Paper saints
John Coleman

Journalism is probably the last place you’d expect to find saints, and using the term might be stretching things a bit. But some of the finest Christians I’ve met have been in journalism and I speak after a lifetime in the profession in Australia, Britain and the USA.

In Townsville, for instance, there was Ron, who lived by the golden rule, Love thy neighbour. To Ron, all those he met, rich or poor, good or bad, were his neighbour. He was the kind of bloke who made you feel good every time you met him: he had a wonderfully expressive smile and a genuine warmth.

Ron was married with seven children and worshipped in the little Church of the Nazarene. I recall the occasion, when in court reporting for the paper, he saw his ‘neighbour’ in the dock—a seasoned criminal who made a moving plea to the magistrate for another chance. Ron filed his report and after work led the man to the church’s penitent rail.

Days later, the man was arrested for another offence. He had ‘conned’ them all, including Ron. Ron was not bitter or cynical when such ‘neighbours’ let him down. He was incapable of that just as he was incapable of lying or giving offence.

I watched him many times agonising over his typewriter, trying to find the right words to convey the truth. And in 1957 he was one of the inaugural winners of the Walkley Award, Australia’s highest journalism prize. Later, I was to work beside some of journalism’s famous names in London’s Fleet Street and in New York. Ron would have outstripped them all. But he remained in Townsville and became editor-in-chief of the paper.

With some of his children still at school, Ron resigned his editorship on what he saw as a vital principle. After 40 distinguished years in journalism Ron was on the dole. In the end, the long years of stress took its toll. He died at 56 and the ‘neighbours’ he loved—an entire city—mourned him.

In Brisbane, there was Jim, a former naval commander who ran a tight ship from the chief of staff’s office. He kept young reporters on their toes by glowering at them over his spectacles and addressing them as ‘Brother’ or ‘Sir’. Most of us soon learned that the stern exterior sheltered a kind and charitable heart.

During meal breaks, when so many of his colleagues sought fortification in the pub, Jim, a devout Catholic, would quietly disappear through the post office alleyway to pray at St Stephen’s Cathedral.

And then there was the legendary TC, editor-in-chief of the paper. It wasn’t until years later when I became close to him that I appreciated the role that spirituality played in guiding his distinguished editorship. For TC, truth and accuracy were paramount, as was tolerance for all people, races and religion at a time of marked intolerance. He was a staunch member of the Uniting Church and I was blessed to see him at his hospital bedside a few days before he died.

Bob, the distinguished foreign correspondent, returned to Brisbane to an executive job. Deeply humanitarian, he loved people and words. His unbounded enthusiasm for stories was legend: he sent me into exclusive restaurants with young Aborigines to test bars to colour, had me hypnotised by one of the world’s leading medical practitioners, sent me in mufti to infiltrate street gangs, to crime scenes, and almost had me drown in a shark meshing boat off the Gold Coast.

I baulked only once at an assignment, aimed at exposing fare evasion. ‘What would happen’, he mused, ‘if you jumped on and off trams in Queen Street without paying?’

I was a young, raw reporter from the provinces and Bob guided me with sensitivity and understanding. That sensitivity and compassion extended to the people we wrote about. Bob was not church-going and died, too young, at 73, but I’m sure the good Lord looked on him kindly.

In Brisbane, too, there was Kev; proudly Irish, a veteran writer, professional, talented and liked by all. He loved a drink, and wouldn’t hesitate to take on those who made priests and nuns the butt of jokes.

In Canberra, covering parliament, there was John, rotund and always cheerful. He gave journalism his heart, often remarking that it seemed wrong to be paid to do what he loved. Most of all, his heart went to people, particularly those who were poor, disadvantaged and needed help. When he wrote about them, he would look up from his typewriter with that sunny smile and remark, ‘This is a love job’.

On Monday mornings, he would often greet his colleagues with: ‘My house is full of refugees’. And it was true because of the arrival of another contingent of Indo-Chinese boat people over the weekend. He clothed, fed, sheltered and helped them find work. John was a member of the Christian and Missionary Alliance and played a key role in that church’s sponsorship of refugees.

John was based in Darwin when Cyclone Tracey struck on Christmas Day 1974. By day, he produced a stream of articles on the devastation caused by the cyclone, by night he joined his wife Meg, cooking and serving meals for the homeless and distressed. John died at 65, just four months after retiring from the profession he loved.

When my wife and I married, some of Fleet Street’s famous names gathered in fashionable St Mary’s Church, Chelsea, in an hour-long Nuptial Mass. Few of my colleagues had seen the inside of a church in years and only the odd one was Catholic. The priest, conscious of the make-up of his congregation, sensitively explained each step of the moving ceremony. It had a lasting impact and for years became a kind of benchmark among my Fleet Street colleagues: ‘That happened a year after John’s wedding.’

My colleagues may not all have been saints, but their hearts were in the right place.

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