by Murray Sayle
Knight turned to O’Toole. ‘Go and call the nearest copper. Digger,’ he said. ‘We’ll start the campaign right here. He can cart this lot down to the station.’
O’Toole started out of the room.
‘Oh, all right, all right,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I rent the whole board out for a fiver a week. Geezer comes round and puts his own cards up. I know nothing about it and I don’t want to know, see? I only have it there to attract my own customers.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Knight.
‘Dunno.’
Knight glanced at O’Toole, who turned again for the door. ‘Got a card here somewhere,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Perhaps I could look for it.’
‘Strictly confidential,’ said Knight. ‘No one will know where we got it. The shopkeeper raked through a drawer and brought out a grubby card:
OLIVER DAWSON ASSOCIATES
Advertising
221, Damascus Road
Camden Town
‘We appreciate your help,’ said Knight. ‘If Dawson doesn’t know we’re coming, we’ll know you’re sincere. Otherwise we might have to come and see you again.’
‘He won’t,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Always glad to oblige.’
As they left, he resumed the frenzied collection of his pictures. O’Toole felt his pocket: he still had a handful of them.
On the way, they passed Russell Square, and O’Toole wondered who was suffocating down in his basement now. Just round the corner was the pub where he had last seen Jenny, presumably forever, unless she took to posing for dirty pictures. O’Toole was still wondering what made a dirty picture dirty, considering that when you’d seen one you’d seen them all, when they arrived at Dawson’s office.
It was over a tobacconist’s, in a seedy shopping block. By opening doors which weren’t locked, Knight penetrated to a first-floor room looking over the street, O’Toole following. A man about thirty, with a long, thin nose and slicked-down fair hair was working at a desk. He seemed not at all put out by the interruption.
‘Sit down, boys,’ he said, waving them to chairs. ‘Won’t be a jiffy.’
Sure enough, he was working over a pile of blank visiting-cards with a fountain-pen, consulting a big notebook beside him before each card. There was a ginger-coloured briefcase with tarnished brass buckles on the desk, open and gaping towards him. He blotted the last card, stacked them and slipped them into the case, then looked up hospitably.
‘Oliver Dawson?’ asked Knight.
‘At your service,’ said Dawson, with a wide smile. ‘You’ve come to the right place. What’s your line, massage?’
‘I’m Norman Knight of the Sun and this is my colleague James O’Toole,’ said Knight, and paused for a reaction.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ said Dawson, ‘I’m always real glad to meet the Press. Looking for a story?’ There was no trace of alarm.
‘What’s your business exactly, Dawson?’ Knight asked.
‘Well, it used to be called publicity,’ said Dawson. ‘We’ve only recently reached the status of a profession if you know what I mean. The proper term is public relations.’
Even O’Toole could hear that there was something wrong with the accent, but Dawson used the jargon with a glibness he could have learnt only in pubs around Bond Street. Ex-barman, perhaps.
‘Many clients?’ asked Knight.
‘We’re in a fairly small way, so far,’ said Dawson. ‘Mainly the medical and theatrical professions.’
‘Whores, ponces, brothels?’ asked Knight.
‘Now, now, that’s dreadfully old-fashioned talk,’ said Dawson. ‘No one uses those words these days, you know. Let’s say my clients are broadminded people, shall we?’ His face lit up again with that neon smile, and O’Toole noticed he had long gums and short crooked teeth, like broken glass on top of a wall.
‘You’re living on immoral earnings,’ said Knight.
Dawson laid his hands palms down on the table, but made no attempt to rise.
‘There are many misunderstandings in the public mind,’ he said. ‘We are shaking off the bad old legacy from the past, you know. Don’t confuse us with the vaudeville advance men of former times. We work creatively, not to plug our clients indiscriminately, but to mould and guide the attitude of the public, to influence, in a straightforward way, of course, the editors of the mass media...’
‘Where are you getting this rubbish from?’ Knight cut in.
‘Patience, patience,’ said Dawson, with another pink flash. ‘Perhaps I have not found the right words to get my point across. I know there has been hostility toward us on the part of the working press, but you must remember that our interests do not basically conflict. We must work together to educate, to shape...’
