"Let's hope we have more applications than we can fulfill," Mulberry said.
"Why?"
"That way the unlucky applicants will try to buy the bonds tomorrow on the open market, and that will drive the price up perhaps to 95 pounds--and all our customers will feel they've bought a bargain."
Hugh nodded. "And what if we have too few applications?"
"Then the bank, as underwriter, has to buy the surplus--at 93 pounds. And tomorrow the price may go down to 92 or 91 pounds, and we will have made a loss."
"I see."
"Off you go."
Hugh left Mulberry's office, which was on the fourth floor, and ran down the stairs. He was happy that Mulberry had accepted his tray idea and relieved that he was not in worse trouble over the lost bill of lading. As he reached the third floor, where the Partners' Room was, he saw Samuel Pilaster, looking dapper in a silver-gray frock coat and a navy-blue satin tie. "Good morning, Uncle Samuel," Hugh said.
"Morning, Hugh. What are you up to?" He showed more interest in Hugh than the other partners did.
"Going to count the applications for the Russian loan."
Samuel smiled, showing his crooked teeth. "I don't know how you can be so cheerful with a day of that in front of you!"
Hugh continued down the stairs. Within the family, people were beginning to talk in hushed tones about Uncle Samuel and his secretary. Hugh did not find it shocking that Samuel was what people called effeminate. Women and vicars might pretend that sex between men was perverted, but it went on all the time at schools such as Windfield and it never did anyone any harm.
He reached the first floor and entered the imposing banking hall. It was only half-past nine, and the dozens of clerks who worked at Pilasters were still streaming through the grand front door, smelling of bacon breakfasts and underground railway trains. Hugh nodded to Miss Greengrass, the only female clerk. A year ago, when she had been hired, debate had raged through the bank as to whether a woman could possibly do the work. In the event she had settled the matter by proving herself supremely competent. There would be more female clerks in the future, Hugh guessed.
He took the back stairs to the basement and made his way to the post room. Two messengers were sorting the mail, and applications for the Russian loan already filled one big sack. Hugh decided he would get two junior clerks to add up the applications, and he would check their arithmetic.
The work took most of the day. It was a few minutes before four o'clock when he double-checked the last bundle and added the last column of figures. The issue was undersubscribed: a little more than one hundred thousand pounds' worth of bonds remained unsold. It was not a big shortfall, as a proportion of a two-million-pound issue, but there was a big psychological difference between oversubscribed and undersubscribed, and the partners would be disappointed.
He wrote the tally on a clean sheet of paper and went in search of Mulberry. The banking hall was quiet now. A few customers stood at the long polished counter. Behind the counter, clerks lifted the big ledgers on and off the shelves. Pilasters did not have many private accounts. It was a merchant bank, lending money to traders to finance their ventures. As old Seth would say, the Pilasters weren't interested in counting the greasy pennies of a grocer's takings or the grubby banknotes of a tailor--there was not enough profit in it. But all the family kept accounts at the bank, and the facility was extended to a small number of very rich clients. Hugh spotted one of them now: Sir John Cammel. Hugh had known his son at Windfield. A thin man with a bald head, Sir John earned vast incomes from coal mines and docks on his lands in Yorkshire. Now he was pacing the marble floor looking impatient and bad-tempered. Hugh said: "Good afternoon, Sir John, I hope you're being attended to?"
"No, I'm not, lad. Doesn't anyone do any work in this place?"
Hugh glanced around rapidly. None of the partners or senior clerks was in sight. He decided to use his initiative. "Will you come upstairs to the Partners' Room, sir? I know they will be keen to see you."
"All right."
Hugh led him upstairs. The partners all worked together in the same room--so that they could keep an eye on one another, according to tradition. The room was furnished like the reading room in a gentlemen's club, with leather sofas, bookcases and a central table with newspapers. In framed portraits on the walls, ancestral Pilasters looked down their beaklike noses at their descendants.
The room was empty. "One of them will be back in a moment, I'm sure," Hugh said. "May I offer you a glass of Madeira?" He went to the sideboard and poured a generous measure while Sir John settled himself in a leather armchair. "I'm Hugh Pilaster, by the way."
