by Janet Neel
‘They seem very devoted — Mrs Byers and your brother, I mean.’
There was a thick dismayed silence from his left and he felt a brute. He looked cautiously sideways to see Francesca looking straight forward out of the windscreen, absolutely expressionlessly.
‘Sorry. None of my business.’
‘You’re quite right of course, they are.’ She spoke evenly, still gazing out of the windscreen. He felt an immediate rush of affection and anxiety for her, and nearly missed a turning. Hang on, hang on, he thought, you saw this girl for the first time yesterday, you’re making this up, you’re just a thick copper to her.
‘If you drop me on this corner, it’s easy. Thank you very much for the lift.’
‘Don’t be cross.’ He spoke involuntarily but managed to meet Francesca’s startled stare squarely as he halted the car. They sat and looked at each other thoughtfully, Francesca observing the little dark green flecks in the brown eyes.
‘You sound like one of my brothers,’ she observed conversationally.
‘I didn’t mean to do that.’ He felt amazingly alive and excited without having the faintest idea what to do next. Ask her out? On an hour’s acquaintance, and professional acquaintance at that? He sat looking at her, with years of experience offering him no guidance at all.
‘Oh!’ Francesca, sounding faintly stagey, broke the silence. ‘There are the colleagues whom I am meeting, obviously on their way back. I ought to go.’ She reached for the door handle, and made a nonsense of trying to open it.
‘Hang on,’ McLeish said, recovering his voice. ‘I’ll let you out.’ He marched round the car and released her, watching with appreciation as she emerged in a flurry of excellent long legs. Get your mouth open, idiot, he thought savagely. ‘I’ll give you a ring after I’ve spoken to Mr Byers,’ he offered. ‘Usually a word from the police is enough in these cases,’ he added fatally, hearing himself sound like a caricature of the friendly neighbourhood policeman, a figure for whom he had no time at all.
‘I should think a word would do, from you,’ Francesca agreed. ‘I just wish I could be a fly on the wall when you and that nice sergeant of yours march in to Gordon and John. The whole thing has been a revelation to me you know. I wonder which of those camp lads with perms is Sheena’s husband — I just can’t put a face to him.’ McLeish beamed at her, but noticed out of the corner of an eye that they were attracting considerable attention from her colleagues, lingering courteously at the door of the Department. Francesca saw them too.
‘I must go. We have to see a delegation from a firm which is going bust, and we have to tell the Minister the two facts we actually know, before he sees them.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’d be very grateful to know how you get on. It would be nicer not to be threatened with unspeakable things.’
McLeish laughed with pleasure at this temperate view of the matter, and managed to ask her for a number at which he could call her. She gave him a neatly engraved business card, and scribbled her home number on the back, turning just perceptibly pink.
‘I must run,’ she stated, standing still.
‘Yes. I’ll ring you.’ She nodded, and shot across the road, running easily on her high heels. He watched, silently, waiting for her to vanish through the door, but she turned and waved to him before she went in, swallowed up in the small group at the door of the building.
6
‘Very good of you to see us at such short notice, David.’ Derrick Jamieson, MP, wrung the Minister for Industry’s hand. ‘May I introduce Sir James Blackett, the Chairman, and Mr Peter Hampton, the Managing Director of Britex Fabrics, and Mr William Blackett who is also on the Britex Board and a very old friend.’
‘Good to see you.’ David Llewellyn, Minister for Industry, a small dark-haired, faintly bow-legged Welshman, beamed kindly upon an evidently nervous Jamieson. ‘May I, in my turn, introduce my colleagues, Mr Blackshaw, head of the Industrial Development Unit, Miss Wilson, another member of the Unit, and my Private Secretary David Jonas.’
