We All Fall Down

by Peter Barry

  He called Lynne, who snapped. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

  Murray was sitting like some washed up, half drowned tramp in the middle of the sofa, looking as if he didn’t want to be in the room. Russell stood by the window. Neither of them was speaking. Hugh stared at his boss’s back, waiting, wondering what this was about. He looked at Murray, but the only response was a rolling of his eyes. Without turning round, Russell said, ‘Show him.’ On receiving his instructions, Murray tossed a letter across the coffee table to Hugh. Bauer Australia was moving its business to their agency in Germany. There were a few words about international realignment and global branding.

  Murray said, ‘Didn’t even have the courage or decency to call us.’

  ‘Maybe there was a reason …’ Hugh felt he should defend Dieter, even though he wondered why the man hadn’t had the decency to speak to him first, to at least warn him. He also suddenly wished he’d agreed to get the research report off his client. It now turned out it would have been a waste of time, but at least, in Russell’s eyes, he would have tried.

  The managing director, turning away from the window at last, was upbeat. ‘We don’t deserve this, but we move on. We move forward. I’m optimistic that we can land BMW. We’ll tell them we got rid of Bauer, that we wanted to clear the decks for their account. That should go down well.’

  Hugh volunteered to help.

  ‘We’ve got a full team on the pitch already, Hughsy, so we probably won’t need any more help. I’ll let you know if the situation changes.’

  He was suddenly out in the cold. He wasn’t fooled by the familiarity with which Russell addressed him. It made him feel like a trapeze artist in the big top, swinging high above the arena, about to perform a somersault and twist through space before grabbing the next trapeze, and suddenly realising that someone had taken it away. There was no option but to remain where he was. He wondered how long he could hang on.

  A couple of days later, Russell sprang another surprise on him: to help Murray prepare a credentials pitch for the Dan Murphy’s business. ‘It’s worth enough in its own right, but it will also give us an entrée into the Woolworths business.’ Hugh didn’t have to be told why Russell wanted such a large retail account: for the agency it would provide a regular and substantial income. It would virtually be a licence to print money. But he had qualms about promoting liquor, and if he felt like that, then how did Murray feel? Wasn’t that a bizarre choice, as well as an insensitive one, putting an alcoholic as the agency’s front man on a pitch for a liquor business?

  After they left Russell’s office, he asked Murray to his face. ‘Are you happy working on this pitch?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘Because you don’t drink, Murray. Don’t tell me that hasn’t occurred to you?’

  ‘Course it has. No worries, mate. It’s my job. You got a problem with that?’

  ‘No. But it doesn’t mean I’m not appalled and mystified by Russell asking you to head up the pitch.’

  He was worried on his own behalf, too. He wasn’t happy pushing alcohol, especially the marketing of pre-mixed drinks to teenagers, the high alcohol content masked by sweetness. Binge drinking amongst kids was a growing problem. And his mother, after his father left home, had almost became an alcoholic. Booze was the new tobacco in his opinion. Socially, it was becoming increasingly unacceptable. It was obvious Russell had no such scruples: to him it was just another source of income. So what could Hugh do? He didn’t feel secure enough to refuse to work on the pitch. Although it made him uneasy, he decided he didn’t have an option. But he was beginning to wonder about the business he worked in. Increasingly, it seemed as if he was attempting to sell products to people who didn’t want them, didn’t need them or shouldn’t have them. It was a far cry from the glamorous world he had once inhabited – or thought he had.

  There was little joy for him either at home or at work now. In the mornings, before leaving to catch the train, he still found time to rush a cup of coffee as he stood by the French windows and gazed across the expanse of lawn down to the distant beach. The words, ‘Lord of all he surveyed’ often came to mind at such times, but he could never remember where they were from. Nor did they ring true for him. Increasingly he felt like a visitor in his own home, as if it belonged to someone else and he’d only dropped by for a cup of coffee and would soon be on his way again. He’d paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars to possess the house, yet felt he had no right to be there. He was unanchored, temporarily blown in through the open window, drifting on the wind and soon, dreamlike, to be wafted onwards … He felt like one of the hang-gliders he sometimes watched at the weekend, soaring off the cliffs at either end of the Stanwell Park beach, then drifting in circles and loops, riding the currents of air above the sea, before spiralling earthwards to land at the edge of the recreation area.

