by Stan Mason
‘Dear Ross,’ it began. ‘I know I’ve been a thorn in your side for all these years criticising you every step of the way. It was because I didn’t agree with your business methods and seriously believed that you would bring the company down as a result of your inexperience. However, as the years passed by and the company regained its credibility, as well as becoming sound, I realised that you were right and that I was totally wrong. In the last few years, I’ve grown to admire you and your business ethics. I apologise for being a pest. Keep on with the good work. I shall always hold you in my highest esteem.
Sincerely, Harold Wingate,
Manager, Baudelaire, Inc.’
Ross read the letter through twice. There had been so many confrontations; so much bitterness in the man yet now that it was all over, he realised he would miss the manager greatly. Indeed, there was nothing more beneficial to a business than to have someone like Wingate on one’s tail to keep the executive mind focussed. The Chief Executive took the details in the letter literally. The man whom he considered to be his greatest enemy was, in actual fact, his friend, admiring him from a distance. Ross arranged for the letter to be inserted into a photographic frame and he had it affixed to the wall facing his desk. Whenever he felt any doubt or indecision, he would look at the letter and feel confident again. Wingate was still a good friend to him long after his departure.
The business world was turning on its axis. In trading terms depression eventually turns into recovery and then to boom before turning down in recession and moving back to depression again. Baudelaire Inc. was on the upturn; things were going extremely well. It was just before the start of the Second World War when the company began to capture a larger share of the market. Consumers started to recognise that not only were the products of the company first-class but that the principles employed were good for the customers, the distributors and the employees of the company. Now that the years of depression were over, everyone involved in Baudelaire Inc. seemed to be doing well. A short while after the latest results were issued, showing profits in excess of three hundred million dollars a year, and liabilities down to less than one-tenth of that sum, with assets exceeding four hundred million dollars, Ross received a telephone call from out of the blue.
‘Mr. Ross. My name’s Frederick Nelson the Third, the Chairman of Rollercoaster Inc.,’ began the senior executive of its rival company. ‘I’ve a mind to take over your company, sir. You see, we’re thinking of selling some of our non-core assets and focussing on taking over another company whose products fit our own. It makes good sense for both companies. Now we’re quite prepared to offer you a senior appointment in the company after the takeover’s completed as well as a place on our Board. We’re willing to offer your shareholders seven hundred thousand dollars for your company. What do you say?’
Ross felt his hackles rise at the sound of the man’s name as evil memories stirred in his mind. ‘You have a short memory, Mr. Frederick Nelson the Third, don’t you,’ he returned, feeling his blood-pressure rising to higher levels. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ came the abrupt reply. ‘I don’t recall having met you, have I?’
‘No, we’ve never met but we did have a conversation nine years ago. I rang you to ask whether you’d be interested in taking over this company because it had liabilities of seventy thousand dollars and some of the creditors were pressing very hard. It wouldn’t have cost you a dime. All you had to do was to take on the liabilities. You told me quite bluntly... no I’d say rudely... that you weren’t interested in insolvent companies. Now you’re willing to offer seven hundred thousand dollars to gain control. Certainly that’s not enough.’
‘Well I’m empowered to go to eight hundred thousand... ...’
‘Don’t interrupt me Mr. Frederick Nelson the Third. I’m still talking!’ cut in Ross rudely. ‘We’re not interested in your offer.’ Without delay, he dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle. It had taken nine years to return the compliment of ending the conversation as abruptly as the other man had done to him before.
The telephone rang again and the voice of Frederick Nelson the Third charged down the line. ‘Look, Ross,’ he challenged, ‘this is a very serious offer we’re making. If you want more money we can negotiate.’
‘I’ll tell you this once and once only,’ returned Ross point-blank. ‘We do not wish to sell the company.’
‘Well then it’ll be the worst for you, feller!’ countered the Chairman of Rollercoaster Inc. ‘You see, we’re already in the market buying up the shares.’
