Motherland (52 page)

‘And if they’re incompetent, or idle, or corrupt?’

‘Then the failure is mine. I’ve failed to make them see that the company’s good is also their good. Perhaps we need a system for monitoring me.’

Donohue exchanges looks with Neill and Hollis.

‘I think you’re talking about the ethos of the small family firm, Mr Cornford,’ he says. ‘What you might call the paternalistic model. But Fyffes is neither family owned, nor’ – he checks his notes – ‘small. You have over three thousand employees.’

‘Yes,’ says Larry with a sigh. ‘You’re quite right. And of course if you and your team can show us ways to operate more efficiently, we’ll gladly implement them.’

‘That’s what we’re here for,’ says Donohue.

‘One question, Mr Donohue. In all your calculations, do you have a column for the life satisfaction of the staff of the company?’

There follows a pause.

‘I understand you, of course,’ says Donohue at last. ‘But firstly, there’s no easy way to measure it. And secondly, without profits there is no company, and without a company, there is no life satisfaction for its staff. Or, to put it plainly, you all sink or float together.’ He rises, and Neal and Hollis rise with him. ‘With your permission, we’ll get to work.’

At home after dinner that evening, Larry paces the library and vents his frustration on his father.

‘What do they know about our business? They’ve never run a business. All they can do is add up numbers and spread insecurity. God only knows how much they get paid! And what revelation will come out at the end? That we’d be advised to make a profit rather than a loss.’

‘We’ve been through this sort of thing before,’ says his father. ‘In our business there are lean years and fat years. Once we’re back paying a healthy dividend all this nonsense will go away.’

‘I hope you’re right. The Geest operation changes things.’

‘Geest came into the market because we’ve not been able to meet the demand,’ says William Cornford. ‘We’ll lose market share, that’s inevitable. But there’s enough out there for both of us.’

‘Of course there is! And of course we’ll diversify. And of course we’ll modernise the distribution network. I don’t need consultants to tell me that.’

His father smiles to hear him.

‘It makes me very happy to know you’re with us, Larry. I could never have stepped down for anyone else.’

‘Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t let them rape the old firm.’

‘I think I always knew you’d come back to us.’

Geraldine looks in at the library door.

‘I’m going up, darling,’ she says. ‘Good night, William.’

Larry gives her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she says.

Alone again, William Cornford watches his son return to his agitated pacing.

‘Larry, I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier for you and Geraldine if I were to get myself a place of my own somewhere?’

‘But this is your house. We can’t turn you out of your own house.’

‘I would make the house over to you.’

‘No, Dad. I don’t want you to go.’

‘How about Geraldine?’

‘She’s very fond of you. You know that.’

‘She’s very good to me,’ says William Cornford. ‘She’s always charming, and considerate. I’m not sure I know that she actually likes me.’

‘Of course she does! Why wouldn’t she?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure it’s all nothing. Forget I mentioned it.’

Larry is silent. He has stopped pacing. Some private train of thought leads him to ask a question he’s long meant to ask.

‘Dad, why did you never marry again?’

‘Oh, Lord,’ exclaims his father. ‘What a question.’

‘All I mean is, was it by choice?’

‘These things are mostly a matter of chance, aren’t they? You don’t meet the right person. You work hard. You grow to like the life you have.’

‘So it’s not because you found your marriage was … was not what you’d hoped?’

‘No, not at all. Your mother and I got along better than most. Her death was the most terrible shock. When something like that happens, you remember only the good times. I suppose it all depends what you expect marriage to be. It can’t be everything, you know.’

He says this gently, sensing his son’s reasons for raising the topic.

‘No, of course not,’ says Larry.

‘Your mother never really understood why the company took up so much of my time. I expect Geraldine finds that, too.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Larry.

‘Well, then. You’re doing better than I did.’

‘No,’ says Larry flatly. ‘I’m not.’

His father says no more.

‘The truth is, Dad,’ says Larry after a long moment, ‘my marriage isn’t working out at all.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘Perhaps I should get the McKinsey men in.’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘They could install a monitoring system to make my marriage more efficient.’

‘Are you quite sure you wouldn’t rather have me out of your hair?’

‘No, Dad. It wouldn’t help. Things have gone too far.’

He looks up at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘I should be going on up.’

He turns and sees his father’s familiar face, loving as always, puzzled as to what to say or do. It strikes him then how his father has been there all his life, the constant presence that has watched over him and protected him. There was a time when all he wanted was not to turn into his father, not to lead his life. There seemed to him, in his youthful arrogance, so little to show for it. What did the world care if a few more bananas were sold, or a few fewer? What sort of enterprise was that for a life? But now he sees matters differently. Not just because he’s joined the company. It seems to him that every sphere of life can offer meaning, if lived properly. That there is as much nobility in living rightly among bananas as in an artist’s studio. And that his father has lived rightly.

‘Good night, then, son,’ says William Cornford, lightly clasping Larry’s shoulder with one hand.

Larry thinks then he would like to hug his father, but he doesn’t make the move. He thinks he’d like to say something to him, along the lines of, ‘I admire you so much, Dad. Any good there is in me I owe to you.’ But the two of them are not accustomed to such exchanges, and the words don’t come.

‘Good night, Dad,’ he says.

*

The report on Fyffes by McKinsey & Co recommends the closure of the current seventy-four store branches and their replacement with nine new strategically placed large modern facilities. It proposes that the current thirteen departments be rationalised to five, and that a unified budgetary control system be rigidly enforced across the company. Overall the report identifies potential savings of a remarkable 39% on current operating costs, largely
by what it calls a ‘shakeout of excess personnel’.

