The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  Back in the office, after the champagne and speeches from Chandler executives, and interminable questions from awed and jealous colleagues, and calls from jabbering journalists trying to make the evening deadline, and requests for interviews for the Sunday editions and magazines, Arbella begged off that evening’s dinner party amongst her social circle, and went to bed with a headache and a glass of hot milk.

  She spent a restless night, which included a dream in which she was cast as an exotic character in The Arabian Nights. After flying through the night on a magic carpet of an underwriting slip, escorted by a golden phalanx of underwriting stamps, she descended onto the roof of the Lloyd’s building. It had sprouted minarets, and from an outside balcony a muezzin resembling Mr Archibald was summoning the ghosts of former underwriters to watch Arbella do a belly dance.

  The following morning when she went up to the Room in a state of great trepidation to join Bullion Bill Goldsack’s queue, in order to attempt to discuss the size of his line with him, she was not allowed to walk unattended. A small crowd of brokers was waiting for her as she emerged from the Chandler building, eager to trail along and witness the follow-up to her epoch-making accomplishment of the day before.

  As soon as she crossed Fenchurch Street she could tell, by the even greater than usual activity in the Lloyd’s Triangle between Fenchurch, Lime, and Leadenhall Streets, that the whole market was awaiting her arrival. For it was now her job to go round and pick up lines from every underwriter who had subscribed (if that is what throwing a stamp at it could be called) to the famous placement: and there were twenty-three identifiable syndicates recorded on the slip including that of Mr Carew.

  In an attempt to throw off those who were tailing her, Arbella did not go into the south-east entrance as she did on most mornings but continued up to Leadenhall Street, where she turned right and, putting on a burst of speed, jinked right again into the ancient covered Leadenhall Market. There she followed her nose and dived into first a cheese shop, then one selling freshly ground coffee; and lastly a butcher’s, where she positioned herself behind the carcasses of pig and deer that were hanging on hooks across the windowless front, while packs of baying brokers, like foxhounds, having lost the scent of her Caswell-Massey rose bath soap ran querulously past.

  When she could delay no longer she emerged at Moss Bros. on Lime Street and proceeded to the main entrance of Lloyd’s. There the doorman in his red and black uniform and top hat made such a fuss of her that he failed to greet the Chairman of Lloyd’s as he emerged from the back seat of his limousine and escort him to his private lift.

  Some press photographers took pictures of her standing next to the doorman, demanding that she hold up her slipcase like a trophy. To her embarrassment a number of people began shouting bids for it as if she were auctioning it off, whereupon she excused herself and went inside.

  Appending herself to Goldsack’s Conga line of petitioners, Arbella politely declined an offer that was passed back to advance her to the head of the queue. In addition to wanting to preserve her ordinary status she needed time to compose herself and adjust to the atmosphere of the Room, which was elevated to an unprecedented level for that time of the morning, when most underwriters and brokers were still in their offices or drinking coffee in the Captain’s Room.

  Well aware that Goldsack’s cunning was deeper than Loch Ness, and murkier than Grendel’s mere, Arbella knew that the great man was expecting her. Although he did not look around she could tell from the way his glasses, which were skewed to the back of his head, were glinting that he sensed she was there.

  On the morning after his coup de théâtre, Bullion Bill was behaving more ebulliently than ever. As the taurine pride of the Camargue treats incautious picadors in the ring, he was tossing slips and brokers with equal facility.

  But when Arbella got in he relaxed and assumed a pleasant expression, stood up to greet her, shook her by the hand, inquired solicitously after her health, and complimented her on her as-ever soignée appearance. Arbella hoped that he had not noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Although she had no energy left to deal with histrionics, Goldsack’s courteous behaviour made her suspicious.

  Goldsack sat down and waited while Arbella produced a clean copy of the celebrated document—the original, which she had brought with her to show as evidence, would be preserved for posterity. After noting the small limit and modest terms, Bullion Bill smirked at the perfection of his long-range handiwork.