‘Let’s get down to brass tacks,’ said Knight. ‘How many girls are on your books?’
‘Like I said, we are beginning in a small way,’ said Dawson. ‘I haven’t the precise figures at my fingertips, but I should say we have a couple of hundred accounts.’
‘How much each?’ asked Knight.
‘It depends, of course, on the service,’ said Dawson. ‘As a rough guide, I should say a guinea a week.’
‘You write all the cards yourself?’ asked Knight.
‘Now that’s an interesting point,’ said Dawson, ‘you would really be surprised at the selling power of those small window displays. Not the coverage of the mass media, of course, but the basic reader rate works out quite phenomenally low.’
‘What it says on the cards—do you think that up?’ asked Knight.
‘Of course, part of our service,’ said Dawson. ‘We aim at a balanced coverage of the various reader interests.’
‘Do the girls tell you exactly what they do?’ asked Knight.
Dawson smirked. ‘Have to be diplomatic, you know,’ he said. ‘Actually it’s nobody’s business but their own, is it now? My job is to get the customer to the point of sale, if you understand me. From there, my clients take over.’
‘Now that’s very interesting,’ said Knight. ‘You seem to be pioneering new techniques here, Mr. Dawson. I’m sure my editor will want to publish this story.’ O’Toole looked at him sharply, then at Dawson: Knight’s expression hadn’t changed and Dawson hadn’t noticed the switch in tone.
‘There’s no room for the old hit-or-miss methods,’ said Dawson with a modest shake of the head.
‘Our readers will want to know what you look like, of course,’ said Knight. ‘I wonder if you could spare the time to stop by at the office for a photograph?’
‘Of course,’ said Dawson.
‘We’re going back now,’ said Knight. ‘No time like the present, is there?’
‘That would be quite convenient, I could begin my rounds from the Fleet Street area,’ said Dawson. ‘I think it’s very important to establish the right relations with the news media, don’t you?’
They parked Dawson, briefcase under his arm, clearly enjoying the bustle of the office, in the waiting-room, and sent Jensen to take his picture. Then they went to Knight’s desk at the other side of the newsroom.
‘Nobody can be that simple-minded,’ said O’Toole.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Knight. ‘You can just never tell about people in advance. There are always surprises waiting for you in this business. If he’s silly enough to come into the office and pose for his portrait, why do it the hard way?’
‘I have a sudden temptation to explain things to him,’ said O’Toole.
‘Fight it,’ said Knight. ‘Anyway, I don’t think you could. He’s convinced himself that this is public relations and you’ll never shake him off it. It probably is, at that. What the hell is public relations, anyway?’
‘It means getting stories into the papers without paying for them,’ said O’Toole. ‘He’s certainly doing that.’
‘Good luck to him,’ said Knight. ‘Now, I think the time’s come to put all this stuff together. If you’d like to give a hand, I’ll be glad of your help. Not tha
t I can’t do it myself, of course.’
‘I’ll type and you can dictate,’ said O’Toole, pulling over a typewriter and winding in three sheets of paper and two carbons. ‘What’s this called?’
‘Call it first vice,’ said Knight. ‘We’ll write it in one long story to begin with and put an overall lead on later. I think we might kick off with Hawkesley, the vice czar of Soho. How about: “Today, after weeks of painstaking investigation, I can name the man who controls the vice web of London”?’
‘You’re flattering him,’ said O’Toole.
‘Be realistic,’ said Knight. ‘Is some other ponce going to sue us for libel because he’s really the man who controls London vice? Hawkesley would like to control it, even if he doesn’t.’
‘Just a suggestion, Norman,’ said O’Toole. ‘This might be better: “Today I can name the fat, ugly spider who sits at the centre of London’s web of vice—Henry Horsecollar Hawkesley” or whatever his middle name is.’
‘Nice swing to it, Digger,’ said Knight, ‘Get it down.’
O’Toole typed. ‘Now how about this, Norman?’ he asked, and went on typing:
This man is evil. He reaps the profits of the trade in shame while running none of the risks himself, and when the searchlight of the Sun’s investigation was turned on him, this rat tried to buy his way out with his tainted money!