  He continued to catch the same train every morning. It had taken him many months to earn the right to a seat on the 7.09 train that he could claim as his own, one that didn’t cause other commuters to make pointed comments to their friends and stomp off, scowling and muttering, down the swaying corridor. He was even on nodding terms with some of those seated around him, yet had no desire for it to progress beyond that. He disciplined himself to work on the hour long journey, and only rarely looked out of the window.

  His usual train got into Central at 8.13. Not 8.12, not 8.14, but 8.13 precisely. He almost wore a path in the concrete as he followed the same line from the train every morning, through the ticket barrier, down some steps – always keeping to the left – across the concourse, and then out though the main entrance to the front of the station. There he caught a bus along George Street. He was in the office at around 8.30. His life was dispensed in minutes, every one of which was accounted for in a timetable laid down by Russell Grant and, behind him, Hugh’s bank manager – clutching his mortgage documents. He was beholden to his boss and to his bank manager; he danced to their tune.

  In the evenings, it was slightly less of a routine. Which train he caught varied. He always aimed for the 6.27, but often caught the one an hour later. He tried to work on the evening train, as once he’d promised Kate he would do, but with less success. Too often, he nodded off. He wondered why the NSW railways weren’t as civilised as the British commuter trains, where you could stand in a bar and drink your way from London to your destination. So he started to delay going home after work and took to grabbing a couple of drinks in the office before leaving, often with Murray. Even though his group head only ever drank lemon, lime and bitters, he was happy to open a bottle for colleagues. If Murray was unavailable, he’d do the rounds of the office, searching for someone who was happy to chat and share a few beers. Those who declined, with a ‘Sorry, have to get home, mate, the wife’s expecting me,’ he began to despise for being under their partner’s thumb. Hugh thought that this socialising was a good move politically (increasingly he was beginning to think like a businessman), and had the added advantage that he missed out on the worst of the rush.

  Sometimes, on arrival at Stanwell Park, he’d drop in at the bottle shop he passed on the walk from the station to the house. An evening drink was a good way to shake off the final stresses of the day.

  In between the evenings he spent drinking, he buried himself in his work. If there wasn’t any work to do, he created some. He had to try and stay busy, not to think too deeply about his life or his situation. He continued to convince himself that no other profession offered so much fun and excitement, even though it was rapidly changing. It was being undermined from within. Although the attitude of clients was becoming less professional, now the same could be said of a number of his colleagues. There were more cowboys in the business, those who neither seemed to care about what they did nor the results they achieved. Increasingly, it struck him that no one, certainly no one on the client side, understood advertising, and no one respected advertising agencies. People did not go to a doctor for a diagnosis and remedy, then take
the red tablets when the doctor recommended the yellow ones. Yet clients went to an advertising agency for a diagnosis and remedy and, even though they were told to take the red tablets, they took the yellow ones. They thought they knew better.

  Hugh wasn’t alone in this view. One evening, over a few drinks, Murray said, ‘I’m dealing with this new marketing director at the bank. Totally wet behind his ears. Fresh out of TAFE with his little marketing degree, and he doesn’t understand brands. Not at all! When I mention his brand to him, he has no idea what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Frightening.’

  ‘I say to him, “Dale, your brand is how the public thinks and feels about your business,” and he dismisses it. “Yes, Murray, but we still need to be more hard-hitting than this. We have to sell home loans right now, and we have to reach this month’s target. I don’t care right now what the public feels about the bank.” And this bloke is in charge of a multi-million dollar marketing budget.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve told me before, these people are training. They’re only in the department for six months, and then they’re moved on.’

  ‘That’s what happens. Unbelievable, isn’t it? There’s no longevity in the marketing department, and trying to educate someone new every six months is out of the question.’