Ross burst out laughing at the comment. ‘You’re full of bluff!’ he said almost choking with amusement.
‘We’ll see who’s bluffing,’ came the strong reply.
‘Look, let me settle your mind and save you a great deal of aggravation,’ explained the Chief Executive of Baudelaire Inc. ‘I own almost ninety-five per cent of the shares in this company,’ he informed the other man, ‘and the executives and employees own the other five per cent. So good luck on your endeavour to buy us out in the market. You see, there aren’t any shares left.’ Then, for the second time, he dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle.
‘Serves him right,’ congratulated old man Ross when he heard the story. ‘He could have had the company for nothing but he turned down the opportunity. That’s what one must do in life, son. Examine the future in terms of the next ten years and work out what you think will happen. Take the very worst view from the start and the rest will follow. This Frederick Nelson the Third couldn’t see further than his nose. Now he finds that the competition is so strong from Baudelaire he has to do something about it. But his vision’s far too short. He thinks he can buy his way out of it only to learn that you and the staff own all the shares of the company. When the chips were down after the Wall Street crash and no one wanted to buy the shares of Baudelaire, you boldly stepped in. Now you can sit back and reap the benefits. As far as the Chairman of Rollercoaster’s concerned, there’s an old Russian saying. It goes: “Always be friendly with the people you meet when you’re on your way up. You never know when you’re going to meet them on your way down!” There’s a moral in that, you know. Men like Frederick Nelson the Third only get what they deserve in the end... nothing!’
The Committee
The members met every week; the committee each month. The weekly venues were the most popular in the area and very well attended; the committee meetings were often short and highly hilarious! How could they not be with those who had been elected? In the first place, the Chairman was granted the supreme authority to devise and present his own agenda so that any items he preferred not to discuss were never aired. Secondly, the committee had never appointed a Secretary therefore no minutes were kept. Resultantly, any decisions made by the committee were left open to misinterpretation.
In reality, the committee comprised seven people voted by the general members of the club to run it and they were, in fact, seven ordinary people stemming from all different walks of life. When they met, they didn’t seem to care much for each other, their personalities clashed, slanging matches prevailed, and it became a chore for all of them to be suffered on the first Wednesday in each month. Nonetheless, it was rare for anyone to miss a meeting, and they all seemed to return for more punishment regardless of their adverse attitudes, the snide remarks and the evil accusations which they seemed to enjoy throwing at each other.
Old John Masters had worked for a stock-broking firm in the City of London and he had been appointed the Chairman of the committee many years earlier... a position which he held very securely. He had lived in the village all his life and often boasted he had been born there although this fact was strongly countered by his lifelong adversary, Jessica Wilkes, a woman who was only three years his junior. She was always infuriated by his high-pitched voice and his love of Shakespeare. Whenever he quoted a passage from th
e Bard’s work, she shrivelled up her face in pain. She found it quite sad that he insisted on doing it whenever he found someone listening to him in company. Masters had retired nearly five years earlier while Mrs. Wilkes still worked as a dinner lady at the local school. Sitting opposite was Charter Beverley. He was the owner of a fairly large greetings cards-cum-record shop in the nearby town. Some people claimed he was under investigation by the Inland Revenue for falsifying his accounts but the rumour had not been substantiated. Unfortunately, in a small village, rumour was always rife and everyone knew everyone else’s business... or at least they thought they did. Beverley was a Victorian-type person with prudish views and a brusque manner. He was a man who bridled whenever a suggestion was made by a member of the opposite sex. After all, he insisted to other men but never to women, the fair sex should be put in their place... some distance behind the men! Katie Devenish was a housewife. She refused to work and relied totally on the salary of her over-worked husband to pay the bills and keep her in the style she could afford, which was far lower than she really wanted. Now that her three children had grown up and left home, she delighted in laying in bed for most of the morning. Life