‘Why did they call themselves bons hommes?’
‘They believed themselves to be the true Christians. They believed the Roman Catholic church had become an abomination, and they were returning to the pure faith as preached by Jesus Christ. They sought no power, no glory. No hierarchy, no great churches. They wanted something that is very simple and very challenging. They wanted to be good.’
*
Driving away from Montgaillard, tracing his route back through Treilles and Narbonne and so on to Carcassonne, Ed laughs at himself for his partial surrender. There was a moment in which he almost thought he had stumbled on a truth that could set him free. And what does it turn out to be? Some warmed-up version of a long-dead heresy.
In Carcassonne he visits a library and finds a book about the Cathars. He learns that they were willing to die for their faith in their thousands. At the siege of Béziers their attacker, Simon de Montfort, mutilated a column of prisoners, sent them back into the town with their eyes gouged out, their lips and noses cut off, led by a one-eyed man, to frighten them into surrender. They all chose to die. At its height whole congregations converted en masse to the heresy, whole chapters of cathedrals, so compelling was the Cathar teaching. All Languedoc was infected, the highest born, the best educated, the most intelligent leading the way. It took the pope and the mercenary armies of northern France twenty-one years to crush the heretics. They never recanted. They had to be killed, by hanging or burning at the stake. Whatever else you might say of them, the bons hommes were brave and sincere.
Of course, he thinks; and laughs at the simplicity of it. Why should they fear death? Through death they found freedom.
35
Larry sails from Avonmouth on the company’s newest purpose-built ship, the TSS Golfito. In the course of the two-week crossing he questions the captain on all aspects of the business, in particular the issue of how much cargo they carry on the westbound run. Larry finds it hard to believe the hold space can’t be more valuably used.
‘Everyone thinks that,’ says the captain, ‘but once you start running about here, there and everywhere, picking up a little of this and little of that, you’ve ended up paying out more than you’re getting in. We carry bulk bananas. That’s what our ships are built for.’
The Golfito has cabins for ninety-four passengers, sandwiched in the middle of the ship, between the giant refrigerated holds. It will make the return voyage with 1,750 tons of bananas.
One of the passengers, a colonial civil servant called Jenkins, takes it upon himself to dispel any illusions that Larry might have about the Jamaicans.
‘Delightful people,’ he says, ‘friendly, happy, excellent company and all that. Just don’t ever ask them to hurry up. They won’t hurry up. I’m not saying they’re slow-witted. Not at all. They’re more what you might call easy. They like to take life easy.’
‘But we don’t. We take life hard.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. We work hard. We get things done. We build railways, and shipping lines. So we end up in charge. But I’ll tell you one thing, Cornford. If I’d grown up in Jamaica I’d be all for taking life easy. It’s a very pleasant climate most of the time. I’m a subscriber to the climate theory of empire. Cold weather makes you active. So it’s the nippy northerners who end up ruling the sleepy southerners.’
‘Not in India any more.’
‘True, but look what happens as soon as we leave. They all start massacring each other.’
‘You don’t think that’s something to do with us?’
‘How could it be?’ says Jenkins, to whom this thought has obviously never occurred. ‘They lived together happily enough under our rule for two hundred years.’
Larry decides not to tell Jenkins that he was in India at the time of partition. He still hasn’t worked out in his own mind what he thinks about what happened.
‘The killing of Gandhi,’ he says. ‘I was shocked by that.’
‘That fellow lived in cloud-cuckoo-land,’ says Jenkins. ‘Did you know he drank his own urine? Mind you, it’s coming here too. God alone knows how the place will run without us.’
By the end of the crossing Larry has had the opportunity to speak to many of the other passengers. They all tell him the same thing.
‘You should have seen Jamaica before the war. It was a paradise. All over now, of course.’
When he tries to discover why, he learns that it’s not just a matter of the damage the war years have done to the island’s economy.
‘The people aren’t the same any more. What with the trade unions and the strikes, and Bustamante and Manley working them up to feel aggrieved about everything. The sugar strike in ’38, that was the day old Jamaica died.’
