Here endeth the first lesson

The first couple of days saw me settling in to my new role, making contacts that I should have been making over the previous six months.

Even on the Monday I managed to gather a reasonable amount of copy – mainly weddings and funeral reports, but also items gleaned from the minutes of the previous week’s council meetings – which I left in an envelope for Graham (misremembered his name at first, it was not Gareth) to collect in the morning.

The following day I introduced myself to the duty police inspector and to the senior officer at the fire station. All useful contacts for a budding reporter.

On the Tuesday evening I took the copy with me as I was driving over to Mold the next day to work from the main office.

When I arrived I was quite surprised at how cramped the offices were. The main reporters’ room was long and narrow with a window at the front. Either side there were old wooden table-type desks with filing cabinets in between.

It was equipped to allow for six people working at any one time.

Peter’s office was at the front, entered from the reporters’ room, there must have been another room as it was only half the size of the big office.

When I went in to see him Peter asked how I was faring and I told him what I had been doing.

He then told me that for a while Wednesdays would be training days and I would work alongside a senior reporter.

On that Wednesday I would be partnered with (if I remember accurately) a reporter called David Nicholas. He was probably in his mid to late 20s.

That morning he took me to the local magistrates’ court and I learned my first lesson: get to know the clerk of the court.

By getting there in good time before the session starts a chat with the clerk of the court, normally a very experienced solicitor, would let you know the best cases coming up; provide the names of the magistrates; also the names of prosecuting and defence solicitors (sometimes the prosecution was handled by a senior police officer); and main details of the defendants, including name, age, address and charge.

Although these details would be given in court it helped to have the correct spellings to hand and also allowed you to concentrate on the case rather than trying to catch everything else that was being said.

I noticed David did not use Pitman’s shorthand but appeared to use abbreviations and some of his own marks.

When the court finished he took me to a pub near the office and we met up with two other reporters and a photographer, Mike Roberts, who I did get to know quite well over the next year or so.

Over a pint (with the company I was in I didn’t get asked my age) and a cheese roll I got to know my new colleagues and I also got a couple of lessons you won’t be taught by the National Council for the Training of Journalists.

The first thing David told me was that I should join the National Union of Journalists. As a budding socialist I saw no reason not to.

He said he would give me the forms back at the office.

The second lesson was on how to fill in an expenses sheet.

He explained that as my base was the Holywell office I could charge for mileage on any journey to and from there. That included the trip to and from Mold. Also if I was away from the office while working I could claim a lunch allowance. Once again my presence at the Mold office counted.

There were other things which could be claimed but he pointed out that there were certain items which should always be claimed, for example at least two meal claims (lunch or evening meal, the latter claimed for jobs which went on beyond a certain time in the evening).

“You see if someone claims less expenses than others it might be judged some are overclaiming.”

With these lessons in mind we returned to the office and I was pointed to one of the empty chairs and told to type up my reports from the court case.

I had already been instructed on copy layout, with folio names and numbers, the paper identification initials and reporter initials.

I checked my notes and then started typing up my copy.

After a coffee break, during which I noted David had left the office, I returned to the stories and by 3.30 I had typed up three main court cases and a couple of filler pieces on minor cases.

Peter stuck his head round the office door and told me to bring my copy through and we would check it over.

He leafed through it and I noticed he had a pencil to hand which he used to make notations on my copy.

“Not bad for your first shot,” he said. “Have a look at David’s copy for the same stories and compare it to yours. You will not have written it up in exactly the same way but it will give you an idea of points you may have missed and what David might have decided was unimportant.”

When I left the Herald I had left behind the McNae’s Essential law for Journalists but Peter provided me with a new copy and suggested I also buy a small Oxford Dictionary and a thesaurus, preferably Roget’s, which could be put on expenses if a receipt was provided.

He then told me the office would have local newspapers delivered as well as the Liverpool Daily Post, N. Wales edition, the Western Mail and two national newspapers. The Daily Telegraph and the Guardian. I could add one other national newspaper to this, I just had to let the receptionist know.

He also gave me a big desk diary, A4 size, and told me to put down all regular jobs in it, council meetings, court, any events around town etc. This was to be done on Fridays ready for the week ahead.