was a continuous run of rising from bed, making lunch, smoking twenty cigarettes every day, watching television soaps for most of the afternoon, and making dinner for herself and her husband in the evening. It was the kind of life she wanted. Marshall Quint was a middle-aged electrician who worked for a company on the outskirts of the town. After suffering a mid-life crisis, whereby he chased every young woman in sight who was twenty-five years younger than him, he suddenly became obsessed by the need to better himself. Subsequently, he stood for election and became elected on to the committee. Now that he was installed, he often wondered why he had bothered. The members bickered and argued, snapping sharply at each other most of the time as if to gain points and he was still uncertain whether or not that was the way most committees discussed matters. Barbara Mackie was in her element. She worked in a cafe in the town adjoining the railway station, making sandwiches, heating pies and pasties, and pouring tea and coffee for all the customers who needed refreshment. She was a modest happy person, nearly always satisfied with her lot in life even though she had more reason than most to be bitter. Her husband had run off with her best friend some ten years earlier leaving her to raise a young child. Nonetheless, she had some men friends, whom she kept at a reasonable distance, and nothing seemingly daunted her spirit... not even the adverse comments of the members of the committee. Gary Gibbons was the latest recruit. He was a young man with a wife and two small children who had come to the village to live only two years earlier. As everyone knew, one had to be there for at least twenty-five years before being accepted by the local villagers. Consequently, he was regarded as an intruder rather than a newcomer. A local builder, he had been elected on to the committee because the rules insisted that there had to be seven members but, at the time of the election only six people were willing to stand.
It was the middle of January, a dull month in which almost everyone was recovering from a surfeit of food at Christmas and a deficit in their bank account in the New Year. The nation was resting in both physical and economic terms. The room at the centre was relatively cold. The reason reflected the fact that the central heating had been turned on only five minutes before the members arrived for their monthly meeting. Five of them shivered in the cold waiting for Barbara Mackie and Gary Gibbons to turn up. The usual banter and impatience was shown by Masters, Beverley and Katie Devenish, whereby they made unfair comments, tapped the wooden table with their fingers and shifted uneasily on the fold-up chairs until the young builder appeared in the doorway. The expression on his face indicated that something awful had happened and the members awaited his explanation with interest.
‘Terrible news!’ he gasped, his chest heaving at the effort. ‘Terrible! I’ve just heard that Barbara Mackie has passed away. Apparently, she had a heart attack.’
‘Oh, my God!’ rattled Quint, a widower, who had a particular penchant for the woman. ‘When did this happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ returned Gibbons. ‘I went to the newsagents to buy a newspaper and the woman serving told me the news.’
‘How awful!’ suggested Masters, believing in the spirit of due reverence. ‘Perhaps we ought to cancel the meeting.’ ‘No, I don’t think so,’ snapped Jessica Wilkes coldly. ‘She wouldn’t want us to cancel it just because she died. She would want us to continue the meeting as normal. But I think we should have one minute’s silence as a matter of respect for a woman who contributed admirably to the club for many years.’
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Quint who never did or said anything that ever helped the committee or the club.
‘Very well,’ went on Masters solemnly. ‘If you take your place Gibbons, we shall all stand for one minute in silence in respect for our late colleague.’
They duly stood to attention, looking down at the table for about half-a-minute silently when the door opened and Barbara Mackie peered inside. A puzzled expression crossed her face as she stared dumbly at the group wondering what was happening.
‘Is there something I missed?’ she called out, rudely interrupting the vigil.
Six faces looked up to stare at her bleakly. Twelve eyes opened widely in horror. Katie Devenish did all she could to hold back a scream. Jessica Wilkes, however, strong as she was, felt as though she was going to faint.
‘We were told you were dead,’ she muttered flatly as her throat dried up as though filled with parched sand.
‘What a load of codswallop,’ laughed Barbara Mackie with amusement. ‘As you can see I’m alive and in good health. Why were you all standing still in silence.’
