A Straight Line to My Heart (8 page)

‘Sorry i'm late.'

The editor's name is Andrew Matthews. He's a big unit, same scale as Bull, except that he's got a belly you could sit a vase of flowers on. And he's maybe ten years older, and bald, and his glasses are way big and behind them are small green eyes that are staring at me.

‘Late on your first day? That's not a very promising start.'

His feet are up on the desk and his hands are behind his head as he slowly rocks back and forth. I wasn't going to mention the fire-engine because it didn't quite work out the way I'd hoped, but he looks at me as though he'd be disappointed if he didn't get an excuse.

‘There was a fire-engine, Mr Matthews. That's why I'm a fraction late.'

‘Oh, I see. And why would that make you late?'

‘Well, it went past us and the siren was going, so I decided to follow it in case there was a major fire. When we talked on the phone you said to show some initiative.'

‘Ah. And was there a fire?'

‘Um, I don't think so, no, not quite.'

‘Oh well. Never mind – tomorrow's another day.'

I'm not quite sure what he means by that but I have a feeling sarcasm might be involved. Pressing on, I hand him a folder.

‘There's a few references there.' One's from Bull – don't know if that's allowed or not seeing as he's hardly impartial. ‘And a copy of my Year 12 results.'

He drops the folder on the desk without looking at it.

‘Good.' He lifts his feet off the desk and stands up. ‘Now we better get you organised. You would have met Nancy when you came in?'

‘Yep.'

‘Anything you want to know, Nancy's the one.' He opens the door and ushers me out. ‘I'll be around today but after that you won't see much of me. Head office has me booked in at an editors' seminar most of the week. But you'll be working with a very experienced journalist. One of the best.'

He calls out to the only person in sight.

‘Shark.'

A lanky, silver-haired guy glances up from his computer. I'm betting he slept in his clothes. Needs a shave and a haircut and a good soak in the fountain of youth. Looks like an unloved antique.

‘That'd be me. What can I do you for?'

‘Got a new starter for you.' The editor pats me on the shoulder – or is it a push out the door? ‘Off you go, girl. Oh, and by the way, the name's Andrew – not Mr Matthews.'

I want to tell him my name's not ‘girl', it's Tiff. Not brave enough.

The antique stands up, waiting for me like a gentleman.

‘Hi, I'm–' That's as far as I get.

‘You'd have to be work experience, wouldn't you?'

I admit that I am – I can tell he's not too thrilled about it – but I still blather on about maybe getting a cadetship, if–

That's as far as I get. Again.

‘This'll be your computer. Ever used a computer before?'

‘Sure.'

‘I don't mean for playing games – Facebook or Twitter or any of that stuff. You ever used a computer for writing?'

‘All the time. I write short stories and poetry, and I've tried doing a novel but it hasn't worked out yet. I'm thinking I might write a play.'

‘That so?'

‘Yep.'

‘Well, good for you. But you can forget about all that now. It's crap. Did you see the sign out the front? This is the
Eagle
. It's a newspaper. What we do is news. No fairies. No vampires. No goblins. Meat-and-potato news. How's that grab yer?'

‘Um . . . good.'

He thrusts a hand at me. ‘They call me The Shark. You know why?'

‘No.'

‘Because when I sniff blood – I go for it. I circle a story and I wait. Then I strike. They call me The Shark.'

‘They call me Tiff.'

The Shark grunts as we shake hands.

‘I can teach you everything there is to know about newspapers; been at this game forty years. But let's cut to the chase – get the most important thing out of the way first.' He hands me a grotty, brown-stained cup. ‘I take my tea strong; milk, no sugar. Kitchen's out the back. You'll find the urn is boiling right now.'

My first thought is to tell him to go jump in the urn – Bull and Reggie would never treat me like this – but instantly I suppress that impulse. He's my boss and I'm a work-experience girl – the lowest of the low. I get the feeling I'm going to be seeing a lot of the kitchen.

