‘Elsewhere? Where?’
‘Hugo, maybe.’
‘Hugo?’ She laughs at the sheer absurdity of it. ‘Why Hugo of all people?’ Then she guesses. ‘Pamela told you.’
She sees from his face that she’s right.
‘Oh, God! I should have talked to her. I just couldn’t think how to explain. Poor Hugo has had this idea he’s in love with me for ages and ages, and when he was telling me about Ed and how he had to stop work I got upset and cried a little, and he kissed me. Pamela had just got back from school and she saw. What did she tell you? Is she terribly upset? Oh, what fools we all are.’
‘She thought you might leave her to go off with Hugo.’
‘Go off with Hugo? He’s a child! It’s all a fantasy of his. No, I’d never go off with Hugo.’
‘That’s what I told her.’
Even so, the sweet relief is running through his veins, making his skin tingle. He hadn’t realised how afraid he had become of that kiss.
‘Anyway, I never kissed Hugo. He kissed me.’
‘What does he think of it all now?’
‘Oh, he’s fine. We’re still good friends. I just told him to stop being silly. He’s so used to his little game of unreciprocated love that I think he was almost relieved to go back to the way things were.’
His little game of unreciprocated love. There’s more than one of those.
He sees that she follows his thoughts. How could she not? It’s been so many years now.
‘How’s Geraldine?’ she says; even though she asked in the car, and he replied then, ‘Geraldine’s fine.’
‘Geraldine and I,’ he says this time, ‘are as unhappy together as you and Ed. Different couple, different problems, same misery.’
Kitty’s face shows sympathy but not surprise.
‘I did think, in France.’
‘We keep up appearances. But we more or less lead separate lives now.’
Kitty reaches across the table and takes his hand.
‘How do you cope with it?’ she says.
‘I work. Work can take up all your time, if you want it to.’
‘Like Ed.’
‘Ed’s angry with himself. The worst of my situation is I’m angry with Geraldine. I know I shouldn’t be. I half understand why she is the way she is. I’m sorry for her. But more than everything else I’m angry with her. She won’t do the one simple thing that makes marriages possible. She won’t love me.’
‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘We sleep in separate rooms.’
‘Oh, Larry.’
‘I’m ashamed of myself for minding so much. But I do.’
‘Oh, Larry.’
‘So one way or another, we’ve both made a bit of a botch of our lives, haven’t we?’
She goes on stroking his hand, gazing into his eyes.
‘You were the one I wanted,’ he says.
It seems so easy to say it now.
‘I know,’ she says.
‘Have you always known?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I think so.’
‘But you love Ed. Even though he doesn’t know how to be happy.’
‘Sometimes I think that’s why I love him.’
‘So if I’d just been a bit more miserable, might you have gone for me instead?’
‘Probably,’ she says, smiling.
‘I could start now.’
He pulls a sad face.
‘Darling Larry.’
‘Don’t be too nice to me. I don’t think I can take it.’
‘I could have been happy with you,’ she says.
‘Well, there it is,’ he says. ‘What might have been.’
She goes on looking at him, and he sees so much love there that he doesn’t want either of them to say any more. This moment is so sweet to him that he’d ask for nothing else in life if only it would go on for ever.
Then she says, ‘If Hugo can kiss me, I don’t see why you can’t. I’ve known you far longer.’
He gets up from his side of the table and goes round to hers. She stands, and puts her face up to his, timid but willing, like a young girl. He kisses her very gently at first. Then he draws her into his arms and they kiss as he has longed to kiss her ever since the first moment he set eyes on her, ten years ago.
And so they part at last.
‘I can’t help it,’ he says. ‘I’ve always loved you, and I always will.’
‘Dearest darling Larry. Don’t ask me to say it. I’ll never do anything to hurt Ed. You know that.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘But this’ – she strokes his arms, smiling at him, meaning the acknowledgement of his love – ‘this makes it easier.’
‘For me too.’
And it does. Nothing can change. Their circumstances make anything more between them impossible. But everything has changed. Larry feels filled with a joyful lightness. Now, and to the day either he or Kitty dies, he will never be alone.
‘That was it,’ she says. But she looks so much happier. ‘That was what might have been. Now back to what is.’
38
‘What system of budgetary controls do you operate, Mr Cornford?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Larry. ‘I don’t follow you.’
Donohue, the young man leading the McKinsey team, frowns and leans back in his chair. He exchanges glances with Neill and Hollis, his colleagues. All three wear dark suits and white shirts with dark ties. All three are younger than Larry.
‘Purchasing, transport, stock management, maintenance contracts – every part of the running of the company incurs costs, and these costs have to be managed. But of course you know that.’ Donohue smiles suddenly and brightly. Larry waits to be told something he doesn’t know. ‘I’m simply asking what systems you have in place, as managing director, to ensure that your costs are kept as low as possible.’
The question annoys Larry. Donohue annoys Larry. The team from McKinsey & Co, brought in by the parent company in New Orleans, annoys Larry.
‘I don’t assume,’ he answers carefully, ‘that the lowest costs will always deliver the greatest benefit.’
‘But you must have some system for monitoring costs,’ says Donohue.
‘It’s called my staff,’ says Larry. ‘Each purchase is made by a member of staff who knows his business and has the best interests of the company at heart.’
‘I see,’ says Donohue, making a note. ‘Would it be correct to say that your staff are only lightly supervised?’
‘You could say that,’ says Larry. ‘Or you could say our staff are greatly trusted.’
‘And what if it were to turn out that your trust had been abused? Indeed, has it ever so turned out?’
‘We all fall short of the glory of God, Mr Donohue,’ says Larry. ‘The question is, what are we to do about it? We can set up what you call a monitoring system, which tells people what they should be doing, and detects when they’re failing to do it, and presumably punishes them in some way. Or we can give them an area of responsibility, and ask them to work out how best to operate for themselves, and rely on their pride in their work and their loyalty to the company to deliver the best possible results.’
‘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.’