by Caro Fraser
At the other end, Murray sighed. ‘It’s an offer. If we accept it, at least the Names don’t run the risk of going to court and losing. If that happens, they end up with nothing, except a packet in costs. This way, they get a hundred per cent of line. You’re never going to do better than that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ mused Leo. He paused in thought once more, then said, ‘It’s something to put to the Names, in any event. We’d better call a meeting and thrash it out. I’d like to have a word with Anthony and get back to you, if I may.’
‘Fine. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
Leo hung up and sat back in his chair. Apart from the faint sense of relief at the fact that Lloyd’s were nervous enough to want to settle the claim, the fact that the offer fell short of the ideal only galvanised him into wanting to push on with the litigation. He relished the prospect of a day – or more – in court with Capstall, and had confidence in his own ability to win. There was something lukewarm about settling, particularly on these terms. But then, one never knew how far the thing might be open to negotiation. It was improbable that the high and mighty of Lloyd’s would agree to capping the liability of the Names, absolving them of any future indebtedness. And what if Murray was right? What if they were never going to do any better? His mind ran quickly over the scenario of the next few days. Murray would inform the committee, a general meeting of the Names action group would be called to discuss the proposal, and he, Leo, would have to address them on the advisability, or otherwise, of accepting. He had enough arrogant belief in his own powers of persuasion to know that most of the Names would be guided by what he said. In the end, much would depend upon which way Leo pushed them. He rubbed his hands over his face for a brief moment, as if to smooth away the stress and anxiety which this case had brought, then stood up. He would go and talk to Anthony.
Freddie sat in the silence of his flat, gazing at the letter in his faintly trembling grasp, then at the leafless branches and grey sky beyond his window, then at the letter once more. A little drift of steam wafted from the mug of Lemsip at his side. He’d had the gas fire full on all day – God alone knew what the bill was going to be like – but still he was cold. The last time he had placed a hopeful hand on the radiator on the other side of the room, it had been no more than warm. He had two pairs of socks on, a jumper, his jacket on top of that, and a muffler round his neck. It was all this sitting around that made a man cold. Could feel his toes like ice, and the ends of his fingers had gone mauve. If it weren’t for this blasted chest of his, he’d go out for a good brisk constitutional. Trouble was, he’d be wheezing like a walrus by the time he reached Museum Street, and this cold of his was bad enough without getting soaked in the icy drizzle which looked as though it might start at any moment.
Maud’s letter was welcome, and yet he could have done without it. An invitation to spend a month or so in the warm Madeira sunshine was tantalising – agonisingly so. In the face of this filthy January weather, it was almost too good to contemplate. Trouble with his sister was, she’d completely lost touch with reality. Well, his reality. She didn’t seem to understand the extent of his Lloyd’s losses, seemed to think that he was living in some kind of palatial mansion flat, no worries … All very well for her and Jack to invite him out there, but how was he supposed to manage the damned fare? Now, if they’d offer to buy his plane ticket, that would have been another matter. The warmth of Madeira would be excellent for his health, clear up this touch of bronchitis in no time. But then, Maud and Jack weren’t exactly wealthy, either. It was good of them to invite him, really.
Feeling depressed and lethargic, Freddie put down the letter and drank off some of his Lemsip. Disgusting stuff, did no good, but he’d been told to take it. He sighed and got up from his armchair to look at the television page of the paper. Racing from Newmarket on Channel Four. Might as well. He was just about to switch the television on, when the phone rang. Eagerly Freddie crossed the room, picking up the whole telephone and placing it on the table next to his armchair before settling down to answer it. In his isolation, a phone call was a luxury to be enjoyed. At the sound of Basher Snodgrass’s voice, Freddie’s former lassitude left him, and when the words ‘settlement offer’ came down the line, he felt a prickle of hope and excitement. This was what they had waited for. This could be the change of all their fortunes.