They’re all on deck as the ship sails round Port Royal and into Kingston harbour. The air is heavy and warm. The Fyffes manager, Cecil Owen, is waiting at the quayside. He’s a red-faced comfortably built man in his fifties, who seems to know everyone he passes. He greets Larry with great warmth.
‘Knew you as soon as I set eyes on you,’ he says. ‘Just like your dad, only with hair. How was the crossing?’
‘Excellent. Very smooth.’
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
He runs his eyes with satisfaction over the handsome new ship, then turns back to Larry.
‘You’ll stay with me, of course.’
‘I don’t want to cause you any trouble.’
‘No trouble. I’m a bachelor. Glad of the company. Watch out, here it comes!’
A sudden downpour sends everyone on the dockside scurrying for cover. The warm rain dances on the paving stones, and the air fills with a rich sweet smell. Black dockworkers, careless of the rain, get on with unloading the passengers’ trunks from the newly arrived ship. Cars roll by, splashing in the sudden puddles, rain overwhelming their windscreen wipers. Cecil and Larry stand under the cover of the long customs shed, waiting for the cloudburst to pass.
‘Should be a driver somewhere,’ says Cecil. ‘He’ll have seen the ship coming. He’ll find us.’
That evening Larry finds himself sitting with Cecil on the wide porch of his house, drinking rum and fresh lime juice, gazing out over the dark blue waters of Hunt’s Bay. The afternoon rain has left the roofs of the town below sparkling in the evening sunlight.
‘They told me on the ship that Jamaica was a paradise once,’ Larry says, ‘but now it’s all over.’
‘All over, is it?’ says Cecil. ‘Who told you that?’
‘A fellow called Jenkins. He thinks the people here aren’t up to running things.’
‘Johnny Jenkins? He’s an idiot. I’ve lived here for thirty years and I love the place, but you have to look at it from their point of view. We bring them over from Africa as slaves. Then we set them free and tell them we’re the mother country and they’re our children, and they’re to be grateful to us. Then we make a lot of money getting them to grow bananas for us. Then we get ourselves into a war and tell them we don’t want their bananas after all. After all that, you’d want to run your own show, wouldn’t you? But the difficulty is, if you spend three hundred years telling people they’re children, they become afraid to go out alone. They need us, and they don’t want to need us. So you see,’ he concludes with a chuckle, ‘what we’ve ended up with is an island full of angry children.’
Larry thinks of India, and the complicated mix of admiration and resentment he found there.
‘Does everyone think the way you do, Cecil?’
‘Good God, no! By everyone you mean the white men, of course.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘No, no. Your average planter here thinks the Jamaicans are idle, ungrateful, and incapable of taking a piss without someone to unbutton their trousers. Happy children of nature and all that balls.’
‘Children again.’
‘There’s the British Empire for you. Make the darkies work for you for nothing, then tell them you’re all one big family.’
&n
bsp; ‘There are other kinds of empire,’ says Larry. ‘What’s your view of our American owners?’
‘Gangsters, the lot of them!’
‘So are we gangsters too?’
‘Not in the United class. They wrote the book. You have to hand it to those boys. Did you hear about how Zemurray got Bonilla in as President of Honduras? One yacht, a case of rifles, three thousand rounds of ammunition, and a bruiser called Machine Gun Maloney. Those were the days.’
Larry relaxes in the warm evening air, tired after the long voyage, made dreamy by rum. A brown lizard scurries across the porch before him, to disappear over the side. The bougainvillea is in brilliant bloom on the slopes below the house. Then as he watches, a hummingbird passes, hanging briefly in the air before him.
‘There,’ says Cecil. ‘That’s a real Jamaican welcome.’
The bird has a tiny bright green body and a long red bill. As Larry watches, it jumps back and forth in the air before him, and then flits away into the purple blossoms.
‘This is paradise, Cecil.’
Larry realises sitting on that porch that he is at ease in a way he hasn’t been for many months. He chooses not to explore this realisation. Enough to enjoy it while it lasts.