‘Okay . . . Shark.'

At the urn I run into Nancy again. We talked briefly when I first got here.

‘I see Richard already has you making his tea for him. He doesn't waste any time.'

‘Is Richard the same as the Shark?'

‘Oh yes. Richard Park, that's his real name. Poor old Shark. I think he made that name up himself. We humour him. Takes himself far too seriously, that man. Between you and me I think he's more like a goldfish than a shark. If he called himself Guppy I could see the sense in it.'

Once I've delivered the Shark's tea – in a freshly washed cup, which he doesn't notice – Nancy ‘borrows' me for a minute so I can meet the rest of the staff. There are only three of them. Two are ad reps: Sue and Warren. They're both on the phone so I only get a nod, but that's okay as I'm told I won't be having much to do with them. They're in a separate part of the office to us.

‘But you will be seeing a lot of my good friend here,' Nancy says.

Jordie, the photographer: smouldering blue eyes, thick shoulder-length black hair.

‘My kids go to kinder with his,' Nancy adds. ‘His wife, Emma, teaches there. Lovely family.'

I don't really like smouldering blue eyes that much anyway.

‘Great to know you.' He half whispers, like he's telling me a secret. ‘Now stand just over here.' He positions me against a door. ‘And let me see a smile.'

One wall of the kitchen is covered with photos.

‘That's the rogues' gallery,' Nancy explains. ‘Every person who's ever worked at the
Eagle
is up there.'

I hate having my photo taken but before I can wriggle out of it, Jordie points his camera and clicks.

‘You'll be there with the rest of the troops by this afternoon, Tiff.' He gives me a thumbs-up. ‘Welcome to the
Eagle
.'

By nine-forty I'm back at my desk and ready to work. The Shark is hard at it, punching out stories so fast it's a wonder the computer isn't smoking. I log on, type in the password I've been given, and wait to be told what to do next. No one tells me a thing.

At ten-forty the Shark goes to the loo. A thesaurus on the desk catches my attention. Inside the cover it says:
To: Richard Park. From: Richard Park
. He gives a book to himself and writes an inscription, like it's a present? That is sad. I delve further inside and on the very first page I come to, there's a squashed cockroach. It's long dead but its antenna sticks up in the air like it's waving at me. Gross!

I dump the book and pounce on the Shark when he comes back.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?'

‘What you're doing is brilliant. Winning formula. Don't change a thing.'

‘But I'm not doing–'

‘Sweetheart, I got a crook hip and today it's giving me all kinds of curry. But I haven't got time to feel sorry for myself because I've got a paper to put out. Stopping to hold your hand just isn't on. We'll sit down and have a cosy chat tomorrow, when it isn't deadline day.'

He starts belting on the keys again but when he feels my eyes burning into the back of his head, he spins his chair around and faces me.

‘Look, if you're desperate for something to do, go see Andrew. He's bound to have a job for you. And I just thought of one, too – you can bring me another cup of tea on the way back – ta.'

It's becoming very clear why he has to buy his own presents. He's not a shark, he's not a guppy – he's a pig.

I knock on the editor's door.

‘Yes?'

‘Er. The Shark said' – I feel so stupid saying that – ‘you might have some work for me.'

‘It's quite possible. Let me have a look.'

He peers around his desk. At least I think it's a desk. It might be just one ginormous pile of papers.

‘Ah. A press release from our beloved mayor. Burkie's always after some free publicity.' He looks it over and then pushes it towards me. ‘Probably a thousand words in that. Cut it down to five pars. About a hundred words.'

I stand there, staring pathetically, trying to get him to read my mind.

‘Any questions?

‘No . . . not really.'

He frowns. ‘Pars are paragraphs.'

I nod, probably too many times.

‘When you finish, print it out and bring it over. I'll have a look at it, see if it's up to scratch.'

‘Okay, Mr Matthews, er, Andrew. Thanks.'

