Free Three Brothers by Peter Ackroyd

anything’s happening.” That was how he always addressed Harry—“I want you to …” He was generally stiff and condescending; he was always irritable, as if he was chafed by some inward discontent.
    Yet Harry soon learned how to deal with him, as he learned how to deal with his other colleagues. They were immensely susceptible to flattery. “Good piece,” he would say. “Good piece.” Or he would pat someone on the back. “Terrific story. Terrific.” He realised that many of them lacked self-confidence. They had wanted to be barristers, or politicians, or writers; but they had ended up as journalists. They gathered at the end of the day in the Duke of Granby, a long and narrow pub near the corner of Chancery Lane and Fleet Street. Here in an atmosphere of forced joviality they discussed the day’s stories and events at the newspaper itself; they gossiped mercilessly about their contemporaries; they mocked the journalists on rival newspapers; they were sarcastic about the politicians of the day; they drank great quantities of beer or lager to keep themselves in good humour. They prided themselves on knowing the ways of the world, as a little tap on the side of the nose would signify. They were generally red-faced, with wary eyes.
    Three political journalists were employed on the Chronicle , the most senior of them being an excessively neat and fastidious man. George Hunter was always rearranging the objects in front of him. It was said that he could not enter a room without emptying the ashtrays. He had a gentle and unemphatic voice, sometimes trailing off into silence. It was said byhis colleagues that this was a ruse—that his silences were a way of extracting confidences from otherwise reticent politicians. No one likes silence in a conversation.
    “Well, George,” Harry might say in the Duke of Granby, “have you had a good day?”
    “Yes. A good day.”
    “It’s warm in here.”
    “It is warm in here. Yes. What are you drinking?”
    “A pint of Courage. The very best.”
    “A pint of the very best, Suzanne.”
    He was a perpetual echo. This was another secret of his success. He never seemed to have any opinions of his own. He was cautious and circumspect. He spoke respectfully of Mr. Harold Wilson and Mr. Edward Heath. He alluded to various political events and arguments in a low voice, as if they were still decidedly confidential. Yet he was observant. He missed nothing.
    His two younger colleagues did not share his inhibitions. They talked of politicians in terms of personal intimacy, called them “Willie” or “Jim.” They professed cynicism but, as Harry noticed, they were thrilled to be addressed or recognised by these apparent worthless ministers. Yet Harry enjoyed their company. They were high-spirited and facetious, causing each other to laugh helplessly at some absurd or improbable fiasco. Nick Salmond was a good mimic; he could impersonate Wilson’s flickering eyes and snake-like tongue, and Heath’s convulsive shuddering laugh. They knew all the gossip, too, about the sex lives of prominent politicians. They luxuriated in speculation and innuendo. James Thorn was plump and pale; he always wore a flower in his buttonhole, and always dressed in a pinstriped suit. He had a voice, as Harry once said to Hilda, like an organ pipe. Both Salmond and Thorn were longing for George Hunter to retire,although uneasily aware of the rivalry that would then rise between them. They sat on opposite sides of the same desk in the newsroom, beating out stories on their typewriters as the deadline drew ever closer. Harry had come to realise that words were cheap, and that they could be manufactured by the yard. The journalists would write something, and then write it again. Then they repeated it as if it were a new thought, and then recapitulated it in a slightly different way. They would conclude the paragraph with the same sentiment. And so it went on.
    There was no subtlety or profundity in what they