Pity the nation...
“It’s a question of character,” said Gordon.
“Character?” said Barry. He was smiling a little and
lounging back in his seat. The afternoon sun streamed into the office and
caught his Rolex. “Really, Gordon, isn’t that a little old-fashioned?”
“No,” said Gordon. He was pacing up and down between the
meeting table and the window.
The CEO sat upright behind his desk, his hands steepled; he
was frowning. “Barry, you are very insistent that the Regional Director post go
to Giles,” he said. “Since Gordon clearly objects, perhaps we should hear your
reasons.”
“Of course.” Barry sat a little straighter and held his hands out in front of him. Why is everything this clown does somehow theatrical, thought Gordon. “I want him because he understands the modern way of doing business. We are a company providing services. Or we purport to. The client’s shareholders will be told that they have implemented X or Y when in fact what they have actually done is contract us to do it for them. The shareholders will not look too closely at what we have actually done. Giles knows this and will not waste resources in implementation.”
“But that is dishonest and you know it,” said Gordon. “It is
because he behaves like that that I question his character. If you endorse that
behaviour I must question yours.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” said Barry. “You’ve been reading Tom
Brown’s Schooldays again, haven’t you.” His smile got a little broader. “Or
did you really want to be a barrister?” He stuck his thumbs in his lapels and
stuck his chin out. “I submit, m’lud, that the witness is of poor character.”
“That’s enough, Barry,” snapped the CEO. Barry looked at
him, surprised. “Will you leave us, please? I would like to discuss some
matters with Gordon and they do not all concern you.”
Barry frowned.
“I need Giles’s appointment finalised as soon as possible,”
he said.
“I’ll talk to you about it later,” said the CEO.
He watched Barry’s back as the latter left the office,
pulling the door closed rather sharply behind him.
Gordon was still pacing up and down.
“Gordon, do stop prowling around me like that,” said the
CEO. “I am not a vildebeest.”
Gordon stopped, smiled suddenly and chuckled. He pulled a
high-backed leather chair from the conference table and placed it in front of
the CEO’s desk. The CEO looked at him. “How long have I known you?” he asked.
“Fifteen years,” said Gordon.
“Indeed. Now tell me what you are not telling me.”
“About Giles?”
“No, about Screaming Lord Sutch. Yes, about Giles.”
“Barry is sleeping with his wife,” said Gordon.
“Oh.”
“Giles put a spy camera in their bedroom and has taped
evidence,” Gordon went on. “He threatened to divorce her and name Barry in his
suit. Barry’s own wife would have been – well, displeased. They have four
children. That’s a lot of alimony for Barry to pay. And she’d likely get the
house. But Giles told him a nice promotion would make it go away.”
“For Christ’s sake. Are you sure? How do you know this?”
“Giles’s wife went on a hen night with Mary who works in my
office. They got horrendously pissed over curry and she told her everything
while she was retching into the toilet bowl in the ladies.”
“Good God,” said the CEO. “What were they doing in the loo
together?”
“Women do go and powder their noses together at social
events,” said Gordon. “Or so I believe. Anyway, she started vomiting suddenly
so Mary held her face above the toilet bowl.”
“Your staff are very professional,” said the CEO.
“Just being helpful. It’s a bit unpleasant if you plunge into your discarded vindaloo.”
“I suppose so. The spices. They’d sting your eyes horribly.”
“Well, yes. And imagine how it’d mess up your hair.”
“Good Lord, yes,” said the CEO. “Most inconvenient. So
that’s why you won’t have Giles as Regional Manager.”
“A question of character,” said Gordon.
“Yes.”
“But Barry wasn’t wrong, was he?” said Gordon. “About us, I
mean. About what we do.”
“No.”
“For the Ministry for instance. And Metrobank of Surrey. The
market forecasts. We just wrote a report that told them what their own staff had
told us.”
“Yes.”
“And the HR guidelines Barry drew up for Spatterfield
Capital. He got them from an Australian company. He just changed the wording a
bit. He was right; the client knew and didn’t care. They promised their
shareholders they’d update their HR guidelines after those women staff sued
them, and they could tell the AGM they’d spent £500,000 on a consultant to do
it so they wouldn’t get sued again. Yes they could have done it themselves in
half an hour. But that wasn’t the point, was it?”
“No.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Then the CEO said: “Swan
Hunter. On the Tyne.”
“What about them?”
“Dad worked there.”
“You must have told me that at some time.”
“No, I’m not sure I ever have.”
“Oh,” said Gordon. He thought for a minute.
“Your bicycle came from Nottingham,” he said. “Your knives
and forks from Sheffield. Your shoes from Northampton. Your car from
Birmingham. Or Coventry.”
“Yes,” said the CEO.
Gordon got up.
“I shan’t approve the appointment,” said the CEO.
“No.” Gordon went to the door.
“A question of character,” said the CEO.
“Yes,” said Gordon. As he opened the door, he turned back. “Pity
the Nation,” he said.
“What?”
“Kahlil Gibran.
"Pity the nation that wears a
cloth it does not weave,
eats a bread it does not
harvest,
and drinks a wine that flows
not from its own wine-press.”
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Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
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