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Home British Telecom [MB][BT] With Kindest Regards

Emily Higgins|British Telecom, Essays

November 29, 2011

[MB][BT] With Kindest Regards


The public relations officers of 1947, TCB 2/4. Image courtesy of BT Archives

BT (British Telecom until 1991) is the world’s oldest communications company, with a direct line of descent from the first commercial telecommunications undertaking anywhere. The essay below is one of seven, the result of a collaboration with Teal Triggs and Brigitte Lardinois at the University of the Arts London and their students in the Design Writing Criticism program.  

Like all good stories, ours is one that will carry you from the giddying heights of elation to the depths of misery and woe. It is a journey of ups and downs, riddled with perils; some that we will overcome while others will defeat us. My part in the story begins huddled beneath my winter coat, cursing the whir of an air conditioner unit inthe reading room of Holborn’s BT telephone exchange. A rattling trolley pierces the frosty atmosphere; the arrival of a long forgotten box. Inside, two plump files are wrapped neatly with bows.

The voices of eleven public relations officers in the General Post Office (GPO) narrate this story, which takes place over the duration of a year. Through our officers courteous correspondence we will learn of their determination as they write to each other with fondness. We will witness the blossoming of relationships with external characters, whose roles, although not part of the GPO, are of no less value. Set in a bygone era, this is a story of an everlasting struggle and our officers’ humanitarian nature that never once ceases to be.

It is the year 1946 and the reign of Alexander Graham Bell’s epic ‘phone is about to celebrate its centenary year. True to its international success, countries across the world are preparing their merriment, but most exciting are the plans of the GPO.

Across the nationwide, the country shivers in the harsh European winter chill. At the public relations department of the GPO’s headquarters, somewhere in the vicinity of London’s EC1, the fire’s ferocious flames spit and crackle. With gloved hands, Richardson types fiercely on the keys of his typewriter, a letter of proposal to the London Passenger Transport Board (LPTB). This very letter, the one addressed to a Mr Brebner and signed with only the kindest, most sincere regards, ignites the conception of the GPO’s inspired AG Bell Centenary celebration, an exhibition. To be held in the Charing Cross Underground Station through the months of February, March and April, and with only several weeks to go, Allcroft, a figure who signs himself simply with the letter ‘A’ hastily begins drafting up a range of exhibits. In the next month and with the welcome of a new year, our officers (still in the perishing cold) are granted their space.

The month of January is a busy one for our officers, who go about their daily business and seem to make progress. They are inundated with external companies; Beck and Pollitzer Ltd who as the official contractors to LPTB offer their installation services; the exhibitions sector at the COI who suggests silk-screen printing as an economic method for poster production, despite its tendency as ‘not [a] very sympathetic process’. Proofs are drawn up before being sent to Mr Huggins the typesetter. Mr Dickens, our exhibition designer encloses architectural blueprints of the station which, when unfolded, conceal the largest table; you only have to gaze upon the station plans to be transported to next month’s grand opening ceremony. We shall marvel at our technological progress with a ‘phone call to Edinburgh — complete with synchronised screens — and mingle with the Postmaster General and the Queen.

But alas, in the coming months, despair will triumph over delight, and our merry spirits will bow down to melancholia. The official contractors will pull out due to commitments with the Ideal Home Exhibition, and in the haste of finding new ones incur overtime costs with Mr Dickens. Upon partnering with a new contractor, we find that a change in terms favour purchase over rent, adding greatly to Dickens’ workload. The usage of timber is restricted by the GPO and stunts progress. As a nation so traumatised by the freezing conditions and suffering so greatly with low morale, we surrender to the final punch: an immobilising fuel crisis. Our vision of a royal opening ceremony disperses to reveal a much bleaker one, and the nation falls silent.

The next morning at the London headquarters, Drummond-Shiels, Richardson and Mickleburgh watch their breath freeze in front of their eyes as they glumly welcome each other. The room is without fire, but the gruelling day is warmed slightly by the arrival of Dickens’ exhibition display copy. A communal spirit spreads across the officers, if Dickens will finish his job, so shall the officers! The centenary exhibition is to tour the larger provincial towns and in the meantime, the search for a new London site will commence.

But these joys are short lived. The process of securing sites in the provincial towns was rife with problems too; in Birmingham, furniture requires storing while the site in Cardiff is doubled-booked. With abandonment on the horizon, Furneyhough employs the use of a shop window to house the exhibition. Upon booking the site, he is told of Welsh regulations that require the GPO to possess an electricity permit. And with that we welcome a new character, the Minister of Fuel and Power.

No such luck could be unearthed in the capital. With Charing Cross no longer available and a general lack of facilities, the final glimmer of potential could be found in Mickleburgh’s proposal: why not open the exhibition to GPO staff on GPO premises? Justifying the expense for such a limited audience proves impossible and finally, the exhibition is laid to rest. A brief revival is attempted with the discussion to show in the Home Counties, but the COI declined to proceed.

It is worth noting how, at this stage in our story, the web of correspondence between our officers grows deeper. With only a week to go until the tour begins in Glasgow our officers are debating the issue of opening ceremonies. Perhaps with a lack of energy, or maybe a loss of faith, they mutually agree on modest quiet openings, no grand ceremonies, no technological stunts and no important figureheads.

But worry not; our story doesn’t finish with regret. We end in a written embrace, the comforting notion that this is not the last of our characters’ relationships. And yes, while the touring exhibition does not cure the aching for a London show, in its absence you find its presence carried by the officers’ letters and voices. Nowadays when birthday cards no longer bear the hand of a loved-one, or corporate letters are void of human tone, it is no wonder that we have fallen for the intimacy of our officers’ handwriting.

Tucked away at the back of a fragmenting file, in a newly awakened box, hides sixteen black and white photographs of the Glasgow show. They show an interactive exhibition of ‘phone equipment where visitors chat and recall their own stories. Remarkably, we can match sections with the original Charing Cross station plans. In a final homage to the memory of an exhibition that never quite was, we see an infographic display that directly compares ‘phone usage in the UK with that in London. And what more could be fitting as proof of our public relations officers coherent and accomplished curatorial vision.