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.

Fifteen six and one for his nob*

During my time with the Herald I was never called on to do weekend work. Delwyn enjoyed covering football matches on Saturday afternoons and took Friday afternoons off in lieu.

As I normally had weekends off I am sticking to the routine here for now.

I have always enjoyed playing cards, whether a two-handed game of six-pack bezique or four-handed gin rummy or even Newmarket which we used to play with buttons instead of money.

The games I enjoyed the most, however, were the times I played cribbage with my grandfather, Harry Lloyd, my mother’s father.

In the late 60s he came to live with us and a few times a year my great-aunts would come over from Liverpool on a Sunday visit and Grandad would join them in a game of cards.

Auntie Flo and Auntie Bea were my mother’s maternal aunts and Flo was married to Uncle Bill who was also my grandfather’s cousin and best friend. Auntie Sally was Bill’s sister and Grandad’s cousin as well.

One thing Grandad rarely talked about was his experiences in the two major wars of the 20th century.

In 1914 he had answered the call of Lord Stanley, 17th Earl of Derby, who sought to raise a battalion of “Liverpool Pals” as part of the King’s (Liverpool) Regiment. He ended up with enough volunteers to create four battalions.

All I knew of that time, however, was: Bill was in the Liverpool Scottish battalion and his younger brother Bob was in another of the Pals battalions; Grandad was in an entertainment group called the Verey Lights; and Grandad took a bullet through his hand which got him a couple of weeks of “Blighty Leave”.

He was also called up in the 1939-45 war as a Reservist and helped train many of the raw recruits to the King’s (Liverpool) Regiment.

He never talked about his experiences in the trenches and he never mentioned the people who were his “enemy” in both wars.

He was not living with us when I went to Germany with the Little Theatre group.

By the summer of ’67 he was with us, however, when our German friends made the return trip and I took the week off to spend time with them.

The lad whose family I had stayed with was unable to join his friends and a young man called Anton Mütschler was to stay with us instead.

I must confess I was not sure how Grandad was going to react to having a German in the house.

On the day of arrival we all met up at the theatre and renewed old acquaintances and made new ones.

Because I hadn’t passed my test yet my mother drove over to pick up Anton and myself and his luggage. When we got back Grandad had already gone to bed and Anton and I had a late supper.

The following day we left before Grandad got up and went on the first of the excursions that had been planned.

It was a fun day out visiting some of the sights along the coast and there was an evening out planned for later. In the meantime I headed home with Anton to introduce him to my grandfather.

With some trepidation I took him into the lounge where Grandad was watching television.

I gave him my usual hug then said: “This is Anton. He’ll be staying with us this week. Remember I told you about the trip we took out there.”

He started to get up carefully and Anton stepped forward saying: “No, don’t get up sir. I am very pleased to meet you.”

As Grandad sat back Anton put his hand forward and there was a polite shake between them.

Then our guest said: “Excuse me a moment, I have to get something from my luggage.”

He came back with a bottle-shaped package, another flat package and an odd-shaped small package.

He put the first package on the table and said: “That is for your parents.”

The flat package he handed to me and the final one to my grandfather.

“This is for you Herr Lloyd, a small token of respect from a generation of young people who want to reach out in friendship.”

I waited whil Grandad opened his gift to reveal a rounded-off triangular ashtray with a floral decoration handpainted on the base and a gilded greeting:

“Grus aus Gögglingen”

Grandad looked at it, then looked up at Anton and said: “That is a very thoughtful of you young man.”

I almost breathed a sigh of relief. As I said my grandfather rarely spoke about either of the wars, although I was aware of one other incident.

On the first day of the Somme in 1916 Grandad, Bill and young Bob were each with their Pals’ battalions ready to go over the top. A few days before they had met up in a little town near the front.

The three of them had no idea it was the last time they would all be together.

At the end of that first day Grandad and Bill made it back to their appropriate trenches.

Bob did not.

We had quite a busy itinerary that week, including a trip up Snowdonia. On the third night it was a home evening for the hosts and their visitors to get to know each other better.

Grandad and Anton had not spent much time together but that evening he asked our visitor if he played cards.

He did, but we did not recognise the names of any of them. Then Grandad asked Anton if he would like to play cribbage.

I don’t know if any of you have ever played this game but I used to spend hours playing it with my grandfather.

Points are scored by matching up cards in your own hand and a dummy hand. The points are marked up on a board with holes and pegs.

Although he had never played it before Anton took to the game very quickly, although he only beat my grandfather two or three times.

In fact he was so keen on the game that he asked to play it with Grandad at almost every free moment.

It was a joy to see this simple game not just bridge the gap between generations but also between nations – nations which had been at war with each other not just once but twice within living memory.

