A Straight Line to My Heart

by Bill Condon

  ‘Calm down, luv. I’ve decided it’s not a good plan – that’s what I’m tryin’ to tell yer. I know you’d worry yerself sick. Couldn’t do that to you. So you’ll just have to put up with me. I’m stayin’ right here.’

  ‘Good! And don’t you ever think of leaving us, Reggie. We’ll hunt you down if you do – and you’ll be so sorry.’

  ‘I’m shakin’ in me shoes.’

  ‘You should be, too.’

  ‘Now listen – about the Falcon. I’m not touchin’ her till you and Bull get home. I want you both here when that motor kicks over.’

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  ‘Good-oh. And you can get some pictures of Bull’s jaw droppin’ to the floor, too. How many times has that bloke said I’d never get it–’

  ‘I’m sorry, Reggie. I really have to go now. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t.’

  ‘You scoot then. I’ll see yer later. Love you, Tiffy.’

  He hangs up before I can say it back to him.

  ‘Now i’ll give you a demo on how we gather news.’ The Shark dials a phone number as he speaks. ‘First thing you learn in this job is that any kind of extreme weather means you’ve got a story. Heavy rain like that has to cause damage, right? So you ring the emergency services, find out what’s–’ He turns his back to me as the call is answered. ‘Harvey, me old mate! No, I’m not dead yet, try to be patient. Now, Harv, that was some wild weather we had. Bet your phones have been runnin’ hot, have they? Yeah? Yeah? Is that right? You got some addresses for me, chief?’

  He frantically scribbles a message and hands it to me. Flash floods, trees down. Get Jord!

  All morning we trawl the streets, Jordie snapping photos of the debris while the Shark fronts up to distressed householders with his notebook, pen, and a ton of nerve. I gladly obey his order to stick close behind him. I’d hide under his coat if he let me.

  The people we meet are all having a shocker of a day. They might have splintered branches strewn across their yards, or a gaping hole in the roof with a chunk of tree sticking out of it like a giant’s spear. We find a group of houses where surging water from a creek has swept inside; not deep, but still ruining everything in its path. The owners have already stacked most of their furniture in their backyards, and as we arrive they’re reefing up the carpets. It’s not a good time to be out looking to have a chat.

  Some people are teary and despondent, and others can’t believe it. A few are just angry and spoiling for a fight. With anyone. And then suddenly a reporter is in their face with his nosey questions. It isn’t the power of the media I feel today; it’s the hatred of it.

  The Shark gets ignored a lot and told to mind his own business; and sworn at, and voices are raised. But though he’s fast getting old, I still see a coiled-up force in him that no one wants to challenge. He brushes off the threats and shoulders his way through to the next person, and then the next, until at last someone gives their name and explains what happened and how they feel. And while they’re talking, Jordie freezes time with one click, and they don’t even seem to notice. Then we bundle back into the car and find another place hit by the storm, and do it all again.

  ‘We might almost have enough.’ The Shark scans his notes. ‘Yeah, one more and we’re done.’

  It’s only a handful of minutes later that I see Adiba. She’s standing with her dad in front of a car, a fallen tree beside it.

  ‘Stop, Jordie.’ I touch his shoulder. ‘That girl used to go to my school.’

  We jump out of the car and Adiba’s eyes light up.

  ‘Tiffney!’ She’s the only one who ever called me that. ‘What are you doing here?’

  It’s easy to talk to Adiba – she’s always been nice – and so I tell her about work experience, and she and her dad tell us about how they were in the car when the tree came down, just missing them.

  ‘Be all right if I grab a photo?’ asks Jordie.

  ‘Sweet!’

  Walking away, Jordie says, ‘That should be a great pic. Might be front page material.’

  The Shark gives me a nod. Coming from him, it’s as good as having a medal pinned on me.

  ‘Time to pack it in,’ he says. ‘We’ve got all we need.’