As soon as the Shark is fuelled up again with tea, I attack the press release – hacking away mercilessly. In only half an hour I get it down to seven hundred words. After an hour I pare it right back till it's impossible to lose even another full stop.

‘It's about five hundred words.' I stand in front of Andrew's desk. ‘Hope that's all right. I know it's more than what you wanted but I couldn't cut out any more. I don't think anyone could – but I fitted it all into five pars, like you said.'

Putting on his glasses, he reads my effort for at least three seconds, then drops it back on the desk and focuses on his computer as if I'm not there.

This is sooo infuriating.
say something
!
I scream at him.

Mentally, of course.

And then, without even looking at me, and very softly, he does say something.

‘Do it again.'

That's the same response he gives to my next two attempts.

do it again
!

On the third rejection I flounce back to my desk and flop down as noisily as possible, mad as hell, and utterly defeated.

The Shark turns and raises an eyebrow.

‘What's up with you?'

‘I can't write this stupid press release. No matter how I do it, it's wrong – it's always wrong!'

‘Give me a look at what you've got there.'

‘Okay.'

He reads it quickly then screws it up and throws it in the bin.

That's it! I quit! I'm outta here!
They're only thoughts but they're an instant away from becoming words.

‘Quick lesson.' He spins his chair around to eyeball me. ‘You paying attention?'

‘Ready when you are.'

‘Write this down: who, what, when, where, why, how. Got that?'

‘Who, what . . .'

‘When, where, why, how. Got it now?'

‘I think so.'

‘Those are the details the reader needs to know. What happened? Who did it? When? Where? Why? How? Your job is to tell them; most important things first. Keep it simple. Stick to the facts. Joe Blow out in the street, he doesn't want a novel or a play. He wants his news served up in a nutshell. You with me?'

‘Yep.'

He turns back to his computer and starts typing again. ‘Have another go at it. And keep at it till you get it right. Take the rest of the day if you have to. You don't get good by accident, darl. You work your arse off. Just depends how much you want it – or if you want it at all. Do you?'

‘I want it – a lot.'

‘In that case, no more moans and groans – we agreed?'

‘Yes – and thanks for helping me.'

‘Now just one more thing before you get back to work.'

‘Cup of tea?'

‘Thought you'd never ask.'

I start a fresh page in my notebook. Up the top I write in capitals:
who
,
what
,
when
,
where
,
why
,
how
. I try to remember the rest of the stuff he said, too. Keep it simple. Lots of facts. News in a nutshell. Okay. I can do this. Brand new start. I rewrite it, switch the paragraphs around, tighten it up. Shine every single word. At twelve o'clock I go for lunch and take the press release with me, reading it over, making sure I've nailed it. At five minutes past one I hand it to Andrew. A minute later he pushes it onto a spike on his desk. That's all.

‘Must have liked it,' the Shark says.

‘How am I supposed to know? He didn't say a word!'

‘But he didn't throw it back at you. That's usually a good sign.'

‘I don't think i want to go back to that job tomorrow, Bull. It sucked.'

He mutes the
tv
and looks up. ‘Tell me about it.'

‘For a start I wasn't a journalist – I was the tea lady.'

‘Bet you were good at it, too.'

I ignore him and head into the kitchen to make a sandwich.

‘Don't go spoilin' your dinner, Tiff. It's not far away.'

‘Can't wait, Bull. Dying of hunger.'

He switches the sound back on.

‘Thought you wanted to hear about my day?'

I hear him groan and the sound goes off again.

‘Go ahead,' he says. ‘Tell me.'

I decide on pancakes – and toast. As I'm cooking I give Bull a running commentary on my newspaper adventures. Our house is tweeny and my voice isn't. I know he hears every word.

‘They've got some geriatric there who's the main reporter. I say hello and he goes, “They call me The Shark.” It's because of the way he gobbles up stories or something – I almost burst out laughing when he said it. I'm like, “What are you on?”'