"Oh, yes?" Sir John was somewhat mollified to find he was talking to a Pilaster, rather than an ordinary office.
"Yes, sir. I was there with your son Albert. We called him Hump."
"All Cammels are called Hump."
"I haven't seen him since ... since then."
"He went to the Cape Colony, and liked it there so much that he never came back. He raises horses now."
Albert Cammel had been at the swimming hole on that fateful day in 1866. Hugh had never heard his version of how Peter Middleton drowned. "I'd like to write to him," Hugh said.
"I daresay he'll be glad of a letter from an old school friend. I'll give you his address." Sir John moved to the table, dipped a quill in the inkwell and scribbled on a sheet of paper. "There you are."
"Thank you." Sir John was mollified now, Hugh noted with satisfaction. "Is there anything else I can do for you while you're waiting?"
"Well, perhaps you can deal with this." He took a cheque out of his pocket. Hugh examined it. It was for a hundred and ten thousand pounds, the largest personal cheque Hugh had ever handled. "I've just sold a coal mine to my neighbor," Sir John explained.
"I can certainly deposit it for you."
"What interest will I get?"
"Four percent, at present."
"That'll do, I suppose."
Hugh hesitated. It occurred to him that if Sir John could be persuaded to buy Russian bonds, the loan issue could be transformed from being slightly undersubscribed to slightly oversubscribed. Should he mention it? He had already overstepped his authority by bringing a guest into the Partners' Room. He decided to take a chance. "You could get five and three-eighths by buying Russian bonds."
Sir John narrowed his eyes. "Could I, now?"
"Yes. The subscription closed yesterday, but for you--"
"Are they safe?"
"As safe as the Russian government."
"I'll think about it."
Hugh's enthusiasm had been aroused now and he wanted to close the sale. "The rate may not be the same tomorrow, as you know. When the bonds come on the open market the price may go up or down." Then he decided he was sounding too eager, so he backed off. "I'll place this cheque to your account immediately, and if you wish you could talk to one of my uncles about the bonds."
"All right, young Pilaster--off you go."
Hugh went out and met Uncle Samuel in the hall. "Sir John Cammel is in there, Uncle," he said. "I found him in the banking hall looking bad-tempered, so I've given him a glass of Madeira--I hope I did the right thing."
"I'm sure you did," said Samuel. "I'll take care of him."
"He brought in this cheque for a hundred and ten thousand. I mentioned the Russian loan--it's undersubscribed by a hundred thousand."
Samuel raised his eyebrows. "That was precocious of you."
"I only said he might talk to one of the partners about it if he wanted a higher rate of interest."
"All right. It's not a bad idea."
Hugh returned to the banking hall, pulled out Sir John's ledger and entered the deposit, then took the cheque to the clearing clerk. Then he went up to the fourth floor to Mulberry's office. He handed over the tally of Russian bonds, mentioned the possibility that Sir John Cammel might buy the balance, and sat down at his own table.
A walker came in with tea and bread and butter on a
tray. This light refreshment was served to all clerks who stayed at the office after four-thirty. When work was light most people left at four. Bank staff were the elite among clerks, much envied by merchants' and shippers' clerks who often worked until late and sometimes right through the night.
A little later Samuel came in and handed some papers to Mulberry. "Sir John bought the bonds," he said to Hugh. "Good work--that was an opportunity well taken."
"Thank you."
Samuel spotted the labeled trays on Mulberry's desk. "What's this?" he said in a tone of amusement. "'For the attention of the Principal Clerk ... Having been dealt with by the Principal Clerk.'"
Mulberry answered him. "The purpose is to keep incoming and outgoing papers separate. It avoids confusion."
"What a good scheme. I think I might do the same."
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Samuel, it was young Mr. Hugh's idea."
Samuel turned an amused look on Hugh. "I say, you are keen, dear boy."
Hugh was sometimes told he was too cocky, so now he pretended to be humble. "I know I've got an awful lot to learn still."