This was not the highlight of the visit.

That came on the last day when Anton was due to leave. He had shaken hands with my parents and my sister but when he turned to say goodbye to my grandfather he said: “Anton, I have enjoyed your visit here very much and especially our time playing cribbage. I want you to have this.”

With that he presented Anton with his cribbage board.

That may not seem very much but Grandad had had that board since he first played cribbage and he had taken it with him in 1915 when he was shipped over to France.

I have never felt as moved by the presentation of such an apparently simple gift as I did that day. I know Anton was moved as well. He was literally speechless and he gave my grandfather a hug with tears in his eyes.

I stayed in touch with Anton for a few years after that and he always asked after my grandfather.

A simple gift but presented with so much friendship behind it.

(*cribbage points are made by by matching values to make 15. A five plus a 10, jack and king would give 15 three times making six and if the jack is the same suit as the start card the winner gets an extra point – one for his nob.)

PS: I bought Grandad a new cribbage board and played many more games with him. I still have that board.

The Vixen

by John Clare

Among the taller woods with ivy hung,

The old fox plays and dances round her young.

She snuffs and barks if any passes by

And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.

The horseman hurries by, she bolts to see,

And turns agen, from danger never free.

If any stands she runs among the poles

And barks and snaps and drives them in the holes.

The shepherd sees them and the boy goes by

And gets a stick and progs the hole to try.

They get all still and lie in safety sure,

And out again when everything’s secure,

And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing by

To fight and catch the great white butterfly.

Lady Midnight

by Leonard Cohen

I came by myself to a very crowded place. I was looking for someone who had lines in her face. I found her there, but she was past all concern. I asked her to hold me; I said: Lady, unfold me, but she scorned me and told me I was dead and could never return.

I argued all night, like so many have before, saying: Whatever you give me, I need so much more. Then she pointed at me where I kneeled on the floor. She said: Don’t try to use me, or slyly refuse me, just win me or lose me — it is this that the darkness is for!

I cried, O Lady Midnight, I fear that you grow old; the stars eat your body and the wind makes you cold. If we cry now, she said, it will only be ignored. So I walked through the morning, the sweet early morning, I could hear my lady calling: You’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord.

Enjoying a drop of the holy spirit

Bill kept to his word and the next day I went to talk to the local vicar, the RC priest and three non-Conformist ministers.

One was down in Greenfield and the others were at all four points of the compass in Holywell itself.

The “stories” were nothing to write home about, really just snippets about the Mothers’ Union, or the church choir, or an upcoming fete or jumble sale but the vicar and two of the non-Conformist ministers, including the Presbyterian, offered me tea and biscuits.

The priest was the best, he was Irish, not of Irish descent but real Irish Irish, and instead of an ordinary cup of tea he slipped a slug of Irish whiskey in it.

It was lucky he was my last call and he was the closest to the office. In fact I had parked my scooter at the office and just walked down a side road to find him.

I had only ever had whisky in tea once before and that was when I was going to play tennis with a girlfriend, Vanessa.

She was still getting changed when I called to pick her up and her mother invited me in for a cup of tea while I waited.

I thought it tasted odd but just thought she used something like Earl Grey or some other fancy tea. I was too polite to make a comment.

Vanessa came down, all set for tennis with a short pleated white skirt, a short-sleeved white blouse, and sandals. She carried her racquet and a pair of white plimsolls.

I thanked her mother for the tea and we headed off to the tennis courts. By the time we got there I felt a little light-headed but thought the exercise would set me right.

After missing two serves completely I managed to strike the ball and it skimmed the net. I missed her return and then nearly tripped over my feet.

Vanessa came round the net and asked if I was OK. She then asked if the tea had tasted “odd” and when I told her it had but I was too polite to comment she laughed.

“My mother must have put a couple of shots of whisky in it. She doesn’t bother asking, she just does it.”

There was certainly no way I could play tennis that morning so Vanessa and I just went for a walk in the park and the effects wore off.

The priest’s whiskey took a little while longer to wear off and there was no female companionship to help me over it. Luckily that day Roger was on a late shift so I had time to let it wear off in the office.

Later that afternoon when Bill returned I reported to him about the parochial calls and he seemed satisfied. He also gave me an expenses form and told me how much per mile I could charge for petrol and how much I could put down for “refreshments” such as coffees with Dilys.

It wasn’t a life-changing amount but it made the following week’s wage packet a little bit heavier.

The weeks turned into months and the routine remained the same. We typed up reports; I did parish calls; Delwyn was given the odd afternoon off in return for going to one of the local clubs’ Saturday afternoon matches; I got a few tips from Dilys about local “happenings” (Girl Guides off to a jamboree, sometimes even abroad); and every day Bill left the office at 11am and got back at about 3.15 pm and then sounded as though he was typing up enough to fill a newspaper three times over every day.

