A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  ‘Sorry. Just eh, me thinking out loud.’

  ‘Need to watch that son, it could be catching, so it could,’ the man said in a broad Northern Irish accent. He continued, ‘What, exactly are you going to do to become this big time operator? I’m just curious, so I am.’

  ‘Agh, I’m just going through a bad patch at work, but hey, that’s me, a dreamer.’

  ‘Well young fella, if you can…dream. Dreaming is okay. Hang on to them. In the meantime though, take the time to explore if they are actually doable. You’re the right age. But again, as someone once said, it’s ok to have your head in the clouds, as long as your feet are firmly planted on the ground.’

  ‘Flip, that’s exactly what my mother told me once...small world eh.’

  Their conversation was abruptly ended as the co-pilot announced that their decent into Belfast had commenced. All went quiet on-board the full flight. It had been, and continued to be, a journey featuring much turbulence. The passenger to Curtis’s other side was a pregnant woman. She involuntarily grabbed Curtis’s forearm as the plane, an Advanced Turbo Prop model, took a lunge downward and sideward. The man across the aisle, trying to demonstrate that he was a ‘frequent flyer’ said calmly, ‘Think this is going to be bumpy one, so hold tight fella, or start dreaming again.’

  ⁎ ⁎ ⁎

  As he and a pale looking Simon waited for their bags to tumble from the conveyor, Curtis took the opportunity to phone home again but with the same result. The phone rang but went unanswered. Curtis began to think the worst. What if Mum and Aunt Margaret have gone off for the weekend? What if Mum and that bloody Felix have gone off together?

  Finally, and with all their bags gathered Curtis and Simon shook hands and bid each other ‘good fortune’. They went their separate ways. Simon onto the Belfast bus, Curtis into a taxi, for the short trek a few miles north. Whether the longtime friends would stay close was anyone’s guess. Together with Luke and Maurice all would, Curtis was sure remain on his Christmas card list at least.

  ⁎ ⁎ ⁎

  The chimes of the Cardinali door-bell, together with three knocks on the solid navy painted door were followed by a muffled. ‘Hold on, hold on...I’m coming, now.’ The door swung open. On one side stood a startled mother clad in dressing gown, head wrapped in towel – on the other, a beaming son brief case in hand and travel bag slung over shoulder. He stood erect and still dressed in his every-day dark suit, his company tie loosened. A shocked silence ensued.

  Seeing her son profiled on the doorstep had rendered Phyllis dumb-struck. Finally breaking the dead lock, she said, ‘Oh, oh, oh! Oh my good God, Curtis! Err, you’re back. Why? What’s wrong? On my God, what’s happened?’

  In response, Curtis’s face lit up and exploded into the widest of smiles. Then with a giggle, he said, ‘Eh, Ma nothing’s happened. Any chance, I could come in? Or is that Felix fellow running around upstairs in his underpants? You giving him time to make a run for it?’

  ‘Oh Curtis! You’re awful. Look at you. Get in here!’ In the midst of a big hug, she continued with her animated reply, ‘And, no, no he’s not. You’ve lost weight. We’re going to the flicks later. Not eating proper food. I knew this would happen. I’ll put the kettle on. No, no Felix is not here.’ She paused, and tried to disguise the blush now enveloping her cheeks. ‘What a thing to suggest. So why? Why have you come home? Why didn’t you call? Something is wrong, I know you only too well. Come on, sit there and tell me what’s happened. You’ve lost your job. Yes, that’s it? Oh no, you’ve been sacked! I knew it. I told you last time, not to rile those union bastards. Your father did the same you know.’

  ‘Mother! Language, please! And no Mum, I haven’t been sacked or anything like that. I just got a last minute opportunity of an air ticket, that’s all. I came over with Simon; I think I told you about Simon going home.’ Curtis paused, and took a breath. ‘Oh, aye, and as well, I do want to have a wee chat. Get your thoughts on a small matter, so to speak. Yours and Aunt Margaret’s too. But hey, in the meantime what’s been happening here? In the metropolis?’ He paused again, then suggested enthusiastically. ‘Tell you what, skip the flicks and let’s go out tonight, grab a curry maybe. Give you a chance to celebrate the return of the prodigal son…and, if you promise no more bad language you can of course, invite my aunt along, and even that Felix fella. You pick a place. I’m paying.’

