Read Online Three Brothers by Peter Ackroyd - Free Book Online Page B

London accent distinguished him from the mass of ex-public-school boys who staffed other gossip columns. He looked, and sounded, asif he could be trusted. He soon impressed his superiors with his ability to deliver “scoops” over his rivals.
    It was Harry, for example, who broke the news that Joey Hanover had been lured by ATV from BBC Television with the offer of five thousand pounds for each half-hour programme. He had seen Hanover sitting alone at a table in a pub close to Portland Place, and had sat beside him. He did not look, or behave, like a journalist. He was an ordinary Londoner. So Hanover, slightly the worse for drink, had confided in him. “You and I, chum,” he said, “are idiots. Sitting here and drinking in the middle of the afternoon.” He stared balefully at Harry for a moment. “What do you do?”
    “I work in a shop. A shoe shop. It’s my day off.”
    “Is it now? What kind of shoes?”
    “All types.”
    Hanover was silent for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”
    “You’re Joey Hanover. Everyone knows you.”
    “Oh do they?” Once more he lapsed into a morose silence. “What if I were to tell you that Joey Hanover is a chump? A right disaster?” Harry sensed, with growing excitement, the approach of a good story. But he took care to remain calm, and even unimpressed. “I am about to walk away from my closest mates. And for what? Lucre. Filthy lucre.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with money.”
    “You’re right. There is nothing wrong with money. Where would we be without it? But bang goes the old team. Whoosh.” He threw up his hands. “Excuse me.” He came back from the bar with what looked like a large gin and tonic. The other customers were still pretending to ignore him. “And what’s it all for? Five thousand per show.”
    “That’s a lot of money.”
    “Anyway, it’s too late now. It’s done. Hello ATV.”
    Eventually Harry rose from his seat, on the grounds that he had to meet his girlfriend, and made his escape. He hailed a taxi and within half an hour he was at his desk. He opened Spotlight , and found the telephone numbers of Hanover’s manager and press agent. The story was on the front page of the first edition.
    On the following morning the editor asked to see him. This was an unexpected summons, since Andrew Havers-Williams did not generally mingle with the junior staff. Harry considered him to be something of a “toff,” a man of impeccable and even dandified dress; he wore silk waistcoats and silk ties; he swept his luxuriant white hair back in bouffant fashion; his enunciation was clipped and precise; his voice had the timbre of an expensive education. “Well, Hanway,” he said as Harry entered his office. “Well done. Very well done. The proprietor likes this sort of thing.” His tone suggested that the proprietor, Sir Martin Flaxman, was a man of comparatively simple tastes. “Personally I know nothing about this Hanover chap. Comedian, is he? Where did you find him?”
    “In a pub, sir.”
    “A pub? I see. Well done.” He had an air of forced cheerfulness, as if he were aware of a disparity between them that could only be negotiated by a show of bonhomie. “How long have you been with the paper?”
    “Two years.”
    “Two years on Porcupine is long enough, don’t you think?” Harry nodded. “I’m going to hand you over to the news desk.”
    That had been Harry’s aim from the beginning. “I would welcome that,” he said.
    “Talk to James White.”
    James White was the news editor. He was middle-aged, tall, balding. He had been an officer during the War, and had retained the manner ever since. He owed his post solely tothe fact that he had attended the same school as the editor, and he was widely disliked by the staff of the news desk. He was something of a martinet, something of a bully. “Don’t just stand there,” he said on the first day. “Do something. Make yourself useful. Wait. I want you to go to the Old Bailey. See if