Henry and Francesca shook hands courteously, and settled themselves on either side of the Minister. They had arrived fifteen minutes early, as requested, and had waited ten minutes in the private office while the Minister dealt with two phone calls. Henry had fidgeted, but Francesca had been unperturbed, observing reasonably that this always happened with last-minute meetings which had been wedged into a Minister’s already appallingly overcrowded schedule; not to fret, the Minister could not be expected to be wholly with it. She had competently used the time to make sure that Henry was introduced to the key people in the busy crowded room that constituted the Minister’s private office, and had herself briefed David Jonas, the Private Secretary, an elegant, exhausted young man. He listened to Francesca and observed that it was clearly the usual shambles, the Minister had not had time to read anything, and that, as Francesca would know, Jamieson, the MP who had asked for this meeting, was a political friend and ally of the Minister’s.
‘Do you know that sort of thing?’ Henry had asked sotto voce when the elegant young man turned away to sort out a problem.
‘The use of the words “as you know” is a Civil Service code. It means as you ought to know.’
When they had finally got the Minister’s attention, or as much of it as was likely to be available, Francesca had taken about ninety seconds to give an outline of the company’s history, current situation and likely prospects, which the Minister had absorbed with equally impressive speed.
‘It’s been losing money hand over fist for three years, keeping going by selling off the good bits. Now the banks are closing in, there aren’t any more good bits to sell, and there are 1400 jobs on the line? I don’t know, Francesca, you haven’t been here very long, but every time your smiling face comes round my door, my heart sinks. I know you bring tidings of some major industrial disaster, usually in a friend’s constituency. I expect I shall soon feel the same about you, Mr Blackshaw.’ Llewellyn had beamed upon them both with obvious good will, and they had both grinned back, enjoying the Welsh eloquence and careful use of language.
Henry returned his attention to the room where the Minister was now competently opening the meeting, saying how glad he was that he had been on the spot, that he and his Department had known something of the difficulties at Britex Fabrics, and that he was here to listen and to see what help the Department could give. It all sounded remarkably calm and orderly and concerned, and Henry had to remind himself that the man had never heard of Britex Fabrics ten minutes before this meeting. As the MP, Jamieson, equally competently expressed thanks and his intention of calling on Sir James to describe the situation, Henry observed that all three members of the Britex Board had been momentarily totally distracted by the fact that David Jonas was taking a note of the meeting while Francesca sat silent at the Minister’s left, very clearly an adviser. Not what we’re used to in Yorkshire, he thought with amusement, and was brought up short by the realization that as recently as yesterday he would not have expected women to do anything other than take a note of the meeting, either. He looked with affection at this particular female professional, and was taken aback to see that she was watching the remarkably goodlooking Britex Managing Director under her eyelashes.
‘I too would like to thank you, Minister, for making yourself available today.’ Sir James had recovered, and swung efficiently into his prepared speech. ‘You must understand that this is a sad day for our company, which was founded over a hundred years ago and which has been the major employer in Towneley since the war. The company has always been profitable and even three years ago we were employing 2,500 people. It is the competition from low priced imports — priced, we believe, below the cost of production — that has cut savagely into our market. We have always taken the view that our responsibilities to our work people meant that we should try to keep our labour force together and to fight back, but over recent months we have had no choice but to declare substantial redundancies. We have taken losses of £6m in each
of the last two years and shall do worse this year, rather than let our people down. But we have reached the stage where, unless Government can help us, as directors we can do no more and will have to call in the receiver.’
Yes, well, thought Henry in the respectful silence that succeeded this statement, not bad, though the detached observer might well conclude that the decision to keep on your labour force while making huge losses sprang less from altruism than the inability to grasp the fact that the world had fundamentally changed. It was indeed cheap imports that had undercut Britex Fabric’s business, with every chain store now selling thermal underwear made up in Taiwan or Poland at half the cost of the Britex product — but how were you going to turn back that particular clock? He glanced sideways at Francesca who was printing carefully in block capitals the words ‘NO, BECAUSE MULTIFIBRE ARRANGEMENTS AND/OR EEC RULES.’ As he watched she edged the paper into the Minister’s sightline.
