Harry Bingham - The Money Makers

The profit spurt of the early eighties dwindled away as other companies found their feet. For the last part of the decade, the company had bumped along at break-even, squeezing capital expenditure here, trimming marketing budgets there, forsaking product development in favour of cosmetic changes which came too little, too late.

The recession of the nineties had been cruel. In the last year before the economy tanked, old Tom Gissing had somehow persuaded his bank to approve a loan of £400,000. The idea was to provide the impetus for a major renewal. The production area was to be expanded and modernised, and new computer design systems would be introduced. Perhaps – just perhaps – if all had gone according to plan, The Gissings Modern Furniture Company would have found a new lease of life.

But recession came. Gissings’ markets trembled and collapsed. The money from the loan went to meet the company’s losses. Worse still, the prime contractor on the construction work went bust with the job half done and Gissings’ advance payments in his pocket. Redesign of the product range was halted. Costs were trimmed when they should have been slashed. The £400,000 loan ballooned into £550,000, with arrears of interest. Penalty interest was now being charged and the dangerous snowball gathered momentum at a compound rate.

Meanwhile, old man Gissing had lost his will to fight. He spent his time sorting through the company archives and threw his remaining energies into setting up a ‘museum’ to lure visitors to the factory shop.

The bank had been tolerant, but its patience was at an end. Three weeks ago the bank had called in its loan. Gissings had thirty days to find the cash. If it failed, the official receiver – a cross between a bailiff and an undertaker – would step in. He would auction the company for whatever he could get, and if he thought the company would fetch nothing, he’d close it down and sell the assets piece by piece. Either way, Tom Gissing wouldn’t end up with a brass farthing.

The thought terrified the old man. Losing the company to someone else would be hard, but watching the firm die would probably kill him. That was why he had called in the accountants. The accountants had come in, drawn up a report, and stuck an ad in the ‘Businesses for Sale’ page of the Financial Times . That was where George had found the name, and where he’d obtained the report which had encouraged him to make the visit. But whatever rosy words the accountants used, the company was in a desperate plight.

It was now eight days before the deadline and the evening was drawing on. George had read everything, examined everything. He had seen all he wanted and still had no idea whether this walking dead company could ever live again. On the other hand, there were some simple facts he hadn’t lost sight of. He had no money, so buying anything at all would be a triumph of sorts. Also, he had traipsed across Britain for two months in search of a company he could buy for next to nothing. So far he’d found nothing at all. The good companies were totally unaffordable. The bad ones much worse than hopeless. And Gissings, for all its faults, had one major advantage: it still sold one and a half million quids’ worth of furniture each year. That meant there was something to work with.

The old man came back into the room. In the deserted factory buildings only George, the old man and his secretary were left. In the course of the day Tom Gissing had floated away from reality altogether. At times he seemed to think he was selling his company for a small fortune. At other times he treated George like a business partner and spoke of how they would develop the business together. Sometimes it was as though George were a historian, there to record the proudest moments of the company’s glorious past. It was pathetic. George wanted out.

Gissing dumped another load of papers on to the table.

‘I expect you’ll be wanting to see these next. Some of our very earliest brochures. See this? The Thunderer ! What a name for a desk, eh? Very daring at the time, I can tell you.’

George interrupted rudely.

‘I’ve come to buy your company.’

The old man sank into a chair.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Quite right.’

‘Have you had any other offers?’

The old man shook his head. ‘No.’

‘It’s not worth much right now, is it? Not with half a million quid of debt. Not when you haven’t made a profit for six years.’

‘No, well, I suppose you’re right. Still you never know. Things look a bit rough, but we’ve never lost hope.’

‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ said George. ‘I want to make an offer for the lot. Factory, designs, inventory. The lot.’

The old man licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry. ‘How much?’ he croaked, his voice barely audible.

The question threw George. He’d only just made up his mind to make an offer, and it hadn’t occurred to him to think of a price. He shoved his hands into his pockets for inspiration.

‘I’ll give you a pound,’ he said, tossing a coin on to the table. It spun for a moment then fell over. ‘If you give me the company, I can recapitalise it and make it live. If you don’t, the company and all your hard work will die. The bank will kill it. You know it will.’

George hadn’t intended to be cruel, but he was feeling awkward, and awkwardness made him tactless. He wondered whether he should say something, an apology maybe or something to try and buck the old man up, but he was held fast in the room’s gathering silence. For an infinite moment, the old man stared down at the golden disc. His rheumy blue eyes filled suddenly with tears. His lips opened and closed without sound. Finally his hand, shaking violently, closed over the glittering coin.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Take care of things. You will take care, won’t you?’ The old man began to shuffle from the room. The pound coin was clenched so tightly in his hand that George feared he would cut himself. Then at the door he turned and added, ‘Oh – the name. It’s yours to do as you please with now – but I’ve always liked the name. Gissings Furniture. It’s got a ring to it. Anyway, best of luck.’

His footsteps moved hesitantly away down the dark corridor which then fell silent.

The old man’s secretary had watched the whole scene. Her eyes blazed with contempt.

‘Delighted to have you on board, sir,’ she spat.

She held George’s eyes a moment, then she too turned and walked away, her face angry and complex, her deep eyes invisible. Minutes passed, and George was left, the only person in the whole factory.

His factory. His headache. His problem. His key to a million pounds.

McAllister’s ten days were up, but he was busy. Matthew watched his office like a hawk. McAllister was either in meetings or on the phone all day. Anxiety continued to chew at Matthew’s stomach. Get off the phone. Give me the answer.

Eventually, at four o’clock, McAllister caught Matthew’s glance and signalled him over. Matthew hurried across and was about to take his seat when McAllister asked him to close the door. That door was never closed. It was never closed, except, if rumour was true, when McAllister fired people. Matthew shut the door and sat down awkwardly.

‘I’ve three things to say to you, Matt. First, you did a fine job on that piece of work the other day. Too many traders, not just in this bank but everywhere, think that their market feel is so good that they don’t need to understand the facts. That’s bullshit. Every good trader has market feel, but a fine trader is a salesman, an economist and a diplomat as well. I think you understand that and I like it.

‘Secondly, we are going to give you a job here. You can finish your present assignment and then we’ll send you off to New York for the training programme. If you flunk that, or if your teachers there think you need to complete your degree, then we’ll chuck you out and that’s that. But I don’t see why you should fail. I think you will make a good trader.