using an habitual crutch to help him start the day.
Cole believed in letting people sit down for a few minutes before setting them to work: it made for an atmosphere of order and coolheadedness. His news editor, Cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with his froglike green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: “Don’t take your coat off, lad.” His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry, and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.
Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now. He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk, the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to him. “Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin.” The young man picked up a telephone.
The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. “Anna, a PC got into trouble in the Holloway Road—ring the nearest nick and find out what it was all about. If it’s drunks, forget it. Joe, this fire in the East End—check with the Brigade. A burglary in Chelsea, Phillip. Look up the address in Kelly’s Directory in case anyone famous lives there. Barney—‘Police pursued and arrested an Irishman after calling at a house in Queenstown Street, Cam-den. ’ Ring the Yard and ask them if it’s anything to do with the IRA.”
An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. “Arthur Cole.”
“What have you got for me, Arthur?”
Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor. He said: “At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last night’s vote in the Commons.”
“But that was on the television yesterday!”
“Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?”
“I suppose I’d better have somebody at Downing Street for a today picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?”
“Nothing that isn’t in the morning papers.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was doing his best to update it—two reporters were ringing around for reactions. They were getting backbench MPs to shoot off their mouths, but no Ministers.
A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out: “Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won’t be in today. He’s got Delhi belly.”
Cole groaned. “How did he catch that in Orpington?”
“Curry supper.”
“Okay.” That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.
Kevin Hart approached the desk. “Nothing from the Yard,” he said. “It’s been quiet all night.”
Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly fair hair, which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation. “That is ridiculous,” he said. “Scotland Yard never has a completely quiet night. What’s the matter with that Press Bureau?”
“We ought to do a story—‘London’s first crime-free night for a thousand years,’ ” Hart said with a grin.
His levity annoyed Cole. “Never be satisfied with that kind of reply from the Yard,” he said coldly.
Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter. “I’ll ring them back, shall I?”
“No,” said Cole, seeing that he had made his point. “I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the North Sea?”
Hart nodded. “It’s called Shield.”
“Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to announce who has got the license to develop it. Do a holding piece to run until we get the announcement. Background, what the license will mean to the people who are bidding, how the Minister makes up his mind. This
Cole believed in letting people sit down for a few minutes before setting them to work: it made for an atmosphere of order and coolheadedness. His news editor, Cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with his froglike green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: “Don’t take your coat off, lad.” His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry, and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.
Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now. He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk, the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to him. “Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin.” The young man picked up a telephone.
The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. “Anna, a PC got into trouble in the Holloway Road—ring the nearest nick and find out what it was all about. If it’s drunks, forget it. Joe, this fire in the East End—check with the Brigade. A burglary in Chelsea, Phillip. Look up the address in Kelly’s Directory in case anyone famous lives there. Barney—‘Police pursued and arrested an Irishman after calling at a house in Queenstown Street, Cam-den. ’ Ring the Yard and ask them if it’s anything to do with the IRA.”
An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. “Arthur Cole.”
“What have you got for me, Arthur?”
Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor. He said: “At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last night’s vote in the Commons.”
“But that was on the television yesterday!”
“Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?”
“I suppose I’d better have somebody at Downing Street for a today picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?”
“Nothing that isn’t in the morning papers.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was doing his best to update it—two reporters were ringing around for reactions. They were getting backbench MPs to shoot off their mouths, but no Ministers.
A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out: “Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won’t be in today. He’s got Delhi belly.”
Cole groaned. “How did he catch that in Orpington?”
“Curry supper.”
“Okay.” That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.
Kevin Hart approached the desk. “Nothing from the Yard,” he said. “It’s been quiet all night.”
Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly fair hair, which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation. “That is ridiculous,” he said. “Scotland Yard never has a completely quiet night. What’s the matter with that Press Bureau?”
“We ought to do a story—‘London’s first crime-free night for a thousand years,’ ” Hart said with a grin.
His levity annoyed Cole. “Never be satisfied with that kind of reply from the Yard,” he said coldly.
Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter. “I’ll ring them back, shall I?”
“No,” said Cole, seeing that he had made his point. “I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the North Sea?”
Hart nodded. “It’s called Shield.”
“Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to announce who has got the license to develop it. Do a holding piece to run until we get the announcement. Background, what the license will mean to the people who are bidding, how the Minister makes up his mind. This
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