Damn the Banks!
In 1981, I was very fortunate to buy a Moto Guzzi Le Mans II. It was one year old, with 17 thousand km on the clock. Nearly 40 years later, now with nearly 200,000 km up, it remains a wonderful bike. However, there was a real tragedy in the purchase. A housemate knew of the bike, and told me that it was for sale. Located in Singleton, NSW, the bike was indicated for sale at 3/4 of its new price. Having made contact with the first owner, Lindsay D’Arth, I travelled from my home in Sydney, on a Saturday, to view the bike. The bike presented fairly well, although it must be said that in those days, the original paintwork on most of the Italian makes was not too flash. The vendor, Lindsay, seemed upset about something. At first, I thought he was morose about selling the bike. Later, I learned that he was deeply affected by all the misery and poverty he witnessed, as he travelled through India. In 1980, he had picked up the bike at the Guzzi factory, in northern Italy, then ridden through Europe, including attending the TT races, at the Isle of Man. Returning to Mandello, the factory crated the bike for it’s voyage downunder. Thereafter, Lindsay made his own way home, via India, to resume living with his parents, in Singleton. I was optimistic about buying the bike, so when I was offered a test ride, it was agreed that I would be gone for a while. I rode west along the New England Highway, almost to Muswellbrook, then returned. The bike went well in all respects, so we began to negotiate the price. I had never previously bargained for anything, so I was surprised that the vendor seemed to be fairly soft in the process, even shedding tears. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems very likely that he was suffering from depression. I gave him a cash deposit of $500. We agreed that I would pick up the bike on the following Saturday morning, paying the balance with a bank cheque. On the following Monday, I went to the Communication Credit Union, where I was banking, and arranged for the bank cheque. They said, “that’s fine, Mr Ward, we’ll post your cheque to you”. I countered ‘no thanks, there’s a postal strike on now, I’ll pick it up here, this Friday. I’ll be going to the country, with the cheque, to pick up my purchase’. “Oh, we have no doubt that your cheque will arrive in the post by Friday, or before”. ‘No, thank you. I will be here, this Friday, for my cheque. Is that clear?’ “Yes”. On the Friday, I used my lunch break to go to the credit union. “Oh, Mr Ward, we posted your cheque. Surely, it has arrived !” ‘No, and I specifically told you not to post the cheque.’ “Doubtless, your cheque will be in your letterbox, when you arrive home.” ‘Most likely, it will not, and you will be closed until Monday. Please cancel the first cheque and give me another one now.’ “Oh no, we can’t do that !” ‘You can and you will.’ An unhappy discussion ensued, with neither side giving way. When the branch manager was called, I went over the whole story again, emphasizing that they had not followed my instructions. The manager was also unmoved, until I offered to remain in their banking chamber, loudly declaring their actions, and just what I thought of
them. The manager relented. Soon, I had a freshly issued bank cheque, and I scurried back to work. The next morning, I was pillioned up to Singleton. After brief pleasantries, I handed over the cheque and rode away on the bike. I believed that all was well. During the next week, I had no trouble in transferring the registration to my name. Shortly thereafter, I heard from my housemate that the previous owner had died, by his own hand. A week or so later, I was at home on a Saturday afternoon, relaxing. A knock at the door revealed two men, each wearing a suit, who announced that they were detectives from the local police station. They could easily tell that I was in my cups, but they told me not to worry about that, since they had something completely different to talk about. They questioned me closely about my recent dealings with the credit union, in order to try to corroborate their existing information, or otherwise. A more complete picture emerged. They told me that the credit union had posted the first cheque to the wrong address. An opportunist at that address opened the letter, finding a fat bank cheque, in the name of the bike vendor. The opportunist went to a local bank branch and opened an account in the name of the vendor, deposited the cheque, and immediately enquired about withdrawal. The bank branch contacted the credit union, who contacted the police. Maintaining their level of competence, the credit union cancelled both cheques. The vendor must have believed that he had been ripped off, big time. It seems very likely that this would have tipped him over the edge. Tragically, he asphyxiated himself, in his parents’ home, with a length of tubing attached to the family car exhaust. Those gits at the credit union have some responsibility for that young man’s death. There seems little doubt that their incompetent actions determined the timing of his death. Phil Ward Hurstville, NSW