A story of life as a junior reporter on the Chatham Observer, in the late 1920's
My Friend Harry regarded Charlie Binney and Charlie Griffiths not only as a couple of right Charlies but as a combined Dire Warning. Follow in their footsteps, he told himself, and that's just where you'll wind up, too. Charlie Binney, at the age of 57, was the Chief Reporter of Chatham, Rochester and Gillingham Observer, Kent County Chronicle, Naval and Military Gazette. That's one paper, not three. One of the two local rags serving the Medway Towns. In consideration of the burden of his responsibility in controlling four other journalists, he got 5s (25p) a week more than Charlie Griffiths, i.e. £4 12s 6d (£4.63) a week. Charlie Griffiths (61), journeyman reporter these 47 years, got £4 7s 6d (£4.38), which was the Union minimum for reporters on weekly newspapers. Not that either of them was in the National Union of Journalists, for membership of that, or any union, would have meant instant dismissal.
The two Charlies, facing each other across what was originally a kitchen table in what was once the verminous back bedroom of a corner house in Fair Row, Chatham, had been on the Observer all their working lives. Their sole skill was verbatim shorthand. Neither had ever written an original sentence in all their born days, as the saying went My Friend Harry, then in his third year of a seven-year apprenticeship on the reporting staff of 'the only local paper with pictures every week’, as the masthead proudly proclaimed, had taken them as his Dire Warning the moment he had completed his basic training. That moment came 24 hours after he had joined the staff straight from school. His 'training' had been to walk the length of the High Street from Rochester Bridge to Luton Arches noting down, as he trudged, all the posters advertising forthcoming events. That accomplished, he reported back to Charlie Binney who thereupon showed him the next day's diary of assignments. “You're down for Chatham Police court," said Charlie. "It starts at 10 o’clock and the desk sergeant will give you the list of cases."
Harry went home in a bit of a daze, and it was on the bus when he decided that come what may, he wouldn't serve out his years as a seedy old hack. As soon as he’d completed his apprenticeship he'd be away. What he didn’t then know, of course, was that he was already scheduled for the sack as soon as he'd completed his apprenticeship - for that was when he'd come on to the senior rate of pay and would consequently have to make way for another pink-cheeked innocent, straight out of school.
However, as Harry bashed out his reports of the weekend’s assignments, the phone at the far end of the landing rang. "See who that is." rasped Charlie Binney, not looking up, so Harry trod the bare boards to the phone mounted on the wall. Joy! It was Jim Braithwaite, his news - desk contact on the London Star, brightest of the capital’s three evening papers. Harry had, in the greatest secrecy, made a number of contacts with national and regional papers, feeding them with stories from time to time and considerably adding to this Observer pittance. This extra - mural enterprise would have plunged the Observer directorate into apoplexy had it come to their ears, so Harry prudently lowered his voice as he spoke to Jim Braithwaite. "Harry," said Jim, "we’ve had a tip-off that a girl’s been strangled in Soho. Name of Yvette. Not her real name, of course. That was Maud Perkins. Home used to be in The Brook, Chatham. Know it?" Know it? The back - bedroom 'Reporters' Room' overlooked it. "Yes, I know it," said Harry. "Nip round and see if you can snatch a picture," urged Braithwaite. "Number 23. Any background stuff would be welcome, too. Make it snappy and we'll beat the opposition to the first edition."
Harry hung up, nipped down the stairs and hastened along Fair Row to The Brook - a dismal slum where even the criminals went about in pairs and coppers, if they knew what was good for them, rarely showed up at all. A huddle of mean houses along the north side of the street faced a blank wall marking the southern boundary of the military open space known as The Lines. The peeling, grimy front doors of The Brook were screwed shut. Where front doors had long since gone up in smoke as firewood, sheets of corrugated iron were screwed to the frames.
Access to the back doors was via narrow passages reeking of urine, excrement, vomit, cats and dogs. At the back of each house was a tiny concrete yard separated from the yard next door by a couple of strands of wire. The lavatories attached to the houses looked on to the yards —literally. All their doors had long since gone up in smoke as well. Maud Perkins' house was identified by the figure 23 crudely daubed in paint on the wall. It was one of those houses with a corrugated iron front door. Harry held his breath as he braved the stinking passage and banged on the back door. No reply. He banged harder. No reply.
