A Week in December

by Sebastian Faulks

  Tranter laid the letter down on the melamine work surface. Was this some kind of joke? Was someone trying to trick him? He read it again. No, it seemed genuine enough. He would answer carefully, non-committally, offering no hostage to fortune; but so far as he could see, this letter had, with a single offer, made him financially secure. And surely good things did sometimes happen?

  Although it had only just grown light, John Veals had been at his desk for an hour by the time security rang up at eight to say, ‘There’s a Miss Wilby here to see you.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll meet her at the lift.’

  Veals watched the indicator lights as the regulator rose to meet him. G, 1, 2, 3 ... He was waiting for her; he was quite calm now, ready to draw on all his experience – futures, banking, trading, managing: everything and anything to protect what was dearest in the world to him.

  The doors parted, and out stepped a young woman in a grey suit and black tights, carrying a briefcase. She had fair hair tied back in a businesslike way, wore metal-rimmed glasses and was slightly flushed.

  ‘Caroline Wilby.’ Her hand was moist, and Veals could feel a tremor in it.

  ‘Come this way.’

  He took her into his own office and pointed to the chair opposite his own, the one in which Simon Wetherby had sat while Veals divested him of his innocence on the sub-prime loans issue.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you. I’d better give you this.’ She pushed a business card across the desk.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Veals into the phone. His four screens were blank. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

  A secretary knocked and entered with coffee and a plate of rectangular chocolate biscuits with a soft chocolate filling.

  ‘Thanks. FSA favourites!’ said Caroline Wilby, biting into one.

  Veals watched her. She composed herself a little, settled into the chair, then said, ‘Do you mind if I record this meeting?’ She took out a small digital device from her bag.

  ‘Not at all.’

  There followed a minute or so of battery checking, of buttons being pushed and released. ‘Difficult to know if it’s actually working ... Let me see ... Just going to do a test. “Testing one two three. High Level Capital ... December 21st.” Now let’s see. Oh, God, sorry. Try again. I think if I hold this down ...’

  Veals gazed out of the window until she was ready.

  ‘First of all, I’m so grateful to you for seeing me at such short notice. I really do appreciate your help. I’m going round a few senior people seeing if they can give me any guidance. As you know, we’re trying to improve all our systems, especially at such an awkward time.’

  Veals nodded.

  ‘We’re interested at this time in rumours and how they start. And I know this is going to sound rather naive and I hope you’ll forgive me asking, but do you ever trade on rumours?’

  Veals stroked his chin and looked across at her. She had crossed her legs and he noticed the chubby calves and the scuffed edges of the black court shoes. It was utterly quiet in the office.

  ‘Of course,’ said Veals.

  Caroline Wilby looked a little surprised.

  ‘When rumours are widespread they can affect the way a market moves. If people believe, for instance, that a company is to become the subject of a takeover, even though the board has denied it – if that’s the rumour, it’ll obviously push the price up. And if it’s a company we’re interested in, we may need to take appropriate action to protect our position.’

  ‘Well, naturally, I ... I do see that.’

  ‘We’re obliged to look after our investors’ interests.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that you—’

  ‘Equally, we would never want to be at the beginning of any such word on the street. If I heard some gossip and felt I was one of the first to hear it, I would disregard it. My view is that one should trade on the basis of analysis and information, not rumour. However, if the persistence of a rumour over a period of time begins to alter prices, then the price change becomes a fact – and on that fact we may sometimes be obliged to act.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is, that it depends at what stage you hear the rumour.’

  ‘Often we have no way of knowing whether we’re second, third or twenty-fifth to hear something. But it’s the one area in which it’s best to be behind the game. Unlike analysis, where we try to be ahead.’

  ‘So it’s a question of being reactive to rumour, not proactive.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Veals, in such a way as to suggest that Caroline Wilby had been unusually acute.

  She smiled. ‘So I think I’ve probably answered my next question already, and that is, have you ever deliberately started a rumour?’

