CHAPTER THREE
So when, on the Thursday after the board he received a call from George Brewer’s secretary, Stella Davies, to pop up for a drink before lunch, Graham had little doubt what the summons was about.
He entered the outer office confidently and exchanged a little banter with Stella. She was particularly forthcoming that morning. Attractive divorcee in her forties, Graham found himself wondering — not for the first time — if she went with the job. And how far she went with the job.
His confidence was, as ever, increased by the sight of his boss. George had been ageing fast in the last few years, as the precipice of retirement drew nearer. The recent decision, which had brought him so suddenly to its brink, had had a devastating effect. He looked an old man, confused and afraid, as he sat in his swivel chair and fiddled with a paper knife. His lapels were sprinkled with ash from his constant stream of cheap cigarettes. Graham felt the atavistic surge of superiority that youth will always feel as age withdraws from the contest.
George acceded to Graham’s offer to get the drinks. His confused state, and the eagerness with which he put the proffered Scotch to his lips, suggested that it was not his first of the morning.
Hmm, Graham found himself reflecting, if old George is hitting the bottle, the sooner he’s moved on and I take over, the better.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
George Brewer echoed the toast, belatedly, since half his drink was already gone. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and placed it sadly in his mouth. Graham leaned forward and lit it with his gold lighter, which bore the initials G.M. (an atypically expensive twenty-first birthday present from his parents).
‘Good of you to come up, Graham.’
‘No problem.’
‘No.’ George swayed restlessly in his chair. Cigarette ash dropped unnoticed on to his lap.
‘You know, Graham, I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like the way the company’s going. Don’t know what management’s up to.’
‘I agree they’ve given you a pretty shabby deal, but. .’
‘Oh, me,’ George shrugged, as if dismissing a cause beyond redemption. ‘I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about everything. . No, from my point of view, I’m glad to be getting out. Don’t like the look of the future. The oil won’t last much longer, apart from anything else.’
‘There’s still a bit,’ Graham consoled. ‘And the company’s putting a lot of money and research into alternative fuels.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. .’
George seemed very low. Retirement was frightening him sick. Since the death of his wife, he seemed to have no resources outside his work. One of those who could be dead within a year from sheer inactivity, Graham reflected. He was quite fond of old George, but the thought didn’t shock him. Since his parents’ deaths, he had been increasingly conscious of how expendable people were.
‘Look, Graham,’ George began again unnecessarily loudly, to shake himself out of his mood, ‘you know I’ve always had the highest respect for your abilities. .’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ve always hoped, when the time came for me to go. .’ His bottom lip, slightly misshaven, quivered. ‘Not that I thought I would be going so soon. .’
‘Nor did any of us,’ Graham supplied loyally. Oh, get on with it, George, get on with it.’
‘I always hoped that you’d take over from me. I think we see eye to eye on the important issues in this company. Both want to keep out the bloody Space Invaders, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Graham laughed loyally at the recurrent joke.
‘And I like to think that, with you sitting in this seat, my policies would be continued — at least in outline.’
That’s all you know, thought Graham. But he nodded and said, ‘Of course, George.’
‘So I’ve always wanted you to take over this job.’
Graham nodded again. He was having difficulty in controlling a little smile at the corners of his lips.
‘Unfortunately the rest of the selection board didn’t agree with me.’
So total was the surprise of these words that Graham could not for a moment take them in.
‘I think it’s just faddishness,’ George continued petulantly. ‘They’re all so twitchy after that damned Management Consultants’ report, they just want change for change’s sake. Won’t go for the obvious candidate for the very reason that he is obvious.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Graham managed to say. ‘Are you telling me I haven’t got the job?’
‘Yes, of course I am,’ George replied testily.
Graham’s first thought was that George must have got it wrong. He was so confused these days, possibly so drunk, that he’d got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Are you sure, George? I mean, I thought — ’
‘So did I, Graham. And, had it been in my gift, you’d have. .’ The stubbly lower lip trembled again. ‘Maybe it’s my support that’s dished you. Now I’m completely discredited in the company, maybe it’s. . Maybe they don’t want my policies continued. .’
But I wouldn’t continue them, Graham wanted desperately to say. Wanted to be back before the selection board and say it to them. Good God, had he been backing the wrong horse all these years? Had all those tedious sessions of agreeing with George been wasted?
‘Don’t think they do want my policies continued,’ the old man went on truculently. ‘Said they wanted a “new broom”.’
‘And who. .’ asked Graham thickly, ‘who is the new broom?’
‘Robert Benham.’
‘Robert Benham! As Head of Personnel!’
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s only thirty-four!’
‘That, to the rest of the board, seemed to be a point in his favour.’
‘And he’s only been with Crasoco three years.’
‘That, too. It’s the Management Consultants’ jibe about our being insular. Benham’s worked for American companies, he’s been all over the place.’ George Brewer shrugged hopelessly. ‘Graham, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve been overruled — yet again — and Robert Benham is to be the next Head of Department.’
Graham Marshall took a deep breath. ‘Does he know yet?’
‘No. I must tell him now. I thought the least I could do for you was to let you know first.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I trust your discretion, of course.’
‘Of course.’
George looked at him with old, watery eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Graham. I’m afraid we’re both in the same boat.’
‘And both sold up the same river.’
‘Yes.’
Betrayed, totally betrayed. Graham Marshall could feel the fury building inside him. For nearly twenty years he’d played the company game. And now, just when a major prize was within his reach, the rules had been arbitrarily changed.
That evening, when he joined George Brewer and Robert Benham for a celebratory drink in the company bar, Graham found the bitter truth of Oscar Wilde’s dictum, that “anyone can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathise with a friend’s success”.
His nature was not particularly fine, nor was it practised in that kind of sympathy. Nor, come to that, was Robert Benham a friend. Through the afternoon following Graham’s announcement, Graham kept coming back to the realisation that this was the first public competition he had failed, and the habits of success were hard to break.
Robert Benham was very cool about his elevation. He could afford to be. Graham, from his own experience, knew how easy it was to avoid brashness and show sympathy in a moment of triumph. The winner always has time to be magnanimous; it is the also-rans following him in who are left breathless and unprepared to comment on their failure.
So Robert Benham, short, dark, and — to Graham’s mind — sloppily dressed in a leather-patched tweed jacket, had no difficulty in appearing diffident and modest. He was more relaxed than Graham had ever seen him; the constant aggression he showed at all other times was now curbed. Having achieved his ambition, he didn’t need it for a while. Again, from his own experience, Graham could recognise this unassailable calm.