philately or model railways. As it was, the nearest they could get to
tennis was a coin-in-the-slot machine which displayed a miniature tennis
court on a television screen: you moved your player by twiddling a knob.
However, it did have three bars and a restaurant, and it was a good
place to meet people from the Daily Mail or the Mirror who might one day
give you a job.
Kevin got there shortly before five o’clock. He bought a pint of draft
beer and sat at a table, talking idly to a reporter from the Evening
News whom he knew vaguely. But his mind was not on the conversation:
inside, he was still seething.
The reporter went away after a little while, and Kevin saw Arthur Cole
come in and go to the bar.
To Kevin’s surprise, the deputy news editor brought his drink across to
the table and sat down.
By way of greeting Arthur said: “Quite a day.”
Kevin nodded. He really did not want the older man’s company: he wanted
to be alone to sort out how he felt.
Arthur sank half his beer in one, and set his glass down with a sigh of
satisfaction. “I didn’t get one at lunchtime,” he explained.
Just to be polite, Kevin said: “You’ve been holding the fort on your
own.”
“Yes.” Cole took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and put them
on the table. “I’ve said no to those all day. I wonder how long I can
keep it up.”
Kevin looked surreptitiously at his watch, and wondered whether to move
on to El Vino’s.
Arthur said: “You’re probably thinking you made a mistake ever to join
this profession.”
Kevin was startled. He had not credited Cole with that much
perspicacity.
“I am.”
“You might be right.”
“That’s very encouraging.”
Cole sighed. “That’s your trouble, you know. You will come out with
these clever remarks.”
“If I’ve got to lick boots, I am in the wrong profession.”
Arthur reached for the cigarettes, then changed his mind. “You’ve
learned something today, haven’t you? You’re beginning to understand
what it’s all about, and if there’s anything to you at all, you’ve
acquired a trace of humility.”
Kevin was angered by the patronizing tone. “It amazes me that after
what’s happened today there is nobody around here with a sense of
failure!”
Cole laughed bitterly, and Kevin realized he had struck a chord:
Arthur’s sense of failure must be more or less permanent.
The older man said: “You people are a new breed, and I suppose we need
you. The old way–making everyone start at the bottom and work their way
up slowly–was better at producing reporters than executives. God knows
there’s a shortage of brains in newspaper management. I hope you’ll
stick it out. Want another pint?”
Arthur went to the bar. Kevin was somewhat bemused. He had never had
anything but criticism from Cole, yet now the man was asking him to stay
in newspapers and become a manager.
That was not in his plans, but only because he had never thought of it.
It was not what he wanted: he liked finding things out, writing, working
for the truth.
He was not sure. He would think about it.
When Arthur came back with the drinks, Kevin said: “If this is what
happens when I get a big story, how am I ever going to get anywhere?”
Arthur gave that bitter laugh again. “You think you’re alone? Do you
realize I was news editor today? At least, for you, there will be
another story.” He reached for the packet of cigarettes, and this time
he lit one.
Kevin watched him inhale. Yes, he thought, for me there will be another
story.
For Arthur, there won’t.