大象传媒

PART 3 (Read "Fathings from Heaven" on www.housers.net)

I rather fancied joining the navy. I鈥檇 just seen the film 鈥業n Which We Serve鈥� and could see myself commanding a warship from the bridge, just like Noel Coward. With four rings of gold braid on my sleeve as he had. Trouble was I didn鈥檛 know how to set about getting there. But time was on my side 鈥� I鈥檓 still only fifteen. Then there was the question of how much I鈥檇 like to earn. Although a bit on the tall side, I thought twenty pounds a week might be possible if I tried really hard. But what could I do in the meantime? Printing was one possibility. There were one or two compositors among my uncles, and it was always regarded as being more skilful and better paid than the more run-of-the-mill jobs. So I boldly marched into a local printer and asked if they could fit me in. Only as a pound-a-week-seven-year-apprentice, if they wanted one, which they don鈥檛. Not until after the war and all their skilled men return to their benches. Well I couldn鈥檛 wait that long, so I started to look through the ads. in the papers. I鈥檓 halfway through an application for a police cadet in Northern Rhodesia when there鈥檚 a knock on the door. It鈥檚 Eileen. I hadn鈥檛 seen her since the day I鈥檇 walked out of school. She鈥檇 heard about my problems and had mentioned it to her father. He鈥檇 been very upset over the Spurs business at the time* 鈥� even threatening to tackle the headmaster himself 鈥� and had promised to do whatever he could to help me. So now he does. She hands me a piece of paper. On it is an address: 鈥楻egent Advertising Club, 19 Buckingham Street, Strand鈥�. Mr Dodds instructs me to go along there at 2pm the following afternoon and meet a Mr Dobbs. An acquaintance of his. A copywriter (whatever that is) at the place where they both work, Odhams Press (wherever that is). Mr Dobbs has been told all about me by Mr Dodds and has heard of a job going at an advertising agency called Royds (who?).
Dead on time I present myself at the Regent Advertising Club. It鈥檚 a tall Georgian house near Charing Cross station, in a narrow street leading down to the Thames. Inside, its quiet elegance is mirrored in the person of Mr Dobbs. Well dressed, well groomed, well spoken. It seems he is giving a series of lectures to budding young people in the advertising industry. He will talk to me after it is over and invites me to sit in and listen while I鈥檓 waiting, if I wish. I do. I learn that a copywriter writes the words and slogans for advertisements: has a central, responsible role in the success of business: and earns a lot of money. Mr Dobbs, for example, himself a copywriter, was one day, suddenly stuck by an idea while in the tube on the way to work. It is a slogan for a sparking plug. 鈥淭oo good to miss鈥�. So he sends it to the Chairman of Lodge Sparking Plugs Ltd, who, recognising a good thing when he sees it, and knowing that if he didn鈥檛 take it then one of his competitors probably would, promptly sends him a cheque for 拢200 and another 拢50 a year for as long as they use the slogan in their advertising. And that was ten years ago. That鈥檚 拢700 for just four words! There and then I gave up my plan to become a Captain in the Royal Navy and take up copywriting instead.
And it wasn鈥檛 only Mr Dobbs who captured my imagination. So too did the young ladies who made up most of his audience. Tall, slender, sophisticated. Twin sets, tailored skirts, crocodile handbags with shoes to match, imitation pearls, cultured accents, gently scented. With names like Jenny, Jill and Becky. They all seemed a long way from the gymslips and woollen stockings of Form 4A. So did I. Even more when, an hour or so later, I make my entrance at G.S.Royds Ltd, Advertising Agents, Wellington House, Strand, as arranged by Mr Dobbs. Polished rosewood panelling, thick royal blue carpets, framed copies of their client鈥檚 advertisements on the walls: Ballito stockings, Birds custard, Bulmers cider, Beechams pills, DuMaurier cigarettes, Celanese lingerie, Bush Radio, Hercules Cycles, Brylcreem鈥rylcreem!!! And there鈥檚 