Flight (8 page)

Tom Scree raised a hand. ‘Before we start, I have something else to say – if I may, Sir Arthur?… I came to this meeting, as perhaps many of us did, convinced that we should not pursue this merger. We have always been flexible at Cox & Co. Flexibility is a strength, and not a weakness. We still retain the qualities of the partnership established by Sir Arthur, and we have always respected each other's opinions, while conceding to Sir Arthur, very properly, the priority among us – he has been, he is, the
primus inter pares,
first among equals. But we have become, perhaps, somewhat ossified in our marketing and in our business practice. We have lost some flexibility. We need new blood.

‘It is in the name of our flexibility that I am speaking to you now and asking for your understanding. I spoke earlier out of the conviction with which I came into the meeting. I heard Martagon speaking, as we all did, but I myself lacked the flexibility to admit to myself the cogency of much of what he was saying. So I spoke as I had planned. As I said then, Martagon's standards and integrity are beyond question. In the course of the past few hours, I have changed my views. I now believe that a merger with Harpers would indeed be in the best interests of the firm, the partners, the management and staff, and that we should proceed. As Martagon made very clear in his initial presentation, Sir Arthur's position as chairman of the new entity is, of course, unassailable.'

There was a snort of derision from somewhere down the table at the vacuous hypocrisy of ‘unassailable', then a stunned silence.

The lying bastard, thought Martagon. He guessed that the telephone call had been from Giles Harper, who well knew the day and hour of the fateful meeting.

Martagon was right, and Giles's timing had been perfect. Giles told him afterwards, with the air of one who had made a coup, that he had been lunching all the board members of Cox & Co., and ascertained that, after Martagon, Tom Scree was the key player. Then he zoomed in.

Confidential talks with Scree had elicited the information Giles needed. He discovered what Scree wanted. Scree was tired of working on projects in India and Bangladesh. He wanted to be in the London office, with time and leisure to pursue some of his other interests. Giles never commented or picked him up on this. He had made no deal, his hands were clean.

On the telephone, Giles had said he was calling on a sudden impulse. He just wanted to ask Tom, as a personal favour, whether he might possibly give up his work in the field and base himself at the London office, to work on the restructuring of the enlarged business – if, of course, the merger were to proceed, after discussions which he understood were ongoing. Giles said he knew this would be a sacrifice, but he hoped Tom would consider it seriously, as his expertise would be quite invaluable.

Scree, with matching cunning, replied that he would indeed consider it. It might be difficult. There could be problems. His tacit implication was, it would have to be made worth his while. The two understood one another perfectly.

Then Tom Scree came back into the boardroom, and performed his graceful U-turn.

Thus Martagon got what he wanted, but not in the way that he wanted. He had himself made a good case for the merger, while scrupulously cataloguing the arguments against it. Tom Scree's
volte-face
had done the rest. Martagon collected the rest of the votes. Everyone followed Tom Scree's lead. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes … all round the table. The only person left unpersuaded was Arthur Cox: ‘No. No. No. Over my dead body.'

His was a lone voice. For everyone else, it was somehow not a victory. Mirabel inspected her fingernails, a lock of hair concealing her face. Members looked down at their papers, into their teacups, anywhere, but not at Arthur. Arthur stared out of the window. It had begun to rain. Only Martagon had not yet spoken. His heart was pounding, his armpits were prickling. Arthur turned his head and looked him in the eye. ‘And you, Martagon?'

‘Yes,' said Martagon. ‘Yes. I am in favour of the merger.'

Silence.

Arthur Cox rose awkwardly and leaned his hands on the table in front of him. ‘Under these circumstances,' he said, ‘I cannot see how I can continue to take the firm forward. I am suspending my chairmanship of Cox & Co. as of this moment, in the confidence that the understanding as to my own future position, already guaranteed by the other side, will be duly honoured.'

He disentangled himself from table and chair, turned, and stumped out of the room. No one spoke. They heard his heavy steps on the stairs, and then the street door opening and closing. Martagon had been sitting with his head in his hands. When the street door banged behind Arthur, he got up, went out to the lavatory, and vomited.

*   *   *

In the post he received a one-line note from Arthur: ‘You have behaved dishonourably.'

