YEAR OF THE NEWSPAPER

My journal of the difficult birth of the Independent

NICHOLAS GARLAND

ANDREAS Whittam Smith's plan to start a new newspaper with Matthew Symonds and Stephen Glover became public on 27 December 1985 on the front page of the Financial Times. Tony Howard [deputy editor of the Observer] rang me in the morning and read me the story while I lay in bed nursing an abscess on a tooth. The story was so well told and generally sym- pathetic that we figured it must have come direct from the Nation, as the new paper was then called, but Matthew explained to me later that in fact it burst on them out of the blue. Their phones started ringing at about 10.30 the night before as various journalists began to follow up the Financial Times's scoop. Matthew's mood was like that of a soldier when a long-awaited battle has begun. He was relieved and excited in equal parts. He said that Andreas had had a very reassuring interview with Lord Hartwell whose attitude throughout was sympathetic. He'd asked with interest ab- out the new paper's break-even point and construction and at the end wished Andreas well. Matthew and Stephen had experienced a much cooler reaction from Bill [Deedes, the editor of the Daily Telegraph]. He had been neither disagree- able nor friendly, just, very reserved.

Stephen said to me later that Bill prob- ably did not know how Andreas's interview with Lord Hartwell had gone and therefore did not know quite how to behave. 'With his subaltern's mind he played it as safe as he could. Nothing that was said ruled out our being welcomed back as favoured sons in three months' time — but it was distinct- ly chilly.'

Both were relieved when Bill made it plain that they must both clear their desks at once.

The attitude of their colleagues in- terested and amused them. On the whole they felt that people wished them well and they did not run into the mockery and

The Independent is one year old next week. Founded without a proprietor, it has quickly estab- lished itself as a successful high- quality newspaper, with a cir- culation of about 330,000 At the time of the paper's conception, Nicholas Garland was political cartoonist of the Daily Telegraph. In December 1985 Mr Conrad Black bought the Telegraph from Lord Hart- well. A fortnight later, three of Garland's colleagues announced their plans for the Independent. Eventually he joined the new paper. Nicholas Garland kept a daily journal of the period, extracts from which we publish below. The journal begins with his in- troduction to it, written in Janu- ary 1986.

contempt that Stephen had feared when he first talked to me months ago. Matthew said that most of the journalists from other newspapers to whom he'd spoken had sooner or later said, 'Any chance of a job?'

The difference between Matthew's account of this day and Stephen's was very marked, the latter as usual far more thoughtful and reserved than the mercurial Matthew. Stephen's ironic and cool version sounded much the more realistic and confi- dent.

Between Christmas and New Year Caro- line and I had a little holiday in North Somerset. While we walked in the snow on Exmoor and along the windy beach at Minehead we discussed, among other things, the name of the new paper. 'The Nation' is OK as a name, but for me it has a certain association with the New States- man and Nation that doesn't feel quite right. There is also something too proper and dull about it. Caroline suggested 'The Independent' and I began to think that was a better name. Once the word shed its ordinary meaning and became the name of something it had a kind of ring to it. It sounded like an American newspaper of the early 1900s. A slight smack of Citizen Kane.

When we returned to London I rang Stephen and he asked' me to come and chat with Andreas. The three of us met in their temporary office in London Wall. Stephen and I got there first. It was 4.30 in the afternoon of New Year's Day. We made a cup of tea while we waited. Andreas was clearing his desk at the Telegraph. After a few minutes he arrived carrying a framed photograph and a small box of papers and a couple of books.

`I suddenly felt very unsentimental,' he said, 'and decided to chuck everything else away.' I don't know Andreas very well. I always associate him with the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of Nicholas Nickleby because I saw him at the theatre with his young family when I was at the play.

He has a red face, and prominent nose, which is always a good sign in men, women and children. His face looks quite mourn- ful in repose and his smile lights it up quite surprisingly.

Andreas's manner was different from Stephen's and Matthew's. He seemed quietly confident. Very ready to listen to ideas. Everything he said was sensible but nothing in the least bit inspiring. He may have felt, but did not show, any of the sheer excitement and tension the others reveal.

I told him Caroline's suggestion for a name and he immediately said, 'That's funny, "The Independent" was one of my first choices and for some reason I'd completely forgotten it.' He agreed that it was a good name and that it should go for Saatchi and Saatchi to do some research on it. They look for negative feedback or something.