  Although no earth shattering remedies were forth coming during his weekend back home, it was nevertheless time well spent reflecting and if for nothing else it helped clear the ‘clutter’ from his head.

  Curtis needed to be clear in mind and focused for what would be a defining few days back at the office. He caught the early flight on Monday morning. In his time both in the air and during the drive back to his flat, he recalled the numerous meetings with, and between, personnel and production managers, as well as the union representatives. Curtis had received covert coaching from the personnel manager himself. He also had to admit that a chat with the analytical Felix had been extremely useful too.

  Finally after a few more meetings the agreed approach was sanctioned at the very top of the company. A disciplinary note was duly served on the shop steward. Much oratory, mostly drenched in profanity and threats was counter delivered by the shop steward in question. An appeal was, not unexpectedly, lodged. Red-Fred’s appeal was accompanied with much hostility and warnings of a shop floor rebellion, but all in vain.

  The company held its breath. A union response surprisingly, did not materialise. Red-Fred had become the owner of a final warning. He was moved to another department, again without any adverse union comment. At the same time, Curtis found himself on the move too; from shop floor supervisor to the company’s prestigious design and development office. The arrival some weeks later of a congratulatory card from Simon, was icing-on-the cake for Curtis. He drafted a fully updated report on his progress by way of reply.

  Chapter 14 : Responsibility and Brick Walls

  The speed of the young Cardinali’s career rise had been impressive. He enjoyed the accolade of being the youngest senior design engineer at head office. In his naivety he saw himself as having been catapulted towards the steps of the board room door.

  It was a badge Curtis wore with pride. It rubber-stamped his drive and determination. But even so, his hitherto unflappable manner flinched; he knew only too well that he had taken on huge responsibility. Frequently he would ask himself if he was up to the task and similar questions would also chip away at his confidence. He soon discovered that being a trail-blazer could be drenched in frustration. For as much as he wanted to impress and expand his portfolio of expertise – especially in plastics manufacturing – he was in reality, the new boy thrust into a team of time-served engineers and university graduates; in general, particularly smart folk.

  This intelligentsia, as he termed them, in turn fed into a wider commercial team. Again, a group of time served professionals. For Curtis it became a steep learning curve. In terms of status, he was the ‘tea boy’.

  He soon came to understand why brick walls were difficult to run through. By the time each of the design team had had their input, or had edited what he had considered a ‘masterpiece of design’ it had often become unrecognisable. Even though he knew he was a part of the team frequently he would end his working week dejected, his confidence dented. Very quickly this ‘grinding down’ as he came to see it, had taken the shine off his ambitions. But as time moved on he also came to understand what ‘team’ meant. In the real world of practical engineering, no one individual could possibly realise an end product of any shape or size on their own.

  Curtis nevertheless retained his ambitions, albeit privately. His undying enthusiasm and recognised talent for problem solving had made its mark. Gradually his ideas were rising to the surface. On one occasion, during a department de-briefing session, Dr. Rodney Pickerskill the department manager, referred to him as, ‘our boy genius’. For the ‘compliment’ he became the immediate butt
of much ribbing. yet, it had been the lift that he needed at that time. Finally, he had gained the respect that he had worked so hard for. His thoughts momentarily drifted back to that first plane journey with Simon. Unbeknown to any of the team, and certainly not to Curtis, another ‘journey’ was waiting just over the horizon.

  * * *

  One Friday morning the whole design team were summoned to a meeting room housed deep within the second floor of the sprawling engineering complex. No advance notice had been issued or any form of agenda circulated.

