by Murray Sayle
‘Nice work, Aussie. Take him down to Trafalgar Square for a picture. The usual one with the pigeons. Better find him a hotel where the opposition aren’t likely to get on to him: I think they’ll take coloured around King’s Cross.’
‘He’s very broke, Tom,’ said O’Toole, ‘I think if he had some money he’d be less likely to try for a better offer.’
Okay, I’ll give you a score in cash for him. Keep him going till he gets his cheque. Make sure he gives you a receipt. Looks like you’ve made the front page with your first story.’
‘Just luck,’ said O’Toole.
As Jacobs counted out the money from his tin box, O’Toole thought of the phrase, Thank You, Father.
That night O’Toole saw a movie: he was interested in the unfamiliar products advertised between pictures, and the fact that the audience were smoking. Afterwards he walked round Leicester Square, finding, unexpectedly, another bust of Shakespeare, with upraised arm pointing to an inscription, ‘THERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT IGNORANCE’, and beyond it to the dirty book stores.
Over a cup of coffee and a hamburger at the New Elizabethan Snackery, O’Toole contrasted the lost and regretted Jenny with the working girl he had met that afternoon: the innocent world of desire and make-believe he had left, the guilty world of make-believe he was entering. The bright, stunted, gap-toothed and over-painted people passing by sharpened the picture.
The hamburger was made of a smooth chemically treated artificial meat, with imitation onions on the side.
VII
THE NEXT day was Saturday, and when O’Toole came in at ten-twenty he was surprised to find the normally empty newsroom jammed with people.
On each one of the long rows of desks two, and in some places three, men were working. Others, all strangers, were walking about with papers in their hands. Along one wall sat a row of men wearing telephone headsets, with microphones round their necks, busy typing. The red light overhead which flashed for an incoming call was almost continuously alight. In the middle, like a hairy spider, sat Jacobs, bare-chested in shirt-sleeves, very busy.
‘Ah, there you are, you Antipodean layabout,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to show up earlier on Saturdays or Thomas will smack.’
‘Of course,’ said O’Toole. ‘Your busy day. What have we got?’
‘First of all you can go through the handouts,’ said Jacobs, indicating a pile of perhaps three hundred letters. ‘Won’t take as long as it looks. You don’t have to read them all. Anything with a roneoed address or a foreign stamp you can throw out straight away. Anything not sealed up likewise. Keep an eye out for handwritten ones containing warm human stories. Give me any invitations to parties you come across and God help you if you miss anything good.’
‘Right,’ said O’Toole. ‘What then?’
‘I’ve got some wills and the weather,’ said Jacobs. ‘Come see me when you’ve got through that lot.’
O’Toole took an armful of letters and selected a waist-high yard-wide wicker waste-paper basket. It was already half full.
The first letter he opened was from someone who made diesel engines. Out. Then some dog-lovers. Out. ‘News Release from the World Ex-Servicemen’s’...should have seen the foreign stamp. Out. ‘The High Commissioner for Nigeria...’ Out. Just a tick, any free drinks? ‘...issued the following statement...’ no, out. ‘Atomic scientists meeting in Rome, this week called...’ Out. Press Statement by J Carlton Zugsmith, President of the British Legion of Sun-bathers...’ Show it to Jacobs. ‘Sir: The people of Southern Zanzibar appeal to you in the name of...’ Out. ‘She’ll be named Miss New Zealand Apples, pretty nineteen-year-old...’ Out, and out, and out.
O’Toole threw out the last of the handouts and went back to Jacobs.
‘There’s a sunbather’s convention you might be interested in.
Otherwise very ordinary stuff,’ he said.
‘Guess who’s in the waiting-room,’ said Jacobs. ‘Your pal, Father Trickemup just arrived. Wants more lovely lolly, I expect. Go and see him, will you?’
The priest looked sleepless and haggard. He still had no collar.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again on this matter, Mr. Towel.’
‘Quite all right,’ said O’Toole. ‘What’s the bother?’
‘I hope you won’t think me guilty of bad faith, but I’ll have to ask you not to publish your article.’