By the time I left I felt I'd more or less joined the bloody thing.

Friday, 21 February For some reason or other today was very difficult. I had one or two extra drawings to do for the Sunday Telegraph. Chris Fildes found it hard to think of a way to illustrate his Monday City Page article and the day slipped away with nothing achieved. On top of everything else Charles Moore telephoned to give me an impossible brief for next week's Spectator cover and I sat in despair unable to think of a cartoon for Sunday and unable to get on with anything else until I'd done that fundamental task.

The Spectator piece I'm supposed to illustrate is to be written by Perry Wors- thorne and I went to have a chat with him in the afternoon to see if he could give me a lead.

As usual he was friendly and pleasant and useless. I don't mean he is incompe- tent or even unco-operative but his efforts to describe what he is going to write and how it might be illustrated do not help me. He talks in a sort of airborne, floating style, catching the thermals of an idea and soaring miles from his starting point. The return journey is so slow and indirect, it is terribly difficult to remember where it was originally heading. You listen with drowsy pleasure to his nasal voice and watch the light catching his white hair, but your own thoughts are far away.

Today his theme was falling standards in Fleet Street. Oiks became editors because proprietors think oiks can make more money than educated, cultured editors with intellectual standards. He seemed to hope for a time when the low cost of newspaper production will create a return to a 19th-century ideal, when distinguished gentlemen will edit important newspapers from book-lined studies.

I said that modern proprietors would keep popular editors on their low-cost newspapers and simply make a bigger profit. Perry vaguely agreed but insisted that nevertheless something was made possible by the new technology.

I gave up after a bit having, as always, enjoyed listening io Perry even though spending time with him is like bunking off to the movies — great fun but it doesn't butter the parsnips.

It was not until nearly eight o'clock in the evening that I handed in my last drawing. Only Stuart Reid was left in the office bending over his work, frowning and resting his forehead on his hand.

`What do you think of the news?' he asked.

`Mm?'

`You haven't heard?'

`1.111, uh.'

`They've appointed the new Daily and Sunday editors.'

`Really' I was suddenly very interested. `Who?'

`Perry to do the Sunday and Max Hast- ings to take over from Deedes.'

First of all I began to calculate whether Stuart was sending me up. Both appoint- ments were possible but both quite unex- pected.

I felt absurdly as though Black/Knight had made a clever chess move against me and I looked hard at the board to find a response.

Tuesday, 29 April I went to the Garrick at 1.00 to meet Andreas for lunch. In the foyer I met Eric Shorter [then a theatre critic of the Daily Telegraph] and Desmond Albrow [features editor of the Sunday Telegraph].

I asked Eric how he found things at the Telegraph these days. My question stimu- lated an outburst of anxious shrill remarks about 'oh . . . my God . . . I mean, who knows — isn't it just panic stations every- where — one spend's one's life on one's knees, literally praying for survival — I mean to say. . . .' Desmond listened, huge and still like a giant bullfrog.

`I never see you these days,' he said. `Come and have a drink.' He gestured upstairs.

I said, 'I'm waiting for my host — he's due any second — thanks anyway.'

Somehow I felt I shouldn't say who I was meeting. The two Telegraph men walked upstairs. They looked so English and establishment, comfortably mounting the broad staircase in their club in search of large gifis.

The next man to walk past me was Perry. He touched my shoulder and also at once invited me to drink. Once more I explained why I would not join him.

'Righto, but if he doesn't arrive soon or you get tired of hanging about I'll be in the bar.' His perfect manners, his relaxed charm and completely open friendliness made me wish I could accompany him, but the prospect of Andreas joining us some- how inhibited me. I watched him too climb the stairs. A few moments later I saw him greeting Rhodes Boyson with whom he was obviously lunching.

Alongside Perry's elegant figure Boyson's parody of a Victorian villain was even more successful than usual. The scene was like a borzoi meeting a pug dog. Andreas arrived some minutes later.

As soon as we sat down Andreas began to talk about the Independent. I approved of the businesslike way he got down to why we were lunching together and I listened with some interest to his description of how the last few months had been a struggle to get the money together. He said he'd found it very hard work and mentioned, with a pang of remembered pain, that he'd had to face some pretty hostile questions during these sessions with hard-bitten City men who were anxious about the wisdom of investing in a new paper.

