Future Tense

“Your future is our success.”

Pendleton was standing on the small stage, picked out by a spotlight. He was outlined in a silver-grey halo reflected off the screen behind him. He was on the stage of the Rivoli Cinema. Benucci Radio Components Ltd. often hired this venue for their all-hands meetings. It was cheap, big enough, and just around the corner from the office.

Usually, the all-hands were planned well in advance: announcements of minor strategy changes or summaries of quarterly reports. But this was different. The invite to this emergency all-hands meeting had arrived in Kevin’s inbox that morning. His colleagues agreed with him: this was most unusual, something big was happening.

“We’ve been through a lot together. Good times and bad.” Pendleton looked around the dimly-lit auditorium. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the spotlight. “Some of you here may even remember those good times.”

Kevin looked around the auditorium too. Despite the short-notice there must have been nearly three hundred people in the auditorium. That was near enough the entire headcount these days. He saw a lot of worried faces. The faces of his colleagues from the circuit-design department, the faces of programmers, the faces of assemblers from the production line who had come in by bus from the factory at Craigmillar.

It seemed to Kevin that, no matter how important the message, upper management like Pendleton could never resist beating about the bush. He waffled on about stormy waters ahead. Competitive pressures. Shareholder expectations. As he looked around, it occurred to Kevin that the cinema itself was showing signs of decline. The velvet curtains either side of the stage were moth-eaten. The silver screen was scratched. Even in the dim light, Kevin could see cracks in the ceiling.

The Rivoli Cinema had been built in the mid-1930s. Around the same time Alfredo and Pietro Benucci—forced out of Italy by Mussolini’s boot boys—started their radio repair business from a rented flat near Leith Walk. Before long the two brothers branched out into building their own radios. The radios sold well locally, and the brothers' reputations as engineers began to spread. And then the war came and the Benucci’s enterprise exploded. Government contracts. Building components for R.A.D.A.R, for military-grade radios, for land-mine detection units. By the end of the conflict, Benucci Radio Components Ltd. had nearly three thousand workers on the payroll.

Since then, Benucci had ridden the booms and recessions. But the overall trend had been downwards. Their heyday seemingly long gone. In recent years, under the leadership of Pendleton, they had shrunk down. Downsized. Concentrated on what they did best: creating high-end sensors for civilian, scientific, and military customers. Pendleton’s strategy—to emphasise quality whilst keeping costs in check—was beginning to pay dividends. He was turning the company around.

Or so it seemed before Pendleton had called this emergency meeting. Rumours had spread there would be further job cuts. What’s left to cut? Kevin had thought to himself.

“And now we come to a piece of bad news,” said Pendleton.

Here we go, thought Kevin.

“In order to free up funds, last week, with heavy hearts, my leadership team and I proposed to the board that we end the Benucci Pension Scheme.”

A groan went round the auditorium.

“Late last evening, we heard back from the board. They have accepted the proposal. The pension scheme will cease forthwith.”

No way! thought Kevin. Like his colleagues around him, he had considered the pension scheme sacrosanct.

Bang goes the retirement cottage. Kevin had long dreamt of retiring to a cottage in Findhorn, or Nairn, or some other seaside town in the North of Scotland. He had pictured walks on the beach. Maybe with a dog? One of those smiling yellow ones that wag their tails a lot and don’t bark much. A Labrador? Or Golden Retriever? He didn’t know much about dogs. He pictured himself strolling along the golden sands. Throwing a driftwood stick for Bella, his imaginary Labrador/Golden Retriever, who would skitter along the wet sand, retrieve the stick and run back. Tail wagging. Offering Kevin the stick, covered in salty dog-drool and sand.

Goodbye Bella, thought Kevin sadly.

“You are not alone,” continued Pendleton, making a sweeping gesture towards a huddle of men and women in tailored business suits standing at the side of the stage. “My leadership team and I will be tightening our belts too. We will all be returning five percent of our share options.”

A bitter laugh rolled round the auditorium. Pendleton looked annoyed.

“That’s more than any of your pensions!” shouted Dodds, the red-faced Chief Financial Officer. Jumping to the defence of his CEO.

The audience mutterings got louder.

“In light of this cost-cutting measure, a measure that will make us stronger as a company,” continued Pendleton, soldiering on, “we ask you to electronically sign your amended contract that is being emailed to you”—he checked his Patak Philippe wrist watch— “at this very moment.”

“Of course, you don’t have to sign. In theory, you can opt to stay in the pension scheme. But”—Pendleton shuffled his notes and read—“the company cannot guarantee that your position will remain after the next headcount-rationalization meeting.”

He looked up from his notes and glared threateningly around the room. “That meeting, for those of you who are not aware, is tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“And now it’s time for the Q&A,” said Pendleton. Forcing his face into an icy smile. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions?”

