I haven’t a clue what he is talking about. He seems to be reading from the jottings on an invisible notepad. Bearing in mind Ollie’s advice not to agree to anything prematurely, I do the first half of a nod, raising my eyebrows meaningfully.
‘Who has a responsibility?’
‘We do. The Spear. The Voice of the Nation. The nation has spoken but now we must channel what was said and say it afresh. Shape what is said next. Voice what happens next. I want the Spear to drive forward what this whole thing has been and continues to be about, whatever that is. You with me?’
I do the second, downward half of the nod. Very slowly. I need to check something.
‘Are you talking about the referendum?’
‘Of course.’
‘The referendum on Scottish independence?’
‘What else? The one on whether we exit Europe isn’t due for ages, if it ever happens.’
‘Okay. It’s just that the independence referendum was five weeks ago. The nation, as you point out, has spoken. Quite decisively. Against independence.’
‘True. But it’s not over, is it? Anybody can see it’s not over.’
He sounds like a disappointed Yes voter. As if he wants a replay.
‘But the Spear came out decisively for No. You won. So I’m confused. You’re not about to take a new, post-referendum position on the referendum, are you?’
He looks shocked. ‘No! Well, not exactly. But if we’re to shape the future, we have to be cognisant of the mood of the people. We have to reach out to those we previously disagreed with. Bring them on board. Persuade them that we’re on their side.’
‘Even if you aren’t?’
‘We will be. I’ll level with you, Douglas. I said things aren’t desperate, but that’s not to say they aren’t tough. They are tough. You know that. Tough, but not desperate.’
‘Not that desperate,’ I can’t help interjecting. ‘Yet.’
‘Exactly. The prospects for our industry are not rosy. Here at the Spear we’ve been losing readers year on year’ – he hesitates, as if he’s just recognised the opening lines of a poem and is half-minded to draw it to my attention – ‘but now we think we’re getting down to a hard core. People who’ll always want a daily newspaper. But what do they want it for? Not for news! Who gets their news from a newspaper these days? I don’t! Those days are gone. What these hardcore readers want is opinion. Lots of it. The cut and thrust of debate. Provocation and outrage. The daily chit-chat. Let me tell you something: the referendum was good for us. Our sales steadied, they even picked up a little. People were engaged. So now we want to hold on to that hard core, and to grow it. And here’s something else you already know: talk is cheap. Filling the pages with opinion is a damn sight easier than filling it with real news – I mean real, original news stories. Gathering stories from scratch is expensive. Recycling stories from the internet and other media is free. To put it bluntly: more chat, less facts.’
‘Fewer.’ The grammar pedant in me can’t resist. Liffield’s slogan doesn’t even rhyme properly.
‘If you say so. The bottom line is, we can make a profit on that model. We can survive and prosper. We need to take the news out of newspapers.’
This, then, is what Tuesday’s management meeting was about, and the invisible notes he is reading are from that meeting. As he has just admitted, though, he is hardly telling me anything I don’t already know.
‘But to pull in as many readers as possible,’ Liffield continues, ‘we need to soften our editorial position. Blur it, if you like. You’re right, the referendum result was decisive, but not that decisive. Forty-five per cent voted for independence. If the latest opinion polls are remotely accurate, if another referendum were held tomorrow Yes might just sneak it.’
‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘Opinion’s a fickle beast.’
‘Whatever. But tell me this. Even if the polls are wrong, why would we alienate nearly half our potential readership anyway?’
‘How about out of principle?’ I suggest. ‘You genuinely don’t think independence is a good idea, and you said so and will go on saying it. Or has the Spear had second thoughts?’
‘Let’s say we’re alert to the possibilities. Circumstances change. One of our rivals – the only paper that came out for Yes – has seen its circulation leap.’
‘So?’
‘So, this tells us that all these pro-indy people are really engaged, and that they can be wooed.’
These pro-indy people: a phrase suggesting that they are distasteful to him; that he would prefer to keep them at a distance but knows he can’t. It is time, I feel, for a recap.