  Hugh nodded. ‘It’s all short term solutions, that’s the problem. These people can’t see beyond tomorrow, they’re incapable of thinking long term.’ He wondered if he was slurring his words.

  ‘They can think as far as the next board meeting, and that’s about it, Hughsy. So long as they can say to their board of directors, “Look, our sales graph is going up,” they’re happy. And bugger the long term damage they’re doing to their brand by running commercials with a salesman screaming, “Buy now! Hurry! Offer ends May the first!”’

  ‘The banks are always on the defensive in this country, that’s the problem. They’re either always going on about how much they’re doing for the community or how they’re not the same as other banks. They’re blinkered.’

  ‘Attempting to allay the guilt they feel about their monumental profits, that’s what that’s about. Guilt and justification.’

  Taking a mouthful of his inevitable lemon, lime and bitters, Murray continued, ‘This will amuse you. This young fellow fresh out of TAFE is now telling us how to execute the creative work, too.’

  ‘But he knows so much more than us, Murray, you surely understand that? He has the marketing expertise that Alpha so obviously lacks.’

  Murray barely acknowledged his younger colleague’s sarcasm. ‘It’s going down well with Simon, as you can imagine. I try and keep the peace, tell Simon to do what the client wants – anything for a quiet life! Of course, he gets on his high horse and refuses to budge. “I’m not prostituting my creative integrity,” he shouts at me.’ Murray sighed. ‘One can only do so much.’

  Hugh held up his bottle of beer, ‘To our lovely clients, who know so much better than us.’ He was definitely slurring his words now.

  ‘To our lovely clients,’ repeated Murray, ‘God bless them all.’

  To Hugh, the solution was straightforward. If businesses could be run efficiently with long term goals in place, if management would be less self-serving, less fixated on returns for shareholders and more considerate of the interests of both their employees and society as a whole, then everyone would be better off. ‘In the end it always comes down to management,’ he said, ‘to the people at the top.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s like Russell, never any good with people. Doesn’t understand them, doesn’t understand what motivates them, doesn’t want to. And you know why?’ Hugh shook his head, surprised by this display of disloyalty. ‘Because the poor bloke doesn’t know himself. You can only deal effectively with others if you know yourself. Russell thinks people expect him to be strong and decisive, so he acts that way. Even when he doesn’t understand the overall situation, he’ll make a decision. That’s what he thinks we expect of him. And he wants to look good in front of us.’

  They sat for a few moments in silence, contemplating the abysmal state of the business world. Murray groaned as he stood up to go to the fridge for another beer for Hugh and to make himself another lemon, lime and bitters. As he handed the beer to Hugh he said, ‘Of course, you know what your problem is?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’ He twisted the top off his beer.

  ‘You have to stop trying to change the world. That’s your problem, young Drysdale. Every generation thinks it’s going to make a difference, and every generation ends up doing whatever it is the same way as the previous one. You’ll be no different. You’ll change, you’ll give up.’

  ‘No I won’t. Murray, we can change our clients. I’m convinced of it. We can educate them, show them the right way to do things. That’s why we’re here for goodness sake.’

  ‘We’re here to make money, that’s why we’re here. To get as much money off our clients as we legally can.’

  ‘You’re not as cynical as that, Murray. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe it. Our clients are idiots, all of them. They have absolutely no idea how to run their businesses, and their attempts at management are nothing short of derisory.’

  ‘Come on, they’re not that bad.’ He wondered why he was trying to defend them.

  His boss lowered himself gingerly back onto the sofa. ‘There’s a theory you may have heard. It’s that Napoleon knew as much about what was going on during a battle as the common soldier in the thick of it. His grasp of strategy and tactics were meaningless when confronted by the chaos of war. And it’s the same with our CEOs. Most of them have no idea what’s going on in their companies, have no control over the markets – they’re powerless. Sure, they strut around and pretend they’re in control, but they’re not. They simply watch events unfold, and react to them.’

