Three Brothers Read Free Page A

clear.”
    “That’s good. That’s what you must do.” He had an emphatic manner of speaking, reminding Harry of the fairground barkers who came to Camden once a year. George Bradwell was not used to being interrupted or contradicted. He explained that Harry was supposed to take the “copy” from the office to the printer, and then bring the “proof” back to the Bugle . Copy of what? Proof of what? It was very mysterious. Bradwell then showed Harry some pages of typing, with various scrawls and symbols in the margins. “These,” he said, “have been marked up.” Harry nodded, as if he understood perfectly what he was being told. The air was heavy with the stale odour of tobacco. “Cadogan Street.” Pinned to the wall was a large map of the borough. Bradwell pointed with tobacco-stained finger to the street in question. “On the right is Lubin the printer. Just tell him you’re from the Bugle . This is Tony, by the way.”
    Tony was a middle-aged man of florid complexion, with the indefinable air of having been disappointed in life. He boasted a thin pencil-like moustache, and a clump of hair perched precariously on his head. “You can’t miss Lubin,” he said. “He is the Jew boy.” Harry knew at once that Tony wore a wig, and he suspected that the moustache was dyed. Tony looked like a man perpetually in disguise.
    Tony, in turn, took an instinctive dislike to the new recruit; any young person threatened him.
    Harry soon became accustomed to his duties. He was so exhilarated by his new job that he mastered its details easily enough. He dashed from the Bugle to the printers. He ran between “Editorial” and “Advertising,” picking up the copy from both departments. In “Editorial” Tony was news. George was interviews and reviews. An elderly man, Aldous, was sports. Aldous hardly ever spoke, and seemed to Harry to exist in a state of self-pitying gloom. Stress and tension were always in the air. Bradwell would answer the telephone andannounce himself as “editor in chief.” Tony would then give a sarcastic smile. Bradwell would often snatch his hat and coat, and stride purposefully out of the office. Sometimes he would not come back for an hour or more. Then he returned with an air of mystery, and with the odour of alcohol.
    In the background there was always the stutter of a typewriter, as Tony or Aldous put together a paragraph. Aldous described the triumphs, or the miseries, of the Camden Rovers. He praised the exploits of a Camden schoolgirl who had won a North London javelin competition. He denounced the closing of the bar of the Camden Cricketers’ Association. He typed down all this with the same air of gloom. Tony celebrated a lucky win on the football pools by a Camden pensioner. He described the closure of a cottage hospital in East Camden. He reported the theft of a jukebox from a Camden public house. He sat over his typewriter like a bird of prey.
    On the whole, Harry preferred “Advertising.” It was run by a small woman with a strong Scots accent. To Harry, Maureen seemed marvellously exotic. She wore a skein of artificial pearls over her hair and, according to Tony, dressed like something out of a shop window. He referred to her as Queen of Scots or Bloody Maureen. She supervised the work of two young men who were, again according to Tony, “slaves at her feet.” Maureen had overheard the remark; she had arched her eyebrows and sniffed. She considered Tony to be, as she put it, “a drastic little creature.” “Excuse me,” she said, “but I think he’s a very common type of person. And that wig looks like a dead cat.” Harry could not disagree.
    Harry enjoyed his time in Lubin’s printworks. He savoured the pervasive smell of ink, and the steady metallic beat of the electrotyping machines. He saw the curved plates of metal type being inserted into the presses, and watched as the paper flowed between them. It was a cheerful and good-humouredplace, filled with shouts and