‘The Shark, eh . . .'

‘He's so deluded, Bull. He really believes he's this hotshot reporter, when he's not even a has-been. He's a never-was.'

‘Sounds like a character, all right.'

‘But even more stupid was Andrew – he's the editor. He wants this story cut from a thousand to a hundred words, right?'

‘Right.'

‘That's really hard to do. I get it to seven hundred, five hundred. Each time it's not good enough. I get it to three hundred. He goes, “Do it again.”'

‘Must have been a pain.'

‘It was! Then on the fourth time, at last he doesn't say to do it again. But he doesn't say “it's good” either. He just takes it off me. Not a word of thanks, Bull. Nothing!'

‘Well . . .'

‘And the day just dragged like torture. It was so boring. But the worst thing was that they really didn't want me there. I was in the way.'

He doesn't respond so I stroll back into the lounge room with my food. His eyes are glued to the
tv
.

‘Bull, have you been listening to anything I've said?'

‘Bits and pieces. I got the gist of it.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Keep your hair on, Tiff.'

‘No! I always listen to your stories about work! No matter how boring they are!'

‘Look, it's not that I don't care – I do. Truly. But your timing's all wrong. You barge in and start this blow-by-blow account when they've got the footy highlights on
tv
.'

‘Thanks a lot, Bull!'

‘Aw, fair go. It was a State of Origin match.'

I'm standing there, staring and fuming, wondering if I could get off on justifiable homicide, when I hear footsteps behind me.

‘I was listenin'. Heard every word.'

When I turn I see Reggie, looking like he just crawled out of bed.

‘Hi, Reggie. I didn't wake you, did I? I might have got a bit loud.'

‘That's all right, Tiffy. Wasn't asleep. Just had a lie down. I been feelin' a bit weary on it lately.'

His face looks grey and pinched, as if the skin has been pulled tight against the bones. Then I realise, with all of my ‘me, me, me' ranting, I completely forgot about his doctor's appointment.

‘I'm sorry' – I give him a hug – ‘for not asking about your day.'

‘Not a problem, luv.'

‘How did it go with Anna?'

‘Ah, you know what doctors are like. They got no idea of privacy, like she says, “Now Mr Bennett, how have your bowels been?” So I ask her how hers have been – see how she likes it. I mean, that's a bit below the belt, isn't it?'

Bull splutters out a laugh. I keep mine inside.

‘Anyway,' Reggie continues, after a glare at Bull, ‘she wants me to have all these blood tests and x-rays and God knows what. You go through all this stuff and at the end of it . . .' He sighs and leaves the rest unsaid.

I tell him for about the hundredth time that he'll be fine and he agrees with me – both of us trying to make the other believe.

Bull puts a hand on Reggie's shoulder. Not a word is spoken. They hardly look at each other. They're so awkward about getting close, and yet somehow they make it.

‘Now, about this newspaper business.' Reggie's voice crackles with an energy that he didn't have only a moment before. ‘Here's what I reckon, Tiffy.' He inches half a step forward and Bull moves his hand away. It's as if they've both agreed that they've had their share of closeness for now – at least the kind that's visible. ‘You're bein' put to the test, luv.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Seems fairly obvious to me. This editor joker went all out to make it tough for yer. If you don't front up tomorrow, then you failed the test. Give it another go, Tiffy. One more day.'

I really don't need a lot of persuading. Yes, it was awful writing that press release and getting no feedback from Andrew about what I was doing wrong, and no thank you when I finally got it right. I won't be forgiving him in a hurry. But I don't mind the Shark all that much. He's grumpy and rude and sexist. But at least he did try to help me . . . 

I give Reggie another hug.

‘It's not me birthday, is it?' he asks.

‘No. That was for the good advice. Here's the deal: You'll have all your medical tests this week and I'll go back to the paper – and I'll take anything they dish out. We'll be tested together, Reggie.'

‘You're on, luv.'