As Andreas talked on I became con- vinced that to him, at least at one level, I was just another sceptic who had to be persuaded. His voice was low, almost monotonous, and his gaze had a bird-like, fixed quality, sometimes straight ahead and down, sometimes shooting intense, sideways glances at me.

I saw that Andreas was under great strain, and at times there was something almost frantic about the way he simply went on talking through a question I tried to interpose.

He asked, with a kind of tense bright- ness, 'What are they saying about us at the Telegraph? Are we forgotten, or remem- bered as traitors?'

I replied that neither statement was true. They are remembered, and are considered as dangerous but honourable rivals.

`What would I find different if I walked into the Telegraph today?' he asked.

I tried to describe the difference be- tween Bill's open but vague style of edit- ing, and Max's urgent and decisive mode, the former continually wandering aimlessly downhill, the latter plunging off cliffs.

I said Bill's door had been literally always open. You could never be too sure what he was telling you was permanent or even particularly accurate, but he gave you the feeling that you were involved. Max's door is always closed, and not infrequently locked. The snapshot of Bill I carry in my head is of him tilted back in his chair with one foot on his desk. Smoke is curling from his cigarette, his tie is loosened and he is grinning. Max is caught hurrying down the corridor with his jacket off and a large cigar in his hand. He is in the act of calling over his shoulder to an unseen colleague, `I'll report back to you later!'

Returning to business, Andreas asked me what my attitude to the Independent was; whether I would definitely never join or whether he could still hope I might.

I tried to describe my feelings, but the truth is I'm so confused I found it very difficult. I said I didn't know who he'd recruit and therefore I was unsure whether the paper would survive.

Andreas reacted extremely sympathetic- ally to this somewhat bleak description of my uncertainties. He said I was right to be wary but he felt absolutely certain their editorial-line up would be very, very good. As for the survival of the paper, he said it was assured by the quality and resources of the management and the investors. 'If, after a couple of years, the paper is floundering they'd get rid of me — and quite right too.' He masochistically empha- sised this possibility. 'They would send for me and say, "Well, we've listened to your ideas and they are no good, they are not working, off you go." And I'd be replaced by someone they had more confidence in. But there's no way they'll close the paper.'

While he spoke I was to a certain extent won over to the idea that the Independent might be going to be a very good paper. My respect for Andreas grew, if anything, not in spite of but because of his manic and tense manner. When he spoke about my possibly join- ing he was very soft-sell and nice about it. `We really want you.' I entirely believed him. He said he was the world's worst negotiator, meaning that I would screw them down to a very good contract. To illustrate his own shortcomings as a nego- tiator he told me a story about his wanting to offer a certain amount for a library (a cuttings library, I think) that was for sale and his business manager getting it even- tually for a fraction of the price.

`I just haven't the nerve to say to people, "I'll offer you half." ' The story was one of those that we all tell now and then in an ostensibly self- deprecating way, but actually to illustrate how likeable, generous, unworldly and rather terrific one is.

In the end he said I could leave every- thing as late as I liked, right up until 1 September. That would give, me a month or so to work out my time at the Telegraph.

We said goodbye and agreed to be in touch before then ....

In June 1986 Garland decided that he would join the staff of the Independent. He soon plunged into arguments about the nature of the paper's design.

Sunday, 31 August Andreas turned up at my house at about 9.30 this evening. I was struck by how exhausted he seemed and how he was making an effort to be calm and measured in his remarks. Perhaps he could be more accurately described as being under great stress. A strange, rather wild mood lurked just below the surface of his outward behaviour.

I told him my anxieties about the way the Independent was being designed. I feel that it is too fussy and distracting. All his answers and reassurances were just what I hoped they would be, but all were without conviction. I felt he was making the noises he knew I wanted to hear, but he was not committed to deal quickly with the obvious consequences of his declared intentions. I did not feel sure of how far he would back a Thirkell [Nicholas Thirkell, a designer whose work Garland was supporting] deci- sion against opposition from other col- leagues. As I pressed him I ran at once into Andreas's mad side. His eyes glittered and his voice hardened and rose a tone or two as I yapped at his heels.