‘That’s very serious,’ said O’Toole. ‘Might I ask what’s happened?’
‘They have been in touch with me.’
‘The Church?’ The priest nodded.
‘You see, they have a procedure for cases...like mine. They have indicated a way out. Naturally, it won’t be easy...’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ said O’Toole.
Of course, you can see that if anything is printed...if there’s any public scandal…I’ve spent fifteen shillings of your money, I’m afraid, but I want you to take the rest back, and I’ll repay you just as soon as I’m able.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’ll tell the editor what you’ve told me, but I can’t promise anything. It’s not a question of the money, but the machinery has been set in motion. It’s hard to stop,’
‘I’ll know you’ll do your best, Mr. Towel,’ said the priest.
O’Toole went to Jacobs.
‘The priest wants to renege, Tom,’ he said.
‘Some chance,’ said Jacobs. ‘He’s signed up, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, and had his picture taken, and collected an advance on his money.’
‘Good enough. A deal is a deal is a deal. Better go and tell Barr, just the same.’
O’Toole found Barr in. his office and told him.
‘...and he says we’ll wreck his welcome back into the fold if we go ahead, Mr. Barr.’
Oh he does, does he?’ said Barr. ‘The chiselling crook. If he’d come in yesterday, laddie, we might have done something, but now the whole thing’s been wired to Manchester. He could build a couple of churches for what it would cost us to remake the page at this stage. Tell him we’re sorry, no dice.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said O’Toole.
The priest seemed to take the verdict as the will of God, no appeal possible. ‘This will put me outside forever, Mr. Towel,’ he said. ‘Where can I turn?’
Tm sorry, Mr. Sweeney,’ said O’Toole. ‘The production of the paper has gone too far to be stopped, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘Thank you, anyway, for your courtesy,’ said the priest, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again.’
‘No,’ said O’Toole. ‘Good luck, just the same.’
The priest left the office reluctantly, like an old sheep on the way to the abattoir. O’Toole returned to Jacobs.
‘I’ve fixed His Reverence up, Tom, and I’m ready for work,’ he said. ‘No more religion, please, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Right,’ said Jacobs. ‘Here’s a quickie for you. We’ve had a tip-off from the local man that there’s a public schoolboy working in a fish-and-chip shop in Huddersfield. The place is on the phone, and his name is Hetherington. Ring them up and check the facts.’
‘What facts?’
‘That he’s really a public schoolboy, of course. I suppose you know what a public schoolboy is?’
‘Eton, Harrow, boating in wing collars, that sort of thing?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You mean he’s run away from school?’
‘No, he’s probably fifty, if he’s a day. The point is, he used to go to a public school.’
‘Is that news?’
‘No, but the fact that he’s working in a fish-and-chip shop is. Bit of a come-down, isn’t it?’ O’Toole detected a touch of Bakerloo Line Cockney he hadn’t noticed in Jacobs’ voice before.
‘Is it? I’m delighted to hear he’s got a job. We don’t want him sponging on the ratepayers, do we?’
‘I’m too busy to explain it now, Aussie,’ said Jacobs. ‘Just chec
k the facts, then use your imagination. After that, ring the Air Ministry and get the forecast for tomorrow. We don’t want a lot of jaw-breaking crapology, just a simple, straight answer will do—will it rain or not. You’ll see we use a little dinkus in red on the masthead of the paper. Find out which one to use. Got it?’
‘Right,’ said O’Toole.
He rang the fish-and-chip shop and Hetherington came to the phone, and said yes, he had gone to Winchester, and it’s not a bad school, you know. Actually he was a bit of a socialist himself, and why the hell shouldn’t he work in the fish-and-chip shop, the pay was seven-ten a week, they were decent people, and probably better than the bloodsucking bastards O’Toole was working for, but don’t take any offence, old boy, because he thought the Sunday Sun was supposed to be the working man’s friend, and if O’Toole proposed to put any class-conscious rubbish in the paper he might at least mention they changed the fat twice a day and made the tastiest chips in Huddersfield, and don’t mention it, call again any time. The reference to fat gave O’Toole an idea for his lead paragraph, and, adopting the principle of maximum embarrassment which seemed to have worked with the priest, he wrote:
When he prepares six penn’orth of cod and chips, Henry Hetherington of the HUDDERSFIELD ‘Sea Breeze’ fish shop has to be careful—HIS OLD SCHOOL TIE MIGHT DANGLE IN THE FAT!