  Hugh liked Murray. Although the man infuriated him at times, he liked the fact there was no pretence about him. Certainly, he had the alcoholic’s self-involvement. Certainly, he was vain, arrogant, opportunistic and liable to do the dirty on you, but he was also open. If he was going to stab you, it wasn’t in the back, it was in your front. You understood exactly what was happening.

  The group account director was semi-reclining on the sofa, and looking as if he might remain there for the night. ‘You’re dealing with morons, Hughsy. Remember that, and you’ll be fine. You'll go far.’

  Hugh laughed. ‘Dieter, to take just one example, is not a moron, Murray.’

  ‘Course he is. All car salesmen are morons. Only morons could do such a job.’

  ‘Seriously, he isn’t an idiot. OK, he left Alpha –’

  ‘There you are!’

  ‘And he did always try to second guess what Mannheim wanted –’

  ‘Say no more! Only a moron is going to try and second guess what head office wants. Why didn’t he work out what he thought would be the correct thing for Bauer to do in Australia? I’ll tell you why not …’ He looked at Hugh expectantly.

  The younger man laughed. ‘Because he’s a moron?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  Hugh enjoyed listening to Murray. It may have been the careworn voice, almost verging on a drawl, or it may have been the deep, monotonous flatness of his delivery, as if speaking was almost too much of an effort. Whatever it was, it was appealing, almost hypnotic.

  ‘It’s a game, Hughsy, just a game. Our clients could do for themselves most of what we do for them, and we could easily do what they do. But if that happened, we wouldn’t have a game. Something to keep all of us business types busy, to keep us occupied, to take our minds off the big questions, the important questions.’

  Hugh was baffled. ‘I don’t understand. What big questions?’

  ‘The meaning of life and stuff. Those big questions.’

  ‘It’s forty-two according to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. And I think you’re talking bullshit.’

  They both laughed, a
nd the older man nodded thoughtfully.

  Hugh didn’t tell Murray about the separation. He didn’t tell anyone at work. It was only temporary, so there was little point. He and Kate would be back together before it became general knowledge. The person he would most like to have confided in, the person who would have understood his situation and supported him without question, was Fiona.

  The house had grown larger since Kate and Tim had left, just as his day had grown substantially longer. He tried to fill the extra hours with work, but didn’t feel he was capable of filling the house. So he closed many of the doors and stayed away from those rooms, although sometimes, when he felt particularly low, he’d go and sit on Tim’s bed and look at the giant pandas on the duvet or watch the butterfly mobile hanging from the ceiling, or imagine his son on the floor playing with his cars. Otherwise he restricted his life to just four rooms: the kitchen, sitting room, bedroom and bathroom. He closed everything else off, and retreated into the centre of his home. His study, which he’d used frequently when Kate and Tim were in the house, he rarely went near. If he had to work, he worked in the front room. He wondered if that meant he’d used his study as a sanctuary when they’d been in the house, a place where he could hide and be alone, but he was never able to answer that particular question.

  When he arrived home in the evenings now, only Dante was there to greet him. He forced himself to cook, usually something instant, then sat in the front room with a bottle of red, staring, unseeing, at the TV. Dante lay on the floor at his feet. One evening, he spoke to the dog, and between them it was decided that it would be a good idea for him to call Penny. ‘What harm can it do?’ The dog had no reply, so Hugh called her the next day.

  * * *

  He was concentrating so hard on how he looked, he missed the many heads that turned as she walked across the restaurant towards him. He raised himself from his chair slowly, looking very much like an old person weighed down by the immovable burden of very many years, as if he wished to convey to her in the seconds it took for her to reach their table that she’d overwhelmed him with emotions that he was powerless to ward off, and that he was now obliged to behave like this, to suffer like an awkward teenager. She ignored the whole performance. Hugging him quickly, practically, with no more emotion than a friend, she said, ‘Not bad for the antipodes.’ Turning, looking round the room, and unaware of the one or two men still staring in her direction, she added, ‘It’s quite swish really. We could almost be in London.’