Tony Stevenson, ready to receive his long-awaited promotion, strolled down the oak-paneled corridor, both he and it illuminated by over-sized windows that looked onto the fertilizer plant where he worked. He was, on one hand, thinking about how he hadn’t taken a walk in the countryside for a long time; he missed marching through the grass, facing the biting winds and marveling at the English country sky with its constantly-changing configuration of clouds and its blue-gray expanse. At the same time, his professional life—and, by extension, his life—was all contained spaces: in the lab and in his office, where he was paid to tinker with microscopes and fertilizer formulas or, more often, to deal with endless paperwork.

In contrast to the Georgian brick building that housed Harrington & Company Fertilizers’ administrative offices, the factory across the yard was a modern steel structure that, from the outside, resembled an airplane hanger, except that there were no massive doors but rather a long line of loading-docks for trucks. A dozen dull-brick chimney-stacks were scattered about the roof.

He had been summoned upstairs to his boss’s office. Tony’s own department, Research & Development, was located on the first floor of the administrative building. The second floor was occupied by distribution, sales and accounting. The third floor, where he was headed, held the executive offices, where Brandon Harrington, grandson of the founder and current company head, had his office. It included a boardroom and also a private dining room, where all the department heads attended what was popularly known as the “State of the Kingdom” lunch-meeting once a month. As Head of Research and Development, Tony was allowed to use the elevator, but he skipped it and climbed the stairs instead. He bounded up them two by two, but at the top he did need to catch his breath.

Two decades back, he and Brandon had gone to Trinity College at Oxford, and had kept in touch. When Tony started at Harrington, a couple of years after Brandon, he was hired by Brandon’s father, but not before he had to demonstrate his competence in chemical engineering. Brandon started out as a sales representative and was given several choice accounts. A few years later, Tony was appointed Head of R&D, while Brandon was given the title of Vice President. When Brandon’s father retired, Brandon took over as President, and at first Tony had expected it would be uncomfortable to report to Brandon. However, their new relative standings served more to prove to him that no real friendship had ever existed, rather that their relationship revolved around polite exchanges about the company’s daily goings-on, which had found a way to further cheapen the relationship over time.

Throughout their careers they and their wives had been friendly enough, and they did socialize together, attending the same dinner parties. And now that Brandon had become interested in a political career, it was understood by Tony that he himself would take over Brandon’s responsibilities, attending to the necessary—if often monotonous—details of running the fertilizer company day-to-day.

Staring at the leather-covered door bordered by polished brass studs, Tony raised his hand to the knot of his tie, a green one with tiny fountains shooting jets of water, given to him by Charlotte on their last wedding anniversary. He forced a smile as he ran his hand down the silk cravat. He was mildly perplexed that this was the moment he’d be asked to take effective control of the company. It was slightly odd that Brandon had asked to see him this Friday afternoon. His recent Christmas bonus of 10,000 Pounds had been rather paltry, considering he was the soon-to-be CEO of Harrington & Company Fertilizers. Tony’s wife, Charlotte, had been especially disappointed. Come to think of it, the meager sum was almost an insult to him, but Tony reasoned that they were waiting to soon double or perhaps triple his salary as the new Chief Executive Officer, and were simply trying to appear to economize. The industry was going through a major shake-up, and business, admittedly, was not booming. Layoffs and strikes were becoming common—no, it couldn’t be anything personal.

Chief Executive Officer, he mused. Very American. True, British business had been put into a topsy-turvy state by the American practice of privatization. Even former Prime Minister Thatcher had embraced the frontier mentality by selling off the railroads. Tony noted that he would have to acquaint himself with those new approaches. That would be part of his responsibility now. He would no longer be a man of science. He would no longer be developing fast-dissolving fertilizers and creating cheaper ways of synthesizing nitrogen and potassium. After two decades in the same position he was ready for a change. His hand rose to the over-sized door.

Upon hearing a raspy-sounding “Come in,” from Brandon’s secretary, Tony casually walked into her office and greeted the old woman with an upbeat “Good afternoon.” Yes, for Tony, his wife Charlotte had certainly spent the previous few years reminding him that he was long overdue for a promotion. It was a stock topic of conversation, along with any of the reports of their two children, Zoe and Stratton, now off living in London. Then there were the difficulties caused by his Aunt Jessica’s aging mind. While he loved his family, Tony preferred to avoid conflict whenever possible. Charlotte had retreated to her beloved garden as her household duties had declined since the younger child, Stratton, had left for university. Charlotte had meanwhile turned herself into a proper gardening maiden with grandiose plans, counting on Tony’s promotion and, more to the point, his increased salary. In fact, she had in effect already spent it years before, and was badgering him about taking out a loan, or selling more of the antique maps he’d inherited from his grandfather—or even a few fields on their estate that had already been leased to farmers. Tony refused to sell any land related to Shute House. He had inherited the relatively-modest manor house—with its suite of formal rooms on the ground floor, five bedrooms on the second floor and a small servants’ wing—from his father, who in turn had inherited it from his father, who had built the Portland stone house and assembled thirty acres of land for a gentleman’s farm at the end of the nineteenth century.

