DIARY
When I joined The Spectator in 1954 the Notebook, as it was then called, was written by 'Strix': Peter Fleming. I have forgotten why he chose to identify himself, ornithologically speaking, as a screech- owl; nothing in his column pointed to a desire to attract attention by the means which the name suggests. He had made his reputation between the wars working as a special correspondent for the Times, and from the books which flowed out of his travels; although by the 1950s he was absorbed in Affairs of Estate — he was particularly proud of his investment in growing Christmas trees, as a source of revenue from otherwise unprofitable land — he was still held in high esteem as a Journalist. Not so his younger brother Ian, in spite of his prestigious-sounding post as foreign manager to the Kemsley newspap- ers. We used to wonder just what he did in that role. Peter would occasionally come to 99 Gower Street to hand in his copy, but would rarely linger. Ian used to come to Spectator parties, usually being the first to arrive and almost always being the first to leave, as if for some reason he wished simply to establish that he had been to them. He had just produced the first of his 'novels of suspense', as he called them: Casino Royale. It had not aroused much notice; James Bond only gradually became a kind of cult figure for intellectuals, before making fortunes in the cinema — though not for Ian, who was dead.
Seizing the excuse for a nostalgic wal- low, I have been back to the 1954 Specta- tors; and reading Strix again prompted me to drop in at the friendly neighbourhood bookshop to inquire whether any of Peter's hooks are still in print. I thought probably no; whereas Ian's would of course be on the shelves. To my surprise half a dozen of Peter's are still .available; some were actually in stock, and I felt the least I could do was buy One's Company, the descrip- tion of his travels in China as the Times special correspondent in 1933. But Ian? None of the James Bond books, I was told, had been in stock for years. There was no demand for them.
Wbile I was in the Belsize Bookshop, 1 thought I would ask the owner, Donald Woodford, what he thought of a discussion on Radio Four that morning on the subject of the law which forbids booksellers to market their wares at less than the pub- lishers' dictated price. The protagonist of the liberation movement claimed, among other assertions, that small booksellers as well as some of the large chains are behind him. Woodford, as it happened, was away: but a member of his staff assured -me that BRIAN INGLIS
he is staunchly in favour of retaining the present system. So am I, though admitted- ly out of self-interest. As books threaten to overwhelm the flat, on the model of that lonesco play, I buy them only when in dire need. Invariably they seem to be produced by remote and ineffectual publishers or, worse, have been passed over to 'distribu- tors'. Twice, within the last few weeks. I have needed a copy of a book because it has been nominated for a prize, and I have been one of the panel of judges; in each case I went direct to the 'distributors', and was promised a copy; no copy arrived. When there is no immediate hurry, though. I leave it to the Belsize Bookshop to handle the — I fear unprofitable — hassle. None of the chain stores that I have ever come across has been willing to take individual orders of this out-of-the-way kind. Small bookshops still lack a really efficient wholesale system in the back- ground that would enable them to get any book not in stock more rapidly to a customer who needs it; but this is the publishers' fault. If the present restrictive practice helps the smaller shops to survive and flourish. I hope it will not be axed on ideological grounds.
To return to The Spectator of the 1950s — if a brief nostalgic wallow may be forgiven. Shortly after my arrival Ian Gil- mour, the new proprietor, and his co- editor, lain Hamilton, decided to move Strix further back in the paper, next to John Betjeman's City and Suburban col- umn. A Spectator's Notebook was hence- forth signed 'Pharos' — pseudonyms of that kind took a long time to go out of
fashion — and was contributed to by any of us in the office who had an axe to grind. Curiosity kept me pinned to the pages in the back numbers, once I started on them: our campaigns were fought with fervour, as re-reading the editorials and the Note- books recalls. Although Gilmour had no journalistic experience he was a very effec- tive polemicist, particularly against hang- ing and for reform of the laws on homosex- ual behaviour. We derided the Lord Chamberlain's theatre censorship, de- nounced the Official Secrets Act, and criticised the judiciary for its misuse of its arbitrary powers to punish for contempt. There were times when the Notebook appeared to be bursting at its seams; but there were also slack times, as in the silly season, when it was a chore to keep it filled, and eventually it was handed over to Bernard Levin who, weary of watching the antics of politicians at Westminster, de- cided to try his hand at a column in which he could write about whatever caught his fancy, just as he still does.
e-reading Peter Fleming reminds me
R
that he was also a master of an art that has almost vanished: the composition of the Times fourth leaders, slight, elegant little essays prompted by some event, preferably one which lends itself to a little gentle fun. Its only exponent today, as far as I know — and this rarely — can be found at the Guardian; instantly attributable, when it occurs, to Geoffrey Taylor. The Irish Times, originally modelled on the Tittles, used to carry them, as Patrick Campbell recalled in The Spectator in his hilarious description of working with his former editor, 'Mr Smyllie, Sir'. Knowing that he would have to write a 'pup', as we called them, he would cast around in desperation for a possible peg to tether it to; and on one occasion he found it on the back page of the Manchester Guardian, as it was then — a report on a train accident somewhere in the Balkans. According to the account as one-eyed shepherd, carrying in his arms a live salmon he had poached, had tripped over a railway line and derailed a train with his wooden leg. 'I cannot imagine'. Paddy mused, 'how even a short Fourth Leader could have been written on such a theme.' I can! I would have used it to point out that no West of lreland poacher could have performed the same feat because owing to the wilful blindness of the state transport authority. CIE, all the lines had been closed down, even the West Clare, immor- talised by Percy French in 'Are ye right there, Michael?'. What a superb tourist attraction they would now be! Or would the trainloads, after passing through that wonderful scenery in steady rain or mist, have to be given their money back?
Previous page