Twenty minutes later, Freddie put the phone down and sat in thought, the dry ends of his fingertips stroking the salt-and-pepper bristles of his moustache. He could feel his heart still beating rapidly from the electrifying discussion he had had with Basher. This was the kind of thing he needed, something to jolt him out of his invalid state, give vigour to the days. So Lloyd’s wanted to settle, eh? Basher had mentioned something about one hundred per cent of line. He did a rough mental calculation. Good God, thought Freddie, if this settlement came off, that would mean a payment of £80,000. The difference it would make to his life was too stupendous to contemplate. He could get out of this dingy flat, for a start, salvage something of the dignity which he struggled so hard to maintain these days. It was damned hard, when you had to pinch and scrape all the time. This would put an end to all that. He would get out of London, move somewhere quiet, somewhere he could make a few friends with people of his own class and outlook. Haywards Heath, or Woking. Games of bridge in the evenings, golf, a car to get about in, decent meals … What did he care if there was no cap on future liabilities? He was eighty-two, not likely to enjoy more than another few years, with his heart. Not even Lloyd’s of London could pursue him beyond his grave. His eye strayed to the letter which lay on the carpet where it had fallen, and he felt another little jolt of excitement. He stooped to pick it up, unfolded it slowly. The possibility of a settlement with Lloyd’s changed this, too. Madeira, a long holiday in the sun with his sister and brother-in-law. He could give up this flat and stay out there for a few months, possibly, before deciding where to settle. This time, when Freddie stared out at the bleak rooftops of Bloomsbury, he saw only the golden possibility of his changed fortunes. Then the fax began to chatter, and Freddie sat collecting the pages as they curled out, reading Murray Campbell’s missive to the committee members avidly, as though to make his dreams a reality.
‘How much would we get?’ asked Alison, leaning her head on her elbow, gazing across at her husband. Since his telephone conversation earlier that afternoon with the solicitors, Brian had sat in his cubbyhole for three hours, going over figures, scribbling calculations, sifting pieces of paper. Then he had emerged, and had told her that Lloyd’s had offered to settle. She had felt her heart lift – not so much at the news, as at the unaccustomed excitement which Brian clearly felt. Still she did not allow her hopes to rise much. She was too used to disappointment, to the settled sense of financial hopelessness which this Lloyd’s business had fixed in her.
‘A hundred per cent of line,’ said Brian, scanning the figures before him and then jotting something further down. Alison noticed that the plastic end of the biro he used was ragged, bitten and split. There was always something feverish about him these days, whether in hope or despair. But she was past worrying. This was how he was.
The words meant nothing to her. ‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. They were sitting together at the kitchen table, and behind them supper was overcooking on the stove. From the room above she could hear the children arguing, a door slamming, Paul’s stereo turned up, then more shouting. ‘What’s a line?’
‘It’s the amount of insurance which the underwriter can write on your behalf.’ He looked up at her, pushing his glasses back on his thin nose, his voice taking on the quiet, patient tone he adopted when helping the children with their homework. Not that Paul did much homework these days. ‘Let’s say your deposit with Lloyd’s is ten thousand. That means your line will be double that, twenty thousand.’
‘Our deposit was fifty thousand,’ said Alison, slowly working out the calculation. ‘That me
ans—’
‘It means that if this settlement came off, we would get something in the region of a hundred thousand.’
There was a silence. Alison rose and went to the cooker, turning off the gas beneath the pan of rice. She turned, leaning against the edge of the work surface. She could feel the increased beat of her heart. ‘That’s what we would get? That much?’
‘Well, there would be tax …’ Brian stared vaguely at the figures before him. ‘It would depend how the payment is treated. But, yes, that’s the offer. There’s no cap on future liabilities. We would still remain exposed. But it would mean—’ Brian hesitated, then looked up at her. ‘It would mean that we wouldn’t have to declare ourselves bankrupt.’
‘Bankrupt?’ She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You never told me it was that bad!’
‘We’re heading that way, certainly,’ said Brian, automatically beginning to pick at a little shred of skin on his index finger. Alison closed her eyes momentarily. It seemed to her that the future was a dark, dangerous tide which rose and fell, threatening to engulf them all one moment, and then ebbing away the next, only to roll remorselessly in again.