The window of the bedroom next door went up and a head poked out. It was that of a middle-aged woman whose hair cascaded like tangled seaweed. "Sod off." she advised. "I'm looking for Mrs Perkins." shouted Harry. "Who ain't?" she replied. "What do you want 'er for?" "Personal." She eyed Harry carefully, "'ang on," she said. "I'll be down." Harry hung on. Down she came and he offered her a Gold Flake. She took the packet of 20. "Come in," she said. It was clear she scented something - and there might be money in it. In the ghastly scullery, she asked: "What's she done?" "Nothing," replied Harry. "Nothing that I know of. I want to see her about Maud." At the mention of Maud's name, the harridan’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to see 'er about Maud?" Harry decided to put his cards on the table. "I'm from the London Star," he said. "I hoped Mrs. Perkins could lend me a photograph of her daughter Maud. They want one." “You won't get one next door." said his hostess. "She's gone orf with some bloke. Gawd knows when she'll be back."
That was bad news, but all might not yet be lost. "I wonder if you, by any chance, might have a photo of Maud? Even a snap would be useful," he said. She smiled, revealing three black teeth and four gaps. "Well, now," she said. 'You are in luck's way. It so 'appens I 'ave got one, and a very nice one, too. 'ang on." She shuffled up the bare staircase and a few seconds later came down with a head-and-shoulders postcard of a smiling young woman obviously taken in the back yard. "Thank you very much, indeed," said Harry, reaching for the picture. "I’ll see that you get it back, of course." She tucked the picture into the top of her blouse. "What do you want Maud's picture for?" she asked. He looked at her suspicious face and then at the top of her blouse and decided not to beat about the bush. It would be in the evening papers anyhow. "She's dead," he explained. "They think it’s murder." The harridan's mouth curled into a wintry smile. "Poor little sod," she said. "We warned
her about going off to the Smoke, but she wouldn’t listen. Willful, she was. Kind 'earted, but willful."
Time was hurtling along. "The photo," Harry said. "If I could have it right away I'd see that you’d get it back in the morning."
"Ah, well," she reflected. "With little Maudie dead, I'm not sure I'd want to be parted from it." She looked him right in the eye as she spoke.
"How much?" Harry asked.
She sent an exploratory tongue around her teeth, "'ow about a fiver?" she suggested. A fiver was about twice the weekly wage back in the Thirties; something like £250 or £300 today.
"You've got a bloody hope," exclaimed Harry. "I'll give you a couple of quid."
"Make it three," she countered. Harry counted out three notes from his wallet and exchanged them for the photo.
In the next two minutes he had extracted all the sordid background gen on the saintly Maud and was then off at the double to the railway station. Then he rang Braithwaite. "Pic's on the 10.43 from Chatham to Charing Cross," he said. "Give me a copytaker and I’lI pass on the background stuff. Had to pay six quid for the pic, I'm afraid. Hope that’s all right."
"Great." enthused Braithwaite. The Star had a first edition picture-scoop.
Next morning, the phone rang again. It was Braithwaite. "Do you know a solicitor by the name of Percy Stone?" he asked.
"Certainly do," replied Harry. "Bit of a fly character."
"Well, he's threatening a libel action. That pic you sent us wasn't Maud Perkins at all. It was a girl named Scott who lives next door. Her Mum's raising hell and Stone's taken her case on. How could you have got the wrong picture?"
"It's a long story," said Harry. "Let me have a word with that solicitor."
Percy, a year or two later destined to be struck off, was all smiles when Harry turned up. "Old Ma Scott saw you off all right, didn't she?" he chuckled.
"Let's not waste time, Percy," said Harry. "What'll you settle for?"
He sucked in his breath. "I'm not sure I could persuade her to settle," he sighed. "The poor woman's very upset about her daughter's good name being traduced ..."
"Good name my arse," said Harry rudely. "She's probably on the game like the rest of 'em round there. The old woman's on the make. How much?"
Percy named a figure. Harry divided it by six and they eventually met half way. Harry used Percy’s phone to ring Braithwaite. He grabbed at the offer. "Cheque'll be in the post this afternoon." he promised.
"Fancy a drink?" asked the affable advocate.
"On you," Harry insisted-and they spent an agreeable hour in the Sun Hotel's American bar.
And Harry got his six quid from the Star. Everybody was happy.
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