The Women’s Pages

by Victoria Purman

  Stan hacked out a cough, crossed his elbows on the table and studied the front page, lifting his head back to focus on the fine print.

  ‘Where are your spectacles?’ Elsie fussed.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Stan wheezed. ‘I can read plenty without them.’

  Elsie and Tilly exchanged knowing glances and suppressed smiles.

  ‘What do you think of that front page, Dad? “Huge crowd in gay city carnival”?’

  Elsie came to the table, pressed her hands on Stan’s shoulders and leant over to look. ‘Are you in that photograph, Tilly? Can’t say as I can see you, but it’s hard to make out anyone, really.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Some of the words there are mine. Look here.’ Tilly ran her finger down the column inches. ‘This part here. “Crowds gathered for an unrestrained demonstration of gay bedlam, singing and dancing to celebrate the declaration of peace.” Oh, and here’s another sentence of mine: “Thousands of men—and not just those in uniform—walked the streets with lipstick smears on their faces.”’

  Elsie beamed. ‘Well, how about that, Stan.’

  Tilly’s swell of pride flushed her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t you get to have your name right there on the page if you wrote it, Tilly?’

  ‘You mean a by-line? Reporters don’t usually get them and certainly not women,’ Tilly explained with a sigh. ‘Unless you’re a regular columnist or a famous correspondent. Dad? I know you don’t usually read the Daily Herald but—’

  Stan slowly closed the paper and made an elaborate and purposeful show of folding it in half so the sports page faced up. ‘Only decent thing in it is the racing results.’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tilly girl. I won’t forget what that paper called me and every other bloke like me. “Lazy, incompetent, drunken thieves.” They even accused some of my comrades of rifling through all the soldiers’ mail and nicking anything they could get their hands on that was stuffed inside those envelopes. How low can you go? Calling us traitors to the country for fighting for better conditions on the wharves.’ Stan’s wheeze hissed through his tight lips. She remembered his outrage then and it clearly still burnt in his belly. Those heinous insults and accusations had put fire in the wharfies’ bellies when they had barely any food to put there instead.

  Tilly remembered and had fumed when she’d read it. Was there a greater insult during the war than to accuse Australians of undermining their fellow citizens? Her father and his mates had felt it keenly and would never forget it.

  ‘It makes you sick to your bloody stomach.’ Stan coughed and his voice grew hoarse. ‘Now that it’s over, that’ll all be forgotten. They’ll go back to hating us for something else. You know that it was members of the Seamen’s Union who sailed those merchant ships all over the Pacific, delivering supplies to our lads? And to the Americans and the British. They weren’t wearing uniforms like your Archie and Martha’s Colin, but they were loyal blokes all the same, hit by Jap mines and submarines and planes. Right here off our coast and all the way up to Queensland and all through the Pacific. I met one lad who came back.’ Stan paused, the emotion almost getting the better of him. ‘His ship was hit by a torpedo and he spent eight hours in the sea waiting to be rescued, watching a Jap sub surface and circle around that sinking boat. Eight hours and he didn’t know if another hit was coming. Or the sharks. Bloody Japs.’

  It was a long moment before anyone spoke. Her father had quickly swept them past the euphoria of yesterday’s victory celebrations to stocktake what had been lost and at what price. Tilly looked up from her entwined fingers. Her father’s attention was focussed on the street and the morning light cast shadows in the deep lines on his ruddy face.

  ‘That’s the truth of it, Tilly. I don’t see much of that in that newspaper of yours.’

  What was the truth?

  The censorship war had been raging as fiercely as the real one. Mr Sinclair had pinned telegrams from the State Publicity Censor in the Department of Information on a board in the newsroom to remind reporters and subeditors about what was forbidden. When Darwin had been bombed, newsrooms had been cautioned: ‘All publicity media are advised that, unless officially stated by the Air Board, reports concerning Japanese air raids against objectives in Australian defence areas must not contain any indication of specific military, naval or air force targets. Reference must be confined to areas only and not targets.’

