All the same, I was curious to read that story.
9
‘Now I know what you’re thinking,’ said Trevor. ‘You’re thinking that, potentially, we’re standing on the brink of an economic catastrophe. Right on the edge of the precipice.’
Actually, that was not what I’d been thinking. I was thinking how good it was to see Trevor again. I was thinking that his energy and enthusiasm were just as infectious as ever. I was thinking how nice it was to be sitting next to Lindsay Ashworth, the unexpected third member of our party, who had been introduced to me as his ‘colleague’. And I was also thinking that I would not have thought it possible for anybody – not even Trevor – to discourse at such length, with such animation and single-mindedness, about toothbrushes: a subject from which he had not deviated once in the half hour since we’d taken our seats in the hotel bar.
‘Well, we’re all nervous about the economic situation,’ he continued. ‘Small businesses are going to the wall left, right and centre. But Guest Toothbrushes, I have to say, are pretty well placed. Capitalization is good. Liquidity is excellent. We’re confident that we can ride this recession out. Not complacent, mind you. I never said that we were complacent. I said confident – quietly confident. Isn’t that right, Lindsay?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lindsay, in her gentle, measured Scottish brogue. ‘Actually, Max, Trevor made a very good point in our strategy meeting earlier today. Do you mind if I paraphrase, Trevor?’
‘Paraphrase away.’
‘Well, Trevor’s point was this. And it actually takes the form of a question. Well, three questions, in fact. We’re heading into a major global recession, Max. So let me ask you something: will you be replacing your car this year?’
‘I doubt it. I’m barely using it at the moment, actually.’
‘Fair enough. And are you planning to take your family abroad this summer, Max?’
‘Well, the rest of my family sort of … don’t live with me any more. I expect they’ll be taking their own holiday.’
‘Point taken. But would you be taking them abroad, if they still lived with you?’
‘No, I doubt it.’
‘Exactly. So in the light of the current economic problems, you’re not going to be replacing your car, and you’re not going to be taking a foreign holiday this year. Tell me this, though, Max.’ She leaned forward, as if to deliver the killer blow. ‘Are you planning to cut down on cleaning your teeth?’
I had to admit that I had no plans to cut down on cleaning my teeth. In this way, I proved her point triumphantly.
‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘People will always clean their teeth and will always need toothbrushes. That’s the beauty of the humble toothbrush. It’s a recession-proof product.’
‘But,’ said Trevor, holding up his forefinger, ‘as I said before, this does not give us cause to be complacent. Oral hygiene is a very competitive market.’
‘Very competitive,’ Lindsay agreed.
‘Intensely competitive. Full of some extremely big players. You’ve got Oral-B, you’ve got Colgate, you’ve got GlaxoSmithKline.’
‘Names to reckon with,’ said Lindsay.
‘Gigantic names,’ said Trevor. ‘These are the Goliaths of the toothbrush business.’
‘Good image, Trevor.’
‘It’s Alan’s, actually.’
‘Who’s Alan?’ I asked.
‘Alan Guest,’ Trevor explained, ‘is the founder, owner and managing director of Guest Toothbrushes. The whole thing is his baby. He used to work for one of the majors but after a while he decided, “Enough’s enough. There has to be an alternative.” He didn’t want anything more to do with the giants, or their business models. He wanted to be David.’
‘David who?’ asked Lindsay.
‘David the little guy who had the fight with Goliath,’ Trevor explained, slightly irritated by the interruption. ‘I don’t know his second name. History doesn’t record his second name.’
‘Ah. Now I get you.’
‘Alan realized,’ Trevor continued, ‘that he couldn’t take on the majors on their own turf. It wasn’t a level playing field. So he decided to move the goalposts instead. He had a vision, and he saw the future. Like Lazarus on the road to Damascus.’
‘He rose from the dead,’ said Lindsay.
‘What?’
‘Lazarus rose from the dead. It was someone else on the road to Damascus. Lazarus never went to Damascus, as far as I know.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Well, he might have done – who knows? Maybe he popped into Damascus now and again. Probably had relatives there, or something.’
‘No, I mean are you sure it wasn’t Lazarus who had the vision?’
‘Ninety per cent sure. Maybe ninety-five.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Like I said, Alan saw what the majors were doing wrong. He saw where the future lies: green toothbrushes.’
‘Green?’ I said, puzzled.
‘I don’t mean the colour. We’re talking about the environment, Max. We’re talking about sustainable energy, renewable sources. Let me ask you – where do you think most toothbrushes are made?’
‘China?’
‘Correct. And what are they made of?’
‘Plastic?’
‘Right again. And what are the bristles made of?’
I could never answer questions like this. ‘I don’t know … Something synthetic?’
‘Exactly. Nylon, to be precise. Now what does that sound like to you? To me, it sounds like a recipe for environmental disaster. Dentists recommend that we change toothbrushes every three months. Four times a year. That means you’re going to get through about three hundred toothbrushes in your lifetime. Worse than that, it means that in the UK alone, we probably throw away about two hundred million toothbrushes every year. Good for the big corporations, of course – it means people have to keep buying new ones. But that’s old-style thinking, Max. You can’t put sales ahead of the environment any more. For the sake of humanity, we’ve all got to change our tune. The profit motive has to play second fiddle. It’s no use the band just playing on while the Titanic sinks. Somebody’s got to start rearranging the deck chairs.’
I nodded wisely, doing my best to keep up.
‘Now – Alan knew the solutions weren’t difficult to find. They were right on his doorstep, staring him in the face. He knew we were standing at a crossroads. There were two obvious roads to go down, both leading in the same direction, and the signposts were pretty clear.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled something out. I thought it was going to be a pen, but in fact it was a toothbrush. ‘Option number one,’ he said, ‘a wooden toothbrush. Beautiful, isn’t it? This is one of our leading models. Handmade by a company in Market Rasen, Lincolnshire. Made from sustainable wood, of course – one hundred per cent European pine. No damage to the rainforests here. And when you’ve finished with it, you can throw it on the fire, or shred it and put it in the compost.’
I took the toothbrush, weighed it in my hand appraisingly and ran my finger along its elegant curves. It was a handsome object, there was no denying that.
‘What are the bristles made of?’ I asked.
‘Boar-hair,’ said Trevor. He noticed that I recoiled slightly. ‘Interesting reaction, Max. And by no means uncommon. What’s the problem, exactly? Much better than nylon. Very good for the environment, using boar hair.’
‘Unless you happen to be a boar,’ Lindsay pointed out.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘There’s just something a bit weird about putting pig’s hairs in your mouth when you’re cleaning your teeth. Something a bit … unclean?’
‘Lots of people would agree with you,’ said Trevor. ‘And you can’t expect them to change their attitudes overnight. If you’re going to preach to people, you’ve got to convert them first. It’s a gradual process. All roads lead to Rome, but it wasn’t built in a day. And so, for the more conservatively inclined, we have … this.’ He produced another toothbrush from the same pocket. It was pale red, almost transparent. ‘Good old-fashioned plastic handle. Good old-fashioned nylon bristles. But …’ He twisted the top of the toothbrush, and the head came away neatly. ‘… Completely detachable, you see? Throw away the head after you’ve used it, and the handle will still last you a lifetime. Minimal damage to the environment.’