A happy interview with a true gent . . .

MANY years ago, I was a junior reporter on the Birkenhead News, serving a four-year apprenticeship. Most unusually for those days, we had a woman editor — Freda Gothard. She was a lovely lady and took me under her wing. She wrote a gossip column, and when famous people visited the area, the newspaper would request an interview. On one particular occasion, the composer Irving Berlin’s show This Is The Army was being staged, to great acclaim, at the Empire Theatre in Liverpool. Freda decided he was of such great interest that I should go to the Adelphi Hotel and interview him. As we were working to a deadline, I had to telephone the story from the hotel before the paper went to bed, which is newspaper jargon for going to press. I was in awe of Irving Berlin. I was 17 at that time, very unsophisticated, and blushed at the slightest attention. Nervously, I took the lift up to Irving Berlin’s suite. He greeted me warmly, was very kind and courteous, and responded to all my questions with interest. When we had finished the interview, I said I had to call my editor with the story. ‘Use the telephone in my bedroom,’ he said helpfully. I thanked him and picked up his bedside phone. Freda was waiting for my call and took down the story in her Pitman shorthand. ‘Where are you, Joan?’ she asked in passing. ‘In Irving Berlin’s bedroom,’ I replied. ‘Christ!’ she yelled. ‘Get out of there quick.’ At that moment, Irving Berlin appeared at the door and asked: ‘Is that your editor? Well, let me have a word with her.’ Anxiously, I handed over the telephone. ‘Ma’am,’ said the great composer. ‘I have been interviewed many times, but this young lady here has done a great job.’ He smiled at me as he replaced the receiver and shook my hand warmly as I departed. A true gentleman.

Joan Rimmer, Knutsford, cheshire.