‘It’s a question of what our international commitments allow us to do, isn’t it?’ David Llewellyn leaned forward, glancing at Francesca’s piece of paper as he did so. ‘As you know, we have recently renegotiated the multifibre arrangements which limit imports from countries outside the EEC. We are, of course, precluded from action against our Common Market partners, unless the industry can prove to us that imports are being sold below the cost of production. We do, however, have powers under the Industry Act to offer selective financial assistance to firms where there is a danger that jobs would be lost, but we have to be satisfied that, with assistance, a viable enterprise is being created.’
‘So what can you do for us?’ Peter Hampton spoke, abruptly breaking the flow of the meeting. Francesca looked up with interest, but said nothing. She had explained to Henry on the way to the Minister’s office that officials did not speak when the Minister was seeing a delegation unless invited, or in extremis, to rescue the poor chap from some pit he was digging for his own feet.
‘Ah.’ David Llewellyn managed to sound as if Hampton had asked the only sensible question. ‘That is why I have invited Mr Blackshaw to join us. As the head of the Industrial Development Unit he has the responsibility of assessing whether the company is viable or can be made so, and also for telling me what help we ought to be giving.’
William Blackett regarded him with hostility. ‘Time is getting very short.’
‘Oh we understand that, Mr Blackett,’ the Minister assured him. ‘We can move very quickly. That is the basis on which Mr Blackshaw’s Unit is set up. David, how is my time?’
‘Seven minutes, Minister.’
‘Well, since I have to get there as well, I’m afraid we’d better go, hadn’t we? I am sorry to have to leave you, but Mr Blackshaw and Miss Wilson will make arrangements with you to start the appraisal process as soon as possible.’
More courteous thanks, more handshakes, and David Llewellyn and the private secretary bustled out of the room, leaving the visitors with Francesca and Henry.
‘Let’s get a bit more comfortable, shall we?’
Francesca briskly shepherded the party towards the window, and offered tea which had arrived seconds after the Minister left. Henry noted that this commendable attempt to make the visitors feel at home was misfiring: all four men were failing to adjust to a woman taking charge of the meeting. He firmly elbowed Francesca to one side and approached, making civil enquiries about the train journey down and fishing for mutual acquaintances in the trade. By the time the party was seated and in possession of some lethal Departmental tea, Henry was in full charge of the meeting and the visitors had settled down and were producing papers. He gently led Sir James through the depressing history of the last three years, and the sombre list of decent profitable subsidiaries sold off. His sympathy was genuine; he knew enough of the pattern from his own experience, but without ever having had to face the prospect of receivership.
‘The last straw, of course, was the failure of negotiations with America.’ Sir James was in full flight and there seemed little prospect of Hampton getting a word in. ‘We couldn’t afford to develop a new spinning process ourselves — Hampton here was quite right — so we did it as a joint venture with a Wexel subsidiary. It looked like a winner, and that company could have been worth £10m or so. Turns out the process isn’t reliable, and the Japs have something rather better, though a much less elegant piece of technology. So then we were down to looking at selling one of the two core businesses.’
‘What a blow.’ Francesca spoke with real sympathy, and Peter Hampton sat up sharply and considered her. ‘You must have thought you were going to be OK,’ she said to him, as if he was the only person in the room.
‘Yes. Yes, I did. It’s been a nightmare since.’ He leaned forward to Francesca. ‘Nothing goes right, you go along for a week or so, then there is another bill. Your people lose heart, and anyone who can gets another job.’ He paused, and considered her, his blue eyes bright and warily amused. ‘But you wouldn’t have any experience of that sort of thing.’
‘Everyone has experienced situations which get ineluctably worse and worse,’ Francesca pointed out. ‘But I agree with you, debts that you cannot pay are a particularly horrible refinement. Look,’ she leaned forward, the warmth and directness of her personality lighting up the room, ‘let us look at it, show us the worst. If there is a viable business in there and jobs are at risk, something can be done.’