‘Perhaps we ought to leave that last bit out about buying his way out,’ said Knight. ‘The readers might think he didn’t offer enough.’
‘Suspicious minds they’ve got, eh?’ said O’Toole, xxxing out the reference to the bribe.
‘Now I think we might work Eileen into the lead, too,’ said Knight. ‘What about this: “Hawkesley is not alone in his filthy trade. My probe has uncovered...”—well, what?’
‘A fit companion to him, a woman who has led an innocent young girl into the LOWEST PIT OF DEGRADATION,’ O’Toole suggested on the typewriter.
Knight read over his shoulder. ‘Pretty racy style you’re developing there, Digger,’ he said. ‘Innocent young girl is perhaps stretching it a bit, but no one will sue us for it.’
‘With all respect to you, this seems to be the way they want it written, Norman,’ said O’Toole.
‘If we don’t jazz it up, Starsh will do it for us,’ said Knight, ‘and I don’t suppose he’s ever spoken to a whore in his life. Now, can we get friend Dawson in pretty high up? How about this: “My survey of the seamy world of London vice has turned up an army of parasites who are growing fat on the shame of fallen women: even a man who has debased the profession of public relations by cynically advertising every kind of perversion and vice”.’
‘It’s long for the fourth par of the lead,’ said O’Toole. ‘Let’s break it up into two sentences. We’ve got one “fat” already so let’s say they’re growing rich on the shame of et cetera.’
‘The filthy ponces,’ said Knight. ‘Get it down.’
As O’Toole was typing Knight nudged him. He looked up and saw Dawson, smiling, mincing across the office.
‘Well, it didn’t hurt, eh, Mr. Dawson?’ said Knight,
‘I just have a small favour to ask, boys,’ said Dawson. O’Toole was unobtrusively winding the sheet out of the typewriter, but Dawson didn’t notice. ‘Could I pop in and see the photos? I’d like the best one to go in, you know.’
‘Of course,’ said Knight. ‘Come back tomorrow, around the same time if you can.’
‘I could manage that,’ said Dawson. ‘Be good now.’
As soon as he was out of earshot O’Toole wound the sheets back into the typewriter.
‘Now, let’s see, Digger,’ said Knight. ‘What about this: “It was a public-spirited informant who put me on to the track of Eileen, the vampire of Knightsbridge”. Might encourage some more readers to grass on these procuresses.’
‘Fair enough,’ said O’Toole, typing.
O’Toole stood modestly a half-pace back at Knight’s elbow as he gave the first instalment of the series to Starsh,
Starsh read the opening paragraphs.
‘Ah, there’s that old reforming zeal, Norman,’ said Starsh. ‘I’ll go through this and send it down to the Judge. You’d better go and see him this afternoon, and take James along. I take it James is your corroboration for most of this.’
‘He gave me some useful ideas on the story, too,’ said Knight loyally.
‘He’s quite a find, for a bushwhacker.’
‘We can always use a good man,’ said Starsh. O’Toole, uneasy, put his hands in his pockets and encountered, and identified, the dirty pictures.
‘I’ll let you have the next piece tomorrow,’ said Knight, turning to go.
‘Got a moment, James?’ Starsh said to O’Toole.
O’Toole stepped forward.
‘You’ve made quite a hit there,’ said Starsh confidentially. ‘Norman usually keeps a wary eye on his assistants, in case they get ideas about taking over.’
‘Never noticed it,’ said O’Toole, resenting something: perhaps a buried guilt. ‘Here’s something that will interest you, Nick.’ He opened the front of his coat, put a dirty picture into the gap and showed it, bending over, to Starsh.
Starsh leaned forward, smiling, saw what it was, and swallowed hard at the air. O’Toole thought he was going to be sick. Then he leaned out a hand to the corner of his desk and clutched his stomach with the other.
O’Toole, triumphant, patted his thin shoulder.
‘Really, James,’ said Starsh helplessly.
‘I’m surprised, Nick,’ said O’Toole, it’s the raw material of this industry, isn’t it? The shame of big-hearted Britain.’
Starsh was getting hold of himself. ‘That’s not very funny,’ he said. ‘We’ve all got work to do, you know. In particular, I’ve got a little job for you.’
