by Caro Fraser
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Basher, ‘we are here today to consider the matter of the offer which, as you all know, has recently been put forward by Lloyd’s in settlement of our claims. I propose to run this meeting in the following way: Mr Henshaw, of the council of Lloyd’s, is going to speak to you in favour of the settlement—’ Basher turned with a courteous smile towards the narrow-shouldered man in glasses, who was sitting with his arms folded in a somewhat defensive posture near one end of the table. There was a brief pause, during which all eyes in the hall swivelled towards this quisling in hostile appraisal. ‘—and then James Cochrane, who is known to you all already as a member of the committee, will speak against the offer. After we have heard from these two gentlemen, I shall ask our leading counsel, Leo Davies, to address us with his views on the matter. But first of all, to supply some background as to the precise nature of the offer which has been put forward, I will ask the committee secretary, Brian Carstairs, whose work on behalf of us all has been so invaluable over the past few months, to speak a few words.’
Basher sat down, and Brian, gathering up some papers, moved to the middle of the table, where the overhead projector stood. He glanced nervously at the screen behind him, and then began to address the meeting on the matter of specific figures, using slides to give breakdowns and show how money would be apportioned.
After a few minutes, Anthony found his attention wandering. He glanced round the hall, admiring the light panelling, wondering if it was made of ash or some other wood, then up at the brass rails of the gallery. He found himself craning his neck to decipher the gilt lettering which ran round the base of the circular window crowning the roof of the hall. ‘Holy is the true light and passing wonderful, lending radiance to them that endured in the heat of the conflict; from Christ they inherit a home of unfading splendour, wherein they rejoice with gladness evermore,’ he read slowly. He wondered how much comfort any of those present today might derive from that. Not that the attention of any one of them was likely to stray as far as the ceiling; they were too busy concentrating on the vital matter of their money, and what Brian Carstairs was telling them about it. If they were ever to get it.
Then suddenly there was a small clatter, and Brian stopped speaking. Anthony glanced across and saw that the arm of the projector had dropped down, halting Brian’s slide presentation. There was a moment’s confusion while Brian tried to prop it up, and Basher rose from his seat and left the platform. A faint murmur rose from the audience. Brian, who was clearly upset by the interruption, tried to carry on speaking, but the projector arm swung wildly down again and this time there was laughter. Brian turned away from the projector and announced that he would carry on without benefit of the charts. He looked nervous and flustered as he tried to find the place in his notes where he had broken off, and Anthony was just beginning to feel sorry for the man when he became aware of a movement behind his chair. Glancing down, he was astonished to see Basher crawling along behind the chairs on his hands and knees, a screwdriver in his hand. While Brian was still speaking, he rose up slowly from behind and tried unobtrusively to mend the projector, which merely succeeded in distracting Brian even more. When the entire arm of the projector fell on the floor, convulsing Anthony and the man from The Guardian, and most of the audience, Brian sat down in mute fury. Basher murmured to him for a few seconds, and Brian eventually rose and resumed his talk. But the whole incident had thrown him, and whatever points he tried to make seemed to have lost their force. As he sat down at the end, he felt that he had been made to look ridiculous.
Then Freddie rose and began to make an entirely irrelevant point about Names’ subscriptions coming out of the litigation fund, and had to be told firmly by Basher that the time for questions would come after the speakers for and against the motion. Freddie raised his eyebrows and resumed his seat, mumbling, and then Henshaw, the representative from Lloyd’s council, got to his feet.
His speech urging the Names to accept the offer was quietly impressive. He did not cajole them, did not belittle the litigation which they had undertaken, but merely recited the facts coldly and baldly, reminding them that only a limited amount of money was available, and that this, too, might be lost to them all if they continued with litigation which might intimately prove fruitless. When he sat down, he had done his job by reminding them all of the awful possibility – or was it a probability? – that if they did not accept what Lloyd’s had offered, they might end up with nothing more than a bill of costs. The mood in the hall was quiet and sober at that moment, the amusing distraction of the projector forgotten. Basher glanced and nodded at James Cochrane, who rose from his chair, a tall, craggy figure, and moved across to the microphone.
Cochrane’s mode of address was entirely different from Henshaw’s impersonal approach. This was a man accustomed to addressing businessmen and captains of industry in robust tones, and he wasn’t going to pussyfoot about.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘what we’ve got here is an offer from Lloyd’s for forty-nine point four million pounds, and Mr Henshaw here has just told us that that’s pretty good. Well, not from where I’m standing. From where I’m standing, I can see collective losses – all yours and all mine – estimated at a hundred and fifty-four million at least.’ He paused, then repeated the figure slowly. ‘A hundred and fifty-four million. In the face of that, I say this offer is chicken feed. It’s ludicrous …’ He had his audience. Anthony listened in admiration as he swept them along with him, enumerating all the reasons for rejecting the offer, talking about protecting the hardest hit, seeking a greater contribution from Lloyd’s to the litigation fund. By the time he had got on to the failure of the DTI and the government to regulate Lloyd’s, and dragged in the Inland Revenue for good measure, even Freddie was nodding reluctantly. Cochrane ended on a high note, quoted briefly from Shakespeare, and sat down. The murmur which rose from the audience was clearly sympathetic. Anthony looked along the table and saw that Brian Carstairs was looking pale as he raised his water glass to drink. He tried to catch Leo’s eye to gauge his expression, but Leo seemed to be gazing distractedly at the table.