  Veals tried to smile. ‘Indeed. See my previous answer.’

  Caroline Wilby frowned. ‘Can I be completely frank, Mr Veals? I really need your help.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It seems that a particular rumour started about Allied Royal bank a couple of days ago. That it was going to be taken over by First New York. Did you know about that?’

  ‘I saw something on one of the cable channels.’

  ‘Yes, it was denied in New York last night by the chief executive of First New York.’

  ‘So I heard. These things happen. Perhaps they might have made a good fit, but I suppose people are scared of over-expanding at the moment.’

  ‘Have you any idea where such a rumour might have started?’

  ‘It sounds to me like routine speculation. Bankers talk about this kind of thing all the time. You can’t stop people theorising out loud. But is there a problem? No one can have made anything out of it in such a short time, can they?’

  ‘No, we’ve no reason to think so. It’s just that we’re trying to tighten up on all these areas.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Have you traded on ARB stock recently?’

  ‘We have a small short position which we put on some months ago. I’ve been bearish ARB for a while. So actually I was surprised to see the price go up. The first I heard of the takeover rumour was when it was denied. The price’ll go back down again now, I imagine.’

  Caroline Wilby nodded. ‘Yes, I quite understand. There are two other things I’d like to ask if I may. Do you have a continuing education programme to ensure that your staff are up to speed with the latest rules on insider trading? And are they fully conversant with the rules about rumours?’

  ‘Yes, we have a very good new compliance officer. He makes sure everyone’s up to date, and I double-check it. We send them on courses. It’s not very onerous, but it’s worth keeping up.’

  ‘That’s marvellous. Thank you. One last thing.’ Caroline Wilby ran her hand back over her hair. ‘I ... I don’t quite know how to put this ... Um ... We’re under huge pressure to get to the bottom of this ARB thing, but, to be honest, I just don’t know where to look or what to ask. And then how to verify whether what I’m being told is true. Now, you’re a very experienced and senior person, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you were in my position, what would you ask? And who would you ask?’

  Veals looked at her for a long time. ‘Before I answer that, Caroline, can I ask you a couple of questions?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘What did you do before this job?’

  ‘I worked as a trainee at an investment bank, I’d better not say which. Not one of the American ones. A big European one.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Then I had a trial.’

  ‘And?’

  Caroline Wilby looked down. ‘I ... I didn’t get taken on.’

  Veals stood up abruptly. ‘I’ve got an idea. I know one of your top guys from way back. Why don’t I give him a call today, tell him you’ve been, tell him you’re a very sharp girl and that I really want to help. I won’t mention your last question.’

  The flush intensified on Caroline Wilby’s face. ‘Would yo
u? Would you really do that?’

  ‘Yes, I would. I wouldn’t say so otherwise. Then I’ll ask if I can go and see him on Monday, maybe take him out to lunch and really see if I can help him get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘God, that’s so kind of you. I really do appreciate it.’

  ‘I guess it’s not easy, your job.’

  ‘It’s not easy at all. I’m not sure I’m really cut out for it, to tell the truth.’ Caroline Wilby put the voice recorder back in her bag. ‘You know, asking all these questions. I’ll do it for a bit, I suppose. But what I’d really like is to work for a hedge fund. Obviously, I’d be well placed to work in the compliance department. I don’t suppose you ever ...’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Veals, showing her to the door. ‘But I’ll bear it in mind.’

  At 8.30 the chutney-coloured limousine pulled out of the gates at the al-Rashids’ house and started the trip west to Buckingham Palace. At Knocker’s insistence they had put aside an hour and a half for the journey. He was sitting in the front, alongside Joe, the driver, checking for the third time that he still had the parking permit for the forecourt of the palace. Joe’s tabloid paper, stuffed under his seat, bore the huge headline ‘Bungalow Suicide Shocker’. In the back sat Nasim, who had finally settled for an intense blue sari with ivory and saffron embroidery, jettisoning the knee-length beige dress at the last minute.