Henry, firmly wresting the meeting back into his own hands, reminded the company that the Department was not in the business of rescuing banks or shareholders. If, in the end, the company turned out to be overburdened with debt, the Department might well recommend that it should go into receivership and assistance be given to those prepared to take over the assets from the receiver. This unwelcome but necessary caveat was received calmly by Peter Hampton who observed that they would be no worse off than they already were on that basis, and with distaste but comprehension by Sir James.
‘What do you do in this lot?’ William Blackett made the question sound rude, but Francesca, unruffled, explained that she was the political wing, there to help Mr Blackshaw with general background and to advise him what assistance was available and to help with the advice to Ministers. ‘I’ve thought of another worry, though,’ she said, helpfully. ‘You’re a quoted company. We can come in disguised as the Regional Office making a courtesy visit, but will this leak? Ought you to make an announcement, or suspend your shares?’
Good question, thought Henry, though it would have been a great deal better if she had waited for him to ask it. Hampton and Sir James and William Blackett were looking both rattled and offended, and for the third time that afternoon he seized back the conduct of the meeting.
‘I am sure this is a point to which you will be giving consideration,’ he said firmly. ‘If it will suit you, I could arrange to be with you the day after tomorrow. I suggest we might start with your London office, and we must at a later stage see the factory. I shall bring one of my people, a young accountant, with me.’ He became aware of a thoughtful silence. ‘Is the day not suitable?’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Sir James was looking irritable. ‘It has just occurred to all of us that we had not mentioned to you that one of our people — the purchasing manager — was murdered on Monday night on his way back to his hotel from our London office. We have had the police there all day, but I imagine they will have finished with us by the day after tomorrow.’
‘How dreadful for you. What happened?’ the irrepressible Francesca enquired.
‘The police think it must have been a drug addict or something similar. His head was beaten in and his wallet and valuables taken. Quite near the hotel in Pindar Street.’ William Blackett had reluctantly decided that Francesca might have some importance in the Department.
‘Not all that far from where I live,’ she observed. ‘I am sorry, awful for you all, and of course, terribly disruptive at this point.’
‘You can say that again,’ Hampton observed with fervour. ‘It’s dread
ful to sound so heartless, but it seemed to me that the gods were against us when I heard about poor Bill. I’d just talked to him that afternoon. What do you want to see?’
‘Everything,’ Henry said briskly. ‘More precisely, we need to see everything that an accountant writing a report for a bank would want to see. Has your bank asked for a report, by the way?’
‘They made it clear that they would not consider any further extension of our overdraft without an accountant’s report.’
‘How are you going to manage short-term for cash?’ It was Francesca again. Henry cast her an exasperated look, since she had asked his next question but one, and she subsided. Peter Hampton grinned at him sympathetically, looking abruptly less tense. As Henry looked away, declining complicity, he just saw Hampton wink at Francesca.
‘We’ll need to talk to suppliers at some point,’ Henry said, into the silence.
‘Bugger that!’ Peter Hampton sat up sharply. ‘Sorry, but that really could put us into receivership. I’m in bother enough dodging flying writs. We don’t have cash to pay bills, unless we can persuade the bank to let us have a bit more on the basis that you people are looking at us. Or, if you could have a word with the PAYE and VAT people not to press us, we could use that cash to stave off pressure.’
Henry thought about this perfectly logical request and realized that there were probably pitfalls which he had not seen. Beside him, Francesca shifted in her seat and he glanced at her enquiringly. She looked back at him, widened her eyes and pressed her lips together in a swift caricature of virtuous restraint. Peter Hampton had noticed the by-play and was openly grinning.
‘Francesca, what is the form on these things?’ Time enough to have a little chat with her afterwards, but for now an answer to the question was needed.
‘Although formally the provisions of the Companies Acts do not bind the Crown, the Attorney General’s best view is that we must all behave as if they did. So we can’t give any comfort to creditors, unless and until we actually get Ministerial agreement to any assistance recommended. Similarly, the formal position is that we must hold out no hope of assistance to you or other directors of the company.’