Yes, Henry wears the PROUD TIE of Winchester School among the FUMES and GREASE of a Midland fish-and-chip shop, but he claims the dignity of the old school ISN’T FRYING TONIGHT!
It’s his POLITICAL OPINIONS which have brought Henry to this seven-ten a week job...
and O’Toole summarised the views he had heard on the telephone to complete his story. Then he rang the Meteorological Office of the Air Ministry.
‘O’Toole of the Sunday Sun here,’ he said. ‘Could we have the forecast for tomorrow, please?’
‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ asked the voice at the other end.
‘First week,’ said O’Toole.
‘Just the same, I don’t expect you want the official forecast,’ said the meteorologist, ‘I’ve taken a lot of trouble with it.’
‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said O’Toole, ‘I’m supposed to keep it bright and crisp. This is a family paper, you know. Just let me have an outline of the position in simple, non-technical language, please.’
‘You’re all the same,’ said the official. He seemed to be annoyed about something. ‘Well, here it is. There’s a high pressure system building up over the Azores, with a corresponding cold front moving in the direction of Norway, accompanied by winds about Force Four or Five. That should mean early drizzle, with a possibility of later rain in the Home Counties, and a chance of...’
‘Just a second,’ said O’Toole, ‘I’m afraid it’s not much use me turning that in. Could you tell me if it’s going to rain or not?’
‘Just like all the others,’ said the official. ‘Look, you must be a man of some minimal education. You have to be, to work as a reporter, don’t you?’
‘I’m literate, if that’s what you mean,’ said O’Toole.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the official. ‘Well, surely you can understand the notion of a probability. When we say “there may be early rain”, that’s a scientific description of the situation as it is now. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t, sometimes it might. That’s not all that difficult, is it?’
‘You have to see it from our point of view,’ said O’Toole. ‘We’re supposed to be definite about these things. We have a set of little drawings which are printed in red next to the name of the paper, on the front page, of a girl in a bathing suit. If it’s going to rain, she has an umbrella up. If it’s going to be cold, she wears a sweater. All I want to know is, which drawing do we use?’
‘Look, it’s your irresponsible papers which have turned us into a standing joke,’ said the official heatedly. ‘Every time we say “it might” you chaps change it into “it will”. Within the limits of our information, we give a good reliable service, but by the time you’ve finished altering what we say out of recognition, we’re always wrong. Television has been the greatest thing that ever happened to weather forecasting and I hope it puts you out of business.’
‘Now, now, no temper,’ said O’Toole. ‘Let’s approach this another way. If you were a betting man, what would you put your money on here? Wet or fine?’
‘Actually, this will help me get the position into your thick skull,’ said the official, it’s a two-horse race, wet or fine, and on my information I’d have to back them both. Does that make sense?’
‘I can see your point,’ said O’Toole. He was enjoying the debate, but Jacobs wouldn’t expect him to take more than five minutes with the weather. He tried a long shot.
‘By the way, what are you doing yourself tomorrow?’
‘I’m working,’ said the official.
‘Bringing a raincoat in?’
‘I keep one here,’ said the official. ‘I must say, you’re a trier, though.’
‘Thanks,’ said O’Toole. ‘I got the general drift of your forecast and I’ll do the best I can with it. Don’t worry.’
‘I’ll be on the television for a few minutes tonight giving the true facts,’ said the official. ‘I don’t have to worry. Been nice talking to you, just the same.’
O’Toole hung up, walked unobtrusively to the office window and looked out. The sky was cloudless, even brassy, with a little heat-shimmer toward St. Paul’s. Looked as if it should hold for twenty-four hours.