  ‘I feel a bit of a fraud,’ she told Knocker. ‘I’m just a Yorkshire lass and I’ve dressed up like a maharani.’

  Knocker grinned. ‘You look beautiful. It’s good to honour the land of our ancestors. After all, today is about lime pickle.’

  ‘Which you once told me was a British invention.’

  ‘Ssh. Don’t tell Her Majesty, she might change her mind.’

  Knocker’s excitement was making him unusually frivolous. Hassan had shaved for the occasion and wore a dark suit with narrow trousers and a navy blue tie. He stared out of the window as the streets of East Ham went by, thinking as he saw the drapers and the greengrocers, the stallholders and the small-business frontages, of how far the people had come to be there. What a struggle was still theirs. The kafirs wore trainers and thick anoraks, but there were numerous people in the clothes of the North-West Frontier or those of Arabia, padded against the cold. He had hated it when Shahla was so defeatist about what she called the Muslim ‘polity’, saying an Islamic state could never exist, condemning as she did so his people to a life as visitors, second-class people – squatters, really, in the countries and systems of others.

  At the gates of the palace, Knocker withdrew his several pieces of printed instruction and handed the parking permit, a single white letter ‘M’ on a red background, to the driver. After leaving the car, they were shown up some wide stone steps covered in crimson carpet. At this point, Knocker was separated from Nasim and Hassan, who were escorted by a flunkey to their seats in the ballroom, where they would witness the investitures being made.

  Knocker watched them disappear with a pang, then stepped forward, as instructed, into the palace itself. At the top of some more steps he found himself in a huge rectangular room with numerous old paintings – Dutch, French, he didn’t know. Here, a woman in a black skirt and cardigan, rather like a caterer, Knocker thought, asked him which decoration he was to receive. The KBEs and CBEs went one way, the OBEs and the MBEs another; each then regrouped in a holding pen, cordoned off by a scarlet rope, such as you might have in a post-office queue.

  Knocker made desultory chat with a few of his fellow OBEs and tried hard to remember his homework. ‘Betjeman ... Indeed. Perhaps underrated. Philip Larkin without the melancholy ...’ Or was that Ted Hughes? A man came and pinned onto his lapel a hook from which the medal would in due course be hung.

  A few minutes later, a grand gentleman in a uniform covered in gold frogging and with a scarlet stripe up the side of his trousers came bounding into the room and introduced himself with enormous pleasure.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen ... A few words of explanation ... Batting order as follows ...’

  Knocker was so nervous he was barely listening. He went over his homework. ‘Needs to learn the difference between “may” and “might” if she is to be taken seriously.’ But which one was that? Damn it, he had forgotten. Virginia Woolf, perhaps. Or was she the one who’d put the ‘anal’ into ‘banality’? He tried to summon up Tranter’s whiny voice to prompt him.

  ‘Anyone on this side of the room not, I repeat not, for an MBE? Splendid, splendid, you really are fast learners. So by process of elimination, every single one of you on this side must be a C or K. Excellent! You’re doing my job for me!’

  Knocker licked his lips and swallowed hard. He slipped a mint into his mouth, not wishing to give Her Majesty an unwitting reminder of the industry he had so faithfully ‘served’.

  The beaming courtier boomed on: ‘Now the next thing you need to know is that this morning’s investitures will be taken not by Her Majesty but by the Prince of Wales. He does an increasing number these days and the good news for you is that he is extremely good at it.’

  For six months Knocker had been imagining his interview with the sovereign, the head of state. All his talk had been for her. ‘T. S. Eliot, I believe, ma’am. A most interesting American poet. Have you read much of his work?’ It was difficult not to be disappointed; but it was more than this that he felt: it was a sense of disorientation.

  ‘... come in from the side, pause next to the gentleman usher, like so, then when you hear your surname called you step forward, like so. Now. The Prince of Wales will be on a dais. Do not attempt to join him on the dais.’

