‘Not so bad,’ I whisper to my father.
He smiles, thin-lipped, and we sit through another ten minutes of questions to Lyle before the Chairman looks left and right. ‘Nothing else then? No? Nothing?’ It appears to be over. He begins thanking Darren for his time, and I have half-risen from my chair when the only woman on the Committee speaks.
‘Just one thing before you go, Mr Lyle.’ She smiles disarmingly at the Chairman, who stops mid- sentence. ‘With your experience in the City,’ she says to Lyle, ‘perhaps you might suggest any other City-to-Government links that deserve this Committee’s scrutiny.’
Darren pauses. ‘The privatizations? I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’
He is not the only one. The Chairman is looking at her curiously, it is clear this was not on his agenda.
‘I’m thinking of particular areas,’ she says. ‘Departments. For example, the Department of Social Security and the City, links like that.’
Lyle drops his head to one side. She elaborates. ‘If you could give us a specific department to focus on, it could save us some time.’
Beside me, my father stiffens.
‘A particular department?’ Lyle asks.
‘Yes,’ she tells him. ‘If you can.’
Darren thinks a moment, trawling for some hidden reef, then at last he seizes the opportunity. ‘Defence,’ he says.
‘Thank you,’ the Chairman breaks in.
‘And the general rule,’ the woman concludes, ‘is to keep Government and business well apart?’
Darren turns in his chair, smirking. ‘One time it doesn’t pay to keep things in the family,’ he says.
The eyes are on us again, and now no-one is laughing. Rage, pure rage, wells up in me. I feel the restraining pressure of my father’s hand on my knee. The Chairman suggests a fifteen-minute break. There is no time to gauge how damaging Lyle’s last sally has been. The Committee rises, then we all rise, my father guiding me out ahead of the crush.
‘Don’t hang about,’ he says in the corridor. ‘We’l1 look ridiculous.’
‘What’s he playing at?’
‘I’ll speak with Charles.’ He nods to the exit. ‘Go on.’
But at the exit I look back, only to see Lyle in the corridor chatting amiably with that woman MP. And right beside them is Gerald Wolsey. Westminster games. Turning sharply, I walk from the shadowed hall, out into the cold afternoon.
5
* * *
Sir John pours us both a drink. ‘Stephen tells me you’ll be working with him on the Meyer bid. Be like old times for you.’
My arm rests along the back of the sofa. Sir John’s‘ office has no Reuters or Blomberg screen, and there is no PC either; it feels more like a country-house library than a place of work. The Turner watercolour behind his desk is a piece from his private collection.
‘That’s not what I came about.’
‘No,’ he says, handing me my drink, ‘I thought not.’ He slumps into his favourite armchair, asking how things went at the Select Committee.
‘Penfield was there.’
‘Darren Lyle?’
‘Star of the show.’ Running a finger around the rim of my glass, I add: ‘That’s not what I came for either.’
He sips his whisky, then sighs. ‘The arrangement?’
Yes, I tell him, the arrangement.
He takes a real swig this time. Carlton Brothers, under Sir John’s instructions, and in my absence, has borrowed money from one of the clearing banks and used the funds to buy that same clearing bank’s shares. Privately, at his club, I shouldn’t be surprised, Sir John has agreed to warehouse this parcel. A cosy arrangement: they get protection from predators, and we get a powerful friend. The money has passed through enough intermediaries to make the transaction opaque, but in principle the deal is illegal. I want it undone.
‘Useful friends,’ he remarks of the clearing bank.
‘Not once the Stock Exchange gets its teeth into us.‘ They’ll run a mile.’
'I don’t believe so.’
‘I don’t want a debate, John. I just want us out of it.’
We’ve had this conversation once before. Then, I suggested he undo the deal: now I am telling him. Still nominally my superior, Sir John looks peeved.
‘They’ll be furious, Raef. They’re relying on us.’