After all this he told me I had coped well in my first days at my new job. He also said I should spend the rest of the week (two days) checking on regular contacts and looking for any off-diary stories.

“I’ll see you next week.”

With that he got back to whatever he had been doing before calling me in and I returned to the outer office.

David had returned and he tossed his carbons over to me to have a read. I noticed that in the main we had got the same stories based on the court hearings but here and there he had put more import on one angle than I had and his storyline flowed more smoothly.

He looked at my copy, noting Peter’s changes, and told me it was good work.

Then he gave me an application form for the NUJ and said Mike would pop in and take a picture of me and have the passport size shots ready to go on my press card the following week.

By the time all this was done it was almost the end of the day. David had given me a bundle of expense forms and then wished me well and said he would see me next week.

That was it. Half-way through my first week and I felt more like a real journalist than I had throughout the six months prior to this.

The trip to Mold had been very satisfying.

Where Once The Waters Of Your Face

by Dylan Thomas

Where once the waters of your face

Sound to my screws, your dry ghost blows,

The dead turns up its eye;

Where once the mermen through your ice

Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers

Through salt and root and roe.

Where once your green knots sank their splice

Into the tided cord, there goes

The green unraveller,

His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose

To cut the channels at their source

And lay the wet fruits low.

Invisible your clocking tides

Break on the lovebeds of the weeds;

The weeds of love’s left dry;

There round about your stones the shades

Of children go who, from their voids,

Cry to the dolphined sea.

Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids

Shall not be latched while magic glides

Sage on the earth and sky,

There shall be corals in your beds

There shall be serpents in your tides,

Till all our sea-faiths die.

My own domain

Once Peter and Gareth had left the office I sat at my new desk and looked around my new domain.

The stairs came up on the back wall and opposite was a wide set of windows looking down into the bustling little road off the High Street.

My desk was set up with my back to the side wall. There were shelves under the windows and at the far end was a metal cupboard on the top of which was a newspaper file.

I went down to introduce myself properly to the receptionist. To my shame I cannot remember her name.

I soon found out the office had only been opened that morning and the company had had it cleaned, decorated and furnished the previous week.

The receptionist was also responsible for taking in adverts.

She told me there was a kitchen and toilet at the back of the reception area.

With all of this new knowledge I went and made myself a coffee using one of the set of cups and saucers in the kitchen, and went back upstairs to phone my parents and break the news.

I was back in business as a reporter; I would have a signed contract/indenture for three years; I would get proper training; and for most of the week I would be my own boss.

My next move was to take s walk in the town centre; check any public notice boards for upcoming events; make myself known at the local council so that I would receive council minutes and agendas; call at the police station to introduce myself; and, first and foremost, go and see Bill at my old office because I was sure he had been responsible for Peter Leaney taking me on.

The last item on my list was the first one I actually undertook, and at the end of the Gardens I turned right to walk up to my old office. It was only just after 10am so Bill should have still been in the office.

Except he wasn’t.

There was nobody there. The offices were locked and there was a notice on the door saying the office was permanently closed and giving a phone number for any enquiries.

That was when I realised that Bill must have known about the closure for some time, as must my new employers have done in order to arrange the lease on a new office including getting power, water and telephone laid on.

I never did see Bill again but I did meet many people who had known him well over the years.

It turned out that at 11am each weekday he used to settle down at the bar of the High Street pub and remain there until afternoon closing time (except for the days when the court operated).

People would be in and out and he would get information about most of what was happening in the area.

He was apparently known for having pints of beer with whisky chasers. Not long before Delwyn and I went to work there he had apparently been advised by his doctor to cut down on his drinking.

The story was that he cut his pints of beer down to halves but still had a whisky chaser with every half.

Whether or not this was true doesn’t matter any more. It became part of Bill’s backstory and it only enhanced his reputation as a hard-drinking, hardbitten reporter.

He did attend the weekly court sessions and in the evenings attended council meetings.

He probably worked harder at the office bringing all the stories together than most modern journalists.

