My Friend Harry had many faults, some of which he outgrew, some of which expanded with his girth and maturity. One fault which caused him particular trouble as a young man was the colander he called his memory. Even as a schoolboy he forgot things. Caps he forgot; homework he forgot; books he forgot; faithful promises to return borrowings he forgot. "A mind like a sieve," exclaimed his exasperated teachers. One took him aside: "If you have such a bad memory," he said, "why don't you write things down in a little book?” Harry took the advice, but forgot to consult the book.
Naturally, this failing caused him endless trouble when he started work. For instance, on Monday mornings he was instructed to call at the branch office nearest his home and collect the weekend's takings on his way to the office. That wasn’t a major commitment, seeing that the branch office was right by the bus stop. Many were the Monday mornings, alas, when the livid branch manager would ring head office to ask when they were going to collect the takings - an inquiry which instantly had Harry bowing under the abuse of the Head Cashier and rushing out to catch the next bus back to the branch office.
Worst of all were the assignments he forgot. Being of an amiable disposition and on happy terms with the opposition's employees, he usually managed to cover these catastrophes by begging their assistance in return for free beer. Not always, though.
The custom at the Chatham Observer was for all reporters to return to the office at 7.30 p.m. on Thursdays and then slave away as proof readers until the paper went to bed, usually at around 5 a.m. Then they would walk to their homes to catch an hour or two of sleep before beginning work again at 9 a.m. Sometimes, of course, there were Thursday evening assignments which could not be missed. In those cases, the reporter would cover the assignment, return to the office, write his report and then get cracking on the proofs.
One Thursday evening, Harry, by then the possessor of a motor bike, arrived at the office dead on time at 7.30 p.m. He was nicely installed at the desk awaiting the first batch of copy and proof, damp from the roller, when in walked a colleague.
"Back already?" he asked in surprise. “That didn't take long."
"What didn't?" asked Harry.
"The Rector of Stiffkey. What happened? Didn't he turn up?"
Harry’s serene world came to an abrupt stop. He had completely forgotten that he had been booked to cover the Rector's appearance that evening at the Grand cinema, Gillingham. It had been scheduled as the week's lead story.
Stiffkey is a tiny village on the A149 between Sheringham and Wells-by-Sea, Norfolk, and its Rector, the Rev. Harold Francis Davidson, was then just about the most notorious cleric in Britain. His scandalous behaviour with street walkers in Soho and elsewhere made him front page news for months. He explained that he associated with them only because he wanted to help them, but a Consistory Court rejected this out of hand. He was summarily unfrocked and then went on to almost unbelievable excesses and extravagances to cash in on his infamy. He appeared in all manner of sideshows and peepshows, including spending some time in a barrel at Blackpool, and his life eventually came to a suitably bizarre end when he was mauled by a lion. Before all that, though, he toured the country making personal appearances in theatres, music halls and cinemas -- and that was where Harry's 'memory' came in.
Forgetting to cover the Rector’s appearance at Gillingham would, in today's terms, be like forgetting to cover the Princess of Wales' appearance at the Palladium. Appalled, Harry leapt on to his motor bike and hurtled over to the Grand cinema, Gillingham. Too late. The Rector had been, spoken and gone. The sack loomed - and there were then nearly three million out of work.
"Was the News man here?" asked Harry of Bob Grant, the cinema manager.
"Afraid not," replied Bob. Then he added: “The Rector hasn't been gone long. Why don't you try the station? You might just catch him. He's heading back to London."
Harry raced off to Gillingham station, half-a-mile away. "London train don't go from here, mate," said the ticket man. "Goes from Chatham." Off Harry belted to Chatham, dropped the bike at the kerb at the station, burst through the ticket barrier and dashed down the steps four at a time.
There was only one person on Platform 1-the familiar figure of the Rector of Stiffkey! And the guard was already blowing his whistle. As the Rector opened the door of a compartment, Harry bundled in behind him. They were alone.
When he had recovered his breath, he introduced himself. He had, he lied, listened to him with admiration at the Grand cinema, but nevertheless had sensed that the patrons had not been told the real story. That was why he had followed him to the train.
At that time, needless to say, Harry hadn't the least idea if there was a real story. The line was sheer spoof, but he gambled on the truism that nobody could be conned easier than a con artist. And the Rev. H.F. Davidson was the best con artist around then.
“You are a most perceptive young man," said the Rector warmly. "How could you know of my spiritual experience today?"
"Your face," replied Harry humbly. “Your intonation. Your serenity."
"Ah," said the Rector, and for a moment gave Harry a pretty old-fashioned look. Birds of a feather, that look seemed to suggest.
Well, not to waste words, between Chatham and Gravesend he dictated a knock-out of a story all about having had a vision from all manner of distinguished occupants of the Other World, all giving him their staunchest support and coming across with good, practical advice about his future policy. This vision had come to him in the office of the manager of the Grand cinema, Gillingham, while he was in solitude prior to his appearance on stage.
There speaks the gifted shyster, thought Harry as he scribbled. That practically guaranteed a return booking - and it wouldn't do any harm with Bob Grant, either.
Before Harry bade a fervent farewell to the Rector at Gravesend he had got enough of his actual speech at Gillingham to cover himself at the office — and he got an autograph to run as a line block at the end of the story. Five minutes later, he put a call through to the Observer and was greeted by an apoplectic Editor. 'Where the hell have you been all evening?" he thundered.
"Gravesend, sir," replied Harry.
There was a seething silence before the Editor screamed at him once more. Harry let the tide break over him and then explained that he had a super exclusive on the Rector. That calmed things down, and Harry knew why. Young as he was, he knew that his exclusive would be milked by the Editor for his lineage connection with one of the nationals.
So, before the Editor could jovially suggest that Harry should phone his stuff direct to him there and then, Harry hastily said his bus was approaching, banged down the phone and left the Editor grinding his teeth.
Then Harry phoned the London Star with his story for his lineage connection, knowing that the London evening paper liked nothing better than an 'overnight' for its first edition. That done, he caught the next bus and wrote up his story for the Observer on the way to Chatham. It made the lead the next day, as planned, and Harry was even complimented by the Managing Director, a personage not given to recognising the existence of reporters.
The Editor did ask how Harry's exclusive appeared in the first edition of Friday's London Star.
“The Rector must have sent it," said Harry.
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