by Bill Condon
‘Give me a look at what you’ve got there.’
‘Okay.’
He reads it quickly then screws it up and throws it in the bin.
That’s it! I quit! I’m outta here! They’re only thoughts but they’re an instant away from becoming words.
‘Quick lesson.’ He spins his chair around to eyeball me. ‘You paying attention?’
‘Ready when you are.’
‘Write this down: who, what, when, where, why, how. Got that?’
‘Who, what . . .’
‘When, where, why, how. Got it now?’
‘I think so.’
‘Those are the details the reader needs to know. What happened? Who did it? When? Where? Why? How? Your job is to tell them; most important things first. Keep it simple. Stick to the facts. Joe Blow out in the street, he doesn’t want a novel or a play. He wants his news served up in a nutshell. You with me?’
‘Yep.’
He turns back to his computer and starts typing again. ‘Have another go at it. And keep at it till you get it right. Take the rest of the day if you have to. You don’t get good by accident, darl. You work your arse off. Just depends how much you want it – or if you want it at all. Do you?’
‘I want it – a lot.’
‘In that case, no more moans and groans – we agreed?’
‘Yes – and thanks for helping me.’
‘Now just one more thing before you get back to work.’
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
I start a fresh page in my notebook. Up the top I write in capitals: who, what, when, where, why, how. I try to remember the rest of the stuff he said, too. Keep it simple. Lots of facts. News in a nutshell. Okay. I can do this. Brand new start. I rewrite it, switch the paragraphs around, tighten it up. Shine every single word. At twelve o’clock I go for lunch and take the press release with me, reading it over, making sure I’ve nailed it. At five minutes past one I hand it to Andrew. A minute later he pushes it onto a spike on his desk. That’s all.
‘Must have liked it,’ the Shark says.
‘How am I supposed to know? He didn’t say a word!’
‘But he didn’t throw it back at you. That’s usually a good sign.’
‘I don’t think i want to go back to that job tomorrow, Bull. It sucked.’
He mutes the tv and looks up. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘For a start I wasn’t a journalist – I was the tea lady.’
‘Bet you were good at it, too.’
I ignore him and head into the kitchen to make a sandwich.
‘Don’t go spoilin’ your dinner, Tiff. It’s not far away.’
‘Can’t wait, Bull. Dying of hunger.’
He switches the sound back on.
‘Thought you wanted to hear about my day?’
I hear him groan and the sound goes off again.
‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘Tell me.’
I decide on pancakes – and toast. As I’m cooking I give Bull a running commentary on my newspaper adventures. Our house is tweeny and my voice isn’t. I know he hears every word.
‘They’ve got some geriatric there who’s the main reporter. I say hello and he goes, “They call me The Shark.” It’s because of the way he gobbles up stories or something – I almost burst out laughing when he said it. I’m like, “What are you on?”’
‘The Shark, eh . . .’
‘He’s so deluded, Bull. He really believes he’s this hotshot reporter, when he’s not even a has-been. He’s a never-was.’
‘Sounds like a character, all right.’
‘But even more stupid was Andrew – he’s the editor. He wants this story cut from a thousand to a hundred words, right?’
‘Right.’
‘That’s really hard to do. I get it to seven hundred, five hundred. Each time it’s not good enough. I get it to three hundred. He goes, “Do it again.”’
‘Must have been a pain.’
‘It was! Then on the fourth time, at last he doesn’t say to do it again. But he doesn’t say “it’s good” either. He just takes it off me. Not a word of thanks, Bull. Nothing!’
‘Well . . .’
‘And the day just dragged like torture. It was so boring. But the worst thing was that they really didn’t want me there. I was in the way.’
He doesn’t respond so I stroll back into the lounge room with my food. His eyes are glued to the tv.
‘Bull, have you been listening to anything I’ve said?’
‘Bits and pieces. I got the gist of it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Keep your hair on, Tiff.’
‘No! I always listen to your stories about work! No matter how boring they are!’
‘Look, it’s not that I don’t care – I do. Truly. But your timing’s all wrong. You barge in and start this blow-by-blow account when they’ve got the footy highlights on tv.’
‘Thanks a lot, Bull!’
‘Aw, fair go. It was a State of Origin match.’
I’m standing there, staring and fuming, wondering if I could get off on justifiable homicide, when I hear footsteps behind me.
‘I was listenin’. Heard every word.’
When I turn I see Reggie, looking like he just crawled out of bed.
‘Hi, Reggie. I didn’t wake you, did I? I might have got a bit loud.’
‘That’s all right, Tiffy. Wasn’t asleep. Just had a lie down. I been feelin’ a bit weary on it lately.’
His face looks grey and pinched, as if the skin has been pulled tight against the bones. Then I realise, with all of my ‘me, me, me’ ranting, I completely forgot about his doctor’s appointment.
‘I’m sorry’ – I give him a hug – ‘for not asking about your day.’
‘Not a problem, luv.’
‘How did it go with Anna?’
