by Peter Ralph
“I’ll raise this at the next board meeting,” Harry retorted, “and I’ll get the board to approve the payment. There’s more than legalities involved here, there’s morals.”
“You do that. Look, I’m tired and I’m hungry, and I don’t want you phoning me at home.”
“That’s not what you told Shirley.”
“Sorry, Harry. What I meant was, don’t phone me again anywhere. If you want to talk to me from now on, you can do it through the chairman,” Aspine said, slamming the phone down.
“Bad call?” Barbara asked, brushing her lips across his.
“No, it’s fine. Where are the kids?”
“School barbecue. I’m picking them up in an hour. Would you like dinner now?”
“I’m not that hungry. Just get me a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, and I’ll have it in here? I’ve got a lot to get through tonight. Oh, and don’t prepare dinner for me for a while. You should eat with the kids until I get on top of this company.”
“That’s fine. Mark asked me about the China trip again today. Do we have enough money to let him go? His heart’s set on it, and all his friends are going,” Barbara said, her face drawn.
He smiled. “I told you last week that our money problems are over. If they weren’t how could I afford that red monster in the garage?”
She looked down at the floor. “You’ve had expensive cars on finance before, and we’ve still been in trouble.”
“Fuck! You never let up do you? Now listen to me. I’ll organize a credit card for you next Tuesday with a hundred thousand dollars on it. In the meantime anything that the kids want, that you approve of, is fine. If that’s all, I’ve got heaps to get through.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling, “it’s just that the school’s call about the fees last week freaked me out.”
“Yeah. You’d better get going if you’re going to pick the kids up on time.”
“You’re right. I’ll get you a sandwich and coffee when I get back.”
Aspine spread the summaries of the company’s employees across his desk and with a yellow marker began running lines through age groups and locations. His preference was simple but not practical. He wanted to sack all employees over sixty, then all those over fifty-five, working his way down until he had six hundred. This, however, would provide the grounds for a discrimination action, which he wanted to avoid. No, there would have to be a cross-section of employees terminated, but he only intended to retrench a minimal number below the age of twenty-five. The thirty employees on extended sick leave could be terminated, or their wages could be stopped, without recrimination. He mused: these would be the easy thirty. The remaining seventy employees on this list were on light duties and WorkCover, and their removal would be tougher. In theory, bringing employees who had suffered work place injuries back to work on light duties for a few hours a day was fine. In practice it was diabolical; as most of these employees soon realized that working in the store or a site office, was far cushier than labouring on a construction site. The effect being that far too many employees ended up in these soft locations and couldn’t be removed, because they were on WorkCover. Experience told him that if injured workers weren’t back working full-time within six weeks of an accident, they would most likely have forgotten how to work, and he sure as hell didn’t want to keep them on the payroll.
Aspine smirked when he drove into Mercury’s car-park, and saw the yellow lines, and the sign behind it − Mr D Aspine CEO. Shirley’s job was safe for another day.
She greeted him confidently. “Good morning, Mr Aspine.”
“Do you think so? Get me a coffee and then organize a meeting for ten o’clock in the boardroom. Jack Gillard, Tim Farmer, Brian Eppel and Anthony Keen. Ask Kurt to come and see me at nine forty-five.” He smiled; Shirley obviously thought her longevity, and connections with the other directors, made her flame-proof. She was in for some sad news, but not while he still had a use for her.
“Yes, Mr Aspine,” she said, while answering the phone. She looked up, putting her hand over the mouth-piece. “Mr Dwyer, for you.”
“Put him through.”
“You thieving bastard!”
“I’m sorry, I’m not with you.”
“You already had a job when you were crapping on about your kids, and taking six months to find another position,” Dwyer snarled. “I ought to sue you.”
“Read your own waiver agreement, Bob. We both waived all our past, present and future legal rights, so there’s nothing you can do − except bleed, that is,” Aspine laughed. “I didn’t think you’d phone. Don’t you have any pride? Now you have a good day because you just made mine. And Bob …”
The sound of dial tone echoed down the line.