‘Then you’ve got some work to do.’ Our eyes lock for a moment before his gaze slides away. He turns his glass in his hand. When my father resigned the Managing Directorship of Carltons nine years back, there was some soul-searching before he appointed Sir John to replace him. I was ruled out early — still too young, my father thought. My turn, he promised me, would come. But the other candidate was Charles Aldridge, eminently suitable, and it cost my father a good few sleepless nights before he made his final decision. Sir John, Deputy Manager at Carltons then, got the nod. Charles seemed to take it well enough, but relations between him and Sir John have never been quite the same since. And more than once lately I’ve wondered if my father didn’t perhaps choose the wrong man. I have nothing against Sir John, not personally. But professionally I’ve lost all faith in him. Nine years ago he was a good banker, exceptional even, but changes in the City and an over- fondness for alcohol have steadily clawed him down. The days when I admired him as much as I admire Stephen Vance are well and truly over. Yet, for the man he was, I retain a vestigial respect; next to my grandfather and Stephen Vance, Sir John has taught ~ me more about banking than anyone.
I certainly do not enjoy seeing him hanging his head before me now. To help him over his embarrassment, I ask if he's coming down to the shoot at Boddington tomorrow.
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ He seems relieved by the change in subject, and for a few minutes we discuss the shoot. But as soon as I feel I’ve soothed the bruises raised earlier, I set my glass down.
Disappointed, he urges me to stay. ‘Just five minutes, Raef.’
In his eyes, I see something I’d rather have missed. Sir John, the mentor of my youth and caretaker of my inheritance, does not want to be left drinking alone.
6
* * *
Noise crashes over me like a breaking wave; the markets are in full cry. Henry Wardell is behind his desk in the Dealing Room, almost hidden by a high bank of screens and squawkboxes. His hands are cupped to his mouth, and he’s shouting. The Chief Dealer at Carltons, this room is his domain.
When he pauses, I ask him what’s news.
He points to a screen. The US Discount rate has risen half a per cent. The equities screen is awash with red numbers, but as I watch the numbers start turning blue: the bargain hunters moving in.
‘Were we set?’
‘We’ll do okay this time.’ Henry gives me a look. The last Rate rise we were caught flat-footed: our Chief Economist was convinced it wouldn’t happen, and when it did happen we took heavy losses across the board. Our Chief Economist's name is William Butler: here in the Dealing Room they call him Billy Bullshit.
‘Heard anything on Daniel?’ Henry asks me, and I turn my head; no. He hits his keyboard and bonds replace equities on the screen. ‘That fat bastard came to see me,’ he says. ‘The Inspector guy. Ryan.’ He lifts his eyes from the screen and shouts at the bond desk, ‘Dump it!’
‘What was he after?’
‘Christ knows.’ Henry scribbles a number on his deal-sheet. ‘Was Daniel different lately? Stuff like that.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothin’.’
There is another flurry of activity, an increase in volume. Henry shouts at the proprietary desk this time. In here Henry has none of the awkward self- consciousness he displays outside. Here in the loosely- reined chaos of the Dealing Room he is completely at home. In his mid-thirties now, he joined the bank a year or two before me, straight out of sixth form. Initially a clerk in Settlements, he convinced one of the desk managers out here to take him on as a trainee. Since then his career has been a steady rise
, the past few years under Daniel’s tutelage. He has a gaunt look, prominent cheekbones and sunken cheeks. His voice now as he shouts across the room is surprisingly loud coming from such a small frame. But he doesn’t bully, he commands: here in the Dealing Room he has earned their respect.
I ask him if Karen Haldane’s been down.
‘What for?’ he asks, and I explain about the scribbled note that Daniel left behind. ‘Ahha,’ Henry says.
Then Owen Baxter comes over. Owen tells Henry that one of our trading lines is full, not an unusual problem for a small bank like ours. We have limits on our exposure to all the counterparties in the market, the other banks and institutions, and at busy times like this our trading lines fill fast. Generally we have to convince others to increase their exposure to us: this time, Owen explains, it’s a small Canadian bank which needs our limit for them increased.
Henry asks by how much.
