Chapter 3: Alan Continues the Tale

A Fish Out of Water

I have heard it said (although not to my face) that it was cowardly to let myself be chased out of Paterson Engineering by Edith and her Feminist Commando. There is a certain amount of truth in the accusation. I had already made up my mind to leave but they did bring my plans forward. I am impulsive by nature and have had to learn to take time to consider all my options.

Over the weekend, I had devised a plan for which I needed Henry’s backing. When I arrived at work on Monday morning, I fully intended to stay and work on him from within. My confrontation with Edith led to the impulsive decision to leave immediately. It turned out to be a wise tactical move based on Henry’s character. He is cautiously adventurous like a man who wants to climb a ladder but can do no work when he reaches the top because he needs to grip the rungs with both hands. What I was trying to do was pry his fingers loose.

We first met at a university lunch to honour donors. Henry represented his dad, Philip, a long-time supporter; it was my turn to represent the university. We got on well from the start after establishing that we had nothing in common. He knows nothing about science but produces scientifically inspired goods; I know a lot about science but nothing about satisfying public demand. Before the end of the meal our discussion led to a challenge.

“Join me at Paterson’s and turn some of your blue-sky ideas into practical products that Joe Public will buy.” We ended up having dinner together where we thrashed out the rules that led me to resign my post as lecturer to become Chief Scientist at Paterson Engineering. The deal was that I would stay for three months before we reviewed the situation.

Paterson’s already had a research department but there was only one other scientist, the recently appointed Peter Burgess. I asked for one of my graduate students to be offered a position. Emily had recently lost the chance to complete a PhD, and I thought her planned thesis would make a saleable product. On Manic Monday, my three months were up, and the original plan was not working, although the basic premise was good.

Most engineering companies specialise to some extent. They must buy the right machines and train their staff in particular skills. My inventions will be suitable for some but not all product lines. My idea was to set up a research company that sold its ideas to the most appropriate manufacturer. I needed a place to work and money both of which Henry could supply.

He owned a suitable building which he would probably let me have and he certainly could afford to fund us for the initial year although I was less sure of his willingness to put his hand in his pocket. I would need about half a million, but I had an idea for raising half of that from another source. Henry would be more likely to fund half, especially if a rival company became involved. I now hoped that my sudden departure would drive him to a speedy decision.

Looking back now, I can clearly see how naïve I was then. I had spent my twenty-seven years in the academic world and hadn’t a clue about how the real world worked. As I walked home clutching my percolator in my arms, I could foresee no insurmountable problems. It was about a kilometre to my building, and I prowled the first and second floor corridors before I went to my apartment on the top floor.

Henry had inherited the building from his grandfather, the founder of the company. It is right at the end of the shopping area and was originally designed with shops on the ground floor and offices above. There were problems from the outset with finding tenants, so Henry had converted the fourth floor into flats. I had my eye on two of the offices for my new business. Nothing in Henry’s life was straightforward, however, as I had discovered.

Until about a year ago, Henry was CEO of a packaging company based in the English Black Country. His father, who ruled Paterson’s with a rod of iron, had a cancer scare and demanded that Henry return to Scotland to take command of the family business. It took Henry six months to disengage from his commitments before he and his wife of twenty-five years arrived.

He modified his plans for the top floor of his building making one luxury suite and two apartments with two bedrooms, one of them tiny. The suite was now home to Philip who gave Henry the deeds to the Victorian villa that was the family home. Henry and his wife occupied one of the other flats until the old house was renovated. They spent most of the value of their Midland home on the project.

The exchange of properties was about the only thing Philip honoured from the agreement he made with his son. The old man, fearing the worst, had offered to give Henry complete control of the company. Six months later, he was reassured that he could live for another twenty years so he would keep his shares and would remain President with the final say on policy. In particular, he would control hiring and firing.

Henry dug his heels in and was allowed to recruit Peter, Emily and me. In return he had to accept Louise as his PA. She had been Philip’s mistress since before his wife died and made no secret of the fact that she passed everything she heard at work straight to her lover. A well-preserved fifty-something, she dressed and behaved like a sixteen-year-old in her first adult employment. Her underwear is no secret to anyone who visits her office and I have seen her navel through the tunnel of her cleavage when she leant forward over her desk.

Little wonder that Henry often looks frazzled. His wife Jennifer, on the other hand, is always calm and in control. She was head of human resources in a Birmingham company, but Philip would not offer her a job. Undaunted, she has made herself an unofficial, unpaid welfare officer in Paterson Engineering. She and Henry are both in their forties but she is still a very fanciable lady.

I had put the coffee machine in my Land Rover in the garage at the back of the shops, and now I threw my other possessions into my duffle bag and took it downstairs: I was going home. Henry had made the flat available to me, but my real home is a log cabin about ten miles away. (In Britain, we use kilometres except on our roads where distances are in miles and speed limits in miles per hour.) I wouldn’t say I was rushing but I wasted no time: now I was going to war, I wanted to fight on my own ground.