‘Let me see if I’m getting this right. The referendum generated a lot of popular interest in politics, and the Spear, like other papers, was a beneficiary. This has slowed the decline in your sales. You want to build on that experience. You can’t afford to do real news but you can do lots of opinion and the core readers you’re left with seem to be happy with that. The company is happy because that model is profitable. And you’re happy because it’s easy to recycle stories from the internet, even leaving aside the question, where does the internet get most of its stories if not from newspapers?’
‘Leave that aside.’
‘Okay. A newspaper isn’t a newspaper if it doesn’t take a line on the big issues of the day, but you want to keep on board the readers you’ve got, and gain some more, presumably poaching them from rival papers. To do that you have to blur the Spear’s editorial position. Be all things to all men. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘And all women. Don’t forget the women. You’ve got it, Douglas.’
‘And as far as Scottish independence is concerned, you need to blur your position on that too?’
‘Basically, blurring is good. We have to get away from the binary choice that the referendum represented: on the one hand, Yes; on the other hand, No. Life’s not like that.’
‘Aye it is.’
‘No it isn’t. I’m not interested in how people voted five weeks ago. The referendum is history and we have to move on. And the Spear can be at the forefront of that moving-on-ness. No more black and white: we can occupy the grey area. We need to be for as well as against.’
‘So when I mentioned principle, I was a bit wide of the mark?’
‘This isn’t about principles, it’s about survival.’
‘And that’s your Idea?’
‘No, that’s the context.’
‘We’re still on context?’
‘Context is crucial. Now, the Idea. Over the next few months I want to take Scotland’s temperature. This is where you can have a role. I want to do a national audit, a cultural and intellectual stocktaking. Who are we? What are we? Why are we? To be or not to be? Stands Scotland where it did?’
‘That tired old horse.’
‘That’s Shakespeare for you. One cliché after another.’
‘That’s another tired old horse.’
Liffield leans forward, aiming an accusatory finger at me. ‘You sound tired yourself, Douglas. A tad jaded, if I may say so. You want to hear the rest?’
I nod, yes please. Partly I am keen to hear how bad it is. Partly I want a glimpse of what my role might be. Two days earlier he was saying I didn’t have one.
‘The Idea is to home in on ideas. The Idea of Scotland. That’s what the series will be called. Interviews, profiles, essays. Big themes. Science. The Arts. Law. Education. Religion. The Land. Lifestyle. All seen through a tartan lens.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a figure of speech.’
‘Is it? It sounds a bit limiting. A bit pro-indy, even.’
‘Got to capture the territory first, Douglas, that’s how I see it. Big themes – and big names, too – but reassuringly familiar. Don’t frighten those horses you mentioned. And when I say big names I don’t mean politicians. They’ve been hogging the limelight too long. I don’t mean celebrities either. Who cares what a pop star or a tennis player thinks? Delete that,
of course we do. But for this series I’m looking for more gravitas, more heft. Know what I mean?’
Indeed I do. I can see the gravitas oozing from the non-existent oak panelling. As for heft, it’s a word I hate. Book reviewers use it to describe tedious literary novels that they feel obliged, the tedium notwithstanding, to admire. I’ve used it myself. Context, as the man said, is crucial.
‘Who do you have in mind?’
‘Professors of this and that. Historians who don’t bore their readers to death. Scientists who splash around in stuff the rest of us don’t even recognise as stuff. A theologian or two. Same as the scientists, only different. High Arts people like composers and film directors. Business colossi.’
‘Colossi?’
‘I mean people who’ve been around the block a few times, not just been dragons on Dragons’ Den.’
‘I thought that was how they got to be dragons. They’ve been around the block a few times.’
‘Those turds? They put bets on sales pitches. They don’t make anything. They’re not going to change the way we think about our existence, the way scientists and artists can.’
This is the first really interesting thing he has said. I acknowledge this with a full up-and-down nod.