That is true, Martagon said to himself. I should have come straight out at the beginning and told Arthur what I really thought. It seemed for a while as though he might be jollied into the idea of the merger, and no bones broken. I thought I was doing the best thing. But it wasn't the right thing.

He wanted to talk to Arthur, but Arthur was not there. Nevertheless Martagon found himself getting up from his desk and crossing the landing to Arthur's office. He opened the door, expecting to see an empty room.

Tom Scree and Dawn were in there. Scree was sitting at Arthur's desk, swinging slightly on the tilted chair. Dawn was standing with her back to the window. Two tea-mugs were on the desk. Martagon had the feeling that he was interrupting something. They both looked at him. He saw that Dawn was in a state. She was twisting a crumpled tissue in her hands, and she had clearly been crying.

‘Sorry … Another time,' said Martagon, meaninglessly, and backed out, closing the door again behind him.

She must be really upset about Arthur, he thought. And Tom Scree can't be all bad after all, if he is the one person she can talk to about it, and he gives her the time. On a human level, he performs better than I do. I should have thought about how Dawn might feel, and had a word with her myself.

*   *   *

In the lengthy and tedious discussions that followed, between Cox & Co.'s bankers, accountants and lawyers, and Harpers' bankers, accountants and lawyers, Giles's promise that Arthur would be the first chairman of the new firm began to look unrealistic. For if Arthur had not been Arthur, as Giles reminded Martagon in the aftermath, Cox & Co. would not have been up for a merger at all, except on their own terms.

Of course, the board of Cox & Co. – including Martagon – thought it was going to be on their own terms. But as the negotiations and due diligence proceeded, it began to look less and less like a merger and more and more like a takeover – by Harpers. The balance sheets told their own story.

In meeting after meeting, Cox & Co.'s position melted away. From the City's viewpoint, the tensile strengths that Arthur had built into the business were seen, bleakly, as points of fracture. The figures that were now being produced seemed to prove Cox & Co. to be terminally ailing. It was embarrassing and humiliating even for those, like Martagon, who were hell-bent on the merger.

Martagon betrayed Arthur a second time. On the final, decisive day of the negotiations, the two sides attended at the Institution of Civil Engineers in Great George Street, each with their phalanxes of accountants and lawyers, occupying separate suites, next door to one another on the lower ground floor. Messages and memos passed to and fro between the professionals they employed – all of whom stood to gain, fee-wise, from spinning things out as long as possible. Meanwhile the principals were sidelined.

Martagon was sitting with Tom Scree, Mirabel Plunket and other Cox people, waiting to sign the final documents when they appeared. It was after six o'clock when the senior man from their solicitors' firm put his head round the door. ‘The other side,' he whispered, ‘have made another difficulty.'

‘I just don't believe it. If it's about the warranties again,' said Martagon, ‘tell them to take a running jump. Everything is in order, we've been over and over it all and so have they.'

‘It's not the warranties. It's about Sir Arthur Cox. They are reneging on the arrangement. About the chairmanship.'

Martagon had been half expecting this. But he was none the less furious. ‘That is outrageous,' he said, vivified by anger. ‘That is just not on.' He picked up his mobile and banged in Giles's number: ‘I have to speak to you privately. Right now.'

The two met on the steps outside the building, in the cold, inhaling the fumes of gridlocked traffic waiting to get into Parliament Square.

‘These are the longest red lights in London,' said Giles.

Martagon was too agitated for small-talk. ‘What the fuck are you up to now?'

‘I'm sorry, mate. It just can't be done. My people won't wear it. I did everything I could.'

‘You gave me an undertaking. You gave me your word. Your word of honour.' Martagon heard and hated the whine in his voice.

‘Informally. I agreed informally. Cox is yesterday's man. He's lost it. Cox is dogmeat. You know it.'

‘I can't accept this, Giles.'

‘Come on, sharpen up. This is business. Our business, yours and mine. We're on the point of signing. Do you want to scupper the whole merger, our future, over this one issue?'

Martagon took a deep breath of polluted air into his lungs. ‘No. No, I don't.'

‘Right, then.'

‘I shan't forgive you for this.'