  - - + - -

  It feels strange to listen in as the Shark and Jordie talk about their morning’s work, like two soldiers reliving a battle. I don’t feel part of that at all. And I can clearly see the things that are wrong with what they do: they take advantage of people’s bad luck, and go to work on them when they’re vulnerable. Yet the storm and all the havoc is news, and they have to get their stories. The main difference between me and them is that they’ve learnt to distance themselves emotionally from what they report. I can’t do that. Nowhere near. I wonder how long it’ll take before I learn how it’s done . . . And then I wonder if I ever want to learn something like that.

  The Shark cuts into my thoughts.

  ‘You did all right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell him, half-heartedly.

  ‘You listened, didn’t you? Took it all in? Got some good experience?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Didn’t run off? Didn’t complain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had ’em do all that. Some of these work experiences you get landed with, they won’t even get out of the car. You can ask Jord.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Jordie replies.

  ‘But I didn’t really do anything – except talk to Adiba. I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t known her. I’m too shy to go up to strangers like you do.’

  ‘Most of us start out that way,’ he says. ‘But every time you go out you’ll get better.’

  I wish I could believe that.

  The Shark finds me again in the rear-vision mirror.

  ‘You know how yesterday we had a bit of a dust-up – about that girl?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, what about today? You were in the thick of things. How’d you go? Have any problems with what we did?’

  ‘Not really . . . you were just doing your job.’

  ‘Not really.’ He says it softly to himself to hear it again, to examine it.

  As he does I realise that it sounds terrible. I should have said a flat ‘no’ and smiled. That would have bought me time to work out how I really feel. But now the Shark swoops on my doubts. His eyes linger on mine, searching for the things unsaid. I can’t hide from someone like him.

  ‘Shark?’

  ‘You’ve got my full attention.’

  ‘The truth is – I’m just not sure if I can be a journalist.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This is the job I’ve always wanted but it’s not like I thought it would be.’

  ‘And how did you think it would be?’

  ‘That I’d be in the office most of the time – writing stories on the computer. I could probably learn to do that – with a lot of practice. But it’s getting out and going to places like we did just now, where people are in trouble – that’s where it’s hard. I don’t know if I could ever do what you did today. In fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.’

  ‘So what are you telling me? You want out – is that it? I don’t want there to be any confusion. Just say what’s in your gut.’

  Though I can hear the words in my mind – I’m sorry, Shark, but I don’t think this job is for me – I can’t bring myself to say them to him.

  In the end it doesn’t really matter, because he takes my silence as an answer.

  And he looks away.

  Yesterday had been rough at the start, but I’d patched up my differences with the Shark, and the stories I’d done with Joan in the afternoon had been just my speed. They were fun and they made me think that yes, this is what I want to do. When I left home this morning I
was hopeful. Thought I was in with a chance here. And now it’s pretty much over.

  It’s not until ten minutes later, paused at a set of traffic lights, that the Shark speaks again.

  ‘Tiff.’

  That floors me – he knows my name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You gave it a good try.’

  I feel grateful, and teary. Keep it to myself.

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Just remembered I have to pick up some gear from home,’ he says. ‘Got a couple of scrapbooks there you can look at if you want. It’ll give you something to do this arvo till we work out what’s happening with you. Just say if you’re not keen.’

  I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  ‘Yes, sure. Love to.’

  The Shark tries to smile. His smile muscles probably withered away a long time ago through lack of use, so his attempt is stiff and icy. But that only makes it mean more to me.

  ‘You don’t mind making a detour do you, Jord? We’re not far away.’

  ‘Not a problem, man. You still at the Soldiers?’

  ‘Until they carry me out, son.’

  Soon, tucked away in a back street, we find the Shark’s ‘home’. It’s one of those sprawling old-fashioned pubs that always seem to be built on a corner. The Three Soldiers. Down below is the drinking area and above it are rooms to rent, each leading out to a balcony closed in by a rail of wrought iron, dirty brown with rust.

  The Shark winces as he gets out of the car – that dodgy hip of his. ‘Be back in a flash.’ He totters off like a beat-up old crab. I smile to myself at the thought of him doing anything in a flash.

