The Fourth Estate

The deputy editor looked up from his place in the corner of the room and blinked, unable to believe that the editor was addressing him. “Well, I’ve been following up a lead on the foreign secretary’s private life for some weeks, but I’m finding it hard to make the story stand up.”

“Why don’t you knock out three hundred words on the subject, and we’ll let the lawyers decide if we can get away with it.”

Some of the older hands began to shuffle in their chairs.

“And what happened to that story about the architect?” asked McAlvoy, still addressing his deputy editor.

“You spiked it,” said Rushcliffe, looking surprised.

“I thought it was a bit dull. Can’t you spice it up a little?”

“If that’s what you want,” said Rushcliffe, looking even more surprised.

As McAlvoy never had a drink until he had read the first edition from cover to cover, one or two of those present wondered if he was feeling well.

“Right, that’s settled then. Kevin gets the front page and Campbell gets the second lead.” He paused. “And as I’m taking my wife to see Pavarotti tonight, I’ll be leaving the paper in Kevin’s hands. Do you feel comfortable with that?” he asked, turning to face his deputy.

“Of course,” said Rushcliffe, looking delighted that he was at last being treated as an equal.

“Then that’s settled,” said McAlvoy. “Let’s all get back to work, shall we?”

As the journalists began to drift out of the editor’s office muttering to each other, Rushcliffe came across to McAlvoy’s desk and thanked him. “Not at all,” said the editor. “You know this could be your bi

g chance, Kevin. I’m sure you’re aware that I saw the proprietor earlier this afternoon, and he told me that he’d like to see the paper challenging the Globe on its own ground. In fact, those were his exact words. So when he reads the Citizen tomorrow, be sure it has your stamp on it. I won’t be sitting in this chair forever, you know.”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Rushcliffe as he left the office. If he’d stayed a moment longer, he would have been able to help the editor clear his desk.

Later that afternoon McAlvoy made his way slowly out of the building, stopping to speak to every member of staff he bumped into. He told all of them how much he and his wife were looking forward to seeing Pavarotti, and when they asked who would be bringing out the paper that night, he told them, even the doorman. Indeed, he double-checked the time with the doorman before he headed off toward the nearest underground station, aware that his company car would already have been clamped.

Kevin Rushcliffe tried to concentrate on writing his front-page story, but he was constantly interrupted by a stream of people who wanted his input for their copy. He cleared several pages he just didn’t have time to check carefully. When he finally handed his piece in, the print room was complaining about running late, and he was relieved when the first edition came off the stone a few minutes before eleven.

* * *

Armstrong picked up the phone by his bed a couple of hours later to have the front page read out to him by Stephen Hallet. “Why the hell didn’t you stop it?” he demanded.

“I didn’t see it until the first edition hit the streets,” replied Stephen. “By the time the second edition came off the stone, we were leading on a Lambeth councilor who’s gone on a hunger strike. She’s black and…”

“I don’t give a damn what color she is,” shouted Armstrong. “What the hell did McAlvoy imagine he was up to?”

“McAlvoy didn’t edit the paper last night.”

“Then who in heaven’s name did?”

“Kevin Rushcliffe,” the lawyer replied.

Armstrong didn’t get back to sleep that night. Nor did most of Fleet Street, who were frantically trying to contact the foreign secretary and/or the actress/model. By the time their final editions came out, most of them had established that he had never actually met Miss Soda Water Syphon 1983.

The story was so widely discussed the following morning that few people spotted a little item tucked away on page seven of the Citizen under the headline “Bricks but no Mortarboard,” which claimed that one of Britain’s leading architects was designing council houses which kept falling down. A hand-delivered letter from his equally distinguished solicitor pointed out that Sir Angus had never designed a council house in his life. The solicitor enclosed a copy of the apology he expected to be published on the front page of the following day’s paper, and a note stating the size of the donation that should be sent to the architect’s favorite charity.

On the food pages a leading restaurant was accused of poisoning a customer a day, while the travel section named the tour company alleged to have left the most holiday-makers stranded in Spain without a hotel room. On the back page the England football manager was said to have …

McAlvoy made it clear to everyone who called him at home that morning that he had been sacked by Armstrong the previous day and told to clear his desk immediately. He had left Armstrong House at 4:19, leaving the deputy editor in charge. “That’s Rushcliffe with an e,” he added helpfully.

Every member of staff who was approached confirmed McAlvoy’s story.

Stephen Hallet rang Armstrong five times during the day, telling him on every occasion that he had received a writ, and recommending that each of them be settled, and settled quickly.

The Globe reported on page two the sad departure of Alistair McAlvoy from the Citizen after a decade’s devoted service. They went on to describe him as the doyen of Fleet Street editors, who would be sadly missed by all true professionals.