O’Toole, reproved, stuffed the picture back in his pocket.
‘You’ve seen the letters to the editor feature,’ said Starsh.
‘Bright little snippets of everyday life, the trials and tribulations of ordinary folk.’
‘Five guineas for the best laugh of the week,’ said O’Toole. ‘I never miss them.’
‘The quality’s poor this week,’ said Starsh. ‘You can look at these letters from readers if you like, but I can tell you now there’s nothing there for us. There hardly ever is. All they can think of is a variation on the letters we published last week, which is just what we don’t want. Now, you bring your formidable intellect to bear on the problem and let me have a dozen bright, interesting letters, will you?’
‘What about?’ asked O’Toole.
‘You must have some grudges to get off your chest,’ said Starsh. ‘Here’s your chance. I don’t want subtle undergraduate stuff, of course: just a dozen honest-to-God heart-warming rib-ticklers, and get right off the sort of subjects these idiots have been writing in about.’ He handed O’Toole a parti-coloured bundle of handwritten letters.
O’Toole nodded and took the letters back to his desk. They were, indeed, pretty uninspiring: a tedious string of moans about gossiping neighbours, surly doctors, bullying foremen: ‘Something I read in your paper last week reminded me of the time...’ and so on. There was a basic fallacy in the whole idea. The sort of people who read the Sun weren’t likely to interest each other, or anyone else, in their views of life.
Bright little snippets of everyday life, thought O’Toole. Now let’s see. I’m bustling about my little kitchen in Bradford stewing a cow’s udder or whatever they eat up there waiting for hubby to come home from the mill. A woman’s life is hard, especially at certain times. Our Jack’s been done for GBH and daughter’s up the pole. Make a catchy rhumba. Still, I can face life with a grin because there are always those heart-warming rib-ticklers, so have a basinful of laughs with us, chums, in your family paper, the Sunday Sun.
For a second, O’Toole wondered what the lives of the faceless millions could be like: whether they bled for what Jennies had done to them, or what they might have to
do to Elizabeths; whether they raged against Barrs and Rogers and Mary Lous and, deceiving them, cut the ground from under their own feet and felt themselves sinking into the slime; then he wrenched himself out of this mood with the thought that these were only his own problems, not life in modern Britain, and he flicked through his mind the stock subjects for Brighter Letters to the Editor. Babies, bottoms, bloomers, wife’s cold feet and Hubby’s pay packet, the landlord, the lodger and the mother-in-law. Twelve twists on the old themes and we’re in business.
My mother-in-law makes me give her my unopened pay envelope every week...he began in desperation, studied the possible permutations of this situation for several minutes and then wrenched the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and crumpled it up.
My husband’s feet are so cold in bed that I make him...he began again, but this opened such a field of painful reminiscence that he tore it up, too.
Jesus, Franz Kafka used to knock himself on the head just like this to produce real writing, O’Toole thought. But then, he got nothing out of it, either.
Then a more promising line occurred to him:
My dear old Mum has just passed on and in her will she asks me to have her ashes scattered over the beautiful rose garden in our public park. But my husband says I can’t do this because they’ve passed a law against it. He says it’s called the Litter Act. Is this really true? (Mrs) Elsie Shaw, Huddersfield.
O’Toole reread his effort. It might tickle some particularly thick ribs, but it’s not really heart-warming, he decided. It might do for a filler, especially as I’m not going to win any five guineas, anyway. Now, what else. There’s only one place to go for the real stuff about the family situation, and his Mum called him Sigmund.
My daughter says the strangest things. The other day she remarked, ‘When I grow up I’m going to marry Daddy’ and when I told her that Daddy couldn’t have two wives, she said, Oh, that’s all right, you’ll be dead long before that. I’ll be his second wife.’ I wonder who could have put this funny idea into her head? (Mrs) Shirley Roberts, Idle, Yorks.
That one really smells of the Public Library, thought O’Toole. Starsh will pick it up for certain. Still, it might just scrape by as heart-warming. Now, mum, dad, the kids and the milkman, and what have we got? I was advised to give my husband plenty of rope, and now he’s skipped. No, that’s really too old, and anyway it’s the wrong dialect. What about