He said he was glad a once valued colleague had quit the Independent, be- cause he felt let down by him. I was uncertain why he should speak like that but he soon made it clear. 'If someone joins me they get my complete and unswerving loyalty. I will stick by them come what may. Right or wrong I will always stand by them. I did by him. He repaid me by walking out.'

I felt this was a bit unfair on the poor guy who had been a bit mucked about, after all. But the real problem about what Andreas was saying was in the first bit. If he gives all his new colleagues absolute loyalty and support, what the hell happens when his colleagues disagree? Presumably he passionately supports both sides.

Andreas further eroded my confidence by emphasising yet again that he has a blind spot when it comes to layout and design. The reason this is so unnerving is that if he cannot tell a good design from a bloody awful one, how can he confidently and effectively support Thirkell if and when he produces good work that others don't like? I tried to put this to Andreas but it was difficult because he began to go slightly wild. I don't mean his eyes roll and he froths at the mouth, but he signals quite clearly that he does not want to be pushed.

While we talked he ate what was left of the salami, ham, path and cheese that we'd got in this morning. He didn't drink much because he was driving but I was quite surprised by how he steadily cleared the plates.

At one point I dared to suggest that too much democracy in a small organisation (as opposed to a whole country) was dodgy because it could lead to decision by com- mittee with consequent loss of clarity. He really hauled up some storm cones at that and said flatly that he had his own way of doing things and he found it worked very well.

He also mentioned his own vicious and quick temper, describing it as 'a problem for me'. He said it was rare and only certain things provoked it but it was devastating when it came. He mentioned someone who had set it off during the latest design meeting. 'It was something he did that was aggressive, a tilt of the head, a way of lifting his chin. I thought to myself, "The only thing to do is to pound him," so I did.' Although he'd just said his temper was a problem, the last remarks were made proudly, almost boastfully.

Underlying what was being said Andreas had a theme. It was that everything was all right; I needn't be depressed; nothing was as bad as I appeared to think it was; we were on course.

I think this is utter bullshit but I can't quite work out whether what's needed is panic or calm.

I am cast down. My confidence in the look and design of the Independent is as low as it's ever been. My dream was that a super, clean, elegant paper would appear on the news-stands. A paper that would make readers feel at once at home and in good hands. Fat chance now....

Monday, 6 October Well, this is the day. I tried to feel excited, but all I felt was irritable and nervous. Perhaps that is a form of excite- ment....

I went to work early. I arrived at about 9.45. Amanda was making coffee. I drank some and began skimming through the papers. I sketched out a couple of ideas and thought I'd draw one of them up properly so as to 'have something done in case I got into difficulties later. The office was quiet and tidy and I got along OK for a bit. The foreign desk rang to ask me to do a drawing for a piece from Manila by James Fenton. Michael Heath came in. 'Thought I'd better be here today,' he said and got himself some coffee. He prepared himself somewhere to work and in no time had several requests for illustrations. Later in the day Michael Crozier [executive editor for design and pictures] told him to stop drawing; practi- cally every page had a Heath on it and some had two. As fast as various editors were commissioning work Crozier was having to kill it.

Colin [Wheeler, cartoonist] arrived and also began scribbling out ideas. My draw- ing slowly began bogging down.

`Do you two have days when you just can't draw?' I asked.

`Yeah,' said Michael.

`Christ, yes,' said Colin.

`Well, I've got one today.'

`Only one thing to do,' Michael said with a sigh.

`Shoot yourself?'

`No — drink.'

`Drink?'

`Yup! I can't half draw when I drink.' `Bloody hell.'

I was drawing Tom King's face over and over again, making the same mistakes each time. I began to swear and mutter. Colin tried to help by suggesting that I left King out of the picture.

`Is he essential?'

`No, he is not f—ing essential. It's just driving me crazy not being able to draw him.'

Michael came and looked over my shoul- der. 'Dunno what you're on about. You've got him — you just can't see it.' I managed a passable shot in the end. Yet another journalist arrived to ask Michael to do a drawing.

`Not allowed,' he said. 'I could do it, but I've been told I mustn't. Go and sort it out with someone called Crozier.' Mystified, the young man went away.

Michael suddenly went off into an out- rageously camp monologue. 'Oh, yes — I can do your drawings but Crozier says no. Can't think what's got into her. She's all upset today. Carrying on. Flapping about. I don't know why I bother. I don't have to do this, you know. You come in here — all bossy — do a drawing ....' He went on and on. It was very funny.