‘This settlement offer – will the Names accept it?’
Brian nibbled anxiously at his finger. ‘I don’t know. Murray Campbell says that there will be those who’ll want to hold out in the hope of getting more if they go on with the litigation.’ He shrugged. ‘Then there’s people like us. We’re not like half of those fat cat Names, people who’ve only lost their second home and have had to sell the Rolls and make do with a Jag. We need this settlement. We can’t afford to wait. We’ll go under long before the litigation ends. If we can get a hundred thousand out of the bastards who got us into this in the first place, it means I might be able to start something up again. I’ve got contacts. I’m not exactly a spent force.’ His smile was no more than a bitter spasm. ‘I started the last business with only a small amount of capital. I don’t see why I couldn’t get something going. I’ve done it once before.’
Alison stood gazing down at him, at his thinning hair, his dark, anxious eyes. He looked much older than forty-seven. But she was aware of his reserves of energy, knew that if his hope and ambition could be rekindled, then he might be capable of anything. For a moment she allowed her hopes to rise impractically. If Brian had enough to start a new business and make a success of it, as he had in the past, then they might be able to get their heads above water. Brian had explained to her that, even if they accepted this offer, they would still have to face unforeseen future liabilities, but by then they might be able to pay those. It was just a question of building something. He was right. They had done it before. Why should they not do it again? All they needed was a fresh start. This offer could change their lives, turn Brian back into something of the person he had once been … But what if it fell through? What if the rest of the Names decided to go on with the litigation? God, what a monster hope was, the way it generated fresh fears to gnaw at one. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked. ‘Is there some sort of vote?’
‘There’s to be an Extraordinary General Meeting some time next week, I’m not sure yet which day. The Names will meet then and decide.’ He suddenly sounded tired, as though the excitement of kindling new possibilities had worn him out with its futility.
She knew she had asked the question before, but could not help repeating it. ‘Do you think they’ll accept?’
Brian shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know …’ He sighed. ‘I just hope to God, for our sakes, that they do.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Extraordinary General Meeting of the Names was called for Friday of the following week. Rachel had left for Sydney the day before, and as Leo sat at the kitchen table that morning, drinking his coffee and scanning the notes spread out before him, Jennifer came in with Oliver balanced on her hip. She glanced at Leo and murmured good morning, conscious of a small, inner excitement as she spoke. Every utterance, now that she and Leo were to be alone together for two weeks, seemed charged with extra significance.
Leo sighed as he gathered his papers together. ‘Morning,’ he murmured absently. He rose and glanced briefly at Jennifer. He was perfectly well aware of the finely tuned atmosphere that the girl had created recently, was only too familiar with the modulations of voice and body language which signified availability. He had not lived and loved so long without learning those lessons. As he put on his jacket, slipping his spectacles into his pocket, she turned away, splashing some water into a glass at the sink and murmuring to Oliver. He smiled to himself. She was perfectly aware that he was watching her. It was spoken in the very curve of her hip, the movement of her head as she tossed her hair from her face. Games. Adorable, tantalising little games. Leo did not think he would ever grow tired of them. How he loved the cunning innocence of the young.
He put his papers into his briefcase and closed it. ‘Right. I’ll be off,’ he said. For all his sense of control over the situation, he realised that whatever he said to her must sound stuffy, middle-aged, betraying nothing of his own delicate perception of matters. What else did one say to the nanny on leaving the house? Whatever currents might run beneath it, the situation demanded platitudes, polite smiles and enquiries. ‘Got anything special planned for the day?’
Jennifer slipped Oliver into his high chair. Leo noticed that all her movements were slow and studied, as though part of a performance. Part of the game. She looked up and smiled. She wished that she could prevent herself from smiling so much when she looked at Leo, but the sense of pleasurable excitement that bubbled within her was irresistible. ‘Oh, I’ll take him to Tumbletots, maybe to the park,’ she replied idly. ‘The usual. You know.’
Leo nodded, and then there was a momentary silence. ‘Right. Well, I’ll see you this evening, I suppose. Shouldn’t be too late.’