Kurt knocked on the door. “You wanted to see me, Mr Aspine.”
“Kurt, listen to me carefully. My name’s Douglas, and that’s how I want you to address me. Now tell me about Tim Farmer.”
“He’s been with the company for forty years. Started as an apprentice, then went into sales as a liaison clerk, then out onto the road as a sales representative, and finally he was appointed sales manager about ten years ago.”
Aspine groaned. “You mean he’s never had another employer, and the only sales managers that he’s ever worked for were employed by Mercury.”
“Yes, that’s right. He’s a good man.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. What about Anthony Keen?”
“He’s been our supply manager for nearly twenty years.”
“How old is he?”
“Mid-fifties, but he’s very fit. He’s into orienteering.”
“Brian Eppel?”
Kurt looked down at his feet and shifted uneasily. “Fifty-one. He’s headed up design and engineering for twelve years, and before that he was employed by Leighton.”
“God, is there anyone in the company under fifty? Give me the bad news about Jack Gillard.”
“He’s senior project manager. He’s only been with us about six years, and you’ll be pleased to know he’s only thirty-eight.”
“Shit, some good news. How’d that come about?”
“When the vacancy came up, we couldn’t convince any of our project managers to apply, so we had to advertise. Jack was the best applicant.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I guess they didn’t think they had the necessary skills.”
“No, that wasn’t the reason. Their jobs were too cushy to run the risk of taking on something more demanding. You know that. Do we have one on-site project manager under fifty?”
“No, the youngest is fifty-two.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Before the others join us I want to brief you on how we’re going to handle the retrenchments. The thirty on extended sick leave are the easiest. I want the remaining five hundred and seventy to predominantly be the over-fifties, but not to the extent that it looks discriminatory. We need to be discreet.”
“But it is discriminatory.”
“You obviously didn’t hear me. The retrenchments will be across the whole workforce. I also saw a lot of fatties when we went for our walk around the offices and warehouse. Get rid of them; they’re candidates for heart attacks and more bloody WorkCover claims. And make sure your people don’t employ fatties in the future.”
“That’s shockingly discriminatory. Are you going to give that to me in writing?”
“Don’t be fucking stupid and don’t you put it in writing either. Just make sure your people know that we’re no longer in the business of employing fat bastards.”
The intercom buzzed and Shirley said, “The others are in the boardroom.”
“Let them know we’ll be a few more minutes,” Aspine said. “Kurt, one last thing, we need to reduce the seventy employees on WorkCover. They’ve either got to get back to their normal duties or get out. No more pussyfooting. Do you understand me?”
“You can’t sack or retrench employees on WorkCover,” Kurt responded indignantly.
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br /> “There are ways. We’ll go over them after. Let’s join the others in the boardroom.”
Aspine took the chair at the head of the boardroom table. “Gentlemen, as you know, I’m Douglas Aspine, your new CEO. I’ve called you together because we’re about to make some retrenchments, and ...”
The white haired man with the ruddy complexion and large stomach interrupted. “But this company’s never retrenched anyone. Not in the forty years I’ve been here anyway. Harry, would never let it happen. Does he know about this?”
So this was the excuse for a sales manager, Aspine thought. “Tim, don’t interrupt me again or you’ll be the first one out the door. As I was about to say, we need to reduce our workforce by five hundred and seventy. Of that number, seventy will come from our interstate branches and five hundred from Victoria.”
Tim Farmer let out an audible gasp but didn’t say anything; Brian Eppel stared blankly at the wall; Anthony Keen looked down at the table. The young man with the transparent white skin, freckles and bright red hair, who Aspine knew to be Jack Gillard, displayed no emotion.
“Kurt has the numbers and the areas where they’re going to come from, and he’ll brief you after. Jack, you’re going to need to get rid of three hundred from our sites.”
“This is shocking,” moaned Tim Farmer. “It’s never happened before. I feel sick.”
“The number of employees should have never been permitted to rise to this level, but the problem has to be fixed,” Aspine said coldly.
