The editors in my life (12)

The chance to become The Scotsman’s first cultural correspondent in London came swiftly in the form of a letter from Tom Dawson, the paper’s new London editor. Talk of such an appointment had been much in the air, he said, and he wondered if I would like to have a talk with him.

I must not delude myself into saying, at this point,  that I thought  the appointment had been created specially for me.  In fact, as I was to discover later, it had been “in the air” for some time, and had originally been offered to Sir John Betjeman, who turned it down because the pay  was not high enough. The Scotsman was a distinguished newspaper, but it was also a canny one. In the end, Betjeman’s loss was my gain. My talk with Tom Dawson proved fruitful. The job would involve a weekly interview, along with reviews of major London musical events.

A starting date was agreed, and I returned to the BBC news room to deliver my resignation to the senior news editor, a man called Rumsom, whom I had previously met only once in the course of a year at Broadcasting House. Rumsom (nicknamed Rummy) smiled and reminded me that I had a contract. This, I was aware, was on its borderline, and Rumsom smiled again when I said so. He was not sure, he said, that he could release me. People did not just leave the BBC.  For a minute, he continued to be obstructive, pointing out the BBC’s need for me and the desirability that I continue. There was also the money element to be considered. Altogether things seemed to be growing ominous. Then he smiled again  and agreed that I could leave.

Broadcasting House in central London, for all its fame and architectural handsomeness, was not a place I would miss. The Scotsman’s cramped and cluttered little office on the edge of Fleet  Street, was much more my sort of scene.  Built like a lighthouse, with one smallish room on every floor (but at least, unlike the original Edinburgh office on North Bridge; with a lift to take us up and down) it was immediately appealing.

 My salary had dropped but my status had risen. The newsroom, housing the editorial staff, was near the top, with cubicles for the editor and two two women writers. There were desks for Richard Kershaw, the diplomatic correspondent, Michael Lake, the industrial correspondent, Michael Leapman, who had become the new commonwealth correspondent, Richard Jerman, who ran a sort of cottage industry as features writer, and other specialists.

Hermione, the secretary, sat in the midst of us.  Anita Christophersen, the fashion writer, had the privacy of a cubicle. The desk I was allotted was in the window. Political writers were on the floor above.  We were a team, though most of us would move on before long.  There was a spare desk for Edinburgh colleagues on London  assignments, which happened less often than I expected.  This  would be my life for the next three years.
20 August 3014