On Monday of his second week at the Bugle Group, having spent most of the weekend recovering from Friday night, Miles came in to find a young police constable sitting in the visitor’s chair worshipping Angela. Men occasionally dropped in to see Angela on various pretexts. She soon sent them on their way, but this visitor had stayed more than the usual few seconds because he had actual news to convey - namely inside information about the robbing of a local service station by a knife-wielding bandit. Miles became interested.
“… so we get there and the attendant is flipped out.”
“Uh huh,” said Angela. She was dimly aware that a service station robbery counted as news in quiet Koala Bay and scribbled a note on a pad. It was the first time Miles had seen her take notes.
The constable realised that Miles was also listening and nodded at him. “So we went through the deal – we took a description and all that.”
“Uh huh!”
The constable paused as if expecting another question.
“What was the description?” asked Miles.
Angela clicked her tongue in exasperation.
“Youth, 172 centimeters tall, heavily built, red-haired. Jeans, black skivvy, old gray jumper.”
“Stands out a bit more than the usual descriptions.”
“Yeah,” the constable, a decent sort, smiled, “he matches a description of an offender in Lovett Bay.”
“If you don’t mind!” said Angela, without looking around.
“Okay. Sorry.” It was her story.
Miles sat down and logged on, but could still hear the cop say “service station” and “knife” and, unusually, which service station had been robbed. The police did not usually give out the names of the victims or businesses robbed.
“So you’re going to write that up?” Miles asked after the cop had gone with a big wave and a smile to Angela, who answered with a half smile and tiny wave.
“Yes.”
“Um, well, I was wondering weather it was worth ringing up the service station.”
“What for?”
“They might have something to say. They might hate being held up.”
“Mightn’t be the same guy there,” she muttered after a moment’s thought.
“Might be, might not. It happened Sunday right? Might be.”
“Gotta go to the cops.”
“This is the biggest story you’ll get there. But tell you what, why not let me ring up and we can have a joint byline. Yours ‘d be the first name.”
She thought for a few moments, probably searching for an excuse to refuse such a sensible suggestion. “You can ring if you want, I’ll send my stuff. Subs can work it out,” she muttered.
“Sure.” Miles knew that he could fix things with Eve in a few moments on the phone. “You, er, going to write up that stuff with the cop now.”
“Now!” She was outraged. “I’ve got to go to the cop station now. Waddya think I am, made of time.” Miles thought he could hear her mother talking
“Shouldn’t take you too long. Its just a few pars..”
“Give it a rest!” she snapped and stormed out, note book in hand, outraged that the newcomer trespassing on her turf should dare to suggest that she stretch herself for a few moments.
Miles waited until she was gone, found the number of the service station and reached for his phone headset. Ros chose that moment to stick her head in the door.
“Miles, I heard about that service station. You can’t run it.”
Now that he knew Ros had no say in what he did, Miles found her less irritating. In any case he was busy, but he was curious about the latest directive.
“Why not run the story?”
“Because it’ll give people the wrong impression about Koala Beach.”
“That service stations don’t get robbed here?”
“That it’s a crime area. Decent people have businesses here and we can’t have stories like that. It’s bad for business. Okay?”
“I listen to everything you say,” said Miles turning around and putting his headphones on. Ros went away puzzled.
As it happened the same attendant was on duty then as had been robbed on Sunday and he was willing to speak about his ordeal.
“I was terrified, mate,” he said. “When that guy stuck a knife almost in my face, I thought I was a goner.”
After a few minutes Miles had all he needed and hung up. He did not need Angela’s contribution and would not wait for it. As the story had come through her sources and he was still trying to placate her, he give her first spot in their joint byline credit. But after a week of writing about the problems of the residents of Koala Bay, it was a pleasure to write a story with a little meat.
Koala Bay resident Carl Yosif was terrified when a bandit waved a knife in his face in a hold-up in the Brunten Ave service station on Sunday.
“When that guy stuck a knife.. “
By the time Angela came back from police rounds, almost as huffy as when she left, the story was done and gone. The attendant had given all the details that would have come from the police, except for the official description and the fact that the offender might have pulled other jobs, which Miles knew already. He had a long way to go but his journalistic skills were developing fast. Angela, on the other hand, had learnt nothing during her few months as a journalist. Without bothering to speak to Miles she hashed out her police notes exactly as the police had given them to her, over the table in the coffee room at the back of the station. He later asked for a copy, which Angela very grudgingly gave to him. Sans the service station story they read:
Koala Bay police are looking for a man exposing himself to young girls in the district. He is tall with gray hair and a long, black leather coat. Anyone with information should call the Koala Bay station.
