Honouring Dallas

It was some way into my career as a book trade journalist that I really got to know Dallas Manderson, who died on 19th June. He had seemed from afar rather posh and intimidating, part of some ancien régime. Which of course he was, an old-fashioned salesman of impeccable manners in hand-made suits and silk ties whose posh vowels and expensive tastes belonged in Brideshead. But while he’d been to Eton, not entirely happily I think, he hadn’t been to Oxford, or indeed to any other university but had instead come into the trade amid which he’d grown up (his father Tim had enjoyed a long and distinguished career at Heinemann) and worked his way up. Part of two start-ups, Century, and Orion, he came to occupy a position of some power as both sides of the industry – publishing and bookselling – became more conglomerate, more centralised and altogether more corporate and dull.

Dallas held strong views on the trade, on increasingly crazy terms and discounts, and on the way the chains conducted themselves. He was principled and moral, and would speak as honestly and openly to the trade press as he could when others in his position often never returned calls. Eventually of course he was muzzled, and the trade was the poorer for it.

He was principled and moral, and would speak as honestly and openly to the trade press as he could when others in his position often never returned calls. Eventually of course he was muzzled, and the trade was the poorer for it

I came to know him personally when he invited me to become a trustee of the new-found Desmond Elliott Prize, established in memory of his great mentor, the agent and publisher Desmond Elliott whom I had come to know, who died in 2003. There were formal meetings, Dallas always a stickler for procedure, but also convivial dinners, and lunches at his home – impeccable food cooked by his wife Emma. On such occasions he could talk freely about the trade and its personalities. Chatham House Rules applied.

Sometimes there were things to be outraged about, such as the reconfiguring of the Hachette pension scheme in such a way that it disadvantaged younger, less well-paid staff. Dallas, a trustee, went into bat, a move that marked him out as a troublemaker. Not too long afterwards, in June 2014, a restructuring of the group’s sales operation saw him step down.

Urbane and witty, and a polished public speaker, Dallas wasn’t perhaps quite as confident as his public persona suggested. He and Emma lived high on the hog, taking guilt-free pleasure in life’s bounty – which was fortunate given the increasing constraints of his illness and his relatively short life – but sharing it with others. He never failed to demonstrate care and concern for friends and colleagues suffering a rough patch. Many in the trade and beyond will have very fond memories of him, and Dallas will be missed. He added colour and distinction to a trade that now has little of either.