Off with Their Heads

Along with many another British businessman these days, Board Chairman William Cartwright felt like a man under attack by gnats. His family's firm, Cartwright's Ltd., had been making paint in Lancashire for 235 years. His plant at Oldham had been recently equipped with paint-making machinery to turn out 1,000,000 gallons a year, but try as he would, Proprietor Cartwright could not up his production beyond a quarter of that figure. Mollycoddling unions, idiotic government policies that let Japan and Germany grab good British markets, slackness, laziness, incompetence, stupidity--these were just some of the gnats that buzzed around the head of Chairman Cartwright as he sat at his desk opposite Managing Director William Pethybridge at Oldham one day last week.

The Cutoff Point. The telephone rang. Chairman Cartwright answered. It was a customer making an inquiry. The board chairman was just framing an answer when the switchboard operator cut him off the line. Cartwright hung up and the telephone rang again. It was another customer. The switchboard operator's piping voice cut in to explain: "I can't get any answer from the sales department, Mr. Cartwright." Chairman Cartwright's overloaded temper burst forth to Managing Director Pethybridge, who started to agree: "Of course people must go out for cups of tea in the middle of the morning and the middle of the afternoon, but they might leave someone on duty while ..." Pethybridge's conclusion was lost in a cry of agony by Chairman Cartwright into the telephone: "Please don't cut me off again!" But the line was already dead.

Chairman William Cartwright mopped his brow and thought a moment. What was the now-lost customer's complaint? Something about "Light Brunswick Green"? The chairman sent for a can of the paint in question. There it was, marked with the firm's label, "Light Brunswick Green." He opened it. The paint was bright red.

Coldly Polite. Chairman William Cartwright of Cartwright's Ltd. thought long and hard. What could he do? Fire someone? Fire several? That would get action all right--union meetings, strikes, talk, arbitration--everything but paint. What was the use? He made his decision, called a secretary and dictated a letter firing every one of his 70 employees, from Managing Director Pethybridge on down. "With this inefficiency," he explained, "we would all be out of jobs permanently in a few weeks anyway."

The reaction was immediate: 90% of Cartwright's workers admitted that they hadn't been doing their best, and promised faithfully to work harder if their jobs were given back. A few miffed workers, mostly women in the office, took their wounded pride to other employment offices. "We girls naturally resent being told we are inefficient," said the delinquent switchboard operator stiffly. "We will do our jobs until our notice expires, then go. We shall be coldly polite." But the coolness was soon made up for by a gush of warm good wishes from other harassed businessmen applauding Cartwright's courage, and hundreds of paint workers seeking employment with Cartwright's. "I wouldn't feel frustrated if I worked for you," wrote one.

Reopening his factory, William Cartwright announced hopefully: "We have the right team spirit now."

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