‘That’s good.’
‘It is, isn’t it? A writer or two, obviously, but not your usual crime, sex and swearing mob. Writers of books that are likely to last beyond the current decade. Where will all this Tartan Noir be in a few years?’
‘People still read Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Yeah, but he was a genius. I mean writers who write serious books.’
‘Books with heft?’
‘Exactly. Literature. The stuff you don’t read for fun. And not just fiction. Philosophy. It would be good to have a philosopher in the mix, don’t you think? There must be one or two knocking around this country somewhere.’
‘I’m not sure. The last time I checked, some of our finest universities were trying to close down their Philosophy departments. Not cost-effective.’
‘I’ll have someone look into that. Anyway, I’m going to run these pieces on a regular basis – once a week if possible. Some of them might be in two parts, perhaps four thousand words in total – it depends on the subject matter or the person we’re profiling. After a year we’ll pull them all together into a book: The Idea of Scotland. I think it’ll take. A Christmas bestseller. This is where you come in. I have a number of people in mind to do the interviews and/or write them up, and you’re top of my list. You up for this?’
I wasn’t even on the list on Tuesday, but John Liffield seems to have deleted Tuesday.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you know what you’re doing. Like those dragon people, you’ve been around the block. The kids in here these days, we’ve taught them to cross-check information on websites but they don’t know how to do human interaction and make it work on the page. Anyway, I can’t spare them, I’ve got a paper to put together and that requires them to be at their keyboards. Whereas you can be out in the field, working away undisturbed. It’ll take you as long as it takes you. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you a decent fee and any reasonable expenses. I want these pieces to stand up in years to come. I want people to say, “The Spear led the way.” ’
Another rhyming couplet. I’m not sure if he noticed it. He hasn’t specified the decency of the fee, but it doesn’t matter. I know I am going to agree. From a position of deep suspicion and doubt, I have moved to one of doubt and shallow enthusiasm. I don’t think much of the Idea – I am unenthused by the prospect of a prolonged bout of national navel-gazing of the kind he is proposing – but even so I can see the potential for some interesting articles. And for some long-term earnings for Douglas Findhorn Elder.
‘It’s a big plan,’ I say. ‘And there was I, thinking the Spear was economising.’
‘We are. That’s why we made you redundant, you and the others. It’s staff costs that kill us. Now you’re freelance we can afford you. We’re getting slimmer and fitter all the time.’ He stands, drops his plastic cup into a bin and fetches himself more water, using a fresh cup. He must be worried about infecting himself. On the way back he appraises me, like a doctor or a tailor. ‘You’re not looking so bad yourself. Thought you looked well on Tuesday. Wasn’t so sure a few minutes ago. Must be the light. Are you fit?’
He sits down, leans forward again, palms down on the desk. He might be preparing to leap across and wrestle me. Apart from the dark hair, yellowish complexion, long, sharp-cornered body and almost everything else about him, momentarily he bears a striking resemblance to Vladimir Putin.
I assure him that I am fit, although actually the word I use is ‘fine’.
‘Good. Ready for your first assignment, then?’ The metallic rasp of his voice becomes somehow more Slavic. An orchestra plays a few chords that conjure vast, sweeping plains and wild horses.
‘Sounds exciting.’ I am wondering if I should stand up, put my palms on my side of the desk and crouch in expectation. ‘Where are you sending me?’
With these words I seem to have accepted the mission.
‘The back of beyond, and then some,’ he says, sitting back with a smile. ‘Guess who I want you to interview?’
I shake my head. I don’t know anyone at that address.
He pauses, no doubt for dramatic effect. He is glowing with savage anticipation, and sweat glistens between his upper lip and his huge, sharp nose.
‘Rosalind Munlochy.’
I can’t help it. I disappoint him.
‘Who?’
POSSIBLE NOVELISTS
‘Who the fuck is Rosalind Munlochy?’ is Ollie Buckthorn’s way of putting it.