  Tilly reached for her handbag and her packet of cigarettes. She lit one, smoked it. Tired, anxious, exhausted by the war and by the years of inescapable grief, she shook with frustration but her voice was controlled, her rage contained, because she wasn’t angry at her father, not really.

  ‘I’m not a mouthpiece for the bosses or the big end of town, Dad. They’re my words right there on the front page. I thought you might be proud of me. Who in a million years would have thought the daughter of a communist wharfie would ever be allowed to write sentences for the front page of the capitalist press?’

  Her father sipped his tea and gently returned the cup to its saucer. ‘He’ll be home soon, love,’ Stan said, his voice gruff.

  Tilly hesitated and was suddenly overcome. She dropped her head into her crossed arms on the table and wept.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Tilly Galloway speaking.’ When the telephone on her desk rang with a shrill tone, Tilly tugged off her earring and pressed the receiver to her ear. She heard the crackle and static she recognised as an overseas connection. ‘Cooper?’ She gripped the earring tight in her fist and sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Where in heaven’s name are you?’

  She covered her other ear and waited for the delay and then his voice.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Galloway. Are you still hungover from VP Day celebrations? I hear there were a million people out on the streets of Sydney the other night.’

  A laugh bubbled up inside Tilly. ‘You know what they say about us girls. Stick to two drinks and you’ll remain a lady. After that, all bets are off. So no, not hungover in the slightest. I was out there, along with every other reporter and photographer in Sydney. The ABC even did a live broadcast from Martin Place. I waved to Talbot Duckmanton as I bustled past. So, where the heck are you, Cooper? You didn’t say.’

  ‘Work it out, Mrs Galloway. Last night I was sitting in a hotel and I couldn’t see the floorboards for cracked peanut shells. There’s no sneaking out of a joint like that. It sounds like you’re walking on broken glass. Pity the poor blokes who have to sweep it all up. I’m rubbing shoulders with English brass weighed down with double-barrelled surnames and pompous self-importance, and correspondents from around the world are nursing very sore heads. And yes, you should definitely include me in that number.’

  ‘Well, you’re in Singapore, obviously.’

  ‘Funniest thing, cobber. I woke up this morning to see some of the staff out in the Palm Court garden with shovels. Thought they might be burying a body. But they were digging up all the hotel’s silverware. They buried it all, apparently, so the Japs wouldn’t get their hands on it. How bloody enterprising.’

  ‘Very clever indeed,’ Tilly replied. ‘And here’s another story for you. Rumour is that the last white tiger in Singapore was shot right there at the hotel.’

  ‘Poor tiger. So, how’s everything with you?’

  ‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘Busy. And you? I bet you’ve forgotten what Sydney looks like.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ he answered and then there was silence. He liked speaking in riddles, liked testing her, and although from anyone else it might have felt like a condescending exam, it had never felt that way to Tilly. From the very first time they’d met, back in 1940, George Cooper had always treated her with the respect that very few women in the newsroom had been afforded.

  Perhaps that was because he hadn’t worked his whole life in the Sydney newsroom of the Daily Herald.

  He’d spied her on his first day at the paper, as he’d crossed the newsroom to see Mr Sinclair. In front of her desk,
her guard station, he’d paused, thrown her a sideways glance, and then stopped and doubled back.

  ‘How do you do.’ He’d flashed a charming smile and offered his outstretched hand. ‘George Cooper. Brand-new foreign correspondent. I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  In most respects, he’d looked like every other dishevelled reporter on the paper: rolled-up sleeves on shirts that had perhaps last seen an iron in 1929, suits that carried the stale odour of spilled beer, a rolled-up newspaper in a front jacket pocket (most often the racing pages), and sharpened pencils in every conceivable spot, including behind his left ear. But it was the twinkle in his blue eyes that had caught Tilly’s attention. She was rather used to being ignored by the other reporters. He wasn’t like them at all. A tall, slim man with swept-back blond hair and a strong jaw, she imagined he set hearts aflutter wherever he went. She figured that’s why he’d had a brilliant career—she’d heard the gossip about him even before he’d arrived—because he simply beamed that charming smile at people like headlights on a car and they couldn’t help but tell him everything.

