On Leadership, Focus and Self Confidence.

In Memoriam - Mr Li

The tumour would kill him, of that much the doctors were certain. Its hungry tentacles burrowing into parts of his old and clever brain that a surgeons knife could never reach. Now, explained the young doctor, it was really just a question of quality of life over the coming and final few months, of managing pain, prolonging mobility, making the old man as comfortable as possible in his last moments. The elderly Chinese man listened carefully, as his son translated the doctor’s words.

 At 90 it took a lot to faze Mr Li, a brilliant engineer, and therefore classed as a dangerous intellectual, he had fled some unknown domestic horror in the mid sixties and had settled in the North-West of England with his wife and young son. 

Gradually, he had built up his business. A small engineering company specialising in turned parts and components, he had grown the organisation slowly in the face of great financial and personal struggles. He had experienced prejudice, racism, and communication problems due to his limited and broken English, as well as cash flow issues, bad debts and the endless grey northern winters. The business survived and eventually began to grow, with Li’s young son, more westernised than his father, translating contracts and pitching customers from an extraordinarily early age.

It was, in part, Li’s own dedication to excellence that had slowed the pace of expansion. Every piece was hand finished, scrupulously checked over and finally wrapped in tissue paper with the company logo, the product treated more like fine chocolates or jewellery than the turned metal components that they were. However, it was also this dedication to perfection, and eye for detail, that had eventually earned the company an unparalleled reputation in the market place. A component from Li Engineering would be on time and perfect, every time, even if it was a little more expensive than the competition.

I had commented to Li Junior, more than once, that all of this hand finishing, checking and wrapping seemed a little excessive, “unnecessary”, a “non-value add” , gilding the lily. “Couldn’t we reduce the cost if we lost some of the bells and whistles?”, I had wondered, under pressure as a young buyer to cut cost wherever I saw it. Li Junior translated his fathers words to me “unnecessary for you, but for us – very necessary.”

As I sat in the office overlooking the small, spotless factory floor and watching the bald, shuffling figure, long past usual retirement age, wandering amongst his team, a soft word here, a guiding hand there, I knew that what I was really asking for was an unacceptable compromise. Not just on the quality standards on which their business was built, but also on the very values of the company. The perfectionism that had been set by Mr Li permeated every aspect of the company, every employee, every action, and my heart just wasn’t in clumsily pursuing these savings with them so I went out and negotiated my savings elsewhere.

After all, their dedication to quality, perfection and excellence was a watchword for reliability for our own firm. Amid the chaos of outsourcing, off shoring and the general  gold-rush to Asia and beyond. Amid the faddiness and chaos of the procurement function in the nineties. Amid market turbulence and penny pinching madness we could always rely on their company. No matter what crazy demands we placed upon them in terms of deadlines, numbers or design complexity, and with our own engineers salivating at the quality of their work, in the end we always went back to Li Engineering. They bailed us out of crisis after crisis, usually imposed by our own relentless adherence to “the numbers” or the misguided devotion to the latest management trend and its ensuing lack of common sense.

Now, in the emotional heat of his hospital room, Mr Li listened to his son translating, through tears, his terminal diagnosis. The coming therapy and medications, the need for surgery within 72 hours on the part of the tumour they had any chance of containing, and the cage-like apparatus, a form of “halo-traction” he would have to subsequently wear around his head to minimise movement to his brain. It would buy him, at best, perhaps 6 months.

Who knows what an individual considers at these times, religion for some, reflection? Fear? Panic? Perhaps considering what to do in the short time you have left? Unfulfilled ambitions? Loose ends?

Yet, as an individual, Mr Li, was focussed upon that cage. His brain, though compromised, was still sharp, and was at work appraising the apparatus set on the bed in front of him. And so it was, that when he asked his son to translate his words” exactly”, to address the surgeon who would operate on his  brain, the old man only had one comment for his son to translate. 

 “ He wants to change that cage.”