  It was a joint gathering comprising Curtis’s design colleagues and senior members of the commercial team. An air of anticipation filled the room. A dozen people plus the department heads and a couple of directors sat on high-backed leather chairs around a lengthy, polished mahogany table. Water jugs and crystal glassware were placed opposite each seat. A black & white slide featuring the company logo was projected onto a large screen hanging from the ceiling. The walls of the grand room were framed with photographs of various projects the company had been involved with over the years. Some of the older images he noticed were badly faded. Other than his own colleagues, he knew few others. He sat near the bottom of the table, his note book already open. The meeting was called to order; the room fell silent.

  The older of the two directors present stood at the front of the table. Tall, stooped, wiry and pale, he quietly introduced himself. He seemed nervous, unsteady and distinctly uncomfortable. His complexion, Curtis noticed, seemed to blend with the thinning grey hair that was neatly gelled and combed over. Rimless spectacles hung from a gold cord. With his dark pin-striped suit, white shirt and a half-Windsor knotted university tie he was, as Curtis had envisaged, the stereotypical board member.

  After welcoming everyone he mumbled a few words about his once world beating company before finally, almost it seemed to Curtis, begrudgingly, handing over to the second speaker.

  If ever there was a chalk and cheese moment, it was there and then. The second gent stood up and stepped forward. There was an immediate charisma about him. He too was tall, but he looked fit, tanned and travelled.

  ‘Hello. I’m Toni Russo. I was born in the West of Scotland to Sicilian stock and I’m your new CEO, or Chief Executive Officer. Bit of a fancy title but there it is. I hope you’re all doing well today, but you are probably wondering why we’ve assembled you here, yes? And perhaps a lot of you are a little apprehensive? Your stern faces and tightly folded arms are a giveaway.’

  At the same time as he spoke his introduction the screen behind him burst into life. One acetate slide after another slipped across the over-head projector. His presentation was slick and easily narrated. Perhaps lacking somewhat in absolute detail – in many ways it was an outpouring of Russo’s credentials. Nevertheless, he was articulate and, believable. Curtis was fixated. For a moment, he wanted to be that guy.

  Although no stranger to the rumours which were racking the shop floor, this was the first time that the reality had, line-by-line, been spelled out. The future or otherwise of the company had hit the career driven engineer very much as a déjà vu moment. Oh shit, not again?

  Curtis quickly figured that Toni Russo had been parachuted in, in an attempt to save the company from a final demise. While Curtis understood the enormity of the situation, he was at a loss as to understand why it was being presented to this particular group of individuals. He hadn’t long to wait.

  ‘In short,’ Mr Russo said, ‘if the company is to survive, the old working practices, the slack management, from top to bottom, and the hostility of the shop floors had to be ditched. The introduction of modern production methods needed to be forced in. If need-be, they will be.’ The room had fallen silent. The man sitting beside Curtis leaned over and whispered, ‘Oh ‘eck, here we go again.’

  The CEO continued by informing his audience that from the two departments present a special working group would be created. An advance party, to communicate with and inform the workforce of the incoming changes. Senior management the gathering was also advised, would be dealing head-on with the union issue.

  This particular comment re-stirred the man beside Curtis to make further comment, and not so quietly this time. ‘Blimey, it’ll be a war zone down there! Aye and I’ll tell you something son,’ he paused while tapping the table with his fore finger, ‘I’ll be running a mile from it. This is not good.’

  Russo had overheard the comment. Glancing at Curtis and the man, he said, ‘You may well be correct sir.’

  Irritated and a little embarrassed by this man’s interfering comments, Curtis hung on, as best he could to Russo’s every word. Privately, he was beginning to develop an empathy with the CEO. Having worked his way up through that jungle that was the shop floor, he knew exactly where the blame should be placed for the company’s demise. And it wasn’t only with the shop floor workers. For a moment his focus shifted back towards the old guy sitting at the head of the table. Curtis wondered if he had already become a casualty of what his neighbour at the table had referred to earlier as, a war zone; was he pre-collateral damage.

  Then as he scanned further round the table, he figured that although bursting with brains, few if any of these colleagues had had any real experience of the politics on the ‘floor’. The design office, it seemed to Curtis, shielded themselves from the harsh reality of competitive business. Oh boy, are these guys in for a big shock if what I think Russo is proposing actually happens! Barely audible, Curtis just said, ‘Jeez.’