*
Cecil takes him on a tour of the plantations. Many have been hit by Panama disease, a fungus that attacks the roots of the banana plants. He finds a vigorous programme under way of rooting out the diseased Gros Michel plants, and replacing them with the Panama-resistant Lacatan variety. He watches the plantation workers cutting the heavy stems of green bananas, and carrying them long distances to the collection points. He talks to them about the work, but can get very little out of them.
‘They think you’ll sack them if they complain,’ says Cecil.
‘I won’t sack you,’ says Larry.
‘Sacking is nothing,’ says Cecil. ‘In Guatemala the United people shoot them if they complain.’
They laugh at that.
‘I won’t shoot you either, I promise. But I do want to know if you think the company’s treating you fairly.’
They shrug and look down at the hard earth.
‘It’s a job,’ says one.
The others nod in agreement.
‘Could you get a better job?’
‘Not today.’
‘But maybe one day?’
They all give cautious nods, watching to see if he minds.
‘One day Jamaica will be independent,’ Larry says. ‘Will everything be better then?’
They shrug and remain silent.
‘Come on, Joseph,’ says Cecil. ‘You don’t usually sit on your tongue.’
‘Well, sir,’ says Joseph. He strokes the fruit on the stem of bananas beside him. ‘I don’t see no one like me getting rich.’
‘So when independence comes,’ says Larry, ‘you’ll ask us to go.’
A great shaking of heads greets the suggestion.
‘Fyffes leave Jamaica? Never!’
Rumbling across the island’s rutted roads in Cecil’s company jeep, the warm wind in his hair, Larry tries out the idea that has been forming in his mind for weeks now. He describes his vision of a company where every employee feels valued.
‘Won’t make a blind bit of difference,’ Cecil says. ‘They’ll carry on just the same as ever.’
‘But why? If we improve their pay, their benefits?’
‘Whatever you give them they’ll take gladly, but they’ve got people telling them every day that we get rich on their backs. They’re comfortable being dissatisfied. They wouldn’t know how to be content with their lot.’
‘Why should they be so different to us?’
‘Who says they’re different to us? Hell, I’m dissatisfied. Improve my pay and my benefits if you want.’
Larry likes Cecil. He strikes him as a man who is at ease with himself. Sharing the evening meal with him, watching the pleasure he takes in his food, he returns to the subject of his dream company.
‘There just has to be a way for people to work together in a business the way they work together in a regiment, or in a football team. Where every success is a success for all. Why does there have to be this feeling that one man’s gain is another man’s loss?’
‘Because one man’s richer than another.’
‘I don’t agree. I think everyone understands about differentials in pay. They don’t expect everyone to get the same. They know some people are cleverer, or harder working, or more burdened with responsibility than others. Not everyone wants to be the boss. What everyone does want is to feel respected and valued in their work. They want to be proud of their company, and know that their company is proud of them. They want to be known as individuals, not bought and sold like cattle. They want their work to give meaning to their life.’
Cecil gazes across the table at Larry with a puzzled but affectionate look.
‘I think you really mean it,’ he says.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Well, you’re up against human nature, aren’t you? Deep down, people are shits.’
‘Are you a shit? Because I assure you I’m not.’
‘You’re a good man, Larry Cornford. Like your father before you. God bless you. I pray you don’t get too hurt.’
*
Larry bids farewell to Cecil Owen and sails from Kingston to New Orleans, on a ship of the Great White fleet. New Orleans is now the headquarters of the United Fruit Company. Given Larry’s position in Fyffes, inexperienced but marked for leadership, his father has thought it necessary for him to meet the president of the parent company, the legendary Sam Zemurray. However when Larry presents himself at United’s handsome headquarters on St Charles Avenue, he finds he is scheduled to meet a vice-president of the company called James D. Brunstetter.
‘Call me Jimmy. Great to meet you, Larry. We have a high regard for your father, as I’m sure you know. He doesn’t go for the quick buck, but a slow buck is still a buck, right?’
