Don Knowler

The phone rang two or three times and Don Bentley was not in a hurry to lift it. He sat at the only seat in the sub-editors’ department of The Star, Johannesburg, and the ringing phone was a constant nuisance. As the newest recruit to the subs’ team, the phone and answering it went with the turf. ``Hello, subs,’’ said Bentley eventually, abruptly, irritation in his voice ``Ello,’’ said the man at the other end of the line. He spoke with a heavy Afrikaans accent.   ``I want … [Read more...] about Newspaper heaven in the platteland

Don Bentley climbed the marble staircase of the Sun newspaper’s headquarters with slow, deliberate steps. He had seen this imposing stairwell before, in his days as a messenger boy, but had never moved beyond the commissionaire based at a giant marble desk at its base. Now he was on his way, rising step by step, to an interview with the newspaper’s deputy editor, looking for a job as a sub-editor. Bentley wanted to write, be a reporter, but he had been told the quickest way … [Read more...] about Fleet Street at work and play

Don Bentley waited in the rain for a taxi outside the Chronicle building inDavey Street. It had been a long wait. It was bitterly cold as well as raining and taxis were in great demand throughout the city. For patrons, taxis were in short supply. Don Bentley was not complaining, though. A taxi home each night represented a perk that was worth waiting for. In the past only the bigger establishments Bentley had worked for, the BBC and Independent newspaper in London, had … [Read more...] about Taxi for Mr Bentley

DON Bentley was beginning to feel he had been in newspapers too long. Increasingly he was coming across journalists who reminded him of individuals of old and this troubled him because one face seemed to merge with another. It was as though all the journalists were being recycled and coming round again, 30 or 40 years on. It was scary and some nights Bentley would have to take himself out of the messroom at the Chronicle and wander over to Mahoney’s, alone, for a stiff … [Read more...] about Faces from the past

The clock struck midnight and Bentley looked towards the door of the Hope and Anchor on Hobart’s Macquarie Street. Midnight – or thereabouts – on a Saturday always brought a magical moment, with Bentley sat in front of a roaring log fire, a cold beer in hand, looking towards the door, waiting for the first edition of the Chronicle to arrive. How many times, in how many pubs, had Bentley sat with a cold pint anticipating that first edition, still warm and paper-thin crisp and … [Read more...] about Waiting for the paper