Young man…. contact the Editor
Press Club member David Dunckley, former Deputy Editor Nights of The Birmingham Post & Mail, reminisces about his first job in journalism more than 70 years ago, taking his first beer, interviewing a “dead” licensee – and getting around on a bike!
The advertisement in the Melton Mowbray Times was short and to the point: “Young man, if you still want to be a reporter please contact the Editor”.
Those 14 words were to open up a world which I came to live and breathe 24 hours a day for most of my working life. They later led to assignments throughout Europe, into Africa, America, Hong Kong, Japan and flying in Concorde and an Airship, as well as doing aerobatics in a Red Arrows plane. So there were perks alongside the sometimes unbelievably chaotic working hours.
This life all began at 49 Nottingham Street on Monday, 20 September 1954 in a town very different to today; a smaller town where everyone knew virtually everyone (and, it seemed, everyone’s business) where I had been born, grown up and educated. A good starting point for an eager 16 year old trainee reporter who knew everyone or at least their close relative . . . and thought he knew everything! I had a lot to learn.
It was a town where everyone expected and got their 15 minutes of fame, even if they had to wait until they were dead. The clarion call of the then editor Les Chester was: “Names laddie, that’s what sells newspapers.” You could get a mention in the “Times” through your educational, theatrical or criminal endeavours, your wedding, your golden wedding, your diamond wedding or some other reportable occasion in which you had taken part and, be assured, you could rest in peace with an editorial obituary. Everyone got one.
And, if the deceased was of sufficient importance in the town, then it was the young reporter’s job to stand at the church door and collect the names of the mourners. (Oh, why was it always raining and the ink smudging?). People who sent wreaths could get their name in too, but in a separate transaction with the advertisement department at a halfpenny a name.
And we mustn’t forget the miscreants who appeared before Melton magistrates (comprised of upright local citizens) sitting in the Police Station courthouse or Belvoir magistrates (landed gentry) in a converted dovecote on the Duke of Rutland’s estate. From drunk and disorderly in the gutter or with a bike – even a pram - to poaching and the rare case of murder (one of which happened on my second day at work, what excitement for me) they all merited column inches.
Garden fetes, bazaars, flower shows, anywhere where people congregated, had to be reported. “And make sure you get the names of the winners and the stallholders, make sure you get ALL the names, even the one who has just nipped off to the loo or to get a tea,” was always the instruction. Miss one and it was guaranteed there would be a complainant at the front office counter when the paper came out on Friday.
Criticise in any small measure the performance or the singing of a lead in the annual Gilbert and Sullivan offering from the Grammar School and there could well be a visit from an offended Mum at that selfsame counter. Sometimes the critique was not what they had hoped or even expected to see. Sometimes that doorway on to Nottingham Street seemed paper thin, but we had to take the knocks as much as the plaudits.
At that time the directors and therefore owners of the newspaper, were men of substance and prominent local figures, although I don’t recall them noticeably interfering: Harold Barker, solicitor and superintendent of St Mary’s Sunday School, AP Marsh, solicitor, Clerk to the Justices as well as Coroner, Robert Brownlow, chemist and Chairman of the Grammar School Governors and Arthur Shouler, leading auctioneer and dominant presence at the all- important Cattle Market.
It was a quartet, I recall, who didn’t take too kindly to the Melton Times itself becoming the talk of the town. It was when the editor chose the paint to do up the office frontage. Whether it was devilment or a misunderstanding – it couldn’t have been colour blindness, he was a bomber pilot during the war – in the event, the office stood out from its neighbours in a glorious shocking pink. The townsfolk flocked to stare, standing in groups the other side of the road, but it soon reverted to its rather conventional cream.
Six-day working weeks were the norm (Saturday sport needed coverage) – and Sundays too if a church service, parade, entertainment or sporting event required. Not forgetting the three or four evenings a week because the Canary and Budgerigar Society AGM and like organisations, or Melton Urban District Council or Trades Council meetings, needed the newspaper’s attention. No time off in lieu in those days.
My wife says that as our courtship survived that, anything that came later like long absences erratic working hours and years working as night editor was child’s play. We lived for the moment.
The Melton Times introduced me to my first beer – I hated it but persevered – my first formal dinner, a Burns’ Night if I recall, the Hunt Meets, Point to Points, Royal Visits, the importance of minutiae in all our lives and much, much more.
In those early days there were some things I became inured to. Visiting grieving relatives often led to being invited to view the deceased in the other room– “he looks so peaceful” – and feeling obliged to do so rather than upset them. And interviewing the parents of lads I went to school with who had been tragically killed.
But there were the more amusing sides like going to report the death of the then landlord of the Generous Briton - who despatched me with a few curt words while leaning from his
bedroom window, very much alive and annoyed that his slumber had been disturbed after a heavy night. I often wondered how he had upset our informant.
And then, of course, there were the Golden and Diamond Weddings. The details would be written up usually early in the week and I would have to visit them again on the day we went to press. Only one lady ever spotted the reason for my call. Usually I pretended I was just checking on any surprise guests or unusual present that had turned up. Fortunately only once was I greeted by the weeping widow whose husband hadn’t quite reached the day. A quick rewrite of the story was called for to avoid any embarrassment.
And where did we get much of this information? As the youngest reporter my morning began with a personal visit to the Fire Station, the War Memorial Hospital, St Mary’s Infirmary, as it was then, the Ambulance Station and the Police Station to glean the overnight happenings. Then there was the weekly trawl of the undertakers, florists, the religious establishments, the vicarage, manse and presbytery, Register Office, function rooms, anywhere where news might be lurking or something might be happening.
Funny really, nowhere in that advertisement did it say “bike required”, because I couldn’t have done the job without it. The editor would often see ways of saving on bus fares, after all villages like Asfordby, Scalford, Burton Lazars and the like “aren’t that far! “
And all for the equivalent today of a weekly pay packet of £1.75. But I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it; I was learning my trade from the bottom up in a microcosm of the world. I’d found a job I loved and never “worked” another day in my life.
Oh, during the last few months before I became 18 and called up for National Service the editor asked me to spend a few weeks showing a new recruit – my successor - the ropes. This ex-Royal Marine was a natural and by the time I came out of my two years in the Army he was already the News Chronicle’s man in the south west.
Charles Wilson was his name, who went on to edit national newspapers like The Times to name but one of a number and was also managing director of the Mirror Group in the ‘90s. A man hailed by his peers as “one of the outstanding editors of his generation”
Naturally I agree!
Photos: David Dunckley, who spent 20 years at the Birmingham Post & Mail, pictured now… and then