Jennifer nodded in reply, relishing the domestic intimacy of the situation. ‘Have a good day,’ she called as he left the house.
Anthony stood on the steps of Church House in Westminster, where the meeting of the Names had been convened, amusing himself by studying the individuals as they passed through the doorway, listening to the odd snatches of conversation which he caught. Everyone attending the meeting seemed well dressed, regardless of the impecuniosity of which they constantly complained, with only the occasional touch of flamboyance or eccentricity, and all the voices were middle-aged or elderly, silvered with gentility, fractious with grievance. Every eye gleamed with a certain determination, an eagerness to get down to the matter of this offer. If there was one thing the Lloyd’s Names never tired of, thought Anthony, it was the business of talking about their money, past or present, existent or non-existent. Thinking ahead to the proceedings which would unfold that morning, he felt a slight nervousness in the pit of his stomach. He had not yet decided, despite long confabulations with Leo and Murray and Fred Fenton, whether this offer from Lloyd’s was a good thing or not. Listening to the shreds of discussion from the Names as they made their slow way into the building, he could glean no hint of the general mood. Well, they would all know by the end of the day.
He and Leo caught sight of one another at the same instant, just as Leo was crossing the square, and each felt the same pleasurable rise of the heart at the sight of the other. They went into Church House together, past the table where Camilla and some assistant solicitors from Nichols & Co were handing out name tags and agendas to the arriving Names, and mounted the broad stone steps. The discreet rumble of voices from those already seated greeted them as they entered the hall.
‘That’s us,’ murmured Leo, nodding towards the platform which faced the audience at the far end of the circular hall, and on which stood a long table, with a microphone and lectern in the centre, and chairs ranged on either side. Anthony glanced round at the sea of faces and hoped that neither Murray nor Fred would palm off any questions from the audience on him. He might feel perfectly at ease speaking in the intimate, civilised surroundings of a
courtroom, but the idea of having to address this belligerent lot was not one which he relished. He had no doubt that, when their mood got ugly, these well-dressed, respectable members of the middle classes might be a force to be reckoned with. He was thankful that it was Leo, and not he, who had the task of advising the Names that day, especially since a proportion were bound to disagree with whatever he said.
Basher Snodgrass came forward to greet them, but his manner was somewhat distracted. ‘This overhead projector that they’ve given us,’ he muttered, indicating a small table where the apparatus stood, ‘I don’t think it’s working properly. The arm keeps swinging down.’ In his capacity as chairman, Basher clearly felt some trepidation. ‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘let me show you both where you’re sitting. Anthony, you’re next to some chap from The Guardian – can’t remember his name – and Leo, you’re here next to me.’ Basher glanced up and saw Freddie Hendry making slow but firm progress towards the platform, and hurried away. Freddie approached Leo and Anthony and began to talk to them, leaning on the table with tremulous, bony hands. He appeared prepared to stand there talking all day, until Brian Carstairs arrived, sheaves of paper under his arm, and hustled Freddie into a seat further along the table.
A sense of anticipation seemed to run through the hall as Basher mounted the platform and tapped the microphone, blowing into it experimentally. Anthony averted his head to hide a smile, and caught sight of Brian further along the table. His face was drawn and pinched, and he kept blinking agitatedly, glancing nervously out at the audience and then up at Basher as he prepared to speak. There might be a lot riding on this for someone like Brian, thought Anthony. He noticed that Freddie, having divested himself of his overcoat, had forgotten to take his woollen gloves and scarf off. Still, he looked happy enough, in a self-important way. Anthony leant out slightly to get a view past Basher, and saw that Leo was seated next to Charles Beecham. They were chatting together with an easy familiarity and, as Charles laughed at something which Leo had just said, it occurred to Anthony that Charles was an exceptionally attractive man for his age. Then he wondered, with a faintly cold shock, whether Leo thought so, too. But at that moment the journalist from The Guardian slid into the seat next to Anthony, out of breath, just as Basher began to speak, and Anthony put the thought from his mind, and turned his attention to the meeting.