Dennis Compton gazing out at me! This is his agency! I just can鈥檛 believe my luck. And even before Miss Franklin, the Accountant, has made me an offer, I鈥檇 already accepted it. Junior messenger boy in the Voucher Department for thirty shillings a week, starting on Monday. On one month鈥檚 trial. She鈥檇 been curious why a boy with a grammar school background should have no school certificate or leaving report. I told her about losing a year when war started, but didn鈥檛 mention the Spurs business. It seemed totally irrelevant now. Except when I remembered how I鈥檇 got here. And when I walked back to the tube, along the Strand, past the Lyceum, Savoy Hotel, Strand Palace, Adelphi, Criterion - at the very centre of the most exciting place in the world 鈥� I thought of the debt I owed to Eileen. And her Dad. Not forgetting my Headmaster without whom none of this could have happened.
He would have been pleased too, I鈥檓 sure, to know that after a month, with my job confirmed with a half-a-crown pay rise, that I was back playing for the Spurs Juniors once more. When a local club heard I鈥檇 left school and didn鈥檛 have a team to play for, they invited me to turn out for them every Saturday. We got to the final of a hospital cup for which, as it was a charity, Tottenham Hotspur had offered them the use of White Hart Lane. It was like coming home. True there were just a handful of spectators, but I played my heart out as if my life depended on it. And after, in the dressing room, Mr Anderson hands me a form to sign (鈥淭hought we hadn鈥檛 seen the last of you鈥�). I鈥檓 now a fully registered amateur with the Spurs. There must be a moral in this somewhere.
Miss Franklin ran the accounts department of G.S.Royds. The voucher department was part of the accounts department. Mr Wesson was its manager. Ferguson his assistant. Rawlins under him. Me at the very bottom. Under everyone. None of whom I particularly liked. Not that I minded in the very least, for most of the time I wasn鈥檛 even there. As the messenger boy, I was always out and about somewhere. It鈥檚 what I like best 鈥� doing things for others, yet being on my own. And being in the centre of London, in the middle of the war, couldn鈥檛 have been better.
My main task was to go to Fleet Street, twice a day, morning and afternoon. To get there I crossed over the junction between Waterloo Bridge, The Strand, Wellington Street and The Aldwych. Walk along The Strand past Bush House on one side and Somerset House on the other. Then the Law Courts, Middle Temple and the monument at Temple Bar that marks the boundary where Central London meets The City of London, and the beginning of Fleet Street. Off to the left is Fetter Lane, to the right Whitefriars Street. Between them a rabbit warren of narrow streets, alleyways, courts and yards that make up 鈥楩leet Street鈥�. At the bottom of the hill is Ludgate Circus and, up the other side, Ludgate Hill. Towering above it all is the great dome of St Pauls Cathedral. This then, was my hunting ground, every day for the next twelve months.
Mr Wesson would give me a list of newspapers, their Fleet Street address, dates of publication and those of our advertisements that might be found in its pages. I say 鈥榤ight鈥� because the rationing of newsprint had played havoc with schedules. Advertisements booked for a certain day might be put back or even not go in at all. This was common for many advertisers but Royds clients seem to live a charmed life. Newspapers went out of their way to fit us in somewhere or other, sometime or other. It was my job to find them. Then bring back a copy as proof of its appearance. This was used as evidence to support the invoice charged to the client. And, as we could keep ten per cent of the amount as commission for our trouble, was the financial fountainhead for the agency. No wonder that every single insertion of every single advertisement had to be hunted down with ruthless efficiency. Seeing myself as somewhere between Sherlock Holmes and Tarzan, I nimbly traverse the thickets of Fleet Street, reading glass at the ready.

