Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

His secretive nature was revealed in a number of almost furtive habits. While he was obsessive about order and cleanliness, he had a strange desire to observe people who lived in other ways. He would park his car near the City Mission where the derelicts and street people came to feed from the soup kitchen. He liked to watch, just watch. Or the lanes where prostitutes touted. If any approached the car, he would drive off immediately. Sex, or at least the practice of it, seemed not to be uppermost in his mind. Mavis could attest to this. And their home life was closed to public view. Few people had ever visited the apartment, although he’d owned it for decades and was intensely proud of its purist art deco decor. When the Treadmores entertained, which was seldom, it was always at the club. Mainly they were entertained by others. Besides, Mavis was nervous of people she didn’t know well and sometimes of those she did. Frequently she found her husband frightening, a fact which frightened her more when she registered it.

Mrs Bonython entered the office as Sir Laurence was picking the last crumbs of the croissant from the plate. She had never fully overcome her unease in his presence despite nearly twenty years of service. ‘Mr Beaumont is here, sir. Shall I show him in?’

The pale eyes glanced up from the newspaper. ‘Not just yet, Lois, thank you. I’m rather busy. I’ll buzz in a little while.’

It was an uncomfortable conversation that ensued when Jack was finally ushered into the beige-on-beige office. Sir Laurence rose briefly then resumed his seat behind the desk, eschewing the relaxed offering of the sofa and lounge chair by the coffee table. Indeed no coffee was served. He sat with suit jacket fully buttoned while Jack, tieless, immediately removed his blazer and slumped casually into an easy chair.

‘I know you’ve indicated to Mac that you’re keen to sign on with us as CEO, which is welcome news, but you and I must conclude the matter between us. That is only right and proper in a publicly listed company, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ No pause was allowed for the agreement as Sir Laurence ploughed on. ‘The relationship between the chairman and the chief executive is a vital one in the success of any company. I’m sure you agree. And it must be clear that the CEO reports to the board through the chairman. That is clear. In this company, of course, we have a significant shareholder who is also a director and, in some ways, the founder or perhaps foster father of the business. This can raise certain complications. These are best left to me to solve as chairman, so that you may be free to manage the business side of things. I’m sure you understand. If any such matters arise, simply raise them with me and worry no more about them. That’s what I’m here for.’ An attempt at a thin smile flickered across the grey lips. ‘Now, as to your contract and its details, I understand you have a basic agreement with Mac. I will incorporate this into a formal document and execute it with you.’

Jack shifted uneasily in the chair that had looked comfortable but was designed for no more than looks. This meeting was the opposite of his discussions with Mac.

‘Don’t bother, Laurence.’ There was a slight flinch at the lack of the Sir. ‘I don’t need a contract, a handshake is fine. If we’re happy together, I’ll stay. If we’re not, you don’t want your shareholders having to pay me out.’

Laurence Treadmore’s mouth tightened as if he’d just eaten a particularly sour fruit. In a couple of sentences Jack had sneered at the three fundamental principles on which his life was based. The first was a love of money. The man appeared to be dismissive of the potential gain that might accrue to him. The second was a basic distrust of all persons except those who were bound to you by necessity. And the third was the absolute requirement to, and vicarious enjoyment of, drafting, honing and redrafting a legal document that would deprive the recipient of rights that he or she assumed to be self-evident, without this being evident. He coughed unnecessarily. ‘I’m afraid in corporate life these days it is common practice to document these matters. Indeed good corporate governance suggests we advise shareholders of the details. I’m sure you can understand that the description of a handshake’-the word was almost chewed as it emerged-’would not sit comfortably in an annual report.’

The meeting edged from topic to topic as the manicured finger ran down the embossed notepaper. Sir Laurence was contemptuous of all forms of modern technology, even the cell phone-the public use of which he regarded as a particularly invasive form of bad manners-so when Jack’s BlackBerry appeared from his pocket, buzzing and vibrating in an obscene display of uncivil interruption, their antipathy towards one another was complete.

‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I’ll have to dash. Didn’t realise we were going to be so long; thought it was just a quick hello. But I hear what you’re saying and, of course, I’m new to public company life. I’ll certainly think about it all.’

The farewell handshake sealed their pact, leaving one gently massaging an imaginary bruise and the other hoping to wash away the clamminess.

When Jack strode with relief into the sun and clean air of Sydney’s mildly polluted streets, it was Mac Biddulph’s name that flashed up in his message window. He didn’t return the call but went back to his office in the old Pyrmont warehouse and sat staring out at the incongruous collection of public amusements spattered over the former railway yards. He’d loaded goods trains there as a part-time job in the university holidays when he was nineteen and remembered the area as ugly but honest. Now it was full of shops selling sweaters that looked like Jackson Pollock’s worst nightmare or cute marine artefacts that had never seen a ship. Why was he even contemplating leaving the familiar, safe harbour of a business he liked, was successful in, and was handsomely remunerated for running with a modicum of effort? He looked around at his team of bright, attractive, talented, likeable young people working away happily in the huge space flooded with natural light and salt-filled air. He’d be crazy to leave. He’d ring Mac right now and tell him so.

The direct line rang on his desk. Only Louise and a couple of close friends had the number, but when he answered it was Mac’s voice on the line.

‘G’day, Jack. Hope I’m not bothering you sitting down there counting your money. How did you get on with my chairman? He can be a bit of an old woman sometimes.’

Jack cautiously began to express his reservations, but Mac broke in.

‘Don’t you worry about Laurence Treadmore. Known him for years. He may be a bit pedantic at times, but he crosses all the tees and dots every other letter. That’s what you want in a chairman. As far as running the business goes, you talk to me. We speak the same language.’

‘I’m not sure, Mac. Laurence says I report to him. I’m sure he’s an excellent chairman, don’t get me wrong, but I was a bit uncomfortable with the discussion.’

Mac chuckled. ‘Everyone’s a bit uncomfortable with Laurence. Part of his charm. Don’t give it a thought. He’s good on detail and harmless on everything else and owes a fair chunk of his good fortune to me. You and I stay in tune and I promise you there’s no problem. Now the good news is I’ve been chatting off the record to a few fund managers we know intimately and your appointment’s going to be well received. You’re a growth story, just like I said. And the analysts who cover insurance all know the whole financial services market. So they checked you out with the banks. And who loves Jack? So we’ll probably see a kick in the share price. It’s always nice to know your value.’