My Friend Harry had been in office as Managing Director of Highland Printers, Ltd., publishers of six weekly newspapers and a football paper, for five character forming days. When invited by Lord Thomson to head the company he had asked for 15 minutes to think it over. What he really needed was to find out where the hell Inverness was. That he had discovered by consulting an atlas in the Library at Thomson House, Gray's Inn Road, London. Bloody hell, he muttered as he saw that it was almost in the Arctic Circle. What he did not then know and, in fact, did not discover until he had been installed in the Highlands for ten days, was that he was also, ex officio, Managing Director of two other newspaper companies, one at Wick and one at Thurso, 150 miles even nearer the North Pole. Nobody had mentioned that in Thomson House - and Harry later decided it was probably because they simply didn't know.
He had flown up to Glasgow in the company of Ken Peters, Managing Director of the Thomson company at Aberdeen. “They're a funny lot, the Highlanders," observed Ken, an Aberdonian—but he did not elaborate on that comprehensive dismissal. On the flight from Glasgow to Inverness, the Shell Oil representative beside him declared that the Highlanders were a rum crowd. He, too, did not go into informative detail. In the bus from Inverness airport to the Caledonian Hotel, the English representative of a farm equipment company advised Harry to watch his step. "Don't believe a bloody word they say," were his actual words. He added: "And always get the money in advance, preferably in cash."
Thus encouraged, Harry installed himself in his office at Diriebught Road at 8.30 a.m. on the Monday, to begin the task of either turning round the loss of £50,000 a year which Highland Printers, Ltd., had regularly managed; or selling up the whole concern for the best price he could get and returning to Thomson House. The first discoveries included (a) that there was no Company Secretary; (b) that there was no accountant; (c) that there were no records of any kind; (d) that there were two large cupboards bulging with carbon paper - bought, so he was told, by an earlier general manager more than usually drunk; (e) that the company's only car, a Morris 1100, had been reclaimed by the suppliers; (f) that the pipes were frozen; (g) that the bank manager wanted to see whoever was running the company in regard to the overdraft.
Harry, much moved by all this, decided that he needed a cup of tea. This he was given by the Editor-in-Chief who, with Highland understanding, emptied a large dollop of whisky into it to give it a bit of body. Invigorated, Harry set off with the Editor to meet all the staff. The most dominant of all the people to whom he was introduced was a hairy giant of a man by the name of Donald Macdonald. His grip left Harry almost without the use of his right hand for the best part of an hour. Donald was the Advertisement Manager and, as Harry was happily to discover, was not only a salesman who could charm the birds from the trees but was to be a resolute and forthright friend.
Having survived five days without equal in his experience, during which he had eased the bank manager's mind by promises of a cash flow unparalleled in the Highlands economy; had unfrozen the pipes by applications of blow torches; had promoted the cashier to Company Secretary/Accountant; and had won back use of the company car by promising a four-page supplement at no cost to the suppliers, Harry thought it was time to have a policy meeting with Donald Macdonald.
Donald came to the office with a look of indecision on his rugged features. "I was just on my way to Forres," he said. "I've sold a whole-page ad to a retailer and have promised him a sight of the proof. Still, if you want a policy meeting…”
"A whole-page ad takes precedence over everything, Donald," he said. "Get the money up front, mind."
Donald had a thought. "Have you ever been to Forres?" he asked.
Harry said he'd never heard of the place - except that, apparently, Highland Printers, Ltd., produced the Forres Newsevery Wednesday.
"Aye," said Donald, "and it's never had a half - page ad before." He had a thought. "Why don't you come with me?" he suggested. "It's only about 25 miles along the Aberdeen road. Give you a chance to see some of the countryside."
So, off they went. In the main street of Forres, Donald pulled up in front of a hardware store - something right out of Dickens. Smelling strongly of paraffin, it was an Aladdin's cave of buckets, brooms, rakes, hoes, roofing felt, paint, varnish, peat, compost, fertiliser, Wellies, boots, gloves, flower pots, balls of string, linoleum, watering cans, syringes, hosepipes, sprinklers, you name it.
"Morning, Hamish," said Donald to the proprietor, an appropriately Pickwickian character in a soiled white apron.
"Ah, morning, Donald," said Hamish. "Got my proof?"
"Right here, Hamish," said Donald, delving into his brief case. "Oh," he added, turning to Harry, "I'd like you to meet our new Managing Director. Just come up from London."