It was quite some years later, after Bill died, that Peter Leaney told me that, knowing the office was closing and that I would lose my job, my chief reporter had got in touch with him and recommended me.

There had been no mention of Delwyn and, again years later, I discovered he had gone to work for the water board and done quite well for himself.

If it hadn’t been for Bill who knows where I would have ended up.

A Man’s A Man for A’that

by Robert Burns

Is there for honest poverty

That hings his head and a’that;

The coward slave – we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a’that!

For a’that, an a’that.

Our toils obscure an a’that,

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the gowd for a’that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, an a’that;

Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine;

A Man’s a Man for a’that:

For a’that, an a’that,

Their tinsel show, an a’that;

The honest man, tho e’er sae poor,

Is king of men for a’that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, an a’that;

Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,

He’s but a coof, for a’that:

For a’that, an a’that,

His ribband, star, an a’that;

The man o’independent mind

He looks an’ laughs at a’that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an a’that,

But an honest man’s abon his might,

Gude faith, he mauna fa’that!

For a’that, an a’that,

Their dignities an a’that;

The pith o’sense, an pride ‘worth,

Are higher rank than a’that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

(As come it will for a’that,)

That Sense and Worth, o’er a’the earth,

Shall bear the gree, an a’that,

For a’that, and a’that,

It’s coming yet for a’that,

That Man to Man, the world o’er,

Shall brothers be for a’that.

The Kangaroo and the Duck

by Edward Lear

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo,

‘Good gracious! how you hop!

Over the fields and the water too,

As if you would never stop!

My life is a bore in this nasty pond,

And I long to go out in the world beyond!

I wish I could go out like you,’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

‘Please give me a ride on your back,’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

‘I would sit quite still and say nothing but ‘Quack’

The whole of the long day through!

And we’ll go to the Dee and the Jelly Bo Lee,

Over the land and over the sea;

Please take me a ride! O do!’

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

Said the Kangaroo to the Duck,

‘This requires some little reflection;

Perhaps on the whole it might bring me some luck,

And there seems but one objection,

Which is, if you’d let me speak so bold,

Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold,

And would probably give me the roo-

Matiz!’ Said the Kangaroo.

Said the Duck, ‘As I sat on the rocks,

I have thought over that completely,

And I bought four pairs of worsted socks

Which fit my web-feet neatly.

And to keep out the cold I’ve bought a cloak,

And every day a cigar I’ll smoke,

All to follow my own dear true

Love of a Kangaroo!’

Said the Kangaroo, ‘I’m ready,

All in the moonlight pale;

‘But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady!

‘And quite at the end of my tail!’

So away they went, with a hop and a bound,

And they hopped the whole world three times round;

And who so happy – O who,

As the Duck and the Kangaroo.

Out of work for a weekend

I arrived home in time for lunch on the day I was told I had failed my probationary period as a trainee reporter.

Yet I was not feeling downcast because Bill O’Brien, the chief reporter at the Holywell office where I had been a probationer, had told me there was someone interested in my desire to become a reporter.

He rang at about 3.30 and introduced himself as Peter Leaney, editor of the Flintshire Leader, based at Mold.

“I understand you are keen to become a reporter but the Chronicle decided not to keep you on after your probationary period.”

“Yes Mr Leaney,” I said.

“Oh none of that ‘Mr’, Robin, just call me Peter. Now tell me how much have you done while working with Bill. Have you covered court cases or council meetings?”

“No. Most of the time we were in the office, typing up wedding and funeral reports, making parish calls and following through a couple of smaller stories I got through a friend.

“We didn’t get to do any court reporting or council meetings. Not that I don’t know what’s been going on at the courts and the council. I checked the reports in our paper, I mean the Herald, and yours.

“Basically they were the same, just different reporters pick up on different aspects.”

“You appear to have made use of your time in Holywell. Do you have many contacts there?”

“Not really. There are a couple of people I know from college, and the vicar, the priest and ministers. Bill made most of the contacts and did most of the reporting.”

“You appear to have made a good start. Do you have your own transport?”

“Yes, an old Morris Minor. Generally reliable. After all there’s not much can go wrong with it.”

