Читать книгу The Money Makers - Harry Bingham - Страница 36

The factory shop had been cleared out. The museum exhibits which old Tom Gissing had lovingly pieced together lay shoved to one side, roughly covered by a dustsheet. George watched silently as the last of the workers filed in. There were no seats and the workforce, mostly men, stood, arms folded and muttering. Gissings wasn’t just the biggest employer in Sawley Bridge, it was pretty much the only one. George didn’t just own a factory. He controlled a community.

There was no platform, so George had had a Gissings desk pushed up against the wall. He sat on it and looked out at the sea of faces. Next to him stood Val Bartlett, old Tom Gissing’s secretary, with a sheaf of papers they had spent six long weeks putting together. Her mouth was taut and thin-lipped, turned down at the corners. The muttering from the assembled workers had an aggressive edge. George felt nervous.

When everybody was present, the murmur died away. All eyes were on George, who clambered heavily on to the desk. At least the old-style Gissings quality should bear his weight. He had some notes in his pocket, but he didn’t take them out. He knew what he wanted to say.

‘Thank you all for coming. My name is George Gradley and I am the new owner of this company. What I want to do is to tell you how things stand and what needs to change.

‘First, the good news. In the last twelve months, this company has sold one and a half million quids’ worth of furniture. That means there are still plenty of people who like what we do enough to fork out for it.

‘Now the bad news. We sold less last year than we did the year before, and less that year than the one before that. In fact, sales have fallen every year for five years.

‘I wouldn’t mind too much if our costs had come down. But they haven’t. They’ve gone up or stayed the same. As you all know, our costs are higher than our revenues. Much higher in fact. About two hundred thousand a year, and that’s before interest.

‘There might be some consolation if Gissings had been building for the future. But it hasn’t. It’s been building for the past. The factory extension is half-finished, but there’s no cash to finish it. Meanwhile our product line hasn’t changed in three years and it’s a decade out of date. Our marketing brochures are terrible and our prices are uncompetitive. Our most loyal customers are starting to look elsewhere, and I don’t blame them.

‘All this would be bad, but not disastrous if we had time to put things right. But we don’t. We owe the bank more than half a million pounds and we’ve got just under two months before the money’s due. We don’t have a chance of getting that much cash together in that space of time. But we do have a chance – a tiny one – of doing enough to persuade the bank that it should give us more time.

‘I know none of you knows me. Probably nobody in this room likes me or wants me here. But I want you to know that I’m speaking the truth. You all know Val, my secretary. I’ve asked her to show those of you who are interested all the facts and figures. You can see anything you want to. Our sales, our costs, our debts, everything. She understands all of this as well as anyone. Better than me, in fact. So talk to her. This is your company. You have a right to understand what’s going on.

‘Any questions so far?’

George looked around. Nobody moved. It had been obvious to everybody that Gissings was in trouble, but nobody had ever told them how bad. George could tell that the workforce believed him. But trust was a different matter and the toughest part of the speech was still to come. He felt nervous but committed.

‘So what are we going to do about it? Well, in the long term, if we get there, we’re going to turn Gissings into a thriving, expanding company, with a healthy balance sheet, a bloody good product line and a fat order book. But right now, our aim is to survive and we can’t do that with our costs the way they are. As of today, I am suspending thirty-five of you. Val will read out the names in a moment. I say suspending because I hope to take you back on as soon as I can. But that won’t be much comfort to you because your pay cheques are stopping as of now and in all probability we’ll go bust within a matter of months anyway. I owe you some redundancy money. Some of you, who have been with us longest, are owed quite a lot. Well, you’re not going to get it, because we don’t have it. You can take us to court if you want, and you’ll win. But you won’t get your money because by the time you get your award, this company will have been picked bare. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.’

Val stood beside him with the thirty-five names. Everybody in the sawmill would go. There was no point in a sawmill, when you could get better quality product delivered more cheaply. On the factory floor, everyone who had looked up and dawdled on George’s first tour of inspection was going. Those who had stayed working were the lucky ones.

‘As for the rest of you, I’m cutting your pay by fifteen percent. If any of you want to give up more than that for the good of the company, then I’ll write your name in gold on the factory gates just as soon as we can afford the paint. I’m not allowed to cut your pay like that. Once again, you can take me to court, and you’ll win. But you won’t get any cash back and you won’t have a job, because the company will be as dead as a doornail. For what it’s worth, I don’t intend to take one penny in pay, until this company has made enough money to cover its costs including interest. And I’m going to work my tits off to see that it does.

‘Are there any questions?’

There was silence from the assembled company. Weak sunshine threaded its way through the dirty plate-glass windows. The yard beyond looked grey and empty. Standing on his desk, George felt exposed and vulnerable, but also renewed. He had said what needed saying, done what needed doing. He stayed standing. ‘Any questions at all?’

The silence lasted half a minute or so. Then somebody at the back of the room cleared his throat.

‘Why the fuck don’t you just write a cheque to the fucking bank for the fucking money and leave us poor bastards alone?’