‘Fifty in the one week.’ Fity million US, one week forward. ‘They’re the only decent bid we’ve seen,’ Owen says.
Henry glances at me. The extra exposure will roll off in a week, and Owen looks like he really needs it. I nod.
‘Okay, give them fifty,’ Henry tells Owen. ‘But that’s it.’
Owen punches a fist in the air, strides back to his desk and shouts, ‘Stuff that fuckin’ moosehead!’
Henry toys with his deal-sheet. ‘What’s this with Karen then?’
‘Karen thinks Daniel’s note looks like some losses we took out here in the Room.’
‘So?’
‘Your name was on the note.’ At this, Henry looks up. ‘It said, “See Henry’,’ I tell him.
He shakes his head unhappily. ‘Last time she was chasin’ a problem down here, I was stuffed-in two nights runnin’. 1 a.m., 2 a.m. Me and Daniel both.’
‘She’s conscientious.’
‘She’s a fuckin’ zealot.’
‘Just make the right noises,’ I say. ‘Keep her happy. If she pushes too hard, let me know.’
‘Can’t you put her off?’ There is a note of real despair in his voice. I tell him I’ve delegated that particular responsibility. When he asks me who to, I just smile. Henry groans.
A hand reaches over the screens and dumps a pile of deal-sheets in front of him.
'Fuck,’ Henry says. He picks up a pen and flicks through the deal-sheets, countersigning each one as he goes.
7
* * *
The rain has stopped. I send my driver home, telling him I won’t need him till Monday. It’s cold and dark, the wet pavement lit by streetlamps and the headlights of passing cars. The Square Mile is winding down now, the push and shove of commerce following the daylight to another part of the globe. The other pedestrian are just like me, huddled in their coats and bowing their heads against the chill wind. A bleak night in the City of London. Lights shine from some of the office buildings, but most are unlit.
It was like this when Daniel and I used to pace these streets over a decade ago. I don’t know how many hours we spent wandering the City and scheming: too many, I suppose. We thought the future was something we’d make, a blank page to be written on. He'd rise through Treasury, become Treasurer one day, and turn our Dealing Room into something special. He did become Treasurer, and our Dealing Room grew, but the truth is it remains what you’d expect of a small British merchant, nothing special. And me? I was going to take over from my father and drive us into the world, re-make Carltons into what it was last century, into what my grandfather believed it could still be: a player on the international stage. One year short of my fortieth birthday, I can finally admit to myself that this will not happen. Sir John still holds the reins at Carlton Brothers, the big international players have arrived in the City, and on the home front, within the Carlton family, life has intervened.
Mounting the church steps, I hear the organ: something by Bach. Evensong is over now, but two old women have stayed, they sit up by the altar and listen to the organist practising as I slide into a pew near the door. A clergyman, grey-haired and shuffling, is reordering the hymn books. There's no haste in his movements. Time isn’t money here, time is God’s, a fragment of eternity. It’s the kind of place my mother would have liked; but though I’ve passed it often, I’ve never been inside before.
‘Can I help you?’ The clergyman has paused, hymn books in hand.
When I turn my head, he goes back to his gentle task. Then the music stops. There's the sound of turning pages, and the two old ladies crane round and look up to the choir loft above my head, After a moment the organist finds his place and the music continues. A hymn this time. The women turn back to the altar. The clergyman makes his way down to the front and disappears into the vestry.
As the organ note swells for the refrain, I take a kneeler from the pew and place it on the floor. And this time when the music stops, I get to my knees and I pray.
SATURDAY
1
* * *
I tell Margie ‘no eggs,’ but she slides two onto my plate anyway. Our guests at the big kitchen table talk as they eat, and Margie, the housekeeper here at Boddington, goes back to the stove. The Duke has brought his two youngest daughters; and the girls sit on the high kitchen bench. I wink and they turn away giggling. Voices ring across the kitchen: the families and friends of those shooting have all crowded in.
Charles Aldridge leans over to me and says quietly, ‘All right?’