Accrington Observer, Bacup Times, Dursley Gazette, Oswestry Times, Lakes Falmouth Packet, Runcorn Examiner, Wolverhampton Express, Widnes Examiner, Andover Times, Alnwick Gazette, Arbroath Courier, Louth Lincolnshire Express, Tunbridge Wells Kent & Sussex Courier, Monmouth Times, Middleton Observer, Melton Mowbray Gazette,
Neath Times, Oban Times, Merthyr Express, Oswestry Times,
Oldham Chronicle, Outhwaite Express, Petersfield Times,
Peterborough Gazette, Cambridge Herald, Pudsey Echo,
Stourbridge Express, Ripley South Yorkshire Gazette, Suffield Times, Truro Gazette, Axminster Times, Trowbridge Wiltshire Gazette, Ashton under Lyne Reporter, Congleton Chronicle,
Droitwich Courier, Doncaster Gazette, Andover Times,
Faversham Express, Croydon Times, Eccles Reporter,
Redditch Examiner, Orpington Gazette, Bath & Wilts Chronicle, Hinckley Times, Nuneaton Gazette, Maidstone Kent Messenger鈥�

I鈥檇 no idea there were so many newspapers. It must run into hundreds! At least that鈥檚 what it feels like it, up and down all these stairs. Good thing I鈥檝e a strong pair of legs! All the provincial papers have a London representative. The bigger ones handle groups under the same ownership and boast a carpet on the floor; the local weeklies of small, unheard of towns are crammed into cramped, difficult-to- find pokey offices smelling of mice and boiled cabbage. The odd thing is that comparing the newspapers themselves, one with another, there鈥檚 little to choose between them. The same summer fetes, council meetings, reader鈥檚 letters, cricket matches, dinner dances, cookery tips, and puffed-up editorials. That鈥檚 also true of the adverts: carpet sales, shoe shops, painters and decorators, bicycle repairs It鈥檚 as though you could move from one town to another and find it much the same as the last. Any differences between Land鈥檚 End and John O鈥橤roats, a mere nothing compared to the things we have in common. Perhaps it goes even further than that. Much further. Here am I, someone who鈥檇 never been further north than Southgate, or south to Bognor Regis, walking back along the Strand, rubbing shoulders with men and women from all over the world. Their uniforms, badges and buttons displaying their unique differences, but all of them behaving as it was the most natural thing in the world to be together.

English. Scots. Irish. Welsh. Czechs. Australians. Dutch. South Africans. Norwegians. Canadians. New Zealanders. Poles. French. Belgiums. Americans. Danes. Jamaicans. Indians鈥�

That summer, at lunchtimes, there would be an entertainment laid on at Lincoln鈥檚 Inn Fields, just off the Strand. Then all of these uniforms would stretch out on the lawns in the sunshine, listening to the likes of The Glenn Miller Army Airforce Band. The music thumping and bouncing around the trees and elegant buildings as though London was throwing a great big party. Anxious to give everyone a good time. Wanting to make them feel at home. Showing them our gratitude. But we were all deluding ourselves. Most of them didn鈥檛 want to be here, away from their homes, families, friends and loved ones. It hadn鈥檛 been their choice to give it all up, not knowing when they might get back or how it all might end. Not a party of celebration then, but a way of taking their mind off things.
It鈥檚 what I was also trying to do for myself. At weekends I would get my bike out of the shed, tuck a half-inch map, a couple of spanners a screwdriver and a packet of Mum鈥檚 sandwiches into the saddle bag, and set off up the road. Or down. Come to that, it really didn鈥檛 matter which way. I just wanted to get away for a bit. Away from the sirens, sandbags, blackout and the lurking ache at the back of the brain, waiting for the all-clear to sound. The air raids were now getting worse, particularly at night. They are now dropping huge land mines, suspended by a parachute, to float silently down in the dark, that were ten times more devastating than an ordinary bomb. Twice, within a few weeks, our own house had been blasted, leaving holes in the roof, shattered windows and ceilings stripped of plaster, from explosions nearly half a mile away.

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