"Now, now, no false modesty. Tell me something. If you were to be released from Mr. Mulberry's service, what job would you like to do next?"
Hugh did not have to think about his answer. The most coveted job was that of correspondence clerk. Most clerks saw only a part of a transaction--the part they recorded--but the correspondence clerk, drafting letters to clients, saw the whole deal. It was the best position in which to learn, and the best from which to win promotion. And Uncle Samuel's correspondence clerk, Bill Rose, was due to retire.
Without hesitation Hugh said: "I'd like to be your correspondence clerk."
"Would you, now? After only a year in the bank?"
"By the time Mr. Rose goes it will be eighteen months."
"So it will." Samuel still seemed amused, but he had not said no. "We'll see, we'll see," he said, and he went out.
Mulberry said to Hugh: "Did you advise Sir John Cammel to buy the surplus Russian bonds?"
"I just mentioned it," said Hugh.
"Well, well," said Mulberry. "Well, well." And he sat staring at Hugh speculatively for several minutes thereafter.
2
IT WAS A SUNNY SUNDAY AFTERNOON, and all London was out for a stroll in their best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. The wide avenue of Piccadilly was free from traffic, for only an invalid would drive on the Sabbath. Maisie Robinson and April Tilsley were strolling down Piccadilly, looking at the palaces of the rich and trying to pick up men.
They lived in Soho, sharing a single room in a slum house in Carnaby Street, near the St. James's Workhouse. They would get up around midday, dress carefully, and go out on the streets. By evening they had generally found a couple of men to pay for their dinner: if not, they went hungry. They had almost no money but they needed little. When the rent was due April would ask a boyfriend for a "loan." Maisie always wore the same clothes and washed her underwear every night. One of these days someone would buy her a new gown. Sooner or later, she hoped, one of the men who bought her dinner would either want to marry her or set her up as his mistress.
April was still excited about the South American she had met, Tonio Silva. "Just think, he can afford to lose ten guineas on a bet!" she said. "And I've always liked red hair."
"I didn't like the other South American, the dark one," Maisie said.
"Micky? He was gorgeous."
"Yes, but there was something sly about him, I thought."
April pointed to a huge mansion. "That's Solly's father's house."
It was set back from the road, with a semicircular drive in front. It looked like a Greek temple, with a row of pillars across the front that reached all the way up to the roof. Brass gleamed on the big front door and there were red velvet curtains at the windows.
April said: "Just think, you could be living there one day."
Maisie shook her head. "Not me."
"It's been done before," April said. "You just have to be more randy than upper-class girls, and that's not difficult. Once you're married, you can learn to imitate the accent and all that in no time. You speak nice already, except when you get cross. And Solly's a nice boy."
"A nice fat boy," Maisie said with a grimace.
"But so rich! People say his father keeps a symphony orchestra at his country house just in case he wants to hear some music after dinner!"
Maisie sighed. She did not want to think about Solly. "Where did the rest of you go, after I shouted at that boy Hugh?"
"Ratting. Then me and Tonio went to Batt's Hotel."
"Did you do it with him?"
"Of course! Why do you think we went to Batt's?"
"To play whist?"
They giggled.
April looked suspicious. "You did it with Solly, though, didn't you?"
"I made him happy," Maisie said.
"What does that mean?"
Maisie made a gesture with her hand, and they both giggled again.
April said: "You only frigged him off? Why?"
Maisie shrugged.
"Well, perhaps you're right," April said. "Sometimes it's best not to let them have it all first time. If you lead them on a bit it can make them more keen."
Maisie changed the subject. "It brought back bad memories, meeting people called Pilaster," she said.
April nodded. "Bosses, I hate their fucking guts," she said with sudden venom. April's language was even more earthy than what Maisie had been used to in the circus. "I'll never work for one. That's why I do this. I set my own price and get paid in advance."
"My brother and me left home the day Tobias Pilaster went bankrupt," Maisie said. She smiled ruefully. "You could say it's because of the Pilasters that I'm here today."
"What did you do after you left? Did you join the circus straightaway?"