At first there were no questions. None whatsoever. Then a young fellow Kevin had seen in the accounts department stood up. He was nervous as he stammered out his question. His voice was so quiet that even the people sat next to him strained to hear what he was saying.

“Speak up, man!” said Pendleton. Shielding his eyes from the spotlight once more as he tried to put a face to the quiet voice.

“Gray-Grimm!” shouted the young man, finding his voice.

Pendleton said nothing.

“Gray-Grimm. The venture capitalists?” continued the man.

“I know who Gray-Grimm Incorporated are!” said Pendleton. He looked irritated.

“So, Mr. Pendleton, is there any truth to the rumours?”

“Rumours?” said Pendleton. He looked confused and shot a glance to his leadership team. Red-faced Dodds shrugged his shoulders. A woman next to him shuffled her feet.

“Aye! Rumours that they’re planning a hostile bid,” continued the man.

Pendleton laughed. But his laughter sounded forced. “Rumours! Don’t always believe what you read in the tabloids, son. If there was any truth to that particular story, I can assure you that the board would have told me about it.”

“I read it in The Glasgow Herald,” persevered the young man. “Not exactly a tabloid newsp—"

“Next question!” thundered Pendleton.

With a resigned shake of the head, the young man sat down.

But no next question arrived. Miss Tweedie, Pendleton’s personal assistant, had ran on to stage. She looked like a TV presenter with her smart business clothes and recently cut hair. But there was an anxious look on her subtly made-up face as she tugged Pendleton’s sleeve. She whispered something to him, then offered him her phone. Pendleton snatched it from her, read from the screen and appeared to snarl something back to her.

Then the pair of them held a brief, anxious-looking discussion with the leadership team at the side of the stage. Pendleton, visibly flustered, walked back to the podium. Trying to regain his composure.

Pendleton leaned forward and spoke into the podium microphone. “These rumours.” He was too close to the mic and his voice sounded unnaturally boomy. Like the voice of doom. “These rumours about Gray-Grimm Incorporated. You could say that they are no longer rumours.”

The blood had drained from his face. He suddenly looked older. “My personal assistant, Miss Tweedie, has just informed me that Gray-Grimm Incorporated are indeed planning a hostile bid. In fact, they have lodged a bid that is being considered by the shareholders at this very moment.”

The audience gasped.

“Friends and colleagues. We all know what this means. The vultures are circling.” Pendleton took a deep breath. Then spoke, in the passionate voice of a man who’d worked at Benucci’s his whole life and is seeing it crumble before his eyes. “I have a phone call with the board of directors in exactly one hour’s time. Sixty minutes to save the company. Our only hope is to show the board, and show the shareholders that we can make the big cuts necessary to complete our turnaround. That Benucci can turn the corner. That there’s life in the old dog yet!”

“I’m suggesting to you as your CEO. I’m asking you as colleague. I’m imploring you as a friend. Go back to your desks. Log in to your computers. Opt out of the pension fund. It’s not too late. We have a chance. A last chance. A chance to make a difference. The difference between a future for the company”—he looked grimly out into the auditorium, which was already emptying as everyone rushed for the exits—"and no future at all.”

Kevin joined in the rush. Joined in the crowd of colleagues. Each with their own mortgage to pay, kids to clothe and feed, credit card debts to clear. Each desperate to get back to their desk, to log in to their computer, to sign away their pension. To keep their job.

Kevin was out in the street and running now. He overtook the red-faced Dodds. And a few yards on a jogging Pendleton. The two leaders had clearly beat the crowd by leaving the cinema by a side entrance. But when he arrived at the 70s brutalist concrete office building that was Benucci’s headquarters, there was already a scrum waiting for the two lifts. So instead, Kevin ran up the stairs. He dashed up three flights, and sprinted into the open-plan office where his desk was located.

The office was cold and the office lights were off. Out of breath, Kevin sat down at his computer and rattled in his username and password. He watched the wheel spin on the screen as the computer checked his credentials. And then success.

I can log in! thought Kevin. Thank the stars! I can still log in!

He clicked on the mail icon. His only thought now was to sign the amended contract. The amended contract that would sacrifice his pension but save his job.

Nothing happened so Kevin clicked again. Still nothing. Again, he clicked. Nothing. In a panic he started pressing random keys on his keyboard. What a time for my PC to hang! thought Kevin.

He went back to the mouse. His hands trembling. He double-clicked. Triple-clicked. Quadruple-clicked. Come on!

Nothing.

Suddenly a message flashed onto the screen:

This device belongs to Gray-Grimm Inc.

Your account has been deactivated.

Your future is our success.