“Are you still intent on being a journalist?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Meet me on Monday morning, 9am. It’s in Temple Gardens off the High Street.”

He told me the best place to park and gave me the address in Temple Gardens.

“See you then,” and he rang off.

I had already told my parents that my probation period was not being taken any further. Now I had to tell them I might still have job.

That night I was down at the yacht club and my friend Roger and I hogged the dart board for the night.

I told him what had happened and he said: “Sounds like you’ve landed on your feet.”

On Monday morning I got to Holywell before 9. I parked and checked the address he had given me. Temple Gardens consisted mainly of shops with an upper floor.

Bang on 9 I went to the right door and went in.

The place had a fresh feel about it; the smell of new carpet; that whiff of new paint.

The young lady at the desk with a sign saying RECEPTIONIST said: “You must be Robin. Peter and Gareth are upstairs.”

I went up and there was a man sitting behind the single desk and another man looking out of the window.

Before I could say a word the man at the window, a smartly-dressed man with thinning dark hair and a slightly swarthy appearance, turned round.

“Hello Robin, I’m Peter Leaney and this is my deputy, Gareth Williams.”

The man behind the desk, shorter and squatter than Peter, got up and came round to shake my hand. As I turned round to acknowledge him Peter suggested I sat down and then he took another chair for himself and Gareth went downstairs.

“As you can see, we’ve just opened this office to give us a base here. We want you to be our presence on the news front.

“You will be working alone here but I want you to come over to the Mold office on Wednesdays and we will give you the appropriate training. You’ll be paid the accepted rate for a junior reporter and will be required to sign indentures. You will also need your father to sign it and a witness to hoth signatures.”

“You mean I’ll be working from here alone except for when I go over to the Mold office?”

“Yes. Gareth lives just outside town and he’ll call in each morning at about 8am to collect any copy and bring it to me at Mold. If there’s a problem you can phone me at Mold. Do you want the job?”

I had never really had a proper job interview and I was young enough not to worry about letting my feelings show.

“Oh, yes please. When do I start?”

“How about now? I don’t expect you to do much more today but get yourself settled in and see if you can make contacts.

“Gareth will call in tomorrow morning but we don’t expect any copy that quick. Welcome to the company.”

That was it.

I was not just a junior reporter – I was a district reporter with my own office.

The Little Match Girl

by KNIGHT OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT OF BURMAH WILLIAM MCGONAGALL

It was biting cold, and the falling snow,

Which filled a poor little match girl’s heart with woe,

Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,

Crying: “Who’ll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!”

When she left home, she had slippers on;

But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.

For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street;

Out of the way of carriages which were near by her feet.

So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;

And the child’s heart felt cold and downcast,

For nobody had bought any matches that day,

Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.

Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;

So in a corner between two houses she made bold

To take shelter from the violent storm.

Poor little waif! wishing to herself she’d never been born.

And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home

For fear of her father beating her, and she felt woe-begone

Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,

And to go home with no pennies she was in dread.

The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;

While the passers-by for her had no care,

As they hurried along to their homes at quick pace,

While the cold wind blew in the match girl’s face.

As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,

And no longer her strength could her uphold.

When an idea into her little head came:

She’d strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.

And she lighted a match, and it burned brightly,

And it helped to fill her heart with glee,

And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;

But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!

Her body was found half-covered with snow;

And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;

And many present let fall a burning tear

Because she was found dead on the last night of the year.

In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold —

But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.

But I hope the match girl’s in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,

A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.

End of the road, or a new start?

When I returned to work after my week off I was quite surprised that Bill asked me to write a feature piece about the German visitors to North Wales.

I should not really have been THAT surprised as the paper did not have a town identity, such as Holywell or Mold, but was technically a county newspaper which included Rhyl.

I wanted to get it right so I took my time and worked on it in between wedding reports; obituaries; parish calls; and any other bits that came my way.

Rather than concentrate on the Rhyl link, as I doubted we had many readers in my home town, I based the piece on the camarederie of the two groups of young people and highlighted the ideal of Welsh and German folk songs being sung near the summit of Snowdon.

Looking back on it now, over 50 years later, there are many parts I would change. On the other hand that is based on hindsight and the experience gained over the decades.