  ‘Mr Goldsack, the whole market is singing your praises, and marvelling at the sheer balls of your…at the ballistic power of your arm and accuracy of your aim. I can’t thank you enough for your magnificent offer of support.’

  Bullion Bill’s smile faded. ‘It’s not an offer, it’s a line. Using a sprat to catch a mackerel, apparently.’

  ‘And Chandler Brothers wishes me to convey how delighted they are with how the placement, er, went down. As is Berndt Lutefisk, the Scandinavian who is one of Oink’s…that is, my boss’s, fishing-fleet clients.’

  ‘So long as there’s nothing otherwise fishy about this deal.’

  ‘I can assure you, sir, that all of Oink’s business passes the smell test.’

  ‘Mine is the first stamp on the slip.’

  Arbella braced herself. ‘Sir, Mr Carew is the leader. The rest of the market regards that as important.’

  ‘Please give Mr Carew my compliments and tell him how pleased I am to know he’s woken up. Lost his stamp, has he? He can borrow one of mine.’

  ‘Mr Carew’s promised line is still to be entered, sir. He is an active underwriter…’

  ‘That’s an oxymoron, like cheap gold. It’s not a promised line, it’s a suggestion of what he might write were he in business. Tell Mr Carew I’ve seen his suggestion and upped it times fifty.’

  ‘Sir, I do apologize for the unorthodox manner of presentation. Nonetheless…’

  ‘Nunlesswhat?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand, sir, that a hundred per cent is out of the question. There are a lot of lines on the slip, the size of which have yet to be determined, and Mr Carew’s lead line is not intended as window dressing. You see the problem.’

  ‘Whaprob?’

  ‘There’s two per cent from the leader, Mr Carew, and twenty-two other stamps with no amounts specified that remain to be determined. You, Mr Goldsack, are the first person I have come to see, because in terms of size of line you are far and away the most important.’

  ‘Farnwaymos.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, sir, and in recognition of your most gratifying expression of confidence in the leader, Mr Carew, I’m wondering if you might consider taking a line of twenty per cent to stand. Twenty per cent, with no signing down. I don’t think Mr Carew would mind. In fact I’m sure he’d consider it an honour, and it would leave plenty for the small fry...for everyone else to share amongst themselves.

  ‘Your line shall be far and away the largest on the slip, Mr Goldsack, everyone will see that.’

  To Arbella’s surprise Goldsack did not explode. Instead, a sly look crossed his features. ‘Very well.’ And without further ado he picked up his ordinary stamp and wrote twenty per cent on the copy slip, leaving room for Carew’s lead line above his, with unaccustomed tidiness and no spraying of ink from his quill pen.

  ‘In handing it back to Arbella he held onto it just long enough to mug for the telephoto camera lenses ranged along the gallery on tripods. Several dozen flash bulbs went off, and more from the cameras that a hundred brokers whipped out of their slipcases. Although photography was prohibited at Lloyd’s, today none of the waiters chose to intervene out of respect for Mr Archibald, whose first day of retirement this was.

  Lastly Bullion Bill called loudly down the box for a pencil—definitive man that he was, he never had cause to use one—and crossed the syndicate numbers off the top right-hand corner of his stamp. Underwriters did this either when they could not be bothered, or did not have time, to enter the slip rig
ht away; or, as in Goldsack’s case, in order to ensure that they would get to see it again to find out how the placement had gone.

  ‘Bring it back when you’re done,’ he simpered, ‘and I’ll put my numbers back on.’

  Arbella murmured her thanks and fled; casting a glance behind her, she saw to her relief that nobody was following her, and deduced that her fickle entourage must have decided that sport was over for the time being.

  But in this she was very wrong, for as she rounded Carew’s pillar she saw with alarm that his usually deserted spot had been transformed into a bazaar. More brokers were waiting for Carew than for Goldsack on a regular day. Having concluded that he had at last emerged from his underwriting coma, and might have it in mind to make up for lost time by writing everything that moved, just as the neophytes had always been told, there was a queue of pustular youths, plus a number of grey-hairs who were hoping to revive their flagging careers by taking another shot at him.