‘Ah, you know what doctors are like. They got no idea of privacy, like she says, “Now Mr Bennett, how have your bowels been?” So I ask her how hers have been – see how she likes it. I mean, that’s a bit below the belt, isn’t it?’
Bull splutters out a laugh. I keep mine inside.
‘Anyway,’ Reggie continues, after a glare at Bull, ‘she wants me to have all these blood tests and x-rays and God knows what. You go through all this stuff and at the end of it . . .’ He sighs and leaves the rest unsaid.
I tell him for about the hundredth time that he’ll be fine and he agrees with me – both of us trying to make the other believe.
Bull puts a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. Not a word is spoken. They hardly look at each other. They’re so awkward about getting close, and yet somehow they make it.
‘Now, about this newspaper business.’ Reggie’s voice crackles with an energy that he didn’t have only a moment before. ‘Here’s what I reckon, Tiffy.’ He inches half a step forward and Bull moves his hand away. It’s as if they’ve both agreed that they’ve had their share of closeness for now – at least the kind that’s visible. ‘You’re bein’ put to the test, luv.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Seems fairly obvious to me. This editor joker went all out to make it tough for yer. If you don’t front up tomorrow, then you failed the test. Give it another go, Tiffy. One more day.’
I really don’t need a lot of persuading. Yes, it was awful writing that press release and getting no feedback from Andrew about what I was doing wrong, and no thank you when I finally got it right. I won’t be forgiving him in a hurry. But I don’t mind the Shark all that much. He’s grumpy and rude and sexist. But at least he did try to help me . . .
I give Reggie another hug.
‘It’s not me birthday, is it?’ he asks.
‘No.
That was for the good advice. Here’s the deal: You’ll have all your medical tests this week and I’ll go back to the paper – and I’ll take anything they dish out. We’ll be tested together, Reggie.’
‘You’re on, luv.’
I ring kayla and rehash the Shark story – think I’m still going to be talking about that when I’m old and feeble. By the time I hang up I feel happy from all the laughing – but then Zoe arrives. I haven’t got anything against her, of course, it’s just that Bull promised he’d give me a driving lesson tonight. I know the promise is worthless now.
‘I only called in to see how Reggie’s doing,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’
Whenever she comes over, Bull drops everything to spend time with her. They’ll probably watch a movie or listen to music or just talk. Whatever they decide, it’s the end of my lesson.
‘Hey, mate.’ Bull sidles over to me. ‘I know I was going to take you out in the car tonight, but I can’t.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘Got all this paperwork I have to get through, but I–’
‘I don’t care, Bull.’
‘Let me finish. I mentioned it to Zoe. She’s game for anything – hey, Zoe?’
It’s the first time that I’ve felt her trespassing on my territory. Maybe Bull put her up to this to try to get us closer. Maybe it’s her idea. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. In any case I don’t have much choice because in a second she’s right here, beside me.
‘I’d love to take you for a drive, Tiff. Be good to sit back and get driven around for a change. If it’s all right with you, that is.’
I smile.
‘Sure, Zoe. Thanks.’
We’ve got the windows down, front and back. Zoe drives a ten-year-old Magna. It’s aircon is in pieces on our garage floor. Reggie’s in the process of repairing it. He used to be a mechanic – could fix anything. He’s still not too bad, but he’s slow and there’s always something to distract him. Most days he potters around with the Falcon. It was a wreck when he had it towed home. He’s had it sprayed and upholstered, and all the dints have been hammered out. The car takes up most of his time. And when he’s well enough he goes to bingo at the Royal. Then there’s his old movies and Dr Phil, and long, dawdling rambles with Wolfie. And sleeping. He does a lot of that. So Zoe’s aircon might take a while yet.
‘You drive good,’ she says. ‘Look, I haven’t even got my fingers crossed.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But I am praying,’ she adds.
We’ve rarely had any time alone together but now that we’ve got it I don’t know what to say. Possibilities keep flying at me but I bat them away just as fast.
I know I can’t say these things:
Bull won’t tell me your age but you have to be at least forty or even more. I can’t imagine being that old and not being terminally depressed, but you seem to be putting on a brave face. Go, girl!
Have you had lots of boyfriends? He won’t tell me that either.
Do you want to marry Bull?
WHY?
Okay, none of my business.
I think he’d be in it. He likes you. I’m sure you know that.
If you married him, what would happen then? Would you move in with us? Would Bull move out? I know those things worry Reggie. It isn’t personal. It’s just the whole change thing – it scares him. I think it’s rubbed off on me a bit . . .
A few minutes later Zoe breaks the silence.
‘How was working at the paper? Did you like it?’
There’s a lot I could say, but I manage to sum it up with a nod, and just one word. ‘Yeah.’ I figure that should cover it.
She looks at me and laughs.
‘Did I say something funny?’
‘Well, yes, you did as a matter of fact. It got me remembering when I was your age. Whatever my parents asked me, I would try to answer in one word. Or a shrug was even better.
‘What did you do at school today, Zoe?
‘Schoolwork.
‘Who was that boy you were talking with?
‘Shrug.