Leo was, in fact, staring at Charles Beecham’s hand. It was resting on the table, and Leo watched with fascination as the slender, expressive fingers toyed with a pencil, then drummed abstractedly on the table. He studied the clean, curved lines of the broad nails, the light hairs on the back of his hand, and felt himself totally consumed by that dizzying sense of infatuation which he had experienced in Charles’s company before, and which he had almost forgotten until now. It was adolescent, he told himself, to be so moved and touched by the mere sight of his hand. It was some months since he had last seen Charles, and he had been totally unprepared for the emotion which surged up in him at the sight of the man. For an instant he felt a touch of sympathy for Jennifer. He knew exactly how she felt. Then he lifted his gaze, trying to concentrate on what Basher was saying in response to some question from the audience. The questions went on for several minutes, the different voices, the sleek, the plummy, the fine and reedy, all the clear, assured tones of the middle and upper-middle classes, drifting across the hall. Leo scarcely listened. He already knew what he had to say to these people. He had little interest in them, in their perceived injuries, and felt no pity for them as they aired their petty grievances. His attitude was entirely professional. This was just a case, one which he felt was good in law, and which he knew in his heart he could win. How much the Names might get out of it in the end, he hardly cared. He half-listened as Freddie Hendry made a surprisingly good point about reconstruction and renewal, and then as another Name, presumably a broker himself, provoked the derision of the rest of the Names by enjoining them not to push the brokers too far, Leo’s eyes strayed once more to the strong, clean lines of Charles’s hand, and then to his thigh stretched out beneath the tabletop.
‘… We really must call a halt to the questions now,’ Basher was saying, ‘or we’ll never get on.’ He turned to
Leo. ‘I think that we should all be grateful to hear the views of our leading counsel, Leo Davies.’
A familiar sensation, like a small electric current, passed through Leo as he rose to speak to them. He had notes jotted down on a slip of paper, but did not glance down at them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’ – Anthony smiled slightly at the sound of that silken, easy voice, with its slight Welsh lilt – ‘what I have to say is brief and, I hope, to the point. Lloyd’s have made you an offer of forty-nine point four million. You have heard Mr Henshaw say that it is the best you will get. It is true to say that no one can stand here and guarantee you a better offer or a greater recovery. If you press ahead with the litigation, there is no certainty of ever recovering anything. That is a risk which all litigation carries.’ Leo paused and looked steadily round his audience. ‘But it is my considered view, looking at the merits of this case, that most of the Names here today should ultimately succeed. To what extent is, of course, another matter. I cannot guarantee how much money is available under the errors and omissions policies, but I would remind you that the offer under consideration, excluding the auditors from the settlement as it does, will severely restrict recovery from them. You are already aware that, under the terms of the offer before you, there is no cap on your future liabilities, and these may be substantial. If you continue the action against the auditors and win, then it is they who will bear those future losses. To many of you, that may seem too much to give up. It seems so to me …’ Anthony listened attentively, glancing occasionally at the audience. There was no question that every carefully weighed word which Leo uttered was having its effect. He managed to neutralise all Mr Henshaw’s sombre warnings regarding the penalty of the action’s failure, and, in the most cautious and circumspect fashion, stirred in the Names a sense that to accept the Lloyd’s offer would rob them of a potential victory. At last he concluded, ‘I cannot advise you whether to reject or accept the offer today. That is a matter for each individual. But I can recommend that you should weigh matters very carefully before abandoning a claim which offers your only real prospect of a full recovery, and an end to future liabilities. Thank you.’
As he sat down, Leo knew that he had reminded them with his closing words of the one factor which should sway the majority against accepting. The probability, should they ultimately win, that any future liabilities – and it was those dreaded demands for money which overshadowed the lives of each and every one in that hall – would be paid by the auditors. It was all that really needed to be said.
