look at the nude; each 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
cool-headedness.
His news editor, cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with
his frog-like 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, Camden." 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 back bench 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 Olington?"
"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,
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
cool-headedness.
His news editor, cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with
his frog-like 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, Camden." 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 back bench 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 Olington?"
"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,
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