Twenty minutes later, a judge in a long black gown entered the court and everyone rose. Once he had taken his seat on the bench, an immigration officer stepped forward and said, ‘Your Honor, I ask permission to present one hundred and seventy-two immigrants for your consideration as American citizens.’
‘Have they all carried out the correct procedure as demanded by the law?’ the judge asked solemnly.
‘They have, Your Honor,’ replied the court officer.
‘Then you may proceed with the Oath of Allegiance.’
Townsend and 171 other would-be Americans recited in unison the words he had read for the first time in the car on the way to the court.
‘I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required to do so by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation of purpose or evasion: So help me God.’
The judge smiled down at the joyful faces. ‘Let me be the first to welcome you as full citizens of the United States,’ he said.
As eleven o’clock struck, Sir Paul Maitland coughed slightly and suggested that perhaps the time had come to bring the meeting to order. ‘I would like to begin by welcoming our chief executive back from New York,’ he said, glancing to his right. There were murmurs of assent from around the table. ‘But it would be remiss of me not to admit to a little anxiety caused by some of the reports coming out of that city.’ The murmurs were repeated, and if anything were slightly louder.
‘The board backed you, Dick, when without seeking its approval you purchased the New York Tribune for twenty-five cents,’ continued Sir Paul. ‘However, we now feel you should let us know for how much longer you are willing to tolerate losses in the region of nearly one and a half million dollars a week. Because the present situation,’ he said, referring to a row of figures in front of him, ‘is that the group’s profits in London are only just covering the losses we are sustaining in New York. In a few weeks’ time we will have to face our shareholders at the annual general meeting—’ he looked up at his colleagues seated round the table ‘—and I am not convinced that they will approve our stewardship if this state of affairs continues for much longer. As you are all aware, our share price has fallen from £3.10 to £2.70 in the last month.’ Sir Paul leaned back in his chair and turned to Armstrong, indicating that he was ready to listen to his explanation.
Armstrong looked slowly around the boardroom table, aware that almost everyone present was there because of his patronage.
‘I am able to tell the board, Mr. Chairman,’ he began, ‘that my negotiations with the New York unions, which I must admit have been keeping me up most nights, are finally reaching their conclusion.’ He paused as one or two smiles appeared on the faces around the table.
‘Seven hundred and twenty members of the print union have already agreed to take early retirement, or to accept a redundancy package. I shall be announcing this officially as soon as I return to New York.’
‘But the Wall Street Journal has estimated,’ said Sir Paul, referring to an article he had extracted from his briefcase, ‘that we need to reduce the workforce by between fifteen hundred and two thousand.’
‘What do that lot know, sitting in their cozy air-conditioned offices downtown?’ said Armstrong. ‘I am the person who has to deal with these men face to face.’
‘Nevertheless...’
‘The second tranche of sackings and redundancies will take place in the next few weeks,’ continued Armstrong. ‘I remain confident that I will have concluded those negotiations by the time of the next board meeting.’
‘And how many weeks do you imagine it will be before we see the benefits of these negotiations?’
Armstrong hesitated. ‘Six weeks. Eight weeks at the most, Chairman. But naturally I will be doing everything in my power to speed the process up.’
‘How much is this latest package going to cost the company?’ asked Sir Paul, returning to a typewritten sheet of paper in front of him. Armstrong could see he had been ticking off a list of questions one by one.
‘I don’t have an exact figure to hand, chairman,’ replied Armstrong.
‘I would be content, for the purposes of this meeting,’ said Sir Paul, looking up from his notes, ‘with what I think the Americans call “a ballpark figure”.’ A little laughter broke the tension round the table.
‘Two hundred, perhaps as much as two hundred and thirty million,’ said Armstrong, aware that the accountants in New York had already warned him it could be nearer three hundred million. No one round the table offered an opinion, although one or two of them began writing down the figures.
‘It may have escaped your notice, chairman,’ added Armstrong, ‘that the New York Tribune building is on the books, and is conservatively valued at $150 million.’
‘As long as it’s producing a newspaper,’ said Sir Paul, now turning the pages of a glossy document supplied to him by a legal firm from Chicago called Spender, Dickson & Withers. ‘But in a closing-down situation, I’m reliably informed it is worth no more than fifty million.’
‘We are not in a closing-down situation,’ said Armstrong, ‘as everyone will soon come to appreciate.’
‘I only hope you’re right,’ said Sir Paul quietly.
Armstrong remained silent as the board moved on to discuss the rest of the agenda item by item. He sat there wondering why he was treated so badly in his own country while he was hailed as a hero in the States. His mind drifted back to the proceedings when he caught Eric Chapman, the company secretary, saying ‘... and we have a satisfactory surplus in that account at the present time, Mr. Chairman.’
‘As is quite right and proper,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to take us through the figures, Mr. Chapman.’
The company secretary bent down, lifted an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger up onto the table and slowly turned its pages. ‘The pension fund,’ he began, ‘is financed, as members of the board are aware, by joint contributions. The employees pay 4 percent of their wages into the fund, and management tops it up with an equal contribution. On a year-on-year basis, we are currently paying our former employees approximately £34 million, while we receive in income from present employees the sum of £51 million. Thanks in part to a shrewd investment program carried out by our merchant bankers, the account’s balance currently stands at a little over £631 million, against a requirement properly to fulfill our legal obligation to former employees of around £400 million.’
‘Most satisfactory,’ purred Sir Paul. Armstrong continued to listen intently.
‘Though I must inform the board,’ continued Chapman, ‘that I have taken actuarial advice, and that although this may appear a large surplus on paper, it is, with life expectancy rising every year, no more than a necessary cushion.’
‘We take your point,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Any other business?’
No one spoke, and the directors began placing pens into pockets, closing files and opening briefcases.