He’s a small man in his sixties who chain-smokes and talks fast.
‘So you’ve been in Jamaica. Did you meet Jack Cranston, our main man there? You’d like Jack, everyone likes Jack. So how old are you, Larry?’
‘I’m thirty-two, sir.’
‘Well now, I wasn’t around when your grandfather did the deal with Andy Preston, but as I understand it, the deal went like this. Back us, leave us alone, and we’ll make you money. Is that how you understand it?’
‘Exactly how I understand it.’
‘Then we’ll get along just fine. There’s only one rule in business. Just keep making money. That way no one’s going to bother you. Now what can I do for you? You want to check out our operation here? You want to take a look at our docks?’
‘I’d like that very much.’
‘I’ll take a stroll with you myself. The Thalia Street wharf is only a hop and skip away. Grab your hat, young man.’
Jimmy Brunstetter walks as fast as he talks. By the time they reach the wharf Larry is sweating freely in the humid heat.
The United wharf is three times the size of the Fyffes’ wharf at Avonmouth. Lines of men walk one behind the other, each with a stem of bananas on their shoulder, forming a ceaseless stream from ship to store. Two ships are docked, each one being unloaded by specialist cranes.
‘You know how many stems we bring in each year?’ says Brunstetter. ‘Twenty-three million. You heard of Miss Chiquita Banana? Sure you have. We’re labelling the fruit now, every hand, with the Chiquita brand.’
‘My grandfather did the same with the Fyffes blue label, in ’29.’
‘Okay! So you got there ahead of us. Good for you.’
They enter the welcome cool of the transit shed. All down the long aisles stems of green bananas hang from racks as far as the eye can see.
‘There it is,’ says Brunstetter. ‘That’s where the money comes from. You want to know the secret of our success? Control. Ask Sam, he’ll tell you the same thing every time. Control. Control ever
y stage in the process. Planting, growing, transporting, shipping, marketing. And how do you get control? Ownership. Own the plantations, own the railroads, own the ships, own the docks.’
‘Own the countries,’ says Larry.
Brunstetter gives a hoot of laughter.
‘You got it! Own the countries. Damn right! Only we don’t do it the way you guys do it, with your empire. We don’t put our name over the door. That way everyone hates you. No, we leave the local boys to run the show. All we ask is that they run it our way.’
‘So I hear,’ says Larry.
*
Before he sails for home Larry writes two letters, to Ed and Kitty and to Geraldine, even though he knows they’ll reach England only a few days ahead of his own return.
This trip has taught me so much about this strange business I’m in, and a lot of it’s not very edifying. The general idea seems to be that if it makes money it’s good. There is a kind of logic to this, we all need money to live, so making it is good however you go about it. But the more I think this through, the more it seems to me that the world of business is missing the bigger picture. Man does not live by bread alone. I can hear Ed utter a groan. But you don’t need to bring in God for this. Surely it’s obvious. We need bread to stay alive, but bread is not what we live for. And so it is with money. It’s not an end, it’s a means. The goal we’re all after is the good life. So you see, Kitty, all our talks about goodness turn out to be important after all. Even in the hard world of business, goodness matters. It’s the heart of the good life. To be honest I’m not sure what I mean by this, I’m working it out as I write. What has goodness to do with the good life? I suppose what I call the good life means life that is both happy and valued. We all want to feel our existence has some purpose. And I don’t see how we can feel that if we live in such a way that all our comforts come from the suffering of others. So we need to believe that we’re fundamentally good, on the side of the angels as we say, in order to lead a good life. And yes, we need money too. So the business of business must be to make good money. As soon as businesses introduce a split between their profits and their morality they lose the point of the whole enterprise. You can say, like St Augustine, ‘I’ll be wicked for twenty years and then when I’ve got enough money I’ll be good.’ But in those twenty years you’ve poisoned your world and lost your soul. Yes, Ed, I know you haven’t got a soul. But you’ve got a heart, you live among people you love. Kitty, you tell him. Love is goodness. Love is people being good to each other.
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