“Sorry, we don’t employ trainee accountants.” Thus began my twenty-minute interview with Mr Griffith, the senior partner of Griffith Miles Sully & Company.
I was desperate. My current employer was about to give me the sack. If that happened, I would never qualify as a Chartered Accountant. My three years with them would all have been wasted. I was so bad at my work that I had been relegated to the front office to answer the phones, replacing the receptionist, who was on maternity leave.
Mr Griffith was a roly-poly man, young for his senior position, probably in his thirties, bald as a coot save for one lock of hair fighting gallantly to gain a foothold. Unlike the punctilious manner and dress practised by my current employer, this man wore a suit so crumpled it looked as though he had slept in it. Apparently, he couldn’t care less. His garish red tie was skewed to one side, seemingly glued to a badly scuffed, yellowing white shirt. Mr Griffith smiled. “Call me Huw.” What a change from the obligatory “Mr” at my current job.
“Our staff are either Chartered Accountants or highly experienced. We don’t believe in trainees. Don’t have the time to train them or give them paid study leave. They’re an expensive luxury.” With no notice, Huw veered off onto another topic. “Can you drive? We have a Mini Cooper you can use. You’ll be travelling all over the country on audits.”
I grinned. I had travelled independently all my life, then found myself for the past three years cooped up in the attic of a crumbling Victorian home turned into an office, desk-bound.
“I’m taking a test next week.” I didn’t mention that my mum had forced me to take driving lessons—an exercise I had no interest in. As a result, I had taken lessons for more than two years, consistently failing my exams. With a chance to travel, I was now fully motivated.
As though struck by lightning, he exclaimed, “Good. One of my staff left. We need a replacement right away. Can you start next week? You’re in your third year, right? You should be experienced enough to join us.”
Without giving me a chance to speak, Huw continued. “We’ll start you off at £5,000 a year, four weeks’ paid study leave and another two weeks’ paid leave. You’ll have to work independently. No one’s got the time to train you.”
I could have hugged him. My salary at the time was £600 a year, including a measly two weeks of unpaid study leave. It was like winning the lottery. I accepted at once.
“Come in next Monday. I won’t be around, but one of the boys will show you the ropes.”
It wasn’t until I was outside, slapped in the face by a wintry gust, that I came to my senses. What had I let myself in for? Till now, all I had learned was elementary bookkeeping, let alone preparing or auditing financial statements. How long was I going to last?
