The meeting had attracted a large crowd, unlike the previous lunchtime’s meeting where six women had gathered to hear a talk on “Media Language and Gender Bias.” Not surprisingly, more journalists were concerned about potential damage to their pay packets than about the pursuit of equality. By the time Lindsay arrived, all the seats in the small committee room were taken. She slipped down the side of the room and leaned against the wall near the front. Union Jack leaned against the edge of a table facing the room. Shanti Gupta, one of the two candidates running for JU vice-president, was already introducing the meeting, her strong voice rising above the desultory chatter of the audience.

“Brothers and sisters, I don’t need to remind you of the dangers we face at the hands of asset strippers and fast-buck merchants who pin their dreams of profit to the rise of new technology at the expense of the health and welfare of their workers,” she said, scarcely pausing for breath.

“Tom Jack, the National Executive member for national newspapers, has recently had firsthand experience of negotiating with one of the new breed of newspaper proprietors, the profit pirates, the men who care more about the bottom line on their balance sheets than they do about their readers. We can all learn from the experiences of Nation Newspapers, and there’s no one better equipped to teach us than Tom.” Shanti stepped back and gestured towards Union Jack. “Over to you, Tom,” she said, sitting down behind the table.

Tom Jack pushed himself upright and fixed the audience with his burning brown eyes. His thick brown hair was brushed back from his high forehead, and his full beard almost obscured the collar of his Tattersall-check shirt and the knot of his tweed tie. He looked slowly round the room, as if committing every face to memory, slotting them into his mental filing cabinet till he was ready to take them out, scrutinize them, temper them in the fire and lead them to glory like some irresistible nineteenth-century zealot. He thrust one hand into the pocket of his moleskin trousers, and started to speak. His voice was deep, intense and unmistakably Yorkshire.

“Colleagues,” he intoned. “We’re facing the biggest threat to our journalistic livelihoods that I can remember. I know you’ve heard that before, and probably from me, but nevertheless, I’m not a man given to crying wolf. Shanti here has raised the spectre of new technology, and I’m here to tell you that the combination of Tory government policies, new technology and proprietors who understand nothing of the proud traditions of British newspapers could mean the end of our working world as we have known it. All the benefits we have struggled to bring our members could be lost like that”—he snapped his fingers like the crack of ice hitting gin—“unless we pick our ground carefully and fight to win.”