  His neighbour turned. ‘You too son? You’ve got it, yes?’ No! Curtis was reading off a different agenda. He knew exactly what was about to happen, and he wanted to be a part of it.

  He volunteered for and duly got elected to the ‘advance party’. A reunion with his old adversary seemed unavoidable. This was not a place Curtis wished to be, but given the opportunities that might manifest, he thought it too good to pass by. And anyway, with some positivity added to the state of affairs in which he had been placed, he decided he was content. The upside was that he found himself at the forefront of company activity again. Lucky man, me? And so, the battle lines were drawn.

  Seminar after seminar was arranged, the scripted message – not unlike that of a supermarket cashier’s customer greeting – commenced its delivery to all parts of the production units. Curtis’s inclusion was to translate, for example, how robotics would enhance output and make their products saleable again, and thus render most of their jobs safe (er).

  The company, he would continually explain was currently making a loss on everything it sold... Some days he would come away having made progress, but mostly it was a ‘brick wall’. He had to continually remind himself that he was only the messenger delivering the story on behalf of the hierarchy. Unbeknown to him though, his selection was more to do with receiving and translating the ‘shop floor’ reaction, and delivering it upstairs...

  Despite the opportunities, it was all getting to him. He needed another life, one far from this cursed factory. One divorced from all the bitching and bad feelings. His trips back to the homeland thereafter became a regular feature, if for nothing else, but to inhale a dose of County Antrim oxygen.

  His early experiences within the world of design and product development had been uplifting and exciting. But, with what now seemed like a never-ending spiral of industrial unrest he continually asked himself, where have all the good times gone? He felt as if he had been sucked into a corporate vacuum of negativity. Not for the first time he asked himself if it was time for a change.

  Away from the ‘battle zone’ he regularly sought evening solace. But becoming that sad loner downing pints at the end of the bar, he was not. Regular walks through a nearby park savouring the flora while socialising with other strollers generally was enough to remove the day’s negativity. On weekends, and with an early start, the entirety of the nearby country park’s circumference and the whole of its lake-side walk could be achieved before lunch. Thereafter, a ‘roast beef dinner special’ on offer a
t The Cricketer’s Arms would be difficult to resist. Even so, he did often become that lone diner and drinker, pretending to be interested in the sports results, while savouring someone else’s cooking.

  It was on such a walk that he had previously come upon a small sailing club. He would often take time out to study the rows of parked dinghies. It reminded him of his youthful days back home with the Sea Cadets. On one such walk, lost within the summer vista of a lazy setting sun and alerted by a gentle breeze on his neck, he made a decision. It followed a conversation with the bubbly ‘sailing secretary’ of the Lakeside Sailing Club.

  A few days later, in the midst of a further ‘dead-end’ presentation on the benefits of embracing technology and modern plastics to the shop steward’s committee, he was interrupted to take a phone call. It was from the Commodore of the sailing club, apologising for disturbing him on a workday, but could Curtis come in for a meeting? A smile lit up his face as he thought to himself, ‘If only I could come over now, right now.’ He arranged to meet the Commodore the first chance he got.

  The sailing club became an immediate and most welcome escape. Getting away from the intensity of the workplace provided a much needed distraction for Curtis. Very quickly within his fledgling club membership he had been invited to get afloat. Thereafter, in one way or another he found himself involved throughout the club. He made new friends. His lonely bachelor life turned a corner. Even his work colleagues noticed a change in him.

  Not long after, and on the advice of those folk who knew about all-things-nautical, Curtis became the proud owner of a sailing dinghy himself. It was second-hand and needed some TLC, but he was assured it was in good enough nick, sound. It had been owned by a previous club champion. He had a new one of the same type – a Solo class dinghy – already on order. Curtis proved to be a quick learner, albeit after many capsizes and mostly being the ‘tail-end-Charlie’ in the club’s races.