  The lure of getting a line from the most famous underwriter of all time, greater than any of the historic founders of the largest syndicates, who used to come in on Saturday mornings dressed in plus-fours, and occasionally hunting scarlet (only the non-sporting referred to riding pink these days)—was irresistible. Brokers were bringing Carew their “dogs”: the unplaceable risks that had long lain in their bottom drawers, but at some point had to see the light of day in order to secure the inevitable rejection for passing on to the client.

  As out of practice as Carew was, with any luck he should be susceptible to a good broking story, and even if they only got a quarter of one per cent, it would be enough to see them home and enable them to share Arbella’s moment of fame.

  Her risk, after all, had been very ordinary, and the terms were not attractive, only the broker.

  If he felt like Pharaoh surveying his petitioners, Carew did not show it. It was a principle of the market that underwriters should at least look, however cursorily, at every risk that was brought to them.

  But as pleasant as he was in turning away each applicant, it was clear that like Shakespeare’s Richard the Third Mr Carew was not in the giving vein today. All of the brokers’ hopes were dashed and one after another the doleful disappointed disappeared.

  When the last of them had gone, Carew noticed Arbella idling at a distance and beckoned her over.

  ‘So how did it go?’

  Arbella smiled at the disingenuous question. ‘You’ve probably gathered that I took your advice and dropped the slip off the balcony. What followed was extraordinary to say the least, and I owe it all to you. Underwriters were like frenzied trout rising to a hatch of mayfly. If you ever have cause to feel wistful about your reputation having faded, I can assure you that it hasn’t and you needn’t. And it’s done me no end of good, if you can call it that, at the office. Thank you very much for that too.’

  ‘I’m glad. No doubt Mr Goldsack grabbed his share of the headlines.’

  ‘The whole front page. His image is now more lustrous than ever.’

  ‘He’s nobody’s fool and a lot pickier than people think. I suppose he wanted it all for himself?’

  Arbella was not surprised by Carew’s percipience. ‘I couldn’t believe it, he used a special stamp with “one hundred per cent” pre-cast in it. But I just went to back to see him about that, and he agreed, as graciously as Bullion Bill is capable of behaving, to make do with twenty.

  ‘Which, while most people wouldn’t call that a definition of a man who is prepared to play second fiddle, at least means he accepts that he’s part of a market and not a one-man band. I do hope you’re all right with that: you seem to have been expecting something of the sort.

  ‘Here’s the slip. Isn’t it amazing how his line landed in the number two spot and dead straight? And there are twenty-one other hits, all higgledy-piggledy. That’s what I told Oink, it’s a real pig’s breakfast. Unlike his food that didn’t go down well but I don’t care. He’s hardly in a position to complain, I did him proud; or rather you did.’

  ‘Well done. Look, I’ve even found my old stamp and inked it up.’

  Carew put his stamp, which was a wine-dark sea colour, down in the leader’s position above Goldsack’s, wrote two per cent against it in encre de Havane, entered the reference 001 in the boxes, signed it “Carew” in a sloping hand with a denuded goose quill, and rocked his wooden blotting-paper holder over it.

  Arbella was thrilled to watch him writing his name, and held her breath while he did it for fear of distracting him or making the pen jump.

  The underwriter sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘It’s been many a long year since I did that, and I never thought it would happen again, which makes for a red letter day for me as well. At least my handwriting hasn’t deteriorated too much. And now I’ll have a card to enter and put in a file box. When the old risks expired I burned all the cards and used the boxes to keep flies in, so I’ll have to evict those.

  ‘Which is appropriate: while none of them ever caught a fish, I have now landed a contract for an entire fishing fleet all on my own!’

  Both of them laughed.

  ‘Now then, shall we?’ Carew stood and buttoned his jacket. ‘The old man awaits.’

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘My father. You did say you wanted to see him again, didn’t you? Now’s your chance, if you can spare the time; which I’m sure you can’t, but it’s my visiting day, and as much as he always says he doesn’t want to see me, though he would never admit it he’d be most put out if I didn’t show up. You can leave your slipcase on the box, no broker would ever touch another’s, not even yours.’