  Jordie unbuckles his seatbelt and slumps back, eyes closed. ‘Our new baby, Isabella,’ he mutters. ‘Poor kid’s just started teething. We were up and down to her all night. I’m wrecked now.’

  ‘That’s no good . . . so I suppose that means I can’t talk to you, seeing you’re tired.’

  He opens one eye. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘The Shark, I mean, I don’t get it. How come he lives here? He said he’s been a reporter for forty years. Why hasn’t he got a proper home? Where’s his family? What’s the deal with him?’

  ‘Your guess–’ a yawn interrupts the sentence, ‘is as good as mine. Known him ten years and he never lets me in on private stuff. As far as I know the only family he’s ever had is the Eagle. I’d say he was probably a drinker at one stage – they all were, the old breed of newspaper guys – that might be why he’s got nothing now. But I can tell you one thing about him – he likes you.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Dead set. He’s showing you the scrapbooks. Do you think he does that for everyone? Nuh. He likes you. Believe it.’

  ‘But why would he?’

  ‘Dunno . . . Maybe it’s because you say what’s on your mind – even when it’s complete crap.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  After another few minutes the Shark emerges from the pub clutching two bulky scrapbooks to his chest. I get out of the car and hold the door open for him as he lays them on the back seat.

  ‘Don’t feel like you have to read any of this stuff,’ he says. ‘It’s only if you’ve got nothing else to do. They’re a bit moth-eaten and worn, like me. Probably bore your socks off.’

  On an impulse I give him a rub on the shoulder. Seems like he might need it.

  He juts out his chin, nods, and hauls himself into the car.

  Back at the eagle the Shark off-loads the scrapbooks onto my desk. ‘That should keep you busy for a while.’ And then settles down in front of his computer and starts tapping at his usual frantic pace.

  I open the first book. The paper is coarse and yellowing and the ink rubs off on my fingertips and leaves them smudged and black. There are stories on house fires and car accidents and council disputes. Nothing that excites me. I zoom from 1986 to 1988 in a couple of minutes – skipping and flicking. But then I feel the Shark’s gaze, cold and penetrating. It’s only a heartbeat before he turns away, but it’s long enough for me to get the message. I am being so dense, so thoughtless. He is sitting right beside me and I’m dissing his best stories, his life’s work – and he knows it.

  I quickly flip back to the first page.

  ‘Shark?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s so much good stuff in these books, I don’t know where to start. Got any favourites you can show me?’

  ‘Oh, I can probably find one or two.’

  He pushes his chair closer and begins leafing through the pages. A few moments later Andrew arrives and goes into his office. The Shark glances across to him and half-stands. I know that once they talk my time at the Eagle will be over. But Andrew picks up the phone, and the Shark stays with me.

  ‘Here’s one you’d like. Young Darren – work experience – got him a beauty.’

  I look at the photo of Darren: about sixteen or seventeen, curly hair. He has the Shark in a headlock. Both of them are grinning.

  Joan walks in with a cup of steaming coffee. ‘Good morning, all.’ She holds up a doughnut. ‘I bought half-a-dozen. They’re in the fridge so the cockies won’t get them. Help yourself.’

  Right behind her is Jordie, munching on a chocolate doughnut.

  ‘You’re the best, Joan,’ he says before wandering off.

  ‘Hey, Joanie. Do you remember Darren?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Hard to forget that one.’

  The Shark turns to me. ‘Told him there was a bank robbery. I run down the street with him to the Commonwealth. Get to the corner, grab hold of his shirt, push him up against the wall and say, “You wait here, son. I’m goin’ ahead. Don’t you move till I come and get you.” Then I go back to the Eagle.’

  For the first time since I’ve known him, he laughs.

  ‘Darren turned up here about two hours later,’ Joan says. ‘And let me tell you, he looked very confused.’