‘From when I was about fourteen to seventeen, maybe eighteen, my parents must have thought I was a spy, or an alien. I wouldn’t tell them anything and I would rather have died than be seen in public with them. And they probably felt the same way about me. At one stage I had three colours in my hair and a lip ring, because I knew that would drive them insane!’
Smiles really are contagious. I catch Zoe’s from her. It feels kind of special being with her and talking like this and laughing and – is that something up ahead?
‘Roo!’ zoe screeches. ‘brake! Brake!’
I jam my foot down till I’m almost standing. The brakes squeal and the car pivots and slews to the left. Zoe reefs at the handbrake but momentum propels us on, metal grinding and shuddering till we stop. The car is side-on and plum in front of a tree. Behind us a kangaroo hops off into the scrub.
‘Sorry! Zoe, I’m sorry!’
‘It’s okay. It’s over now. No damage.’
‘It just jumped out from nowhere!’
‘That’s the worst thing about night-driving in the bush. Things can happen so fast.’ She lays a hand on my forehead. ‘You’re so cold. Shaking a bit, too. You got quite a shock. So did I. Just straighten the car up and pull right off the road for a minute. We both need to catch our breath.’
I do it.
‘Better put the hazard lights on, too. We don’t want to be rear-ended.’
I do it.
‘Crazy roos.’ She turns around to try to see if there are any more. ‘Been here six months and I’ve been called out to five prangs caused by roos. The damage they do. Cars written off. People smashed up. There was one fatal, too. Bull might have told you about it, that one over at Gudden. A big red went through the windscreen and into a car. The driver made it – I don’t know how – but the old guy in the back seat wasn’t so lucky. The truckies have got the right idea: drive right over the top of them. Don’t swerve like we just did because that’s when . . . Tiff?’
I struggle to open the door but can’t make it in time.
Push my head through the window.
Spew my heart out.
‘I’m so insensitive. raving on about accident scenes and here’s you in shock.’ She wipes my face with a handkerchief.
‘I’m so sorry, Zoe.’ Can’t look at her. Feel like I’m about to die from embarrassment.
‘Come here, you big dope.’
She suddenly leans in to hug me. It’s a perfectly natural thing for her to do, but I still pull back.
At the same time I hear myself telling her, ‘I’ve already got a mother.’
I don’t know where that came from. It’s just there and I say it in such a cold and cruel way.
She pauses a moment to take that in, to recover.
‘Yes, sure,’ she says. ‘Of course. I understand.’
But even I don’t understand.
We sit for a moment, the night breeze a whisper on our faces. I’m certain she’s trying to work out what to say next. I am too.
She thinks of something first.
‘I’m a very good listener, Tiff. If it was an Olympic sport I could listen for Australia. So if you ever want to talk about anything – here I am.’
‘Thanks, Zoe. Maybe some other time.’
‘Not a problem . . . well, it’s probably best if we call it a night . . . unless you feel like driving again.’
I’ve got my head down, my eyes closed – but she keeps on trying.
‘Get thrown off, get straight back on the horse, that’s what they say, Tiff. I think it might be a good idea, but if you don’t want to . . .’
‘Okay.’
I look up at her. ‘I want to.’
I slot in behind the wheel and head the car for home. My nerves are still jangly and I go slower now, my foot poised near the brake, just in case. All the time I’m trying to unknot my thoughts so I can explain them to Zoe. But they’re tangled-up fishing-line thoughts and I can’t undo them. Maybe if I just talk I’ll be able to blunder my way through.
‘What I said before – I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘Don’t be silly. You didn’t hurt me. Tough as old boots, I am.’
I keep my eyes trained on the road, but the tone of her voice tells me she’s most probably smiling. Zoe is one of those hard-to-knock-down people – or maybe she just bounces back really well. She’s sunny no matter what the weather, and obviously brave, since she gave me another shot. Forgiving, too. It’s the way I’ve always imagined my mum would have been. If she had lived she’d be about Zoe’s age now. It could have been us out here. I coast along with that thought for a few kays, don’t want to turn it loose, but I know I have to let reality back in. Sometimes I hate reality.
‘Watcha thinking?’ she says.
Here’s my chance to really let her see me and all my mixed-up feelings . . . if only I knew where to start.
‘Not much. Just looking out for roos.’
I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. That suicidal kangaroo gave me nightmares. Once I woke up in a panic – hanging onto the sheets and pushing down with my foot to hit the brakes. I fell back to sleep and lapsed into the same dream. Suddenly the windscreen shattered and a roo came at me head-first. Reggie was in the back seat.
By then I was too afraid to shut my eyes. I lay there and let my mind drift. All I could think of was Zoe and what I’d said to her. My mum is always with me, but I hadn’t realised how deeply I felt about her until the words actually came out. It must have sounded so screwed up. I wonder what she thinks of me – what she told Bull.
Most mornings Reggie sleeps in late. That’s the way it is today at breakfast; just me and Bull, and Wolfie, of course. Where there’s food there’s the Wolf.
I talk first.
