his eyes deeply ringed, his hair unkempt and wearing a dressing gown over a pair of old corduroys, he burst into Pountney’s room and declared what he would do with the rest of his life.
‘Look, Gerry, you go and fly the flag in foreign parts,’ he said, knowing that Pountney was trying for the Foreign Office. ‘For me, the future’s in television. That’s the land I’m going to conquer, OK? Then I’ll get my own back on the bastards who did for me here.’
Pountney got a first, passed well into the Foreign Office and his own quiet adventure began. Bomberg scraped a third and disappeared from sight. He was last heard of working in television in Manchester or Glasgow – no one knew for sure – producing a children’s programme, something to do with glove puppets. He was written off by his enemies as overambitious. ‘Shot his bolt at Cambridge. The rest of his life will probably be an anticlimax. All that energy, to end up with puppets. Too bad, isn’t it? No wonder he’s gone to ground.’ Pountney said nothing. He knew better than to underestimate Bomberg. He’d surprise them all yet.
*
By the mid-fifties, Bomberg had graduated from children’s puppets to current affairs. The year after Suez – he had now risen to the role of editor of a weekly current affairs programme – he revealed that a group of councillors in a northern city had been lining their pockets for years by taking their cut on local building projects. The accused were put on trial on charges of corruption, convicted and sent to prison. A police investigation prompted by a television programme was the instrument by which justice was finally done. The verdict created headlines. Bomberg had triumphed. The apprentice years of painful obscurity and other humiliations were quickly forgotten. He was back in control, his reputation assured. This time the dream had been built on such solid foundations that it was soaring into the sky. The lesson of his humiliation at Cambridge had been well learned.
Three years later, out of the blue, he contacted Pountney, who by this time had resigned from the Foreign Office overSuez and was working for a newspaper, having in the interval written a book about the crises of 1956.
‘Look, Gerry, I read your book,’ he said on the telephone, not bothering to announce himself. It was as if they had spoken to each other only ten days before, not ten years. ‘Come and have lunch. I’ve got a proposition you’ll find irresistible, OK?’
They met in a restaurant in Audley Street. Nothing had changed over the years. Julius Bomberg was recognisably the same man he’d known at Cambridge, only more confident, harder, more ambitious.
He handed the menu to Pountney. ‘I can’t be bothered to read all this. You choose, OK? I’ll have whatever you’re having, so long as it’s not offal.’
They talked briefly of the years since they’d last met. Bomberg questioned Pountney on his resignation from the Foreign Office: ‘Getting out was the best thing you ever did, Gerry. You were wasted in that organisation. God knows why they don’t abolish it’, on his book on the Suez Crisis: ‘Not enough anger, Gerry. The writer is still trapped inside the civil servant. You must learn not to be afraid of your feelings so we can know where you stand on issues. Still, I enjoyed it. Who’d imagine Gerry Pountney fighting the establishment?’ and on his divorce from Harriet and his new life with Margaret. Bomberg had already been through two wives and was now on to his third: ‘I pay more in alimony in a month than most people earn in a year.’ Finally Bomberg came round to Pountney’s reinvention as a journalist.
‘Are you happy in Fleet Street?’ Bomberg asked. There was an aggression in his question that unnerved Pountney.
‘The newspaper’s been good to me, Julius,’ he replied, the defiance in his voice a response to Bomberg’s unstated challenge. ‘I like the people and the job. It’s something I do
‘Look, Gerry, you go and fly the flag in foreign parts,’ he said, knowing that Pountney was trying for the Foreign Office. ‘For me, the future’s in television. That’s the land I’m going to conquer, OK? Then I’ll get my own back on the bastards who did for me here.’
Pountney got a first, passed well into the Foreign Office and his own quiet adventure began. Bomberg scraped a third and disappeared from sight. He was last heard of working in television in Manchester or Glasgow – no one knew for sure – producing a children’s programme, something to do with glove puppets. He was written off by his enemies as overambitious. ‘Shot his bolt at Cambridge. The rest of his life will probably be an anticlimax. All that energy, to end up with puppets. Too bad, isn’t it? No wonder he’s gone to ground.’ Pountney said nothing. He knew better than to underestimate Bomberg. He’d surprise them all yet.
*
By the mid-fifties, Bomberg had graduated from children’s puppets to current affairs. The year after Suez – he had now risen to the role of editor of a weekly current affairs programme – he revealed that a group of councillors in a northern city had been lining their pockets for years by taking their cut on local building projects. The accused were put on trial on charges of corruption, convicted and sent to prison. A police investigation prompted by a television programme was the instrument by which justice was finally done. The verdict created headlines. Bomberg had triumphed. The apprentice years of painful obscurity and other humiliations were quickly forgotten. He was back in control, his reputation assured. This time the dream had been built on such solid foundations that it was soaring into the sky. The lesson of his humiliation at Cambridge had been well learned.
Three years later, out of the blue, he contacted Pountney, who by this time had resigned from the Foreign Office overSuez and was working for a newspaper, having in the interval written a book about the crises of 1956.
‘Look, Gerry, I read your book,’ he said on the telephone, not bothering to announce himself. It was as if they had spoken to each other only ten days before, not ten years. ‘Come and have lunch. I’ve got a proposition you’ll find irresistible, OK?’
They met in a restaurant in Audley Street. Nothing had changed over the years. Julius Bomberg was recognisably the same man he’d known at Cambridge, only more confident, harder, more ambitious.
He handed the menu to Pountney. ‘I can’t be bothered to read all this. You choose, OK? I’ll have whatever you’re having, so long as it’s not offal.’
They talked briefly of the years since they’d last met. Bomberg questioned Pountney on his resignation from the Foreign Office: ‘Getting out was the best thing you ever did, Gerry. You were wasted in that organisation. God knows why they don’t abolish it’, on his book on the Suez Crisis: ‘Not enough anger, Gerry. The writer is still trapped inside the civil servant. You must learn not to be afraid of your feelings so we can know where you stand on issues. Still, I enjoyed it. Who’d imagine Gerry Pountney fighting the establishment?’ and on his divorce from Harriet and his new life with Margaret. Bomberg had already been through two wives and was now on to his third: ‘I pay more in alimony in a month than most people earn in a year.’ Finally Bomberg came round to Pountney’s reinvention as a journalist.
‘Are you happy in Fleet Street?’ Bomberg asked. There was an aggression in his question that unnerved Pountney.
‘The newspaper’s been good to me, Julius,’ he replied, the defiance in his voice a response to Bomberg’s unstated challenge. ‘I like the people and the job. It’s something I do
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