Read Online The Snow Falcon by Stuart Harrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Harrison
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with an almost imperceptible nod that he was still listening.
“The thing is, reputation can work for you, as it always has here, but just as easily it can work against you if it isn’t presented in the right way. What you have to do is make your reputation for a fair deal the very foundation of your marketing, which in a way you already do.” He recalled the ad that Wilson’s ran, which showed a photograph of the old man himself alongside a banner of the company name and a slogan that said, “You Can Trust Me.”
“What that communicates, especially to younger people who’re getting bombarded by sophisticated messages all the time from magazines and TV, from radio and billboards, is that Wilson’s is old-fashioned,” Michael explained. “Also, they probably don’t believe it, and they probably don’t identify with your image.” He paused, unsure how this would go down, especially the last part.
“So, what would you do about it?” Wilson asked after a moment.
“Don’t use your picture, for one thing. You need an image that
46
appeals to young and old. And that would be just the start. I’d recommend a total overhaul of your marketing from the top to the bottom. But I’d make it a gradual change. Nothing too dramatic all at once. That would just run the risk of alienating all your loyal customers.”
Wilson got up and went to the window again, where he stood with his back to Michael for a short while. When he turned around, his expression was serious.
“So, you’d take me out of the advertising, huh?”
“That would be my recommendation.”
“And that would be just the start?” He looked back out the window and appeared to be trying to envisage how things might change. “I guess I’d have to hand over the reins a little bit, wouldn’t I?”
“It would be a consultative process, I imagine,” Michael said. “Like I say, a little at a time.”
Wilson nodded slowly. “I like your ideas, Mike,” he said. “I guess you must have learned something in the city. I’m not so old and pigheaded that I don’t know I don’t have all the answers myself anymore. I guess we could use somebody like you around here.”
“Ideas are no good without someone to listen to them,” Michael said. “I admire you for being willing to accept change. Not everybody can do that.”
“Well, nothing stays the same, I guess,” Wilson allowed. “Even in a place like this. We’re a friendly bunch here, Mike, at least I like to think we are. We all get along together and we don’t stand on ceremony too much. You could even afford to dress a little more casual if you wanted to,” he added jokingly. “I think you’d like it here. I have to tell you, though, the kind of money I can offer probably wouldn’t match the expense account you’d have in a some big-city firm.”
Michael got to his feet. “I understand that. There’s something I think you ought to know about first, though.” He handed over his resume, and while Wilson flicked through it, Michael revealed he’d been in prison.
Wilson stopped turning the pages and looked up sharply. “Prison?”
“For three years. Then I was at a unit called St. Helen’s,” Michael said. “I was released a couple of weeks ago. That’s why I came to Little River. I was brought up here.”
47
Wilson’s friendly expression dissolved and hardened; his brow furrowed while he looked down at the resume, rereading the title page.
“Somers? Michael Somers?” The name meant something, but it took him a moment or two to place it. “Your dad was John Somers who ran the hardware store?”
“That’s right,” Michael said. “You probably heard about what happened. I had a kind of a breakdown, but I had therapy while I served my sentence. I’m fine now.”
Wilson shook his head, barely listening. “This changes everything.” He closed the resume abruptly and handed it back. “You should have told me about this right at the
“The thing is, reputation can work for you, as it always has here, but just as easily it can work against you if it isn’t presented in the right way. What you have to do is make your reputation for a fair deal the very foundation of your marketing, which in a way you already do.” He recalled the ad that Wilson’s ran, which showed a photograph of the old man himself alongside a banner of the company name and a slogan that said, “You Can Trust Me.”
“What that communicates, especially to younger people who’re getting bombarded by sophisticated messages all the time from magazines and TV, from radio and billboards, is that Wilson’s is old-fashioned,” Michael explained. “Also, they probably don’t believe it, and they probably don’t identify with your image.” He paused, unsure how this would go down, especially the last part.
“So, what would you do about it?” Wilson asked after a moment.
“Don’t use your picture, for one thing. You need an image that
46
appeals to young and old. And that would be just the start. I’d recommend a total overhaul of your marketing from the top to the bottom. But I’d make it a gradual change. Nothing too dramatic all at once. That would just run the risk of alienating all your loyal customers.”
Wilson got up and went to the window again, where he stood with his back to Michael for a short while. When he turned around, his expression was serious.
“So, you’d take me out of the advertising, huh?”
“That would be my recommendation.”
“And that would be just the start?” He looked back out the window and appeared to be trying to envisage how things might change. “I guess I’d have to hand over the reins a little bit, wouldn’t I?”
“It would be a consultative process, I imagine,” Michael said. “Like I say, a little at a time.”
Wilson nodded slowly. “I like your ideas, Mike,” he said. “I guess you must have learned something in the city. I’m not so old and pigheaded that I don’t know I don’t have all the answers myself anymore. I guess we could use somebody like you around here.”
“Ideas are no good without someone to listen to them,” Michael said. “I admire you for being willing to accept change. Not everybody can do that.”
“Well, nothing stays the same, I guess,” Wilson allowed. “Even in a place like this. We’re a friendly bunch here, Mike, at least I like to think we are. We all get along together and we don’t stand on ceremony too much. You could even afford to dress a little more casual if you wanted to,” he added jokingly. “I think you’d like it here. I have to tell you, though, the kind of money I can offer probably wouldn’t match the expense account you’d have in a some big-city firm.”
Michael got to his feet. “I understand that. There’s something I think you ought to know about first, though.” He handed over his resume, and while Wilson flicked through it, Michael revealed he’d been in prison.
Wilson stopped turning the pages and looked up sharply. “Prison?”
“For three years. Then I was at a unit called St. Helen’s,” Michael said. “I was released a couple of weeks ago. That’s why I came to Little River. I was brought up here.”
47
Wilson’s friendly expression dissolved and hardened; his brow furrowed while he looked down at the resume, rereading the title page.
“Somers? Michael Somers?” The name meant something, but it took him a moment or two to place it. “Your dad was John Somers who ran the hardware store?”
“That’s right,” Michael said. “You probably heard about what happened. I had a kind of a breakdown, but I had therapy while I served my sentence. I’m fine now.”
Wilson shook his head, barely listening. “This changes everything.” He closed the resume abruptly and handed it back. “You should have told me about this right at the
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