  Tilly had shaken his hand politely. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Cooper. Tilly Galloway.’

  It had been quite a coup for the Daily Herald to entice him up to Sydney from Canberra where he’d been covering federal politics for one of the Melbourne newspapers. He’d been known as Menzies’s least favourite press gallery reporter, which Tilly took as a recommendation rather than a mark against his character. He’d come with a strong reputation as a top newsman, armed with intelligence, persistence, a kind of reckless bravery and a prodigious work ethic.

  ‘It’s Mrs Galloway, I see.’ He’d held on to her hand and made a dramatic show of inspecting the plain gold band on her left ring finger. She and Archie hadn’t had the money for a fancy wedding ring and Tilly hadn’t minded. Jewellers’ displays had grown sparse during the war, and no one wanted to waltz around Sydney wearing a fancy bauble when the boys were away fighting.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  He’d perched himself on the opposite side of her desk. ‘Who’s the lucky chap, then?’

  ‘That’s a rather personal question, Mr Cooper. We’ve only just met.’

  He’d played at looking affronted but his grin had given him away. ‘This is the business I’m in, Mrs Galloway. I ask personal questions for a crust.’ He’d leant in, lowered his voice and raised one eyebrow. ‘He’s not a spy, is he?’

  She’d suppressed her laughter and replied, ‘His name is Archie and he works in insurance.’

  He’d studied her then, taking in her curls and her lipstick, her buttoned shirt and the brooch on her lapel. Later, when she knew him better, she would recognise this as a technique he often employed. Ask a question, wait, think on it, hope the person being asked might nervously say something else, take an answer just a little bit further, give something away that they hadn’t intended to. If there was space, some people felt obliged to fill it with conversation, and Cooper would always pounce when they did.

  She hadn’t taken the bait.

  ‘Archie Galloway. That’s a solid name. I bet he’s a solid kind of bloke, too. You’re just married.’

  She’d met his confident statement and his gaze with a defiant none-of-your-business stare. ‘No comment, Mr Cooper.’

  Cooper had raised his hands in mock surrender and stood, righting the pile of papers he’d bumped with his thigh. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Galloway.’

  Two years later, on the day Tilly had been promoted to reporter, Cooper happened to be back in Sydney from an assignment in London, and Mr Sinclair, in the manner he regularly employed, had walked into the newsroom, seen him conferring with some colleagues and called him over.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he’d said. ‘Teach Tilly the ropes, will you?’

  At Cooper’s insistence, they’d left the newsroom and taken to the streets of Sydney and the sunshine. They’d bought cheese and pickle sandwiches from a lunch bar on Pitt Street and walked down to Circular Quay, where they’d sat on a bench in the sun and looked across the Quay to the Botanic Gardens and over their shoulder at the bridge.

  ‘There are six things you need to remember,’ Cooper told her, tapping his cigarette ash onto the ground by his feet.

  He counted them off on the fingers of one hand, plus his thumb on the other. ‘Who. What. Why. Where. When. And how. If you ask those questions, you’ll get the whole picture, every time. Then all you need to do is get back to the office, come up with a cracking lead, and put all the rest of the facts in the right order.’

  ‘The lead is the first sentence, isn’t it.’ Tilly’s pencil hovered over a fresh notepad.

  ‘You learn fast, I see.’

  She had rolled her eyes. ‘You forget I’ve worked for Mr Sinclair for nine years. I have managed to pick up a few things.’

  Cooper had narrowed his eyes, intrigued. ‘Like?’

  There were secrets Tilly knew that she would never tell, especially to a newsman. ‘Like the fact that you always overspend your travel allowance and that you always seem to get away with it. You must have something on Sinclair but I can’t figure out what. He’s a family man with no skeletons, not that I’ve ever heard. But you, on the other hand.’ This time, Tilly turned to focus back on Cooper, studying his expression and his reaction.

