In olden times, when newspapers’ news rooms were smoke-filled bedlams with people rushing hither and yon with galley proofs and handfuls of copy; when tea-stained mugs abounded and half-eaten sandwiches littered the paper-strewn table; when typewriters clattered and when shouted instructions reverberated from the walls, there was one sanctum where silence reigned and all was order and discipline. The Library.
When My Friend Harry was variously engaged in newspaper production in Newcastle upon Tyne, the library was a handy off-shoot from the big room where sub-editors slaved away in their shirtsleeves. Something needed to be checked? Then nip up to the library. Quick browse through an appropriate folder or equally quick dip into an appropriate reference book, and back to the treadmill with the required nugget of information.
The librarian? By tradition, he was a clapped-out sub-editor heading for retirement - which was why the library was irreverently known as the Elephants’ Graveyard. And, life being what it is, some sub-editors made good librarians and some didn’t. The librarian had a staff, whose duty it was to search the papers every day for items which ought to be filed away for future reference. They hacked the items out with large scissors and filed them away either in existing folders or they opened new ones when necessary. Final say, in cases of doubt, rested with the librarian.
When Harry first arrived at Newcastle, the librarian was a splendid old newspaper pro named Percy Edwards, who had flourished for years as the Chief Sub-editor of the Evening Chronicle, knew everything there was to know about Tyneside and its population and lorded it over the 12 sub-editors with an authority that was not diminished by the twinkle that never left his eyes. He did his best, as the new librarian, to turn the chaos he inherited into something worthy of the company that produced highly successful morning, evening and Sunday newspapers, a sporting weekly and a news weekly. Alas, circulatory problems laid him low and he lost first one leg, then a second and finally his life.
His successor was his opposite in every possible respect: Arnold Little. A thoroughly unimaginative sub-editor who, when doing his occasional stint as Chief Sub, called not for headlines but for jam-labels. “Don’t try to be clever,” he would warn. “Jam-labels. That’s what we want. Jam-labels.” And, of course, he got them, for most subs, being human and unaspiring, opt for an easy life if offered. Those who did create amusing, witty headlines, were requested to think again. “We are not producing Comic Cuts,” Arnold would say dismissively.
Came the time when Arnold’s deadening influence could be tolerated no longer and, although he wasn’t coming up to retirement age, he was tactfully offered the job of librarian which Percy Edwards had left vacant. It was right up his street and within the week there was Arnold ready to stifle any enterprise which might be evident among the library staff.
At that time, My Friend Harry was employed writing feature articles for the Evening Chronicle. Having paid his first visit to Hadrian’s Wall since arriving on Tyneside from Northamptonshire, and having been appalled by the slovenly manner in which the Wall was then maintained, he resolved to produce a lambasting article about it, together with practical suggestions to make it of more appeal to the public. The leaflet he’d bought at his visit to the Wall was of little help, so he headed to the library. Time, 7 p.m. All the library staff long gone.
He looked under H. H for Hadrian. Nothing. He looked under W. W for Wall. Nothing. He looked under R. R for Roman Wall. Nothing. Frustrated, but not beaten, he asked in the news room where one might find Arnold Little, the librarian. They gave him Arnold’s address. It was in Byker, so off to Byker went Harry in his Austin Seven. He knocked at Arnold’s door.
“Mr. Little?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Arnold.
“I’m on the Chronicle, Mr. Little,” Harry said, “and I’m doing an article about Hadrian’s Wall but I can’t find any reference to it in the library at the office.”
Arnold laughed. “Good God!" he exclaimed. “There’s an enormous folder on the Wall."
“Well where is it located?”
“Under B, of course.”
“B?”
“Certainly. Borcovicium.”
Not too long after that, Harry had occasion to go to the library on another quest. He was preparing an article about King George VI, so accurate background material was essential. Again, he went to the library in the evening. He looked under K. K for King George. Nothing. He looked under G. G. for George. Nothing. He looked under R. R for Royal Family. Nothing. He looked under H. H for House of Windsor. Nothing. He looked under W. W for Windsor, House of. Nothing. He looked under B. B for Buckingham Palace. Nothing.
There was but one thing for it. Off to Byker. “Arnold," he called testily. “Where the hell do I find anything in the library about King George VI?"
From his bedroom window, Arnold Little looked down pityingly. “Under E,” he shouted.
“E?"
“That’s right. England, King of."
*
About a year later, by which time Harry was the company’s Development Manager, The Sunday Times had agreed to sponsor a seminar organised by the Atomic Energy Authority to be held in Newcastle University to discuss nuclear power. Harry was commissioned to lay on a concurrent atomic energy exhibition at the University on behalf of The Sunday Times. Heaps of bumf came up from London to lighten his load.
All went well until Harry decided there should be a 10-foot by 4-foot display board in the foyer preparing delegates for the wonders within. He had in mind a Dayglo reproduction of the atomic symbol and a 50-word, simple language explanation of the energy source in blown-up type. The symbol he left in the capable hands of Al Pearson, the Chronicle’s talented commercial artist. But search as he might, the bumf from London, though voluminous and comprehensive, yielded no fundamental gen on the atom. So, off to the library.
There was a bulging folder dealing with the construction and operation of various nuclear power stations, but no basic, nitty-gritty stuff suitable for what he had in mind. Then-voila! Under the heading “Atom, the Mighty” was a slim folder. It contained one sheet of paper. Pasted on to the sheet was a cutting from the London Evening Standard. It began:
At South London Magistrates’ Court today, Stanislaus Podborski, a diminutive circus strong-man who is billed as The Mighty Atom was accused of assaulting...
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