2 Miller

It was Jack Miller, with whom the Thomson Organisation replaced the poetic Albert Mackie as editor of the Edinburgh Evening Dispatch, who brought a touch of Fleet Strret into my life. He had worked, it was said, for the Daily Sketch and other tabloids, nobody quite knew which, and since the Dispatch itself was a tabloid - albeit a discreetly intellectual one - he was deemed for reasons unspecified  to be a suitable man for the job. 

Roy Thomson had already done his reconnaissance of the paper, arriving by tram from the house he had bought in Murrayfield and padding quietly through the corridors of the lofty North Bridge building with his henchman, the menacingly-named Ben Floyd,  and had decided that the Dispatch needed to change into something more aggressive if it was to defeat its sedate local rival, the Evening News. Miller, it was said, had been selected after being sent on a Mediterranean freebie by one of the papers he worked for.  Failing to return to his office, he received a telegram telling him not to bother going back. That, we understood, was how Fleet Street operated.  Whether it was true or false, Miller was evidently available and the Thomson Organisation agreed to employ him.

The day he arrived, the Dispatch newsroom awaited him, if not with open arms, at least with a newsroom redesigned along London lines, with a large central table at which Miller would work, shunning a chair and standing upright in polished shoes to preside over his staff. He was an imposing figure, tall, jowly, unsmiling, sharp-nosed, short-sighted (he wore big glasses with black rims),  invariably dressed in a black pin-striped suit, the jacket of which he peeled off when matters became stringent.

When he first walked in I don’t recall him being introduced to anybody, but we knew who he was.  He suddenly appeared in our midst, dropping his black overcoat and homburg on the floor for a secretary to pick up. Strolling over to his table, he was ready for action. A blank copy of the day’s front page lay awaiting his attention, with samples of new and sensational type faces. He sketched a few quick squiggles and diagrams. The Dispatch was certainly going to bear his imprint.. 

A muttered editorial dialogue took place around the table but Miller already knew what he wanted. The paper had been planned ahead, Local news had to look important, even when  it wasn’t. Big headings were placed above very small stories. Miller’s assistant, the amiable Gregory Clayton, also from Fleet Street, worked from a smaller adjoining table. He also operated standing up and his job was to keep things flowing while his boss barked orders. 

Miller, once he got to know us,  gave us all nicknames. Mine was, simply, “Music Man.”  Every so often I would hear the words “Hey, Music Man” being yelled from across the room, so I always knew when he wanted me, which was surprisingly often. Even Miller, it seemed, saw the point in those days of a classical music critic, even if it was only as a sort of necessary evil. 

But it was with the news reporters and sub-editors, and with the dashing young Irish racing correspondent Cornelius Curran, that he had his most productive dialogues. Time passed.  He petrified us, but we got used to him. Circulation fell. Edinburgh did not fancy a London-style tabloid and detested the new typography.   

After a few months I was recruited  for national service in the RAF.  Miller, it seems, had not been informed of this. The day I left, it is said, he looked across the room and shouted “Where’s Music Man?”  When given the answer, he blustered that he was going to get me released. But he never did. When I returned two years later, Miller was gone. 

20 June 2014