  Knocker looked round in puzzlement. What was a ‘day-iss’? Why should he not join the Prince on one?

  ‘... and finally, can anyone tell me what you should call the Prince of Wales? Yes, sir, you.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Absolutely right. And if that’s a bit of a mouthful with your false teeth in, then “sir” is perfectly acceptable. Now then. Any questions?’

  By the time they were ushered out of the room, Knocker found he could barely remember the name of a single English writer. He was towards the end of the OBEs, his surname being deemed to start with R for Rashid, not A for al. They crossed the ballroom at the back and he looked round in vain for Nasim and Hassan. His mouth was dry as he waited in a long corridor and wondered if he had time for another mint, but the last thing he wanted was still to be sucking it when he had to make conversation so that he’d have to spit it out or secrete it in his hand, then shake the Prince’s ... Oh dear.

  He looked at the others in the queue. Many of the women seemed to have dressed in a way that Knocker had never seen in any woman except the Queen herself: a dress and a light coat of the same material and a squashed-meringue hat on top. The men looked slightly less ill at ease in their suits, but the people who had fared best were the numerous sailors, airmen and soldiers with shining brass and glowing brown leather belts. These are my fellow countrymen, thought Knocker, people who patrol the seas and skies, defend the shores. I never think of them.

  By the time he was in the doorway, two away from his turn, Knocker’s mind had gone almost completely blank. He was aware of its emptiness. Indeed, he could picture it: like the huge cauldron in which they stewed the limes, emptied, washed, hosed. He fancied he could actually still hear a slight ringing sound from the final scour of wire wool – but coming from his empty brain.

  Some robotic force moved his feet forward and stopped them on the crimson carpet opposite the ‘gentleman usher’. He could see the Prince conversing genially with the man ahead of him, who then took two steps back, bowed, and left the ballroom.

  ‘Mr Farooq al-Rashid. For services to catering.’

  The same impersonal force caused one foot to follow another over the strip of crimson to where the Prince stood above him on a dais.

  ‘Catering,’ said the Prince. ‘Are you the pickle company?’

>   ‘Yes, Your Highness. Lime pickle originally and now a large range of other chutneys and sauces.’

  ‘I see. And where are you based? In London?’

  ‘No, we started in Renfrew, Glasgow, now we have other factories in Luton. And ...’ Knocker trailed away, fearing he was babbling.

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve tried your lime pickle,’ said the Prince. ‘Very good it was too. I’ve travelled a good deal in India and Pakistan, where—’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Have you read A. H. Edgerton, sir?’

  ‘Edgerton, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, Edgerton, sir. He is a very fine Victorian writer. Some people call him the poor man’s Trollope, but I think of him as the rich man’s Dickens.’

  ‘I shall certainly keep an eye out for him. Now I’m going to pin this on you ... And I hope that if ever times get difficult in your business, you will remember this moment and consider it an encouragement.’

  ‘Do you read many good books?’ said Knocker.

  ‘As much as time allows,’ said the Prince.

  ‘I’m also a great admirer of Dick Francis and T. S. Eliot,’ said Knocker.

  ‘Excellent. So was my grandmother. Of Dick Francis anyway. It was very nice to meet you, Mr al-Rashid. Many congratulations.’ The Prince held out his hand, the signal that the interview was over.

  Knocker grasped it fiercely and looked into the Prince’s eyes. He felt like a small boy. He could feel his late mother and father peering over his shoulder. ‘What is Farooq doing?’ ‘What are you up to, little menace?’

  Their voices were so strong in his ears that he could barely concentrate. His throat closed up and his eyes filled with tears as he stepped back awkwardly, trying not to trip on the bottom of his over-length hired trousers. Somehow he managed to bow and turn away, then walk across the red carpet with the eyes of the ballroom upon him, so that he found it hard to co-ordinate his arms and legs as he shuffled out.

  As soon as he had made it to the far corridor, he was required to give back his medal to be placed in a presentation box. The man doing this gave him a winsome smile.