Above the Fold

by Peter Yeldham

  “Whatever you may say, it’s what I’m intending to do.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  “You have nothing to do with it. It’s my life, and you keep out of it!”

  “Write radio scripts.” Luke saw his fist clench. He seemed unable to believe it. “Most people think the actors make the words up,” he said, and realising he might be late for work, went to catch his bus.

  “That won’t be the end of it,” Louisa said, “but if this is what you want, then you do it. And don’t let him bully you into joining the army or taking the sort of job he wants you to have.”

  It was not the end of it. She knew his tactics from personal experience, and that night Luke let him shout and rage. It ruined dinner and the rest of the evening. Luke had reason for choosing a lowly job running messages for a radio network. When Alfie Metcalfe told of him the job, he realised no experience was necessary. Just a strong pair of legs and a knowledge of the city streets. It was a way into radio, after which it was up to him to succeed.

  He tried to again explain to his father, who doggedly refused to listen. Later that night Luke heard their voices still arguing about it. The beach house walls were far from soundproof. His father’s voice was loud and domineering, until Luke heard Louisa finally ask him to get out of her room, as she wanted to sleep. Luke felt concerned for her; despite her revolt he knew that as long as they lived together, his father would continue to try to dominate her. It was then, on the verge of sleep, he heard their voices again, as if the argument had resumed.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think. He must do what he wants,” she was insisting.

  “We all know your bloody opinions,” came his reply. Furious that Luke was implacable, he was taking it out on her.

  “Please go away, Richard. Let me sleep.”

  “Your fault. You encourage him. You and your stupid talk. You think you’d be a prima ballerina by now, but for marriage.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “You’ve been thinking it for years. Playing your stupid fucking ballet music that drives everyone around here mad … the neighbours are sick of it, so am I …”

  “Just get out of here,” Luke heard her say, “and let me sleep … go on, Richard, get out!” The last words were shouted.

  Luke heard a thud, then a loud cry. He scrambled out of bed just in time to see his father leave her bedroom and slam the door behind him. He disappeared into the spare room, slamming that door as well.

  “Louisa,” Luke shouted. He tried to open her door, but was too late, as the key was turned to lock it from inside.

  “It’s all right, Luke,” her voice was agitated, and so close that he knew she must be leaning against the door.

  “Let me in. What happened?”

  “I fell,” she said.

  “No, Mum, you didn’t.”

  “It’s all right. Please, Luke.”

  “I want to call the police.”

  “No, don’t darling. It was an accident. Please! Go back to bed.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “He got overexcited. It won’t happen again.”

  “Then it’s happened before?” He knew it when she didn’t answer. He felt sick, enraged. “Louisa …”

  “Please, Luke. I really want to sleep.” Her voice became less audible as if she had moved from the door. “You try to sleep, too. Please, darling.”

  “But, Mum …”

  “Please. We’ll talk tomorrow. But I do promise you it’s never going to happen again.”

  He stood helplessly, seeing the fanlight above the door go dark as she switched off her bedside lamp. There was a similar fanlight in the spare room that showed his father’s light was still on. Luke banged on that door with his fist. He felt as if he wanted to break it down and attack the man hiding inside.

  “You fucking awful bastard.” When there was no reply he banged on the door once more. “She said it won’t happen again. I now know it’s been going on for years. I warn you, if it ever does happen again, I’ll have the police here. Sergeant Richmond will know what kind of a fucking bully you are, and that’s a promise. When you’re charged in front of a court, then everyone will know.”

  There was silence inside, but as if in answer the light was switched off. Luke bashed once more on the door then went to his room. He lay awake for what seemed like hours. It was clear this had been the way their quarrels often ended. The bruises she’d tried to cover on her face. He should’ve realised. Why hadn’t she left him? Because of family commitment when he was younger, but why not since? Because she had no support and nowhere to go? No money? Not even close friends, until the Marsdens came back.

  Luke thought of Sue, and wondered if he should tell her.

  “No, please don’t,” Louisa was quietly adamant. They were alone at the breakfast table. His father had gone before either of them was awake, after leaving a sealed note for her. When Luke finally woke she was sitting at the breakfast table wearing her dressing-gown and reading it. Make-up had been carefully applied, but did not fully conceal the dark bruise on her face.

  “He lost his temper, but I don’t want to tell anyone, darling. Sue would go berserk.”

  “That’s how I feel. Sue obviously knew about it happening in the past.” It was a statement, not a question, and she nodded reluctantly.

  “How long, Mum? How long has it being going on?”

  “I asked you to call me Louisa.”

  “Today I feel about ten years old, and want to call you Mum. I need you to tell me the truth. Has it happened before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Often?”

  “Please don’t make me talk about it, Luke.”

  “I’ll take that as an affirmative,” he said. “You don’t have to say a word. He’s been doing it for years … those bruises … I used to wonder, but thought it just wasn’t possible he was hitting you.”

  “It began before you were born,” she said abruptly, “when I was seventeen and refused to have an abortion.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, realising what that meant. “You’re talking about me.”

  She nodded. Luke tried to think what age she was when they’d met.