“But we’ve been making money,” Farmer insisted.
“Tim, the profits have been shithouse. Not much better than bank interest. I’m going to fix that.”
“Douglas, you haven’t said when the retrenchments will occur.”
“This Friday, Jack, but I want to stress the need for secrecy. If the union finds out before then, it’ll cause trouble. Outside of this office no-one knows, so if word leaks out it’ll be very unpleasant…for you.”
“But...if that happens you won’t know who...”
“You’re right, Tim, but I’m sure I’ll be able to narrow it down to one or two of you, who I’ll have no option but to remove. Are you clear on that?”
“I won’t say a word,” Farmer sniveled, glancing over at Brian Eppel, who was twisting his moustache and nervously tugging at his ear.
“Is there no way of avoiding the retrenchments?” Eppel asked, pulling himself up to all of his one hundred and sixty centimetres, while he paced around the table.
“No, Brian. For Christ’s sake sit down, I’m getting a sore neck,” Aspine barked.
Anthony Keen, the tall distinguished looking grey-haired supply manager, finally spoke. “Do we work on the basis that last on is first off?”
“Of course we fucking don’t. We work on the basis that you keep the good employees irrespective of when they started, and get rid of the deadwood. Fuck, Anthony, you sound like a trade unionist, not a manager.”
In twenty years Harry Denton had never spoken to him like that, and the smooth, urbane Anthony Keen, bit his tongue and seethed.
“You do know that we have an Enterprise Bargaining Agreement with the construction workers, and there’s going to be hell to pay with the unions on Friday? Don’t be surprised if they close our sites down.”
“Yeah, I know, Jack. I can stand a little bit of pain for an awful lot of gain,” Aspine said, grimacing. “Is there anything else? If not, you should liaise with Kurt about the administration. Tim, don’t go. I’ve a few things I want to discuss with you.”
Tim Farmer’s hands twitched nervously and his eyes blinked rapidly. He’d heard what had happened to Neil Widge, and had no intention of being sucked into resigning.
“Tim, what did your highest paid sales rep earn last year?”
“Eighty thousand.”
‘That’s fucking terrible. How can that be? What’s the break-down between salary and commission?”
“We don’t pay commission. Never have.”
Aspine rolled his eyes. “Christ, please tell me you’re joking. The only way to pay sales reps is by minimal retainer and generous commission. Your star rep should be earning at least three hundred thousand, and anyone earning eighty or less should be shown the door. Haven’t you heard about the Kevin Dennis Motors sales incentive plan?”
“No,” Farmer responded, starting to sweat.
“The lowest earning salesman for the month gets sacked − each and every month. Do we sell finance?”
“No.”
“Urban’s a major competitor and it does. How do we compete?”
“We sell on quality and price.”
“And Urban doesn’t? Jesus, we’re trying to compete with one arm tied behind our back. Do we sell off-the-plan?”
“No. We’ve always thought that’d be catering to the sleazy end of the market.”
“Do you know some of Australia’s wealthiest people buy penthouses and apartments off-the-plan?”
“No,” Farmer said, flushing and wishing the interrogation was over.
“Do we accept insurance bonds as deposits?”
“No. We only take cheques, bank cheques and cash.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Aspine groaned. “I’ve heard enough. We’ll talk again after the retrenchments are over.”
“Shirley, who do I talk to at our PR firm?” Aspine bellowed.
“We don’t have a public relations firm, Mr Aspine. Harry could never understand what use they were.”
“Shit!”
He picked up the phone and hit Jeremy’s speed-dial number. “Jeremy, it’s Doug. Do you have a contact in a top notch public relations firm?”
“Of course, old boy. Wesley Bracken at Bracken & Methven. Give me five minutes to clear the way. He’s very busy, and may not take a cold call from you.”
“Okay, Jeremy. Give me a buzz if there’s a problem. Oh, and keep a lookout for a good young sales manager.”
“You haven’t sacked Tim Farmer?”