Hamish gave Harry a guarded greeting. Being English was bad enough, but being from London, well… Harry put on a show of great cordiality and left Donald and Hamish to their business while he examined the wonders of Hamish's stock. Five minutes later, all was signed, sealed and settled. Hamish was so delighted with the layout and with the special discount offer, that he readily agreed to Donald's suggestion that Hamish should treble the impact by running the ad for three consecutive weeks. They shook hands fervently.
Donald and Harry were just leaving the store when Hamish drew close. "Donald," he said, "would you forgive an old friend if I asked a question? In absolute confidence, of course."
"Why, certainly, Hamish," said Donald, ready to grant any favour to a prospect who'd signed for a whole-page ad for three weeks.
Hamish lowered his voice. "Donald," he said, "is it not a fact that the Forres News has dipped below the 12,000 mark?"
Donald reeled back. "Christ!" he exclaimed. "How the hell do you know that?"
Hamish gave him a knowing smile. "We may be tucked away in the wilds," he chuckled, "but some of us have our ears pretty close to the ground."
"For God’s sake don’t spread it around, Hamish," pleaded Donald. "It's true that the News is below the 12,000 mark-but it still has all its pulling-power. Your ad is the best bargain you…”
"I'm not questioning that, Donald. I'm well satisfied with the advertisement and with the deal you have put together, but I just wondered if the rumour about the News circulation had any basis. You can rely on me, Donald. I won't mention it, but I thought I'd ask. I knew I'd get a straight answer from you."
"Yes, all right, Hamish. Just between you and me, as two old friends in business, I acknowledge that the News has dipped below the 12,000 Only temporarily, mind. With the new resources at our disposal from the Thomson group and now that we have a new Managing Director, the sky's the limit, old friend."
As he and Harry were getting in to the car, Harry asked: "What is the circulation of the Forres News, Donald?"
Donald chuckled. “Two hundred and eighty seven." he replied.
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Donald cherished one particular distinction. Serving with the Cameron Highlanders in the war, he was the youngest Pipe Major in the British Army. The Cameron’s were in the 51st Highland Division and when that Division was encircled by the enemy at St. Valery in 1940 it had the humiliation of surrendering en-masse, thus condemning its personnel to spending the next five years in prison camps in various conditions of hardship and deprivation. For Donald, the greatest deprivation was having to hand over at gunpoint his treasured regimental bagpipes. Happily, another set was sent out to him in Poland via the Red Cross a couple of years after the surrender.
His last year in captivity had been spent working on a farm in Poland where the locals abundantly offered him compassion and friendship - so much so that Donald resolved, one day, to go back there and express his thanks. And, sure enough, he did so. His passage across all the frontiers being facilitated by military concessions from both sides of the Iron Curtain. He made the journey in his old Vauxhall, was accompanied by his wife and, of course, had in the boot his full Highland regimental gear plus his bagpipes. Imagine his surprise when, on approaching the remote village, he saw a banner across the road proclaiming: Welcome, Donald and Ethel. After that, there was only one thing for it. He donned the kilt and bearskin and all the other trappings, hefted the pipes and played his way into the village to uproarious applause.
______
Harry, having been Assistant General Manager of North Eastern Evening Gazette, Ltd., at Middlesbrough for two years, some time before moving to Inverness, had been invited to attend the banquet to celebrate the centenary of the Evening Gazette at which the Chairman of the Thomson group would preside. He had an idea. Knowing that Donald was a revered composer of pipe music in Scotland, he asked Donald to compose a tune entitled 'Lord Thomson of Fleet'.
Further, he arranged for Donald to precede Lord Thomson into the banqueting hall, wearing the full Highland outfit and playing His Lordship's very own tune.
Donald set to work on the music and, in due course, he and Harry set off on the long drive from Inverness to Middlesbrough. Kitted out in all his splendour, Donald took up his station on the upstairs landing of the hotel at Billingham-on-Tees in plenty of time. His composure visibly deteriorated as time went by and zero hour approached.
Rodney Rycroft, the Group's public relations man, thoughtfully provided the traditional Scottish restorative and then put Donald at his ease. "Don't be nervous, Donald,” he said, "His Lordship's tickled pink by the whole thing."
Then the pebble-glassed chubby Canadian tycoon arrived. Donald hefted the pipes and prepared to inflate the bag. "Hey," said Lord Thomson in a loud whisper, beckoning Donald to approach. Donald dutifully bent down to listen.
"Don't play too loud, Donald," growled His Lordship. "I can't stand the bloody bagpipes."
Donald moaned about that all the way back to Inverness through the snow and ice - and for years thereafter.
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