Larry presents the report to his board in Stratton Street.

‘I calculate,’ says Larry, ‘that if we were to accept this report as it stands we would have to terminate over one thousand of our people. That is not the Fyffes way. I will not do it.’

The board applauds him. He invites his colleagues to work with him in the creation of a new report.

‘If costs are too high we can bring them down. If there is over-manning in some departments, we can reallocate staff. But you know and I know this is a cyclical business, and it would be madness to lose experienced staff, staff we will dearly need later, just because we’re at a low point in the cycle. There is another aspect to this also. These employees who we’re advised to sack are men who have given their working lives to the company, men who’ve made it successful. They have families. We all know them. They’re our friends. I measure the success of Fyffes not just by the profits we make, which vary year on year, but in the well-being of the families that our company supports. They have trusted us. I will not let them down.’

The board applauds again.

Larry is invited to present his response to the parent company’s management in New Orleans.

*

Jimmy Brunstetter greets him as an old friend.

‘Too long, Larry, too long. I’m going to take you out tonight and give you a dinner that will knock your socks off. Now you go and freshen up, and do what you have to do, because I have to run.’

Larry has brought his report, and holds it in his hand.

‘Maybe you’d like to take a look at this.’

‘Sure, sure I would. Only right now I’m late for the meeting I cancelled another meeting for on account of being late for that one, if you get my drift.’

And away he trots, head bobbing, smoking as he hurries to the elevator. His assistant takes over.

‘Mr Brunstetter has booked a table at Broussard’s for seven p.m., Mr Cornford. Is there anything more I can do for you now?’

*

Broussard’s, in the heart of the Vieux Carré, is very grand. Ornate gold-framed mirrors line the walls. A statue of Napoleon holds pride of place.

‘I got us a table in the courtyard,’ says Jimmy Brunstetter, arriving fifteen minutes late. ‘They looking after you okay?’

‘Excellently, thank you,’ says Larry.

The courtyard is wisteria-covered, mild in the evening air, and grandly relaxed. Brunstetter seems to know everybody, most notably the proprietor-chef Joe Broussard.

‘So, Papa,’ Brunstetter tells him, ‘I got a VIP guest from England, and we’re going to do him proud, right?’

‘You said it,’ beams the chef.

Brunstetter takes personal charge of Larry’s menu choices.

‘Fried oysters. You ever had fried oysters? You have not lived. So you’ll have Oysters Broussard, you will die and go to heaven. Then, let’s see, oh sure, Creole Ribeye, that’s the one. You ever had Creole cooking? You have not lived. So what are you drinking? Tell you what, my friend. You order a Brandy Napoleon here, you know what they do? They bring it out and all the waiters sing the ‘Marseillaise’. Gives you one hell of a kick the first time, but after that it’s a pain in the ass, to be frank
with you. But if you’d like? No? That’s good for me.’

‘So what’s the Napoleon connection?’ says Larry politely.

Brunstetter looks at him as if he’s mad.

‘This joint is French,’ he says. ‘Joe Broussard is French. Napoleon was French, right?’

‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘I believe he was.’

The food is superb. Two courses come and go and no mention is made of the reason for Larry’s trip.

‘So you heard Sam retired?’ says Brunstetter.

‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘What’s the new man like? I hope to meet him.’

‘A good man. A good man. But Sam was something else. Big shoes to fill.’

‘So is there a meeting planned for tomorrow? They didn’t seem to know in your office.’

‘Meetings? Don’t tell me about meetings! My life is meetings. But we’re here to enjoy ourselves, right? How about the brandy without the singing waiters?’

‘I left a copy of my report with your assistant,’ says Larry. ‘Can I be sure he’ll get it to the president?’

‘Don’t you worry about that. Don’t you worry about anything. This is the VIP treatment. You’re having a good time, right? Have a cigarette. You like something sweet? They got crêpes here, they roll ’em round cream cheese and brandy pecan stuffing, they float ’em in strawberry sauce, and all you have to do is open your mouth. You will die and go to heaven.’

*

The next day is a frustrating one for Larry. He waits in his hotel but no message comes. He calls Brunstetter’s office, only to learn he’s out of town for the day. He calls the president’s office to confirm that they received his report, and is assured the matter
is being attended to. Left to his own devices, reluctant to walk the streets in the sultry heat, he stays in his hotel room and thinks about Kitty. He thinks about how he kissed her and how he told her he loved her, and the petty annoyances of the day fade into nothing. Something so big has come so right that now all he can do is rest silent, grateful, in its presence.

In the end, because thoughts of Kitty so fill his mind, he writes her a letter. All his letters to her have been love letters, but this is the first time he has written openly about his love.

He doesn’t finish the letter. Nor does he send it. He knows he can’t involve Kitty in a secret life she has to hide from Ed.
But he keeps the letter, just in case the time should ever come when he can show it to her.

*

The next day a message comes from Jimmy Brunstetter. He would like to meet Larry at ten a.m.

Larry finds Brunstetter has the McKinsey report on his desk, but sees no sign of his own report. There’s another man in the room who is only introduced as ‘Walter’. This time Jimmy Brunstetter gets straight down to business.

‘So the McKinsey boys did a fine job, right? We were pretty pleased with what they turned up. There’s your company future right there, Larry. You seen the latest figures? We didn’t see Geest coming, did we?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ says Larry. ‘But the market’s potentially big enough for both of us.’

‘Potentially.’ Brunstetter glances at Walter. ‘We like
actually
.’ He taps the McKinsey report. ‘This is
actually
.’

Larry made up his mind before leaving London to show no signs of his real feelings about the McKinsey report. After all, United have paid for it.