Leo felt Charles’s hand on his arm as he leant towards him to murmur something. Leo did not catch his words, merely nodded in reply, but it was enough just to feel the faint pressure of his hand upon his sleeve. Then it was gone, and Basher was standing up to suggest taking a vote. ‘So – all those in favour of accepting the offer, raise your hands.’ Basher glanced round the hall, and there was a susurration as of birds’ wings as arms went up. Anthony looked out at the audience, then along the row on the platform. Brian’s hand had gone up instantly, Freddie Hendry raised his shakily, still in its woollen glove. To his surprise, Anthony saw that Basher had his hand up, Cochrane throwing him a scowling glance. Charles Beecham’s arms remained folded, and both Honoria Hunter’s heavily-ringed hands rested in her lap. It was not easy to see how many in the audience had voted for accepting. A fair proportion, it seemed to Anthony. ‘And all those against?’ Basher gazed out, and this time it was clear which way the vote had swung. Many, many more hands were raised now. There was an angry murmur from some parts of the hall, and someone began to protest angrily at the manner in which the meeting had been conducted. Other voices joined his, and a small, elderly woman in the front row stood up and began to mouth furiously, her voice completely drowned in the hubbub around her. Anthony sighed and stretched his legs. This, he knew from past meetings, was par for the course. He glanced at his watch. Nearly two. Camilla would be busy lugging papers back to chambers when this was over. He wondered whether he and Leo might go for a quick sandwich and a chat.
Basher Snodgrass eventually managed to bring the meeting to order, and informed everyone that it was perfectly clear that a majority had voted against acceptance of the offer, and that the matter would go back to their solicitors for further discussion. Even the angriest among those present realised that there was nothing more to be done that day, and people began to disperse. Anthony managed to palm an irate and garrulous Freddie off on Fred Fenton, who cast Anthony a reproachful look as he made his escape. Anthony merely grinned, and turned in search of Leo. But Leo was already at the door of the hall, deep in conversation with Charles Beecham. Again there was the bright sound of Charles’s laughter in response to something Leo had said, and at the sight of the two older men together Anthony felt a faint pang. There seemed to exist between them a camaraderie which he did not recognise in his own relationship with Leo. As he made his way out of the hall alone, he noticed Brian Carstairs sitting on a bench just outside the doorway, a bundle of papers on his knees, staring at all the people as they descended the stairs. He hesitated, then went up to him.
‘Unpredictable things, these meetings, aren’t they?’ said Anthony. ‘That was a nuisance about the projector.’
Brian looked up at him, and it struck Anthony that Brian’s face had an exhausted look, as though he had just run an enormous distance. ‘It doesn’t really matter now,’ said Brian.
‘No … well …’ Anthony paused. ‘Are you heading back into town? We could share a cab.’ He had no real wish to share a taxi with Brian Carstairs, but he was conscious that the man was depressed, and needed to be rallied in some way. Only he couldn’t think how.
‘No.’ Brian shook his head. ‘I’m just going to sit here for a while. Then I’ll be off home.’
Once more Anthony hesitated. Something told him he couldn’t just leave him here like this. But the man had said he was going home, after all. ‘Right,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll see you soon, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Brian, and he watched Anthony as he sauntered downstairs and out into the cold January air.
When Leo got home that evening, Jennifer was in the kitchen, finishing her supper and flicking through a magazine. When he said good evening, she merely smiled at him.
‘Oliver asleep?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I left him ten minutes ago and he seemed quite sleepy. I haven’t heard a sound from him since.’
‘I’ll just go up and look,’ said Leo, slipping off his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder.
Oliver’s bedroom was bathed in a muted glow from his night light, and there was no movement from his cot. Leo stepped quietly across the room and looked down. Oliver was fast asleep, his blanket kicked off, his chubby arms outstretched and his bottom in the air. He looked like someone in free fall, thought Leo, gazing at the small, totally inert little body, dense with sleep, lips parted, lashes grazing his cheeks. He looked down at him for a long time, thinking about Charles, then about Rachel, and wondering how life was to resolve itself, and how things would be between Oliver and himself in fifteen years’ time. Then he sighed, stroked Oliver’s cheek with his finger, pulled his blanket up around him and left the room.
Downstairs, Leo went into the living room and poured himself a drink. He could hear the sounds of Jennifer clearing up in the kitchen. She had created such a charged atmosphere in the house that, even a room apart, he was strongly conscious of her. He stood in the middle of the room, sipping his drink, waiting for her to come through from the kitchen, as he knew she would. Sure enough, after a few minutes she appeared in the doorway. She said nothing, merely leant against the door frame. She was wearing some sort of cropped top and jeans, her everyday wear, but Leo realised that her very stance, her expression, even the casual way in which she folded her slim arms, exuded such sexuality that she might as well be stark naked. Leo wondered if she had rehearsed this, so studied and perfect was the moment, or whether she’d picked
it up from some film or other. He was amused almost to the point of smiling broadly, but he sipped his drink instead, wondering what she would do next. In fact, after spending two hours with Charles – and he wondered what young Jennifer would say if she knew of the true object of his desire – it occurred to Leo that he was feeling quite horny, to borrow one of Felicity’s cruder expressions. His gaze shifted from her face, with its clear eyes and childishly provocative mouth, and travelled down over her body. She watched him as he did this, and felt a delicious sense of expectancy rise within her. But Leo decided that it was not really an option. With Rachel away for another two weeks, it would only make the rest of the time he had to spend alone with Jennifer tiresome. Possibly demanding. Still, it was something to be borne in mind.
‘Going out tonight?’ he asked her, thinking that this interlude of pregnant silence had lasted long enough.