‘We were giving you one minute’s silence in respect,’ answered Quint beginning to find his voice again.
‘I’m very grateful,’ she responded and then began to think more deeply. ‘What else were you going to do if I had died?’
‘Do!’ replied Masters surprised at the question. ‘We were going to do nothing. That was it!’
‘That was it?’ repeated Barbara Mackie angrily. ‘Do you mean to say I’ve worked on this committee for twenty-two years and all you’re willing to do is to give me one minute’s silence. Nothing more. It’s disgusting.’
‘You mean disgraceful,’ ventured Quint softly.
‘I mean disgusting!’ continued the woman in abject fury.
‘Oh, mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low. Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure,’ quoted Masters blandly from Shakespeare as though it fitted the moment.
‘Do shut up!’ snarled Jessica Wilkes angrily. She had heard so many quotations spouted by the Chairman from the Bard it was beginning to drive her crazy. ‘Can’t you see Barbara’s upset! How would you like it if you heard people talking about you having died when you’re still alive and well?’
‘I don’t think I’d really care,’ returned Masters calmly. ‘I mean, if I died, it wouldn’t matter to me. Whereas if it were untrue, I would enjoy the prospect of being alive.’
‘One minute’s silence for twenty-two years of service,’ ranted Barbara Mackie angrily. ‘One minute’s silence.’
‘What do you expect us to do?’ asked Beverley unhelpfully.
‘We would all attend your funeral, of course,’ intruded Katie Devenish, ‘and pay our respects at the graveside.’
‘Oh bully for you!’ countered the tea lady sarcastically. ‘I’m wondering whether it’s all worth it!’
‘Of course it is,’ muttered Quint unnecessarily. ‘Of course it is. Look what you get out of it.’
‘And what’s that?’ returned Barbara Mackie. ‘In truth, what do I get out of it? Nasty remarks, male chauvenism from Charter, aggravation, striving. Do you want any more?’
Quint went back into his shell and remained silent.
‘Isn’t this all getting out of hand?’ went on Masters tiredly. He turned to Gary Gibbons. ‘How did the rumour of Mrs. Mackie’s death start? Do you know?’
‘I told you,’ bleated the unfortunate bearer of the bad news. ‘The newsagent told me. She said it was a heart attack.’
‘I wonder where she heard it,’ asked Jessica Wilkes with a serious expression on her long ugly face.
‘I suggest we get back to business and forget all about this incident,’ suggested Beverley, eager to get on.
‘Indeed,’ added Masters. ‘I hope we can apologise to Barbara, put all this behind us, and start our monthly meeting in earnest. At least it’s getting a little warmer in here.’
‘It got that way when Barbara turned up,’ said Kate Devenish with a slight smile touching the edges of her lips.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ snarled the victim of her remark.
‘Right,’ began Masters, cutting across the conversation to begin the meeting when everyone had taken their seat. ‘The first item on the agenda is the debacle of the raffle last week. As you are all aware, a number of people went round the village and some parts of the town selling tickets. Their names and telephone numbers or addresses were written on the back of each counterfoil so that if their ticket was drawn from the box they would win a prize and be contacted to collect it. However, on the night of our venue, two of the three raffle books were missing so there was no way the counterfoils could be entered in the raffle. The situation was horrendous! However the raffle was still held with a reduced number of counterfoils in the box. Mrs. Devenish, you appear to be the person responsible. Is that really so?’
Kate Devenish hung her head slightly and pressed her lips together. ‘I have to accept the blame for it, I suppose. I tore out the counterfoils and left them on my mantelshelf in one of the ash-trays. Unfortunately, my sister, who’s staying with me at the moment, being the helpful person that she is, decided to go on a cleaning spree. She thought they were waste paper in the ash-trays and ditched the counterfoils into a black plastic bag which was collected by the refuse men early the following morning. By the time I discovered what she’d done, it was too late to get them back. I’m sorry but that’s the truth of the matter. I take all the blame.’