‘Yes, you will.'

THREE

The disease of management is worse than other diseases, because it is not recognized as a disease at all. Keen management is seen as a sign of entrepreneurial health. It calls out the best in people – initiative, interpersonal skills, flair for bringing order and purpose, and sometimes even grace, to a complex productive activity involving many others.

It also brings out the worst in them. Greed, and arrogance. That's what Martagon feared. That's what he saw happening at Harper Cox, from the beginning.

But could he expect men and women with special talents, placed in authority over others, to be without weaknesses? If so, almost no one would qualify – certainly no one with the drive, ambition and capacity for risk-taking that were essential to the undertaking.

*   *   *

After the merger, he longed to re-establish some simple contact with Arthur Cox. He telephoned him frequently, but he never seemed to be in his London flat. His Lambourn number was ex-directory, and Martagon had never known it. There were a lot of things he didn't know about Arthur.

Then one evening Arthur did pick up the telephone. ‘Ah, it's Mr Vain-Confidence himself,' he said. ‘I don't suppose you remember what happens to him.'

‘Yes, I do,' said Martagon, shortly.

Mr Vain-Confidence, in
Pilgrim's Progress,
falls into a deep pit.

Arthur told Martagon a long, rambling tale about a takeover bid he had successfully seen off in the late 1970s, before Martagon joined the firm. Martagon had heard it all before. ‘We didn't employ shits in those days,' said Arthur, and rang off.

Those words were the last that Martagon ever heard him say.

A couple of days later, on a day of pouring rain, Arthur was shopping for his wife in Wantage, their market town. He was run over on the square by a white van driven by a local man. An ambulance took him to hospital. He was dead on arrival.

The driver was shattered. ‘Gutted', as he said at the inquest. He had noticed Sir Arthur Cox, he said, whom he knew well by sight, standing with two carrier-bags beside the statue of King Alfred in the middle of the square. Then, before he knew it, Sir Arthur had lurched forward and was under his wheels. There was nothing he could do. The coroner attached no blame.

Martagon tried to imagine what it had been like for Arthur. The moment when the van first struck him – shock but not panic, time slowed-down; nothing irreversible had happened yet. The van, braking as hard as it could on the wet tarmac, still ploughed on, and Arthur felt himself falling, his hands letting go the bags, his balance lost, and still the van with its crushing weight bore down on him until Arthur was down, his head hitting the road. You can't put the clock back a single second. A black, spilling crack? And then, nothing.

Is that how it was? They said, at the hospital, that he would have felt no pain. But they had to say that. No doctor ever says, after a fatal accident, that the victim must have suffered inconceivable agony in the eternal moment before darkness came.

*   *   *

Martagon spoke at Arthur's cremation service. Most of the staff of what had been Cox & Co. showed up, as did Giles and Amanda, all of them mixing exotically with the Coxes' Berkshire friends. Beforehand, Martagon composed two addresses. There was the one that he actually gave, respectful, regretful, lightened with anecdotes of Arthur's professional triumphs and his endearing personal idiosyncrasies. He did not actually say, ‘We shall never see his like again,' or ‘They don't make them like that any more': he avoided the most blatant of the available clichés. But that was the general idea.

Afterwards people came up to him and said he had struck exactly the right note. He met, for the first and last time, Arthur's daughter, flanked by a stockbroker husband and a young son. The one who had a family party for his tenth birthday. Now, when it was too late, Martagon felt a tender curiosity about Arthur's emotional hinterland.

The widow, Lady Cox, thanked him effusively for what he had said. Martagon had met her before, and not liked her much – a dyed blonde who had once been pretty. She was wearing heavy makeup and a furry black hat. Afterwards she sent Martagon one of Arthur's ties as a memento, which caused him to suppose that Arthur could not have confided in her the details of his humiliation and betrayal. Lady Cox did not look like a person in whom one could easily confide. The tie seemed brand new, apple-green silk with white polka dots. Martagon had never seen Arthur wearing it. He had probably been given it for Christmas one year, since when it had lain in the back of a drawer. Martagon would much rather have had one of the creased, dim-coloured woollen ties that Arthur habitually wore with his shabby tweed suits at the office.