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Authors: Geoffrey Cousins
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slightly bloodshot eyes fell on the brightly coloured plumage of Rosemary Stipple, the headmistress of the private school that one of Mac’s daughters had attended. She’d recently joined the board at Mac’s insistence, despite Sir Laurence’s strong objections that she had no business experience of any kind and had never been on any other board except that of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra—and only because her husband was a major benefactor. The market would see her as no more than a sycophantic supporter of Macquarie James Biddulph and a sop to political correctness and would deride the appointment. So said Sir Laurence. Mac had just laughed.
‘The market follows me, Laurence. They couldn’t care less who’s on the board.’ Sir Laurence’s lips curled slightly at the left corner at this remark. ‘All that corporate governance crap is just for the annual report and the regulator. Anyway, Rosemary is a woman.’
On this last point Sir Laurence wasn’t entirely convinced. She appeared to be dressed at present in the plumage of a rainbow lorikeet. He’d always understood it was the male bird that wore the brightest colours. In any event, she might not be a man but if she wanted to be a member of his board she would have to do her best.
‘Gentlemen. If we could please.’ He tapped the small microphone in front of him with his silver pen. The sound reverberated through the fifteen miniature speakers in the ceiling and finally penetrated the consciousness of his distinguished board members. They were all in their customary places. It had always fascinated him the way some process of natural selection caused people to occupy the same seats in a meeting room even though there were no allocated places. It was a ritual dance, a pecking order. As far as he was concerned, so long as they all understood that the chairman’s seat was at the head of the table, they could scatter where they liked.
‘The minutes of the meeting of February the fifteenth. Any comments?’
There were never any comments on the minutes. The directors were acutely aware that at least four or five drafts would have passed across the antique partners’ desk in Sir Laurence’s office in a flurry of neatly pencilled corrections before they were finally allowed, reluctantly, into the voluminous bound volume that comprised a set of HOA board papers. This document was delivered by courier to the office or home of each director in a sealed security pouch and had to be signed for by the recipient before it was released. Sir Laurence had considered locked and chained red boxes in the tradition of Westminster, but had rejected this as perhaps too governmental. Nevertheless, he insisted on the intricate sealing device which required a tough plastic tab to be broken—often at the expense of Rosemary Stipple’s fingernails or Justin Muir’s temper—just as he did on the sweeping of this room for bugs before every meeting. You could never be too careful.
‘Shouldn’t we wait to get Mac on the line, Laurence?’ To the casual observer, Jack’s question was a harmless observation. To Laurence Treadmore it contained a quiver of sharp insults. It failed to address him as chairman—the proper appellation in a boardroom. It then failed to recognise his everyday title, a title conferred on him by the Queen of Australia. It came from someone who, while purporting to be the chief executive of a major public company, wasn’t even wearing a tie let alone a jacket in his boardroom. He’d already discussed the question of the tie with Mac but he’d just laughed it off, saying, ‘We all have our own style, Laurence, even you. Who cares so long as the market loves him?’
He refused to look directly at Jack as he answered—but then he never looked directly at him or addressed him by name.
‘I understand we’re having difficulty establishing a connection to the Kimberley. Perhaps the secretary could ask our technician to step in.’
The rest of the
‘The market follows me, Laurence. They couldn’t care less who’s on the board.’ Sir Laurence’s lips curled slightly at the left corner at this remark. ‘All that corporate governance crap is just for the annual report and the regulator. Anyway, Rosemary is a woman.’
On this last point Sir Laurence wasn’t entirely convinced. She appeared to be dressed at present in the plumage of a rainbow lorikeet. He’d always understood it was the male bird that wore the brightest colours. In any event, she might not be a man but if she wanted to be a member of his board she would have to do her best.
‘Gentlemen. If we could please.’ He tapped the small microphone in front of him with his silver pen. The sound reverberated through the fifteen miniature speakers in the ceiling and finally penetrated the consciousness of his distinguished board members. They were all in their customary places. It had always fascinated him the way some process of natural selection caused people to occupy the same seats in a meeting room even though there were no allocated places. It was a ritual dance, a pecking order. As far as he was concerned, so long as they all understood that the chairman’s seat was at the head of the table, they could scatter where they liked.
‘The minutes of the meeting of February the fifteenth. Any comments?’
There were never any comments on the minutes. The directors were acutely aware that at least four or five drafts would have passed across the antique partners’ desk in Sir Laurence’s office in a flurry of neatly pencilled corrections before they were finally allowed, reluctantly, into the voluminous bound volume that comprised a set of HOA board papers. This document was delivered by courier to the office or home of each director in a sealed security pouch and had to be signed for by the recipient before it was released. Sir Laurence had considered locked and chained red boxes in the tradition of Westminster, but had rejected this as perhaps too governmental. Nevertheless, he insisted on the intricate sealing device which required a tough plastic tab to be broken—often at the expense of Rosemary Stipple’s fingernails or Justin Muir’s temper—just as he did on the sweeping of this room for bugs before every meeting. You could never be too careful.
‘Shouldn’t we wait to get Mac on the line, Laurence?’ To the casual observer, Jack’s question was a harmless observation. To Laurence Treadmore it contained a quiver of sharp insults. It failed to address him as chairman—the proper appellation in a boardroom. It then failed to recognise his everyday title, a title conferred on him by the Queen of Australia. It came from someone who, while purporting to be the chief executive of a major public company, wasn’t even wearing a tie let alone a jacket in his boardroom. He’d already discussed the question of the tie with Mac but he’d just laughed it off, saying, ‘We all have our own style, Laurence, even you. Who cares so long as the market loves him?’
He refused to look directly at Jack as he answered—but then he never looked directly at him or addressed him by name.
‘I understand we’re having difficulty establishing a connection to the Kimberley. Perhaps the secretary could ask our technician to step in.’
The rest of the
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