The Making of Minty Malone by Isabel Wolff Page B

something out on his computer.
    ‘What does “i.p.s.” mean?’
    ‘Inches per second.’
    ‘Very good. What’s a “simulrec”?’ And now he was printing something out.
    ‘I really haven’t the faintest.’ This was ridiculous.
    ‘The same interview recorded in two different places and edited together later.’ He was scanning the page with his eyes.
    ‘What’s a segue?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I didn’t like this. I was on my feet.
    ‘Music or speech which follows on from something else without an intervening explanatory link.’ He folded the printout in two. ‘What’s a “Lyrec”?’
    ‘I haven’t a clue,’ I said. ‘And I don’t really care any more.’
    ‘It’s a portable reel-to-reel tape-recorder, rather oldfashioned but still used for OB’s. What’s an “OB”?’
    ‘An Outside Bloody Broadcast,’ I said, sweeping up my bag from the floor. ‘These are just boring technical terms,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to know them. I want to be a reporter, not a sound engineer. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I think I’lltry somewhere else.’ I reached for the door handle, but Jack was holding that piece of folded paper out to me. I took it and opened it up.
    ‘Right,’ he said. He was behind his desk, staring at me with his dark brown eyes. ‘That’s a news despatch about the environmental protest in Lambeth. There are plans for a hypermarket there, with a new link road, and the eco-warriors are creating.’
    ‘I know,’ I said. ‘In fact, my Moth-’ I bit my lip. I decided to keep Mum out of it. ‘It’s been in the papers,’ I said.
    Jack clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair.
    ‘I want you to go down there and collect some material. I want some wild-track of the bulldozers, and a few vox-pops from the protesters – no more than six – which will accompany an interview we’re running tomorrow. My assistant Monica will get you a tape-recorder,’ he said, as he turned back to his computer. ‘Make sure you hold the lead still so that it doesn’t crackle, and keep the mike no more than a hand-span away from your subject’s mouth. When you get back I’ll find a spare producer to help you cut it down.’ He looked at me, seriously. ‘I expect you to mess this up a bit, because you’ve never done it before. But if you screw it up completely, I don’t want to see you again.’
    That’s how I got started. And because Mum was there, collecting for the pressure group Eco-Logical, she knew all the campaigners and helped me get some really good quotes. Jack was happy with what I’d done, so he gave me a freelance reporting shift. Then, a week later, he gave me another. And then another. Soon, I began to compile longer pieces, quite complex ones – they took me ages to begin with. Sometimes – though I’d never tell anyone this – they took all night to do. Then, a few months later, it happened: one of the staff reporters was poached by Channel 4 News and there I was, on the spot. That was three years ago. My life seemed complete. I had fallen in love with radio; and then I fell in love with Dominic too.
    ‘That weely is cwap !’ Melinda screeched again, as I sat down in the boardroom on my first day back.
    ‘I thought Wesley’s idea was rather good,’ Jack said.
    ‘Oh, thanks, Jack,’ simpered Wesley. ‘Do you really think so?’ And then Wesley noticed me, and smiled.
    ‘Oh, hel-lo, Minty,’ he said. Then his features folded into an expression of sympathetic concern. ‘Minty, look, I’d just like to say –’
    ‘Wesley!’ Jack cut in. ‘Kindly tell us all who you would invite into the studio for this item on astrology.’
    ‘Well,’ he began. ‘Well …’ Wesley never has any ideas. His mind was clearly as empty as the Outback as he pursed his lips, then stared at the floor.
    ‘How about an astrologer?’ Jack prompted crisply.
    ‘Yeah!’ said Wesley. ‘Fab! Brilliant idea. There’s that woman from the