  “I was just sixteen,” she said, as if mind-reading. “The one thing in the world I wanted was to be a dancer. Then I met him. The Anzacs were glamorous, and I was a stupid, impressionable sixteen-year-old, thinking I was in love with him. A year later I was a frightened pregnant seventeen — and being unmarried and having a baby in those days was a terrible disgrace.” She was silent for a moment. Luke put a hand on hers. “Please don’t blame me, Luke. It was a different kind of world.”

  “Of course I don’t blame you,” he said, but she hardly seemed to hear him as she continued.

  “My mother and father were ashamed of me. They said they’d hide me away, send me to an aunt who lived in the country, and when the baby was born they’d arrange adoption. Or else I had to marry him. I wanted the baby, so I agreed to marry him.”

  “Did he want to marry you?” Luke felt he had to know this.

  “I thought so, but didn’t know the truth. My father had threatened to lodge a complaint with his unit commander about the beatings and trying to force me to have an abortion if he refused to marry me. I didn’t find out until after the ceremony.” She sighed and reached for the note he had left. “He used to hit me a lot more when you were a baby, because he could get away with it then. Less when you were growing up, in case you noticed the bruises.”

  “I noticed them alright,” Luke said, “but tried not to believe he could do that. We won’t talk about it anymore if you prefer, Mum.”

  “Thank you, darling.” She gave him the note to read.

  Louisa, please forgive me. I’ve been working too hard but that’s no excuse. It was stupid and unpardonable. I don’t blame Luke for his anger. Can we all try to forget and forgive? R.

  “He’s big on asking for forgiveness.”


  “Yes.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Now that you know he won’t dare do it again.”

  “Forget and forgive. I can’t do either.”

  “Just try to at least forget.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “What else is there? I’ve got no money apart from what he gives me for housekeeping. Where could I go? Will you try, darling?”

  “There must be some other solution.”

  “There’s not,” she said. “I can’t depend on Sue’s charity. Things will be better, I promise. So try to forget.”

  “If it’s what you want. But it won’t be easy.”

  “I know it won’t.” She leaned forward and gently kissed him. I’ve saved some eggs from the ration. I’ll make you an omelette.”

  So Luke pretended to forget, and did not tell Sue. He didn’t even tell Claudia. It was made easier by his father working late each night and leaving early in the morning, so they rarely saw each other. When they did, contact was brief with hardly any words exchanged.

  On the following Monday he took the bus to Manly then the ferry to Circular Quay. It was a sunny morning, a crowded ferry, people reading papers or chatting. A peaceful scene, so different to his home. He walked up Phillip Street, past the sedate Metropole Hotel and a sleazy pub on the corner. Alfie Metcalfe was waiting to welcome him outside the large building with its basement auditorium, where the Sunday night plays were broadcast across the country. A placard advertised next week’s drama: Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov, starring the much talked about new actor, Peter Finch.

  Alfie had sandy coloured hair and wire rimmed glasses that made him look scholarly. He was rotund and cheerful. “Messages are a breeze,” he assured Luke. “If I can do ‘em, anyone can.”

  Luke thanked him, arranged to meet later for a beer, took the lift to the top floor and stepped into a brand new life.

  EIGHT

  It was called the Golden Age of Radio, and, for Luke, the Macquarie Network was a glittering arena. He was impressionable, and meeting actors he’d read about in newspapers or heard on the radio meant that each new day felt like another adventure in a castle of dreams. Even running messages was a part of this exciting world, although he soon realised his main job was not rushing scripts between studios. The principal task was to maintain contact with the nearest pubs and tobacconists, because, while cigarettes and liquor were not rationed, they were in short supply during the war and a black market existed. The broadcasting executives, announcers and actors all had their favourite supplier where these precious items were kept beneath the counter for them. Over the next few months Luke became adept at collecting sly grog and contraband cigarettes for some of Australia’s best known and brightest stars.

  The building on Phillip Street was an office block, but his imagination invested it with the glamour of a film studio. Management was on the top floor along with producers and writers. The ground floor contained a large typing pool where dozens of scripts were typed on stencil and mimeographed daily. Here, about twenty women were employed. Nearby was the stationary cupboard, notorious for assignations after parties, and occasional weekend adultery. Downstairs, occupying a special section, were the rehearsal rooms and studios. In between messages Luke could watch rehearsals, get to know the actors, as well as study scripts. Here he met the voices who starred in plays and serials each night and, in time, because he made no secret of his ambitions, they got to know him.

  For actors, versatility was essential. He learned many of the dramas Australia produced were not set in this country. It was the essence of radio that you could reproduce Paris, London, Berlin or New York in a Sydney studio. The right kind of music, sound effects and correct accents were all that were needed to establish such foreign locations. And anyone wanting to write scripts, Luke was told, had to conform to the strict regulations.

  Did he know these rules? asked the new story editor, Rupert Meredith-Lacey, arriving early one morning and surprised to find a lone figure in the typing pool. The sound drew him there. “In an hour there’ll be the clatter of machines,” Meredith-Lacey said, “but I’m intrigued by the sight of one fleet-footed messenger, whom I hear wants to be the new Ernest Hemingway.”

