PAPER MONEY by Ken Follett

stretch of the A1Z as his large Ford hit its stride; and waiting on a

cold, open-air Tube station in East London for the earliest train of the

day.

The BBC’s five o’clock bulletin had not cheered him. It had had all his

attention as he drove, for the route was so familiar that he negotiated

the bends and roundabouts automatically, from memory. The lead story

came from Westminster: the latest industrial relations bill had been

passed by Parliament, but the majority had been narrow.

Cole had caught the story the previous night on television. That meant

the morning papers would certainly have it, which in turn meant that the

Post could do nothing with it unless there were developments later in

the day.

There was a story about the Retail Price Index.

The source would be official government statistics, which would have

been embargoed until midnight: again, the mornings would have it.

It was no surprise to learn that the car workers’ strike was still on it

would hardly have been settled overnight.

Test cricket in Australia solved the sports editor’s problem, but the

score was not sufficiently sensational for the front page.

Cole began to worry.

He entered the Evening Post building and took the elevator. The newsroom

occupied the entire first floor. It was a huge, I-shaped open-plan

office. Cole entered at the foot of the I. To his left were the

typewriters and telephones of the copy takers, who would type out

stories dictated over the phone; to the right, the filing cabinets and

bookshelves of specialist writers–political, industrial, crime,

defense, and more. Cole walked up the stem of the I, through rows of

desks belonging to ordinary common-or-garden reporters, to the long news

desk which divided the room in two. Behind it was the U-shaped

sub-editors’ table, and beyond that, in the crosspiece of the I, was the

sports department semi-independent kingdom, with its own editor,

reporters, and subs.

Cole occasionally showed curious relatives around the place: he always

told them: “It’s supposed to work like a production line. Usually it’s

more like a bun fight.” It was an exaggeration, but it always got a

laugh.

The room was brightly lit, and empty. As deputy news editor, Cole had a

section of the news desk to himself. He opened a drawer and took out a

coin, then walked to the vending machine in Sport and punched buttons

for instant tea with milk and sugar. A teleprinter chattered to life,

breaking the silence.

As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped

open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and

cycle clips. Cole waved and called: “Morning, George.”

“Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?” George began to take off his coat.

The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George’s title

was Head Lad: he was chief of the office’s team of messengers. He lived

in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing

feat.

Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the

radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed

straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy–chairs were scattered

randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and

redecoration had been postponed in last year’s economy drive but the

scene was too familiar to register. Cole’s mind was on the first

edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.

Today’s paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition’s

pages already existed as semi cylindrical metal plates on the press

downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs,

and news written in such a way that its age would–it was hoped–be

overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor

and the front page for Arthur Cole.

Parliament, a strike, and inflation–they were all yesterday stories.

There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed

up with a today intro, like

“Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government’s narrow

escape …” There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday’s

disaster became today’s news story with “Dawn today revealed the full

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

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