  ‘Was he ever.’ The Shark nods to himself, his face creased up with a smile. ‘He was crooked on me for a while, but he got over it. I made it up to him by getting his mug in the paper – good result all round.’

  ‘Did he become a journalist?’

  ‘No . . . that’s rare. Been quite a few years now since anyone went on with it.’

  Joan pats my hand. ‘But I have a feeling our Tiff will.’

  The Shark lets it go without comment and returns to the scrapbook.

  ‘That’s Harold Cummings.’

  Another photo, this time of a guy in his mid-forties.

  Joan clicks her tongue. ‘That was so sad.’

  ‘Aw, I don’t know.’ He keeps looking at the photo. ‘Yeah, he died too young – left a good woman behind, three great kids. All that was sad. But he had a fine old life, Harold. He was a newspaperman, and good at it. That’s as much as anyone could hope for.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Joan says, but she doesn’t look at all convinced.

  The Shark thumbs through some more pages till he gets to the story of a plane crash.

  ‘That was a bad business. Five dead. All of them in their twenties.’

  ‘Didn’t you get an award for writing that one?’ Joan asks.

  ‘Highly Commended: Country Newspaper Awards. That’s as close as I ever got.’

  ‘You should have won it. You deserved to.’

  ‘Thanks, darl. It might have done better but we got an ad in at the last minute. They chopped out half my story and put in a quarter-pager from Woolies for cheap pasta sauce and olive oil. The ad comes first every time – law of the jungle. That’s the newspaper game.’

  ‘But you still love it, don’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Love might be a bit rich.’ He closes the book. ‘But yeah, I suppose the job has its mom
ents.’

  ‘Well I must get to work.’ Joan moves back to her own desk. ‘I’ve got some calls to make. Don’t forget the doughnuts.’

  ‘And I better go over and see the boss.’ The Shark stands and stretches. ‘He’ll want an update on what stories and photos we’ve got.’ He looks searchingly at me. ‘And any other news I might have.’

  A part of me wants to tell him I’ve changed my mind. I feel like that’s what he’s hoping to hear. There’s so much I like about the job, the people . . .

  ‘Shark.’ It’s Andrew.

  ‘Yes, mate?’

  ‘Could you come here for a sec?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  The Shark walks across the room. Standing at the doorway to Andrew’s office, he turns and gives me a fleeting, regretful look – telling me I missed my opportunity. Then goes inside and Andrew closes the door behind him.

  I try to occupy myself by reading some of the plane-crash story:

  Witnesses described an inferno and a thick black cloud of smoke that billowed from the wreckage seconds after the crash.

  My concentration wanders and I find I’m looking up at the Shark and Andrew. And now they’re looking at me. The Shark’s probably just told him that I can’t cut it. I force myself back into the story.

  The pilot was a twenty-seven-year-old Brisbane man with four years’ flying ex–

  Andrew takes a phone call. It’s only brief. He nods to the Shark. And now they’re walking over to me . . . and I can’t get my eyes off them.

  All of a sudden I have a feeling this isn’t about the job. It’s much more than that. I see it in their faces.

  Andrew speaks first. ‘Tiff. Your family’s out in the front office.’

  My family?

  ‘They rang a few minutes ago to say they were on their way. We’ve been waiting for them. I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

  Can’t talk. Can’t think.

  The Shark clamps a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Tiff. I’m really sorry.’

  I run through the office crying and throw myself into Bull’s arms. Zoe’s with him and she hugs us both. Somewhere in there I hear Bull say, ‘It’s Reggie’, but I already know that and then it’s all a blur, what we say and do and how we get to the car. Then I’m in the back seat with Zoe and she’s stroking my hair, trying to calm me. It’s not working. I’m wide-eyed and gasping and there’s thick glass between me and all the words coming from Zoe and Bull. I hear them but they sound faraway and they don’t make any sense. It goes on and on like that, being stuck halfway between here and hell, and then I feel the tyres bump over joins in the bitumen and everything clicks into place and I sit up and I’m shivering and I just can’t stop.