  The comment sounded sarcastic and embarrassed Luke. He knew the editor was English, a Cambridge graduate and recent import from the BBC who, because of his education and track record, was held in high esteem by management. There were mutters in the writers’ room that he’d fled Britain to avoid the call-up and air raids, but this was dismissed as sour grapes. Meredith-Lacey was thirty years old, invariably smartly dressed; today it was lightweight fawn trousers, a cream shirt, navy blazer and bow tie.

  Not knowing how to answer him, Luke smiled and said nothing, hoping the editor would go upstairs to his office. Instead, he took a typing chair and sat close alongside. “Do you do this every morning?

  Come in so early?”

  “Yes. If I’m here by seven that gives me a couple of hours to use a machine before the typists arrive.”

  “Most industrious, dear boy. You must leave at the crack of dawn.”

  “Just about.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Collaroy. One of the Northern Beaches.”

  “Ah. On what’s called the Insular Peninsula. That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Your suntan. Your rather splendid shade of brown.”

  Luke was starting to feel slightly uneasy, recalling a few rumours about this newcomer who gave off a strong smell of expensive cologne. His blonde hair was carefully brushed. His light blue eyes were probing. There were sidelong looks as if he was making some assessment. Luke wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he was the new network editor. An inner voice warned him it might be a bad career move.

  “So what are you writing, dear boy?”

  “It’s … just some stuff.”

  “Some stuff?” the other said sardonically, as Luke rolled the platen to obscure the dialogue. “Are we ashamed of it?” he asked.

  “No. But it’s just practice.”

  “Has this practice got a name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I hope to see it in due course. In the meanwhile, you know the rules, I expect.”

  “What rules?”

  “Hasn’t anyone told you?” When Luke shook his head, the story editor shrugged. “Typical of our masters upstairs. My dear boy, if you’re to become a scribe you need to be aware of the strictures which prevent us taking flight.”

  Luke stared at him, not having the faintest clue what he meant with this hyperbole. He kept wishing the other would let him get on with his first real attempt at writing a drama. After many false starts he felt he was getting somewhere. But Meredith-Lacey showed no sign of moving.

  “Let me explain them to you. Rule one. Our governors, them upstairs, have to kow-tow to sponsors, and sponsors prefer to avoid sex. Unmarried couples should not be alone in a hotel room.”

  “But this sounds …” Luke started to say, but was interrupted.

  “It sounds ludicrous, and it is. We live in absurd times, young scribe. Our living rooms must not be upset by people fucking. The bakelite box in the corner has to remain pure. Rape and pillage can be reported on the news, but such events do not take place in drama. No swearing, of course. No infidelity, and happy endings are preferred. Have you absorbed all that?”

  “I think so,” Luke said, hoping to now be left alone.

  “One last piece of advice. It’s known as the Shit Point.”

  “The shit point?”

  “Vital, this one. Remember there are rival stations. So if you write something boring in the first few minutes, your listeners can simply say “Oh, shit,” and switch to another program.”

  Luke laughed and said, “I’ll remember that.”

  Meredith-Lacey chuckled and patted him on the arm. “Glad to have been of as
sistance, my dear chap. And do call me Rupert,” he said. He rose and pushed the typing chair back where it belonged. “When you’ve finished practising, let me look at the result of your endeavours. Perhaps I could travel to your home turf and we could sunbake together.”

  It was so obvious that Luke could not ignore it this time.

  “By all means, Rupert.” He allowed a moment then added, “You might like to meet my girlfriend.”

  “Oh. That’d be fun,” was the wry response.

  “I’m sure you’ll like her. She’s spent time in England and France, so you’d have heaps to talk about.”

  “I can’t wait.” He raised his eyebrow, and went to his office upstairs.

  That’s sorted you out, you pommy shirt-lifter, Luke thought. But two weeks later when he’d finished his script he had to submit it for the editor to read. He was sent for the next day and met with a sigh.

  “Do you know what this is, Luke?”

  “It’s my first proper attempt, Rupert,” was his anxious reply.

  “And hopefully your last. It’s a piece of absolute crap.”

  It was a slightly different kick in the teeth to the formulae rejections for his short stories: The editor regrets. He sat trying to absorb the blow, and felt he had little to lose by bravado. “Strewth, you don’t muck about, do you?”

  “It’s garbage.”

  “Right. Any other crushing comments to ruin my day?”

  At least it provoked a glimmer of admiration as Meredith-Lacey handed it back. Luke tried to make a gesture by ripping the script in half, but it was too thick. This made Rupert laugh, and Luke joined him with a rueful chuckle. “I’ve got an incinerator at home,” he said. “I’ll burn the bloody thing tonight.”

  “And I daresay you’ll write another.”

  “I’ve already started another.”

  “Nothing I can say will prevent you?”

  “Not a chance,” Luke said. “In fact, you’ve been truly encouraging. You’ve made me bloody determined to be better next time.”

  “Can you bear to tell me what the next one is about?”

  “It’s set in Istanbul.” Rupert raised an eyebrow. Undeterred, Luke ploughed on. “About a princess who owns the world’s biggest diamond, and a group of crims who try to steal it.”