“Not yet. Early next week, I expect.”
“Are you looking for someone in the industry?”
“Preferably, but an ex used car salesman would be fine.”
Jeremy laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. I want someone who’s innovative and knows how to sell.”
“I understand. I think I have someone on my books who you’ll find interesting.”
Barely five minutes had elapsed before Wesley Bracken phoned. “You’re going to retrench six hundred?”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s going to be national news. The unions will go crazy and you’re going to be under severe pressure. I don’t think the prime minister or treasurer will say anything, but the Victorian premier will no doubt castigate you.”
“I’m not worried about the unions. They’ll bleat and carry on for a while. They might even threaten to, or go on strike, but in the end they’ll come to heel.”
“That’s operational. I’m not concerned about that, but we do need to plan what you’re going to say to the media. What are you going to say when they ask you why the retrenchments took place?”
“That’s easy. The company’s overstaffed and inefficient.”
“Wrong. You’ll say you don’t look at it as six hundred workers being retrenched, but rather the saving of three thousand six hundred jobs.”
Aspine laughed. “I like it.”
“You’ll have to say it with sincerity. The journos will crucify you if they think you’re bullshitting. You have to express regret and show compassion.”
“So you want me to take calls from them?”
“No, I don’t. We’ll set up a press conference and I’ll be sitting next to you. I want you come into our offices on Thursday night and we’ll role-play it. We’ll try and anticipate every question you’re going to be asked, and provide you with the politically correct responses. We’ll advise you on what you should wear, how you should act, and we’ll show you tapes of
media conferences where matters like this have been successfully handled in the past. You’re in good hands.”
“Will we hold it here?”
“Shit no. If we do, there’ll be pictures of the offices and warehouse on television, and worse, the media will try and interview retrenched employees. There’ll be tears, stories about not being able to meet mortgage payments, loyalty and past service counting for nothing, and anything else that makes you look bad. They still might interview disgruntled employees, but we don’t want to invite them to. We’ll organize a meeting room in the city.”
“Thanks, Wes. I’ll see you in your offices on Thursday night.”
Aspine could hardly wait to phone his chairman with the news. “Ed, it’s Douglas Aspine. I thought I should give you the courtesy of letting you know that I’m instituting the first cultural changes this Friday. I’m retrenching six hundred.”
The phone went quiet. “You’ve moved a little faster than I thought you would,” Sir Edwin eventually said, coughing nervously. “I had Harry Denton on the phone complaining to me that you tricked Neil Widge into resigning. But six hundred; he’s going to be uncontrollable when he finds out.”
“It has to happen, there’s no sense procrastinating.”
“You’re right, but the fallout’s going to be very nasty. I’m glad you’ve let me know. At least I can be prepared for Harry. Do you want me to come in on Friday?”
“No. I’ve briefed a PR firm, and it’ll be better if you’re not around.”
“Yes, you’re right. Good luck, Douglas.”
It was dull and overcast on Friday morning and Aspine sensed the gloom as he climbed the stairs. Word had obviously leaked, as he’d known it would − perhaps it was the payroll department when they’d been instructed to prepare the final wages, or the project managers, or the quarry managers, or the branch managers. He was surprised that Harry Denton hadn’t phoned him. Perhaps Sir Edwin had headed him off? He was wearing a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, a conservative tie and black shoes − just as Wes Bracken had instructed him to. He’d been surprised by Wes’s youth, but had quickly realized that the young good looking man with dark hair, piercing brown eyes and flashing smile was very savvy. It’d been a long night, and he had been grilled with every conceivable question the media could ask. Wes had told him when to look sad and serious, when to drop his eyes, when to express compassion, and when to lower his voice to a near whisper. He’d been told that he mustn’t fidget, shift his eyes from side to side, argue with the media or be smug and sarcastic. A meeting room had been booked in Collins Street, in close proximity to the Stock Exchange, and the media conference was scheduled for four o’clock. Wes had said he had a few favours owing to him and he’d get his contacts to ask a few tame questions.