  He grinned. ‘No comment, Mrs Galloway.’

  She waited, listened. And he recognised that tactic and smiled at her. ‘So, your slug is the nub of the story and it goes right at the top of your copy so the subs know what the story is about.’

  Tilly held her pencil to her lips and pondered. ‘Mmm, you mean like, “Newsman overspends travel allowance”?’

  He’d burst into laughter. ‘Who’s teaching who here?’

  ‘Go on,’ she’d said, lowering her pencil, poised to record everything he told her.

  ‘You’ve got your slug. Now, you need a first sentence to grab the reader’s attention but that’s only the beginning. Then you need the human interest. That’s what makes the reader remember the story.’

  ‘That sounds simple enough.’

  ‘And remember. Everyone has a story. You just have to listen long enough to hear it.’

  He’d been right, of course, and from that day on, Tilly had listened more than she’d talked when she was interviewing people. And as for Cooper, he’d become a mentor, friend and respected colleague, and she’d genuinely missed him when he’d flown off to be a war reporter. In February 1942, he’d gone to Townsville as one of the first Australians to be licensed by the Australian Army as a war correspondent. During the rest of the war, he’d reported wherever Australian troops were facing action and she had a drawer full of postcards and telegrams from all over the world, each one signed cynically and ostentatiously, Captain George Cooper, which she of course teased him about every opportunity she could.

  And now he was in Singapore, which was safely back in Allied hands. Prisoners of war were being released, more every day, and war correspondents were there to capture all the drama and joy and glory of their service and their freedom.

  Tilly could picture him. He was probably wearing a white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Khaki trousers. His blond hair pushed back off his tanned face, his blue eyes bright with the adrenaline rush of his latest assignment. He would have a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, and his long, lean frame would be slouching as it always had, a casualty of too much time hunched over the portable typewriter he’d carried with him all over the world.

  Tilly lit a cigarette and leant back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Their friendship had, in the years since they’d met, been built on a match of wits, of humour, of truth. ‘When did you get to Singapore? I thought you were still in Malaya? Something about a rubber plantation?’

  The line was silent.

  ‘Cooper? Are you still there?’

  There was another crackle. ‘… a plane out of there. This is where all the action is, Mrs Galloway. Here and in Manila, of course
, but the gin’s better here. Everyone’s cracking on to find all their missing POWs.’

  Tilly squeezed the receiver so hard she thought it might shatter in her hand. If anyone could get to the truth of those missing men and women, George could. He had connections in the government and among defence officials in Canberra and in South-West Pacific Headquarters, as well as among the Americans and British. He knew what had been really going on, the truth that would never pass a censor’s pen. He had information that might have shaken Australians’ confidence in the progress of the war, in the idea that the Japanese would never win, if it’d been printed.

  ‘Mrs Galloway.’ George’s voice was low suddenly, as though he was trying not to be overheard. ‘Listen. I’ve been into some of the prison camps. I’ve got lists of survivors. The other fellows have too, and we’re putting them together into master lists from each division. We’ve got names, service numbers, the whole lot. The army brass is bloody annoyed. They want us to hold off running them until they get official notification from Japan but bugger that. We’ve seen the blokes with our own eyes.’ When there was another silence, Tilly feared for a moment that the line had dropped out again. ‘People at home deserve to know they’re alive.’

  Tilly sat bolt upright. ‘Are you telling me … have you found Archie? Archibald Henry Galloway.’ Tilly reeled off his service number, the letters and numerals of which had been tattooed on her heart all these years. ‘Have you seen him? Where is he? How long’s he been there? Is he alive, George?’

  ‘Wait a minute now.’

  Tilly tried to breathe and listen and concentrate all at once.

  ‘We haven’t found him. Not yet. I wanted to tell you about the lists before you saw the names in the paper tomorrow. Before you got your hopes up.’

  Tilly jammed an elbow onto her desk and dropped her forehead into her open palm. Her head pounded and her heart hurt.