"No." Maisie felt a tug at her heart as she remembered how frightened and lonely she had been. "My brother stowed away on a ship going to Boston. I've not seen him or heard from him since. I slept at a rubbish tip for a week. Thank God the weather was mild--it was May. It only rained one night: I covered myself with rags and had fleas for years afterwards.... I remember the funeral."
"Whose?"
"Tobias Pilaster's. The procession went through the streets. He'd been a big man in the town. I remember a little lad, not much older than me, wearing a black coat and a top hat, holding his mam's hand. It must have been Hugh."
"Fancy that," said April.
"After that I walked to Newcastle. I dressed as a lad and worked at a stables, helping out. They let me sleep in the straw at night, alongside the horses. I stayed there three years."
"Why did you leave?"
"I grew these," Maisie said, and jiggled her breasts. A middle-aged man walking by saw her, and his eyes nearly popped out. "When the head stablehand found out I was a lass he tried to rape me. I smacked him across the face with a riding crop, and that was the end of the job."
"I hope you cut him," April said.
"I certainly cooled his ardor."
"You should have whacked his thing."
"He might have liked it."
"Where did you go when you left the stable?"
"That's when I joined the circus. I started as a stablehand and eventually became one of the riders." She sighed nostalgically. "I liked the circus. The people are warm."
"Too warm, I gather."
Maisie nodded. "I never really got on with the ringmaster, and when he told me to gam him it was time to leave. I decided that if I'm going to suck cocks for a living I want a better wage. And here I am." She always picked up speech mannerisms and she had adopted April's unrestrained vocabulary.
April gave her a shrewd look. "Just how many cocks have you sucked since then?"
"None, to tell the truth." Maisie felt embarrassed. "I can't lie to you, April--I'm not sure I'm cut out for this trade."
"You're perfect for it!" April protested. "You've got that twinkle in y
our eye that men can't resist. Listen. Persist with Solly Greenbourne. Give him a bit more each time. Let him feel your pussy one day, let him see you naked the next.... In about three weeks he'll be panting for it. One night when you've got his trousers down and his tool in your mouth, say: 'If you bought me a little house in Chelsea, we could do this any time you wanted to.' I swear to you, Maisie, if Solly says no to that, I'll become a nun."
Maisie knew she was right, but her soul revolted against it, She was not sure why. It was partly because she was not attracted to Solly. Paradoxically, another reason was that he was so nice. She could not bring herself to manipulate him heartlessly. But worst of all, she felt she would be giving up all hope of real love--a real marriage with a man she really burned for. On the other hand, she had to live somehow, and she was determined not to live like her parents, waiting all week for a pittance on payday and forever at risk of unemployment because of some financial crisis hundreds of miles away.
April said: "What about one of the others? You could have had your pick of them."
"I liked Hugh, but I offended him."
"He's got no money, anyway."
"Edward's a pig, Micky frightens me, and Tonio is yours."
"Solly's your man, then."
"I don't know."
"I do. If you let him slip through your fingers, you'll spend the rest of your life walking down Piccadilly and thinking 'I could be living in that house now.'"
"Yes, I probably will."
"And if not Solly, who? You could end up with a nasty little middle-aged grocer who keeps you short of money and expects you to launder your own sheets."
Maisie brooded on that prospect as they came to the western end of Piccadilly and turned north into Mayfair. She probably could make Solly marry her if she put her mind to it. And she would be able to play the part of a grand lady without too much difficulty. Speech was half the battle and she had always been a good mimic. But the thought of trapping kind Solly into a loveless marriage sickened her.
Cutting through a mews, they passed a big livery stable. Maisie felt nostalgic for the circus, and stopped to pet a tall chestnut stallion. The horse immediately nuzzled her hand. A man's voice said: "Redboy don't generally allow strangers to touch him."
Maisie turned around to see a middle-aged man in a black morning coat with a yellow waistcoat. His formal clothes clashed with his weatherbeaten face and uneducated speech, and she guessed he was a former stablehand who had started his own business and done well. She smiled and said: "He's doesn't mind me, do you, Redboy?"