Then one day, about four months in Delwyn and I decided it was time we found out where Bill went by ringing the contact number.

After five rings someone picked up the phone and said: “Crown Inn Holywell, can I help you?”

I quickly put the phone down and we both crossed to the window and looked up the High Street to where we could see the sign for the Crown Inn.

At least we now knew where Bill had his second office and where he probably picked up most of his stories.

Looking back I don’t now blame Bill for spending so little time trying to explain journalism to two raw recruits. After all it was quicker for him to do most of the work himself than spend hours teaching us journalism.

At the time I did feel I was being short-changed.

Later on I found he did do something special which was to make a great difference to my future.

Groundhog Day in Holywell

Each day Delwyn and I turned up at the office and each day Bill set us tasks which were basically typing up copy in a presentable format.

Newly-fledged copy typists could have done the job straight out of secretarial college and they would probably have been paid at the same rate.

Then one morning, when I was down in the kitchen making coffee, the receptionist came through and said a young lady was at the front desk asking to speak to me.

I went through to the reception area, basically a landing in between Bill’s office and the advertising/administrative office, and was surprised to see one of my former college classmates, Dilys.

I was delighted to see her and asked if she had just popped in on the offchance I would be there or had made a special trip to see me.

“I’ve got a story for you,” she said. “I thought you might be interested. I’ve just been to London to receive my Duke of Edinburgh Award.”

I kept an interested look on my face, after all Dilys and I had been quite close at college in a platonic way, and I didn’t want to insult her.

“That sounds great, I’ll tell you what, let me just take this coffee up to my colleague and grab my notebook and pencil and we could pop out for a coffee and talk about it.”

I told Delwyn I was just nipping out to get a story. He barely looked up as I put his coffee down and just kept on tapping away at a sports report he was writing.

I took Dilys to a little cafe on the High Street and bought two coffees.

Once we were seated I asked her how she was doing and discovered she was still looking for a job.

It then turned out there was more to it than “Holywell girl gets Duke of Edinburgh’s Gold Award”.

Dilys had written to the DoE award office before the presentation asking if she could have her certificate in Welsh but heard nothing before going down to London.

I knew that she was very proud of being Welsh and was bilingual. I also knew that it was national pride as opposed to nationalist pride.

When she attended the award ceremony she had been taken to one side and told her letter had arrived too late to be dealt with before the ceremony. It had, however, been decided that a certificate would be drawn up in Welsh and would be personally signed by the Duke and sent on to her within a couple of weeks.

By now even I had realised this was a good story – a year later I would have realised that it was a story worth selling to various big newspapers as well but I didn’t know about that extra source of income at the time.

As it was I took down the details Dilys had given me and made a note of a couple of comments she had made about being “honoured” and “proud”. I also made a note of her address and telephone number in case Bill wanted a photograph (I had learned by now that all pictures for our area were taken on the same day, a Wednesday, when a photographer came over from Chester for about three hours).

We finished our coffee and I thanked Dilys for the story before saying goodbye and going back to the office.

I told Delwyn what had happened and then got back to whatever routine tasks Bill had arranged for that day.

I probably rewrote the Dilys story three or four times and I still wasn’t really happy with it.

I set it aside when I headed off for lunch with Roger at the pub. It had become a regular occurrence depending on which shift he was on. It was turning into the high point of each day.

When I returned I rewrote the story yet again and when Bill came back I didn’t wait to hear him start typing but went straight down to show him the story I had written.

He glanced over it and nodded approval and asked if I had a contact number for her as it was worth a picture.

“Is she pretty?” he asked.

“Well, yes. I think so.”

“Good, the photographer does take a better shot if he likes the subject.”

“Did you say you took her out for coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Well you’d better claim that back on expenses. In fact you can go out tomorrow and call on the local God squad to find out if they have anything for us.

“You’ll need to go on your scooter or you’ll be out all day, and you can claim that as mileage. I’ll explain it to you on Friday.”

That was it. I went back upstairs and got on with my work.

We had, by now, reached a stage where we took it in turns to take the copy down at the end of the day and it happened that day it was my turn.

When I took the copy down Bill looked up from his typewriter and said: “Good job today. You’d better take this and start building up your contacts.”

He took a small notebook out of his desk drawer, smaller than the reporter’s spiral-bound notebooks we used, and tossed it over to me.

When I opened it I realised it was an address book with the letters shown down the side.

That was my first little black book and it was to become invaluable over the next few years.

The first name I entered in it was Dilys.

That day was to become a memorable one over the next few months – mainly because it was different.

Delwyn didn’t seem to have any local contacts.