ‘I’ll go out and see if there’s any sign of that ambulance.’
He crossed over to the security door, peered through the tiny window at the customers queuing at the tills, and beyond them to the front door. He was just in time to see two men with beards in bright blue and green uniforms rush into the bank hall. The one with ‘Paramedic’ printed in white across his chest and back was carrying a shoulder bag. The other was carrying a stretcher. They rushed up to a teller’s window.
Hobson dashed back to the staff toilet door. ‘The ambulance is here now, Miss!’
‘I’m coming out now,’ she said.
They heard the bolt on the door slide back, the door slowly
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