I'd almost finished my drawing when Andreas came in. He was relaxed and cheerful. He looked at my cartoon and said he liked it. There are ten or so characters in the drawing. 'I like a drawing you have to read,' he said, and smiled as his eyes ranged over the picture. 'Very good, that's fine. Was it Low,' he asked, 'who used to do cartoons with lots of people in them?'

`He sometimes did,' I said.

`Mm, thought it was,' he said.

People do say the strangest things about cartoons. I went home. Caroline was out between 8.00 and 10.00 and) by 11.15 we were both very sleepy. She said, 'If this wasn't an occasion, a once in a lifetime thing, I'd say "Let's go to bed."' There was something odd about driving through the streets to work at that time of night, and from outside the Independent looked deserted.

However, on the first floor large groups of journalists and staff were gathering. There was a kind of excitement in the air. Caroline and I hung about not quite knowing what group to join or where to go when suddenly there was a move towards the second floor.

In a sweeping rush we were hustled up Andreas Whittam Smith — 'has a red face and a prominent nose, which is always a good sign'.

the stairs and into the large open space just outside my office. Food was laid out and in the crowd here and there people already had champagne. The noise of voices rose to the familiar party roar. Caroline was having a lively conversation with Audrey Slaughter [women's editor]. Colleagues greeted each other and grinning faces loomed past out of the throng.

I pushed my way to the drinks table and brought Audrey and Caroline glasses of champagne. The party was under way. Caroline quickly felt the party mood. I watched her becoming more and more animated. I let her feel all the buzz and sat back and sipped my champagne. I watched a journalist from the City pages crawling on hands and knees across several desk tops. His eyes were fixed on a plate of sausage rolls. He reached out and took a handful of them and with a look of immense concentration he crawled back- wards the way he'd come, carrying his booty.

The bar was no longer pouring cham- pagne: if anyone held out an empty glass they were handed a bottle. At least, that's what happened to me. Caroline was getting brighter and brighter.

We pushed back through the now raving crush to the relative quiet of the front of the building. I took two Independents from a heap on the floor. Nearby, Andreas, smiling and laughing, was signing copies and kissing secretaries. The mood of the evening was turning euphoric.

I gave my two copies of the paper to Andreas to sign. On the first one he wrote: `To Nick! Thanks for supporting us. Andreas.' On the second he wrote: `To Nick — thanks for joining the great adven- ture. Andreas.'

We found ourselves near some foreign room staff, one of whom was complaining about two ghastly mistakes in the paper. I hoped he meant the horrible illustrated index 'Up Right' on the front page and the appallingly twee decoration round the word HEALTH on the Health Feature page, but actually he meant the use of the word `terrorist' in a headline to describe a man on trial who has not yet been found guilty, and the words 'in Cure d'Ars' after Patrick Marnham's by-line.

`In Cure d'Ars,' he shouted. 'Patrick Marnham up the Cure's Arse — bloody hell!'

Andreas passed by, heading into the centre of the party. He was muttering, 'It's time for a toast; I'm going to propose a toast.' We were swept along with the group that surrounded him. Someone began tap- ping a bottle to signal for quiet. The insistent ringing taps provoked loud shushing noises, and soon Andreas stood amid the party debris with all eyes on him. He spoke very briefly, thanking everyone who had worked so hard to produce the paper, and then raised his glass and said, `To the Independent.' There was an enthu- siastic roar as everyone drank, and a burst of applause. Then the entire crowd broke into song and sang 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow', and cheered. Andreas stood and looked around him as if noting individual singers with special pleasure and amuse- ment. He nodded and smiled and looked completely happy. The party flowed on around and past this touching moment.

At about 1.30 we decided to go home. I went and said goodnight to Andreas and told him I too thought what he had done was magnificent. We shook hands.

I asked Matthew to sign my papers and we exchanged a few words — something about the paper looking good. I do remem- ber him saying, 'This paper is not just going to be good — it's a paper we can be proud of.' Come to think of it he must have been drunk because he said this very solemnly as if it was a very important statement. I said, `Good-oh,' or something like that, and Caroline and I left. .

Outside in the street Caroline said, `God! I've drunk more champagne this evening than ... what an occasion — what a wonderful party. You did the right thing. Whatever happens — when you joined them, you did the right thing....'