He put a sheet of paper in a typewriter and wrote:
It’s a fine sunny day for you. That’s what the weatherman promises for tomorrow, although there’s just a chance of a late shower.
Underneath, he added:
SUGGESTED DINKUS: GIRL IN BATHING SUIT
He gave both stories to Jacobs, who read the fish-shop account without comment, then studied the weather report.
‘We don’t need this bit about a late shower, only confuse people,’ he said. Otherwise, fine.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said O’Toole. ‘The man at the weather office doesn’t seem to like us.’
‘None of them do,’ said Jacobs. ‘Bureaucrats. Too big for their boots. You can go out and eat, if you like.’
After supper O’Toole spent the rest of the evening talking with his new colleagues. He found most of them worked for other papers during the week, and worked Saturdays tax-free under assumed names for the Sunday Sun.
One man was spending a month’s holiday from another paper working for the Sunday Sun, relieving a man who was spending his month working somewhere else.
They all blamed the high price of drink and cigarettes. None of them looked too well.
Then, when the first edition came up, Jacobs gave him a copy and told him he could go.
Put it under your coat as you leave,’ he advised. ‘Not supposed to get out of the office before three a.m. You might go up the street and flog all our lovely news to the opposition.’
‘I’ve got integrity,’ said O’Toole. ‘See you Tuesday, Tom.’
In the lift, he found his story:
RUNAWAY PRIEST BEGS YOUR FORGIVENESS by JAMES O’TOOLE.
All there, not a word changed by the subs, with a twenty-four point by-line all on the front page.
As he tucked the paper under his coat, he caught the familiar, delicious scent of fresh ink and paraffin, the way newspaper offices smell all over the world, the way the Manchester Guardian and Pravda smell if you sniff them right up close under the big important ideas.
As he walked home, the streets were already shiny with rain.
VIII
O’TOOLE heard someone at the door as he woke up: he half-expected it to be the police inquiring about the priest’s suicide, or the editors of rival papers queuing up to offer him jobs.
It turned out to be the porter pushing a crisp blue air-letter under his door, with the two-shilling stamp decorated with aboriginal art, snak
es and boomerangs in brown and white.
The stamp, designed by a man who arrived in Sydney from Vienna in 1947, gave him a stab of home-sickness. So did the letter:
Dear Shoulders:
I got the news that you cracked it in Fleet Street a few days after it happened. The rumour in Sydney is you’re getting forty rugs a week to begin with and lots more very, very soon. I shouldn’t be surprised if bums started pouring off the boat into your flat any minute demanding food, drink, clothes, women, etc. (What else is there, anyway?)
Short Cummings, who seems incapable of keeping his sticky hands off anyone’s relationships, is spreading it all over town that you’ve broken up with Jenny. The way the story goes here, she’s supposed to have been rushed by the papers the moment she got off the ship and, on the strength of a few mammary pictures, landed some sort of big part. According to the stories which are being generally distorted around, this is about the last you saw of her. Another version says you got married secretly but naturally the first one is getting a better hearing.
It’s hard to imagine you two apart after all this time, but I’m not in a position to send a correction around the grapevine until I get something definite from you.
How does it feel to make the Big Time on Fleet Street? Bowler Hat? Striped Pants? Powder-blue suit? I want to know what sort of clothes I’ll need.
If the Jenny story is true, let me remind you as an old friend there are plenty more fish in the sea if you’ve still got the right bait. I know it’s an alarming thing to be wiped off like a dirty arse but, basically, you just have to sweat it out like everyone else. The only real cure is another girl but don’t start looking too soon. Just relax and spend some of your big salary.
I’m assuming the Cummings story is true: if not, delete it from the copy.
I’ll cable you when I’m fifty quid short of the fare. You won’t miss a day or two’s pay.
Love
Jowls,
PS—Don’t insult T S Eliot. Leave him for me.
O’Toole cooked two sausages and an egg, the smoke hanging in the air of his basement in geological layers. Then he consulted a list he’d prepared in Sydney of people he knew in London, and finally picked