  Arbella, trying to remain calm, folded her precious document, tucked it carefully away, and followed Carew out of the Room.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Carew walked quickly and only slowed when they got to Trinity Square Gardens. ‘I wonder,’ he said, eyeing the tourists, ‘if we might sit for a moment before we go over. There are a few other things you ought to know about my father before we beard the lion in his den.’

  Several pigeons flew off an unoccupied bench as they approached, and after inspecting it they took the cleaner end. ‘You should know,’ Carew said gravely, ‘that my father is possessed by the desire to make another voyage. A final final one.’

  Arbella had no time to register how ridiculous this latest revelation was. ‘At his age? Well, not age in the sense of...but in this era? Where would he go? There can’t be many places left to explore; bits of Antarctica, I suppose, though there will soon be chain hotels going up even there, on beaches instead of being surrounded by icebergs. These days, as Cleopatra said, “…there is nothing left remarkable |Beneath the visiting moon.”’

  ‘There is to him: El Dorado. El Dorado still awaits him, he is convinced of it.’

  ‘Perhaps Bullion Bill would take him. He must know where it is, maybe he even owns it.’

  ‘Two egos like that in the same ship? They’d kill each other before they left port, and if not then, when they fall out over the spoils.’

  ‘El Dorado,’ said Arbella, wanting to get a historical perspective on the situation, ‘is the mythical capital of Guiana, and refuge of the defeated Incas. It is said to lie at the source of the Caroni river, which is a tributary of the Orinoco.’

  ‘My father still believes in the city; that it is made of gold, and that blocks of it lie about the place like logs for anyone to pick up who happens by. It’s Mr William Goldsack’s dream of paradise, a Carrara for gold instead of marble except one doesn’t have to go to the trouble of quarrying the stuff.’

  ‘But El Dorado doesn’t exist.’

  Carew looked straight ahead. ‘It does to Sir Walter Ralegh, though whether in actuality or figuratively I can’t tell. His idea of Guiana remains that of the country he once described, in a report to Lord Cecil, as “a country that hath yet her maidenhood.”

  ‘It’s not gold he hankers for any more, or the spirit of adventure. By returning to the scene of Wat�
��s death, he imagines that he might find some means of puncturing the membrane that separates life from death; of neutralizing the Cordial’s effect and enabling him to escape the living Purgatory he is in. The man today is very far from being the one who is remembered for the bravado and wit of his speech from the block; for the things he said to the headsman, and the pipe he smoked in front of the King to rile him.’

  Arbella remembered. ‘It was that stunt that started the tradition of allowing condemned men a final cigarette.’

  Carew continued, ‘Every human being, he says, needs the certainty of death to give meaning to life, and depth and context. Without it one can only ponder new horizons without any prospect of reaching them. Nothing can ever be proved, no ambition realized, no plan consummated. That is why he is so unhappy in his durance. The rest of us have not taken it as hard as he has.’

  ‘Is there any help that one might offer him, which he would deem acceptable?’

  ‘Papa has never taken on board anything I have to say. He refuses my emotional support. If either of his sons had to die, he wishes it had been me; that’s a cruel thing to say but it’s true. Wat was everything he wanted in a son; whereas to him I was always a skulking scholar, a milquetoast who dabbled in finance because he wasn’t brave enough to live like the man he was.

  ‘Papa always said I must have come from the Throckmorton side of the family, because he recognized nothing of himself in me.’

  ‘Surely you undervalue your importance to him. You have been his prop and mainstay ever since.’

  ‘I was in an old village church once, in the country, and there was a tablet on the wall, on which was written the epitaph of an eighteenth century boy who died at the age of twelve years and six months. I memorized the words, because they seemed such a perfect encapsulation of how the loss of a beloved person creates a memory of perfection that can never be sullied:

  ‘

  The Good Talents he had received from Nature

  Were improved by Reflections even at that Tender Age.