When I showed it to Bill on the Wednesday he gave it one of his grudging approvals as though to say: “Well it’s a couple of points up the scale from an English composition but more C+ than B-.”

Of course I might have misjudged him over this as, at the time, I may have misjudged him over many other things.

Bill’s attitude towards me had definitely changed towards the end of the summer of 1967. Rather than just leaving me to type up funeral and wedding reports along with the parish calls he began giving me press releases. He didn’t just want me to rewrite them but to see if there was any reaction to whatever it was about.

I was also getting local stories from Dilys, who had now got a job as a clerk at the local council’s offices.

Most of the time they were about the local Girl Guide group, or similar organisational stories, but everything helped.

Bill also gave me a copy of McNae’s Essential Law for Journalists. This had been first published in the 1950s and every two or three years a new edition was published to deal with any changes.

A lot of it was to do with what you could and could not report on from a court or a council, neither of which I had attended at this point.

I also read Hugh Cudlipp’s book “Publish and be Damned” but at that time it was difficult to find books on journalism.

I passed my driving test and bought a fourth or fifth hand Morris Minor from my sister for £50, part of it was paid for from the sale of the Lambretta.

It was a more comfortable journey to work each day and I could also listen to the radio while I was driving.

It also meant that I could get out and about more in my free time and it was a boon when it came to going on dates.

Everything was going smoothly, except for any form of training, until one Friday in October when Bill called us both down to his office at 10am.

Once we were seated he began: “You’ve both been here for six months now and, as you know, you were on a probationary period.

“The company have decided that following that probationary period they will not be taking you on as trainee reporters and your employment will, therefore, be terminated as of today. Your wages for this week will be ready for you at lunchtime. After that you’re free to go.

“Sorry about that but I was only told earlier this morning.”

It was a bit hard to take it in and the disappointment almost certainly showed on my face. Delwyn appeared quite unperturbed and simply thanked Bill for letting us know and headed back up to what was no longer our office.

I was about to follow him when Bill called me back.

“Please sit down Robin.

“Look I know this has come as a bit of a blow to you. It is out of my hands, however, but if you’re really keen to be a journalist then there is a chance that it might not be the end of it.

“Look, I’ve given your home telephone number to someone who might be able to help you. He’s a chap called Peter Leaney and he said he would call you at home this afternoon between three and four o’ clock.

“I can’t say any more. It’s up to you whether or not what he says takes it any further. I wish you all the best whatever happens in your future.”

He stood up and, as I did the same, he reached across the desk and shook my hand.

About an hour later I heard him leave and I never saw him again.

I went back upstairs and Delwyn was standing by the window, looking out.

“Well, that’s a bit if a blow,” I said.

He turned and replied: “Not really. I’ve been wondering lately whether this was what I really wanted. It’s just that my dad saw the ad for the trainee jobs and he thought, being local, I might be able to pick it up.

“Not really been my thing.”

With that he sat back down at his typewriter and said: “If we’ve got to wait for the pay packets might as well keep busy.”

He was right about that and we shared out the few funeral reports between us. There were a couple more than usual. After all the weather was getting cold and a lot of old people couldn’t cope.

The wage packets came over with the lunchtime courier from Chester. Delwyn and I checked ours and signed for them. Then we collected our stuff from the office, said our goodbyes and I drove home to give my parents the bad news.

Behind the Scenes

by Banjo Paterson

The actor struts his little hour,

Between the limelight and the band;

The public feel the actor’s power,

Yet nothing do they understand.

Of all the touches here and there

That make or mar the actor’s part,

They never see, beneath the glare,

The artist striving after art.

To them it seems a labour slight

Where nought of study intervenes;

You see it in another light

When once you’ve been behind the scenes.

For though the actor at his best

Is, like a poet, born not made,

He still must study with a zest

And practise hard to learn his his trade.

So whether on the actor’s form

The stately robes of Hamlet sit,

Or as Macbeth he rave and storm,

Or plays burlesque to please the pit,

‘Tis each and all a work of art,

That constant care and practice means —

The actor who creates a part

Has done his work behind the scenes.