mornings, too. Yet she professed an earnest desire to be a reporter on a national paper and talked enthusiastically of The Siren as ‘work experience’. The door clicked shut behind her, the thump of her clumpy shoes on the stairs receded and the general office fell silent. Tony had been sent off on a job by our new lord and master, and wouldn’t be back.
The Siren occupies a rambling, pebble-dashed villa on a road off the High Street. The Advertising Department is downstairs and the Editorial upstairs. The general office is two rooms knocked into one and is open-plan, with screens to give privacy placed between each of the three work stations. The editor’s office is out along the corridor, with a small interview room beyond it.
I was jotting down questions to ask an eighty-six year old ‘fearless great-grandmother’ who had sky-dived ten thousand feet to raise money for charity, when Steve Lingard came in.
‘Would it be all right if I took an hour off on Tuesday and Thursday mornings to do a fitness class?’ I heard myself ask, and could have kicked myself.
I had decided to say nothing, but inside me runs a seam of honesty which stubbornly, maybe stupidly, insists on playing fair. It’s an honesty which has had me returning a hundred pounds to a bank clerk when he’d miscalculated and handed over too much, which means I take a taxi, rather than use my car, if I suspect I could be over the drink-drive limit, which demands I tell people in queues if they are ahead of me. My mother is to blame. She could spot a fib a mile off and never let me, or my brother, get away with one.
‘I’m out on average two evenings a week for The Siren ,’ I continued, mustering my case, ‘and –’
‘No problem.’
‘You don’t object?’ I said, in surprise.
Steve shook his head. ‘I’ve been going through the back copies and you’ve contributed a hell of a lot of stuff. The greater proportion by far. And, whatever Eric may’ve claimed, I suspect it’s been like that for years?’
‘The cock croweth, but the hen delivereth the goods,’ I quoted.
The back copies are the last three months’ worth of original reports which are routinely filed and kept in case of complaints or if legal factors should come into play.
‘I’ve also taken a look at the wages bill,’ he continued, ‘and it seems that you don’t get paid overtime for the evenings nor for any weekend work.’
‘Never have been.’
‘So go ahead.’
‘You’re sure?’ While I was grateful for his agreement, I hadn’t expected it to come so easily.
‘I’m sure. Are the fitness classes at Garth House?’
‘No, at Tina Kincaid’s with her personal trainer. She’s asked me if I’d like to join her.’
‘Maybe you’ll be inspired to write about the craze for aerobics?’ he suggested.
‘Maybe. And –’ I shone a sweet smile of entreaty ‘– maybe you’ll allow me to use my own judgement on whether or not to follow up a story, without asking for your permission?’
‘No can do,’ he said. ‘You must ask. We need to discuss.’
My smile switched to a glare. Who did he think I was, some thoughtless, careless two-bit junior?
‘You may be le grand fromage, ’ I began, ‘but –’
‘Submission’s not your strong point, is it? Look, Eric may not have given a damn, but for me –’ Steve starfished a hand on his chest ‘– it’s important to consider the content of each page and the issue as a whole, and to strike the right balance. Hence, before you rush hither and thither gathering stories, we must discuss.’ He was all sweet reason. ‘And I’m sure that nine times out of ten, we’ll agree.’
‘Huh!’
I could see the sense in what he said and knew that consulting him was good manners, but I resented it all the same. Resented it deeply.
‘Did you hope to take over as editor when Eric departed?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, and I’d do a damned good job, but the powers-that-be were not in favour. Are you happy to
The Siren occupies a rambling, pebble-dashed villa on a road off the High Street. The Advertising Department is downstairs and the Editorial upstairs. The general office is two rooms knocked into one and is open-plan, with screens to give privacy placed between each of the three work stations. The editor’s office is out along the corridor, with a small interview room beyond it.
I was jotting down questions to ask an eighty-six year old ‘fearless great-grandmother’ who had sky-dived ten thousand feet to raise money for charity, when Steve Lingard came in.
‘Would it be all right if I took an hour off on Tuesday and Thursday mornings to do a fitness class?’ I heard myself ask, and could have kicked myself.
I had decided to say nothing, but inside me runs a seam of honesty which stubbornly, maybe stupidly, insists on playing fair. It’s an honesty which has had me returning a hundred pounds to a bank clerk when he’d miscalculated and handed over too much, which means I take a taxi, rather than use my car, if I suspect I could be over the drink-drive limit, which demands I tell people in queues if they are ahead of me. My mother is to blame. She could spot a fib a mile off and never let me, or my brother, get away with one.
‘I’m out on average two evenings a week for The Siren ,’ I continued, mustering my case, ‘and –’
‘No problem.’
‘You don’t object?’ I said, in surprise.
Steve shook his head. ‘I’ve been going through the back copies and you’ve contributed a hell of a lot of stuff. The greater proportion by far. And, whatever Eric may’ve claimed, I suspect it’s been like that for years?’
‘The cock croweth, but the hen delivereth the goods,’ I quoted.
The back copies are the last three months’ worth of original reports which are routinely filed and kept in case of complaints or if legal factors should come into play.
‘I’ve also taken a look at the wages bill,’ he continued, ‘and it seems that you don’t get paid overtime for the evenings nor for any weekend work.’
‘Never have been.’
‘So go ahead.’
‘You’re sure?’ While I was grateful for his agreement, I hadn’t expected it to come so easily.
‘I’m sure. Are the fitness classes at Garth House?’
‘No, at Tina Kincaid’s with her personal trainer. She’s asked me if I’d like to join her.’
‘Maybe you’ll be inspired to write about the craze for aerobics?’ he suggested.
‘Maybe. And –’ I shone a sweet smile of entreaty ‘– maybe you’ll allow me to use my own judgement on whether or not to follow up a story, without asking for your permission?’
‘No can do,’ he said. ‘You must ask. We need to discuss.’
My smile switched to a glare. Who did he think I was, some thoughtless, careless two-bit junior?
‘You may be le grand fromage, ’ I began, ‘but –’
‘Submission’s not your strong point, is it? Look, Eric may not have given a damn, but for me –’ Steve starfished a hand on his chest ‘– it’s important to consider the content of each page and the issue as a whole, and to strike the right balance. Hence, before you rush hither and thither gathering stories, we must discuss.’ He was all sweet reason. ‘And I’m sure that nine times out of ten, we’ll agree.’
‘Huh!’
I could see the sense in what he said and knew that consulting him was good manners, but I resented it all the same. Resented it deeply.
‘Did you hope to take over as editor when Eric departed?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, and I’d do a damned good job, but the powers-that-be were not in favour. Are you happy to
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