I couldn’t leave the Spear’s premises without dropping by to observe the Erstwhile Colleagues at their toil, but after a while they tire of my idle chatter and Ollie offers to escort me off the premises. He shows me out via a fire exit at the rear of the building. I update him on the interview while he pollutes the air with a cigarette.
‘That was what I wanted to know. I had this vague notion that I’d come across her, but I couldn’t think why. I thought she might possibly have been a novelist.’
‘We’ll talk about possible novelists in a minute.’
‘And it turns out she was. And a poet. And a politician – MP for somewhere in the Highlands after the war.’
‘What war?’
‘Second. World.’
‘That’s a while ago. Are we talking about the 1940s?’
‘We are.’
‘What breed of politician?’
‘Radical socialist. She was in the Labour Party.’
‘Ah,’ Ollie says. ‘In those days you could be both.’
‘But before that she was a communist. And a nationalist before that. Or possibly after. Liffield wasn’t certain.’
‘He’s having you on. Rosalind Munlochy? There’s no such person.’
‘Oh, there is.’ I proffer a folder of printouts and photocopies which Liffield has given me. ‘He’s dug up quite a bit of stuff about her from the archive. We checked online too. According to Wikipedia she was a Liberal.’
‘That could be true. They’re a funny lot, Highlanders. Any Tory tendencies in her profile, just to complete the set?’
‘I don’t know. She seems to own some land up there, so maybe.’
‘Up where?’
‘I’m not quite sure. I need to check on a map. The surprising thing is, she’s still alive.’
‘Why is that surprising?’
‘Because she’s very, very old. She was born in 1914.’
‘How propitious. Or should that be ominous?’
‘Take your pick. John Liffield’s certainly treating it as one or the other. He says it’s Meant To Be. In this year of years – the centenary of the First World War, the year of the referendum – here she is, not gone but forgotten, and it’s her centenary too. The birth of the modern age – the age of industrial war and mass communications – she�
�s the live link, the woman who holds the two ends of that hundred-year story in her crooked wee hands. Rosalind Munlochy, Mother of the Nation. Liffield was almost lyrical at the prospect of reintroducing her to her people. There might even have been a tear in his eye.’
‘Like I said,’ Ollie says, ‘he’s taking the piss.’
‘No, he’s serious. I’m going to do this big profile of her, in two parts. I’m planning to go up there to interview her next week.’
‘Up where again?’
‘Wherever she is. I’ll find it. She’s away in the wilds but that’s part of the adventure.’
‘Adventure? Have I just woken up in an Enid Blyton book? What currency is Liffield paying you in, lemonade?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Let me rephrase that. And the fee is?’
‘Pretty decent actually. All reasonable expenses. You know.’
‘So you didn’t discuss it.’
‘Oh, it was discussed. I just haven’t pinned down the details yet.’
‘In other words, you don’t know what he’s going to pay you.’
‘Come on, Ollie. I have to show willing – and a bit of flexibility. If this works out there could be a lot more in the pipeline.’
Ollie grinds the end of his fag out with a ferocious heel. ‘What are you, some kind of overgrown intern? Whatever happened to workers’ solidarity? Fixed rates of pay? No, don’t tell me, it’s the times we live in. Well, at least if you go gallivanting off looking for this Munlochy woman you’ll be too busy to waste any more time writing a novel. You weren’t serious about that, were you?’
‘I was. I am. As a matter of fact, Ollie –’
‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t speak about it. And don’t, whatever other favours you may be looking for, ask me to read the opening chapters. I’m not giving you any feedback. I refuse to encourage you, not one tiny bit.’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘My problem? I don’t think I’ve got a problem, Dougie. You’re the one writing a novel. Here you are with twenty-plus years of journalism under your belt, an ability to string sentences together in a coherent and effective manner, reality knocking at the door saying, “Hello, let’s talk about me”, and you want to indulge yourself with an excursion into the La-La Land of contemporary fucking fiction. What’s going on?’
To Be Continued Page 9