He paused to let the number sink in. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he said, slowly. He shook his head from side to side. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he whispered, mouthing the words.
The expressions around the table were stone-faced, as Wolff continued. ‘Despite taking corrective measures, the situation has worsened. Now we face two simple choices. Either, by some process, to dramatically hype sales, or –’ His lips tightened. ‘To start downsizing.’ Brushing a lock of hair from his eyes he waited a moment for the words to sink in.
‘We’ve analysed our operational and selling costs and are satisfied that there’s little or no fat to be cut there. That leaves these options: first, to start immediately on an aggressive effort to sell the products we presently own; second, we must, and I repeat must, bring new products to market now. I’m not talking about in the next year or so – we don’t have that luxury. We’ve got to pull a rabbit out of the hat very soon or pink slips start showing up in the pay envelopes.’
Wolff ’s cold eyes came to rest for a moment on Bill Samuelson, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘And the first casualties will be in the sales department,’ Wolff added.
Turning to Steve Weber, B-R’s Director of Research and Hybridizing, he continued. ‘Research and Development. We need fresh, new ideas in roses. We can’t rely on regurgitating the same tired old hybrid teas and floribundas any more. We’re at war with the British again – with David Austin’s English roses; the Germans are pounding away at our flank with their Flower Carpet roses; the French with Meilland’s Romantica series. Christ! Even the Canadians are in the battle, convincing buyers that they can grow roses around igloos.’
An ominous silence gripped the room as Wolff paused to take a sip of water.
‘Everyone must put on their thinking caps and come up with creative ideas. Within the next five days there’ll be another staff meeting, at which time I’ll expect all department heads to present their thoughts on turning this thing around. Don’t give me any Band-aid ideas. I’ll say it one more time. Somehow, between us, we must come up with an earthshaking new horticultural innovation to stop this freefall. I’m not talking six months from now – not even three months from now – we need it right now. I don’t care what it costs. If it’s a big-time idea, I’ll come up with big-time bucks to put behind it. Think hard about it. Have your families and friends think about it. Because if we don’t make it happen – and, I mean soon – this company is going to go under. And we’re all going with it.’
With that he turned and left the room.
Chapter Eight
Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.
Mary Cantwell
Thomas Farrow’s cottage was in a cul-de-sac at the north end of Little Stanton village. It took Kingston two passes through the hamlet before he found it. The chattering windscreen wipers of the TR4 were no match for the gusting rain that made it difficult to see much up ahead.
Finally he glimpsed the braided cap of the thatched roof peeking out above a tall yew hedge. It was the only part of the cottage visible from the street. Climbing out of his car, Kingston gingerly made his way up a narrow flight of slippery stone steps, keeping a firm grip on his umbrella and his briefcase. He had brought four of Major Cooke’s journals with him, just in case. At the top of the steps the garden opened to a wide band of lawn, edged by shrub and perennial borders. On a more agreeable day the view to the south was undoubtedly splendid. Now a menacing parade of dark thunderclouds rolled across the rain-shrouded horizon. Turning away from the dispiriting view, he was cheered at the sight of the brightly painted peacock-blue door.
He lifted the tarnished lion’s-head knocker and let it drop loudly. Almost immediately the door was opened by a slender young woman, casually but fashionably dressed.
‘Good afternoon, my name’s Lawrence Kingston. Dr Kingston. I’m trying to locate a Mr Thomas Farrow,’ he said evenly. ‘I was given this address by a former acquaintance of his. I wondered whether he might still live here?’
‘Oh, I’m so awfully sorry – you obviously don’t know,’ the young woman stammered. ‘Thomas died several years ago. I’m his niece. Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Not exactly. More like a friend of a friend, really.’
‘Your friend wasn’t aware, either, then – that Thomas had died?’
Conscious of her apprehensive expression, as she gripped the edge of the partially open door, Kingston stepped back two paces. ‘No. No, he wasn’t,’ he said. His next words were lost, as a crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky. He waited as it rumbled off into the distance. Then it started to bucket down. ‘I’m awfully sorry to learn about your uncle,’ he said.
A sudden gust of wind threatened to blow Kingston’s umbrella inside out. Rain splattered noisily off the porch behind him. It suddenly occurred to him what a sorry sight he must present to this pleasant young woman.
‘Please…’ She opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Do come in. It’s such a wretched day. At least you can dry off a little. I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. My name’s Jennifer, by the way.’
‘Thank you, Jennifer, that’s awfully kind of you. It is getting a bit nasty out here. Yes, tea would be lovely.’
He set his briefcase down on the tiled floor of the hallway, took off his sopping trench coat, and handed it to her. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on. You get yourself warmed up a bit,’ she said, leaving Kingston standing with his back to the meagre fire smouldering in the hearth of the low-ceilinged living room.
When Jennifer returned with the tea, they sat down and she talked about her uncle. She said he’d passed away, suddenly, about six or seven years ago. She confirmed that he had, indeed, been passionately interested in roses and, yes, he had belonged to a garden club. She had done her best, she said, to keep up his garden in the back of the cottage but, sadly, it was nowhere near as glorious now as it had been when he was alive.
‘You haven’t told me your reason for coming,’ she said.
‘I’m trying to establish whether your uncle was a friend or acquaintance of a man named Jeffrey Cooke. Major Jeffrey Cooke. He was also keenly interested in roses. I recently found out that they belonged to the same garden club.’
‘You said, “was”. This Major Cooke – he’s no longer alive, then?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You still haven’t told me how you think Thomas might have helped you.’
‘You’re right, forgive me. Well, some close friends of mine recently purchased a nice old house from Major Cooke’s widow. There are lots of roses in the garden – upwards of two hundred – some quite old and rare. The garden’s large, of course.’
‘It sounds lovely.’
‘It is. Well, Mrs Cooke lent us some of her husband’s journals containing records of his hybridizing roses. We’re pretty certain they’re Major Cooke’s notes but it’s also possible that some of the entries could have been made by your uncle, because we’re led to believe that from time to time they worked together on the rose breeding. We’re trying to find out exactly what information is contained in the journals.’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Kingston, placing a hand on his brow. ‘I forgot to tell you, they’re written in some kind of code.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit queer, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’