I don’t know if he means the business with Darren Lyle, or breakfast, or if he’s enquiring about my state of mind. But when I nod he seems satisfied.
As usual lately, I haven’t slept well. The bed Daniel used on his boyhood visits still sits beneath the window in my room; and on the landing this morning I noticed the cracks in the old Chinese vase, the results of our hasty glue-work after Daniel misjudged a slide down the banister. I’d hoped for some respite here at Boddington but there are just too many signs that remain.
‘Gentlemen?’
My father. He produces a leather pouch, and those of us shooting step up to draw our numbers. I draw between Charles and Mahmoud Iqbal, the Lebanese owner of a neighbouring estate, and ten minutes later, in a convoy of battered Land Rovers and four-wheel drives, we set out.
Ours isn’t the largest estate in Gloucestershire, or even the most profitable, but the roots of my family run deep here. There were Carltons on this land in Elizabethan times when the peerage first came to us, and now, driving up the valley, I look back to the house - Cotswold stone, eighteenth century - and beyond to the five acres of garden that roll down to the river. Daniel and I fished that river last May. We skirt the arable fields, finally stopping by a hedgerow where the gamekeeper waits. Walking to the first pegs, the frosted ground crunches beneath my boots, and I feel life - real life — returning.
‘Theresa did not come today?’ Mahmoud.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘She’s at her parents’. She’ll be down tomorrow.’ There’s a memorial service for my mother, it wouldn’t look right for Theresa to stay away.
Mahmoud, dressed in tweed, touches his moustache absentmindedly. ‘Good shot, Theresa.’
But when the gamekeeper signals us up to the first line I try to forget about my wife. I try to forget the bank and Daniel too. My father gave me an air- rifle when I was seven, a .22 when I was ten and a shotgun three years later; even as a boy I took my troubles out into the fields.
Now it begins. The beaters drive the pheasants from cover and we stand by our numbered pegs and fire; behind us there are compliments from family and friends. The gamekeeper blows his whistle — silence as the last shots fade — then the dogs race to gather the fallen birds. We switch to safety, unload, and exchange polite banter down the line. The last bird picked, we move to the next stand. So it goes on, our idleness structured into the semblance of purpose all morning. My head gradually clears, and by midday I’m shooting quite well. An hour later and I’ve bagged more than ten brace.
Walking across to the barn for lunch, Charles
steps up beside me. ‘Plenty of birds,’ he says. There’d need to be, the way he shoots, but I keep this uncharitable thought to myself. Instead I explain that the new keeper put them down early. ‘Lyle gave quite a performance, I hear,’ he says. The Commons Committee. ‘Made things rather uncomfortable for your father.’
I remind him that I was there.
‘Quite,’ he says ruefully ‘Has to be dealt with.’ Then he pockets an unused cartridge. ‘We hoped you might have some thoughts, Raef.’
‘I don’t want Carltons involved.’
‘After Lyle’s little effort?’ A significant pause, then he touches my elbow. ‘We’ll talk this evening.’
A misty rain has begun to fall, I feel the world closing in. The clean, clear morning is over.
2
* * *
Sir John considers the whisky in his glass. ‘Vance is the obvious choice.’ Then he looks from my father to me. There are only four of us here by the drawing-room fire. Mary Needham left after dinner: business in London, she said, a tactfulness my mother would have appreciated. Sir John’s wife has retired upstairs. It is my job we’re discussing, a possible replacement: after Daniel’s death there will have to be a reshuffle at the bank.
‘Raef?’ my father prompts.
‘It has to be Vance,’ I agree. Then I face Sir John. ‘This isn’t a question until you fix a date.’ The date of his retirement, not a subject he broaches easily. He keeps his eyes lowered. My father does too: it was his move into politics, his early retirement from Carltons, that first raised Sir John into place. Sir John has held this supposedly temporary position for three years now, and I am more than a little tired of waiting for my chance to take over.
My father wonders aloud who will become Head of Treasury. I suggest Henry Wardell.
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