Li junior told me later that he knew, as soon as the surgeon showed his father the cage that it would never be good enough. He knew that had that cage been produced in their factory it would have been rejected on numerous counts for its clumsiness and shoddy finish. He also knew that their factory would never produce that cage, but they would certainly be able to produce a much, much better one.

That weekend, for the first time in its history, Li Engineering was effectively closed. Phones went unanswered and delivery vehicles stood motionless and silent in the car park, yet the factory itself was alive with activity. Every single employee, men, apprentices, office staff, worked, without pay, to improve the cage that their founder and mentor would wear, for whatever was left of his life. 

It was only as a result of being trained by Li himself that they had the courage and self-belief to work on such a delicate, intricate and precise task in just a few, short hours. His guidance over the years had created an army of perfectionists, people  who took such pride in their work that in a tiny factory, on an anonymous industrial estate in the back end of nowhere, ordinary people now attempted the extraordinary. 

Family occasions went unattended, flights to holiday destinations were missed, and sandwiches were packed in lieu of Sunday Roasts. His entire team worked around the clock to ensure that if Mr Li had to wear that cage, then it would be the best-engineered cage it was humanly possible to make. They wanted to make sure that it came up to Mr Li’s own high standards, standards that had been patiently and painstakingly passed on to each, and every worker at his factory.  

Li Junior, now MD, in spotless overalls, sadness and tension etched on his face lead the team, as he would have to do from now on.

The improvements to the cage meant that it was an amazing, record breaking, three years before Mr Li passed away. 

For the second time in its history, his  factory was closed completely, once again.  His funeral was attended by over 600 people, his staff, past and present, suppliers, customers, and many representatives of other engineering firms. Most notably also present were many families and beneficiaries of the “Li-Cage”, which was now custom manufactured, exclusively, and for free at Li Engineering, to the dozen or so people per year around the globe who had a medical need for it. The perfect design and manufacture of that cage it seemed, actively helped prolong the life of its wearers, some of whom were also in the congregation.

Of the many people who spoke about Mr Li that day, it was the comments of his staff that remained with me. They spoke of how Mr Li had been a tough manager, how, as apprentices they had, many times, had their work rejected with a small word or gesture, always politely but definitively, nothing it seemed had ever escaped those sharp eyes. 

They spoke of how this had made them better at their jobs, creating a commitment to excellence in every individual, which had impacted not just their work, which they unanimously loved, but also in their personal lives. One man spoke of how, due to family circumstances, he was moving to Scotland, but that he was already assured of a job, because his time at Li Engineering had made him amongst the best in his field. He said he had known, even before the move, that he would interview well, utterly confident in his work, the best he could be. This gave him, he said, a sense of security for him and his family, something the entire team shared, thanks to the “exacting standards and good guidance of Mr Li”, and, his voice breaking, “sort of priceless.”

Its true that Mr Li had presence, charisma even, his life and hard work alone had earned him widespread affection and respect. Yet, it was not for this he was especially remembered by those who had worked with him, but rather, for what he had given them besides great leadership. He had given them all confidence in themselves, the self-belief that comes with being really good at what you do, in even the most mundane of tasks, he had raised their self respect and expectations of life.

So it was, that on the day they buried him, his team of  straightforward people, unaccustomed to, and unsettled by, public speaking, had drawn lots to determine who would get the opportunity to speak about their leader. This system was the fairest way, they had decided, to choose who would be lucky enough to publicly thank him, for the last time, on behalf of them all.

If they wanted to speak they should put their names into the box. There were 230 people at Li Engineering but over 1000 pieces of paper in the box. Everyone had wanted to speak, but most people had cheated, putting numerous pieces of paper into the box to try and ensure they got their chance.

It was a formidable team that continued his legacy, they never forgot Mr Li, and they never let his customers forget him either. For an entire month after he died, and ever since throughout the month of February every year, that firm pays tribute to him in a small way. Every component that they deliver will be on time, as always, perfect in every way, just a little bit expensive, and, only for February will be wrapped in black tissue paper.

Jenny Radcliffe