Drybread: A Novel by Owen Marshall Page B

he hear the murmur
of voices from the bedroom.
    Theo had driven back to the paper and sat at his desk
overlooking the service alley. He wrote up a piece about
high country runs being bought by overseas buyers, and
the possible economic and political implications. He
did nearly a thousand words of serviceable copy before
he finished work for the day, and during the time it took,
one part of his mind was in a quite different, empty space,
considering what the afternoon had made inevitable.
Sadness it was, rather than indignant surprise, or anger. The
man in the spare bed was a consequence of failure between
himself and Stella, not the cause of it. Theo knew it, just as
he knew the mixture of guilt, remorse and justification that
Stella would be feeling.
    He was about to leave when Anna asked him to come
into her office. She was alarmed at the standard of work
coming from Michael, a middle-aged reporter not long
over from a newspaper on the Coast. 'The stuff 's crap,' she
said. 'The subs are really struggling with it. I've talked to
him — I've tried him with all sorts of stories, and nothing
decent comes in. If he was a kid it would be bad enough,
but he's been a journo for years, for Christ's sake.'
    Theo made an effort to bring Michael to mind, and
gradually assembled the image of a badly dressed guy
known in the office mainly for being able to imitate the
prime minister's voice and run an office sweepstake on
anything from rugby to the hip measurements of the
editor's wife. He also had the habit of ridiculing others,
then laughing so loudly that no rejoinder was audible. It
was a stupid, irritating and effective technique.
    Theo saw Michael most working days, talked with
him, but didn't give a damn about him at that moment.
    He felt glassed off from the rest of the world. He sat in
Anna's office as she asked him if he would take a mentor's
interest in Michael for everybody's sake, but the words
seemed to bounce away before they quite reached him.
'He nominated you as someone he was prepared to take
advice from,' said Anna. 'He's got some hang-up about
being told anything by a woman, I think, though he won't
admit that of course. It's funny, isn't it, the less ability
some guys have, the greater their conviction they know it
all. He doesn't seem to realise his job's on the line here.'
A woman less comfortable with her role may have insisted
that Michael be instructed by her, but Anna was looking
for a sensible solution.
    Theo could have said he didn't give a fuck. He could
have recounted the story of his afternoon and taken note of
the chief reporter's response. He could have said Michael
was a useless prick and should be fired as soon as possible.
He could have said nothing, and concentrated on Anna's
competent netball hands as an anchor in the here and now.
'Yes, okay,' he said. 'I'll give it some thought over the next
few days and get back to you. It'll have to be something
reasonably formal, or he'll just arse around.' Anna seemed
quite happy with that. When Theo stood up to go, he felt
for a moment as if that normal propulsion would keep
him rising steadily until he was held, checked beneath the
ceiling, with unusual view upon Anna and the flat of her
desk, the framed awards on the wall behind her. But then
he steadied and was able to walk out, though very light on
his feet.
    He knew that Stella would be there when he went
home. It wasn't in her nature to evade a meeting. She was
sitting in the sunroom, looking out to the brick barbecue
area and the plum tree on the boundary. She had no book,
which was unusual. Her face was blotchy, but her voice
steady. 'You told me you weren't going to be home during
the day,' she said. Was his inability to keep his word the
issue between them? It wasn't of course — her comment
was meant to indicate she'd been discreet. Theo felt better
standing by the French doors: sitting seemed to indicate a
complacency, a relationship, neither of them felt. 'It wasn't
to hurt you, you know that.