If Shute House had never in Tony’s lifetime been as splendid as the day when the last piece of slate was nailed to the roof and the oriental carpet fitted to the main staircase, it was not really from neglect, but due to a lack of funds. His grandfather had not been realistic in regards to financing Shute House after acquiring the surrounding fields. When Tony’s father inherited Shute House, he had little interest in being a gentleman farmer, having embarked on a career in chemicals. His father’s interest in plants was limited to their chemistry. Tony had inherited his father’s house, and his profession too, but Tony felt a stronger attachment to the house he had grown up in, and especially to the grounds that he knew so well. As head of Shute House, Tony considered himself the steward of the manor, of its lands, and of the family legacy. Yes, it was perhaps a dated, if not old-fashioned concept, but in his mind there was nothing wrong with tradition.

Unfortunately, Tony’s salary was never enough to maintain his family’s lifestyle and keep Shute House intact. Taxes, upkeep and the garden cost more than Tony earned. He had inherited some investments that augmented his income, but lately Charlotte had been spending more and more on her elaborate plans. The money was depleting. To slow the shrinking of his bank account Tony had been selling piecemeal the valuable Renaissance map collection that his grandfather had shrewdly assembled. Tony felt much more attached to the house and the lands than to the antique maps. He was not much of a collector anyway, and selling them had seemed the easiest solution. But now perhaps his new salary would be more than even Charlotte had calculated, and it would finally satisfy her.

Brandon’s secretary pressed a lever on a towering mahogany speaker-box and said, “Mr. Stevenson, sir.” After a muffled response, she peered at Tony with mild annoyance, as if he were interrupting her tea-break. “Mr. Harrington will see you now.”

Tony walked into Brandon’s office, taking in the deep colors of the oil paintings, their thick gilt frames, and the oriental carpets that covered almost every surface. Even after all these years the pipe smoke in Brandon’s office never failed to stun Tony. Smoking was vigorously prohibited everywhere at the plant except for the employee’s smoking area, a good thousand yards away from any working facility, in a shed next to the main entrance. Not that Tony had anything against smoking, but among the tons of fertilizers they manufactured it was imprudent, if not dangerous. With all those compounds and elements being mixed, blended and combined, only a fool with no knowledge of chemistry would think of lighting a match in such a volatile environment. But Brandon was the boss, smoking in his own office, so what could Tony say?

Behind a gleaming walnut desk Brandon’s heartily-fed frame slouched in a crimson leather chair. In front of the desk sat a pair of wooden chairs, each with a touch of padding on the seat. All of Tony’s previous moments in either of these chairs had been brief. Whenever he sat to present his budgets it never took long, and they were almost always met with a careless yield to any request. Brandon asked few questions, and was seemingly more interested in quail hunting and in becoming an Member of Parliament. In the past year or so, however, Brandon had recently become increasingly hesitant in granting Tony’s requests. Tony chose to interpret this unwillingness as an indirect message to him that, as the future CEO, he shouldn’t act loosely with the company’s finances. To Tony it made perfect sense.

As Brandon’s eyes focused on the match in his hand lighting the pipe’s tobacco, Tony glanced away from him toward a side-table full of crystal decanters. Scotch, whiskey, sherry and port. He knew them well. Usually Brandon would propose a tipple. Tony’s mouth was, actually, dry—the potato soup at lunch had been bland, yet salty. It being Friday afternoon, Tony would not have objected to a splash of Scotch, but Brandon did not offer one, and seemed preoccupied with his pipe.

Brandon squeaked back in his chair, took a long draw on the pipe and then exhaled forcefully enough to flutter his lips, scattering some of the smoke. “Well, old man,” he said, and brandished his pipe like a conductor’s baton, waving it erratically before his one-person orchestra. “I’ll make it quick, Tony.”

Tony was very ready for a celebratory drink. He figured they would toast after the announcement—perhaps Brandon had the foresight to order a bottle of bubbly. Tony leaned forward, inhaling a dose of smoke-tinged air. He waited.

“Tony, we’re letting you go.”

Tony froze; his mind raced in those silent seconds, until he assured himself that Brandon’s following thought had to be “... from your current position, in order to promote you to CEO.”

But Brandon just pursed his lips and nodded his head in self-approval; his cheeks puffed out as he drew on his pipe.

When no such words followed that first statement, Tony’s vision grew blurry; his mouth turned pasty. Another minute or two passed without a word. Had he heard correctly? His body felt heavier, waterlogged even. There was a strange disconnect between what was going on in his mind and the smoky confines of Brandon’s office. Surely Brandon was joking! Surely this was a mistake, a grave mistake. But Brandon was not the joking type, and seemed very sure of himself, ensconced behind his hulking desk.

Slowly, Tony absorbed the fact that he’d just gotten sacked—fired. But he was too young, he was too old—he couldn’t contemplate what it all meant.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Brandon finally continued. “You probably sensed it yourself. We’re cutting back across the board. There’s talk among the workers about a strike. So many things—it will all soon make sense to you, Tony, I’m sure.”

But he was going to be the CEO, how could this pipe-puffing buffoon suddenly be firing him? The only thing Tony could do was tell himself to nod his head. It was a feeble nod, like the one of a person falling off to sleep while sitting upright, a nod of acquiesence, with a slight downward tick of his head, which seemed to acknowledge his expendability, his worthlessness, his delusion. Forget any bubbly, he needed a real drink, and a big one at that.

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