Didn’t anyone teach you punctuation?’
The bosses were not rude like that at ICI. Who did he think he was?
‘When people dictate they normally indicate commas and full stops. You didn’t. I’m a secretary. Not a graduate in grammar and punctuation.’
He grinned. I got three months’ trial at fifteen pounds a week, about fifty per cent above the going rate, plus a wonderful if tough initiation into the world of newspapers and television. I did not know it then but it was the beginning of the road to Number Nine, Orme Court.
In addition to being his secretary I was the office’s general dogsbody, tea lady and wages clerk. I typed reporters’ copy when they phoned in their stories, read them over to Jack on the telephone if he was out of the office, altered them according to the Clarke gospel and then dictated them to the nationals. The work never seemed to stop. I wondered if Jack ever spared the time to see his wife and children.
The reporters’ room was thick with smoke, the desks dotted with a dozen mugs or so containing milky dregs of tea leaves and stubbed-out cigarettes. I could not believe the bad language they used and Jack was probably worse. The Sunday school teacher came out in me and I imposed a penalty of sixpence for a curse, which enhanced the contribution he made to nuns who called every month for donations to their missionary order.
Jack’s television work was fascinating to me. When ITN came on air he soon became their man in the north and when the region’s broadcaster, Tyne Tees, was launched he had a weekly political programme and appeared in a nightly current affairs magazine. About six months after starting work for him I became his researcher and consequently he thought it would be a good idea if I met some of the producers. I got to know one very well, Malcolm Morris, a crinkly-haired, bespectacled young man who was bubbling with ideas. When Malcolm was appointed Programme Controller he gave Jack his own shows, which he wrote and produced.
Increasingly, I made the round trip of eighty miles to the studio at breakneck speeds in one of Jack’s sports cars (this was before the days of speed limits). One evening, when his show finished after ten, we were both hungry, having existed since early morning on canteen sandwiches, and he suggested dinner. That was a surprise because until then it had been very much a boss and employee relationship but I was famished and agreed.
In those days in the provinces most dining rooms and restaurants closed their doors around 8.30 p.m., but an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Gateshead was daring enough to stay open as long as there were customers to serve. That evening I saw Jack in a new light. This often abrupt dynamo of a man changed into an attentive host. I found it difficult to believe I was with the same person who was so focused in his work that anyone who got in his way had to look out. Even the waiters seemed to find him charming. I found him attractive and fascinating. Whether, like an angler, he had been casting his line for a catch I do not know but by the end of the evening, I was hooked and ready to be hauled in.
In the meantime Michael Williams had gone back to sea and I simply stopped writing to him. My parents were sad about Michael, but they never knew the real reason we drifted apart. This is not to say that Jack changed overnight, only when we were out together, after hours. Whenever something went wrong in the office he flared up at the incompetents who had caused it, me included. Then of an evening that dazzling charm would return.
As I became more researcher than secretary I also began to help Jack cover some stories and I was there when he met his match. He had unrivalled sources at the Army’s Catterick Camp, then the biggest in the country, and discovered that a certain eligible lieutenant in the Greys, who happened to be the Duke of Kent, was about to announce his engagement to Katherine Worsley, who was not royal or even titled but the daughter of Sir William Worsley, the Lord Lieutenant of the North Riding. Jack’s photographer got a picture of the Duke’s arrival at the Worsley home, Hovingham Hall. This was an exclusive and within hours of its publication reporters and photographers were sent to the sleepy village, which was still very feudal in its outlook. Journalists slaked the thirsts of locals in the Hovingham Arms but they were a tight-lipped lot. News editors were screaming for something new. Even Jack could not make any headway. Then he had an idea.
At that time he owned one of the very first E-type Jaguars. I had often wanted to drive it on quiet country roads, but his answer was always ‘No’. Fair enough, I suppose, since I had not got a driving licence. Now he smiled at me.
‘There’s time to kill so why don’t we give you a lesson in the Jag? The lanes round here are very quiet so it should be all right.’
I was so excited at the prospect that I was taken in. Silly me. Then I became nervous. What if I smashed it up?
‘Nonsense!’ he said. ‘You’ve always been keen enough before. All cars are the same. Four wheels and an engine. Get in and I’ll show you how.’ So for ten minutes I was given a lesson by an unusually quiet, patient Jack Clarke. Until the car hiccoughed.
‘For Christ’s sake, woman!’ He turned puce but somehow stifled his anger. ‘It happens to us all.’ Then he smiled once more. ‘Excellent. Do you feel more confident now?’
I nodded.
‘Good, because I’ve got an idea. You’ve always wanted to be a reporter. Now’s your big chance. Katherine’s girlfriends are driving past the gatekeeper with flowers and stuff. To congratulate her, I suppose. I want you to do the same.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘No I’m not. You’ll see. It’ll work. The reporters and photographers are all in the pub so nobody will recognize you.’
‘How about the gatekeeper? He’ll stop me.’
‘He won’t if you drive at him as if you don’t intend to stop. Just give him a casual wave.’
I do not know why I fell for it but I did. Off we went to Helmsley for a giant bouquet and then half a mile from Hovingham he stepped out of the car and I was on my own, with firm instructions to get into the Hall if I could. If Katherine was not there I was to hand the flowers to the butler or footman and remember everything I saw, furniture, pictures on the wall, and ask if the Duke was there with her. If she came to the door then I was to remember what the engagement ring looked like and wish her all the best from Jack’s agency.
I drove off – quite well, actually – at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, never faltering, and waving to the gatekeeper who saluted and opened the gates. I skidded to a halt at the huge door, got out of the car with trembling legs, rang the bell and waited. The door swung open to reveal a liveried manservant, a young, very good-looking one. I opened my mouth but the words would not come. How dare Jack put me in this position. I thrust the flowers into his hands. He looked at me expectantly and then the words tumbled out.
‘I’m not a friend of Katherine Worsley. My boss is a journalist and made me come to ask if the Duke is here with Katherine and if not where are they?’
He looked at me impassively. More blurting.
‘Is Katherine at home? Is the Duke here? I didn’t want to do this. He made me. I’d have lost my job if I’d refused.’
He took pity. ‘The Duke isn’t here. He’s with Miss Katherine at Nawton Hall.’ Which, I knew, was where the Countess of Feversham lived.
I jumped in the car. It was such a relief to drive off. Did I say drive? More accurately, hiccough past the gates where Jack was waiting, along with thirty or forty reporters and photographers who had heard that an E-type had been admitted to the Hall. I pulled up and stalled the engine as I had forgotten to take it out of gear.
I made straight for Jack, absolutely furious. ‘Don’t ever put me through that sort of thing again!’ I yelled. He put me back into the car and got behind the wheel.
‘Tell us what happened, love,’ one of the reporters shouted.
Jack put the car into gear. ‘You can read all about it tomorrow,’ he told them. And we roared off.
From such flimsy details he wrote a story that made several page leads