A 22-year old women has been charged with high range drink driving. The charge arose when police were called to an incident in Tolhurst Street, central Koala Bay. An early model green Holden car was discovered inserted in the front fence of a house. The engine was still running. The women was sitting in the driver’s seat, laughing. She stopped laughing when police approached. She made remarks to them of an offensive nature. She attempted to exit the vehicle and elude police. She had to be restrained. A preliminary breath test indicated that she was over the limit. A blood test found that she was 0.15. It transpired that she had just left a party in Tolhurst Street.
A 19-year old man driving a late model, white Ford was stopped by police in Lochlan Drive, Koala Bay, last week for a traffic violation. A quantity of household goods were found to be in the car. These goods were later discovered to be stolen. Detectives accompanied the man to his home and recovered more property. A number of the recovered items have been returned to their owners. The man is now assisting police with their inquiries into other matters. He was charged with a number of offences of breaking and entering in a court in Downing Street in Sydney, and was refused bail.
Miles felt some bitterness when he read those items. When added to the service station hold-up they amounted to an exciting week for the local police. He had misjudged Koala Bay. Instead of being a quiet, unexciting slab of suburbia there were flashers and drunk drivers, not to mention thieves in white Fords, on every street corner. But Angela had managed to write those three items while putting what should have been her lead sentence right at the bottom, or without doing a stroke of real journalist work. He knew it could be dangerous to stray too far from the details given by the police, but the stories could easily have been made more exciting. Also, some details could be explored further.
“Why did that guy in the white Ford they caught with stolen goods get charged in Downing Street down in the city? Why didn’t they charge him up here?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe you could ask next time? You seem pally with some of ‘em.”
“I’ll think about it, alright! The police stuff is my job.” Her voice was rich with contempt.
After lunch Miles answered a couple of questions from the subs and cleared up the mess on his desk. One week’s paper had gone, now it was time to start thinking about next week, which naturally led to the question of a lead. Perhaps the God – or was it the devil? - of journalists would provide, but in the absence of any supernatural intervention the journalists at Lovett Bay might come good. Ellen had mentioned on Friday that a major decision about a transport plan for all of the Lovett Bay Council area was to be released. He could tailor the story for his paper or perhaps simply add a side story. Both stories would then take out his front page. He lived in hope. Then there was the rest of the paper to fill.
Mid-afternoon Emma dropped in for the usual list of pictures to take and, of course, to gossip.
“So you had a fiancée back in Corryong?” she said without preamble, arms folded and leaning on the news room door frame. As on her previous visit she ignored Angela, who had her ear phones back on. “You said you just had a horse.”
“You asked about family. The horse is closer to being family than an ex-fiancée.”
“Ex is it? Did she know about the horse?”
“She was broadminded. You’ve been talking to Jake?”
“Tomasina. She’s a mate. I know Anne too, but not as well. Nice girl, but Miley,” she took on the air of a teacher explaining something to a backward pupil, “in Sydney first you ask the girl out then you get to know her, then you propose. Just a word to the wise my friend.”
Miles sighed. “I thought that in Sydney a bloke could get drunk and do stupid stuff, and not have the whole town know by breakfast.”
“Uh uh,” she said, shaking her head, “not in front of work mates, anyway. The Bugle Group is a different sort of village. You got blind I hear.”
“Totally off my face. Jake is a dangerous man to be around. I was just ordinary dunk until he brought out the Port.”
“Port on top of beer! Lucky you didn’t end up in an ambulance.”
“It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“Jake is a lunatic.”
“I spent all of Saturday next to the dunny or using it.”
“I forgot to ask Miley, where are you staying.”
“Hostel, but it’s not cheap. Its eating into my savings. Gotta look for a place.”
“Hmmm! May be able to help, I’ll let you know. Now what piccies have you got for me?”
Tuesday afternoon saw the inevitable confrontation with Ros. Miles came up the stairs after lunch and saw a stack of the newly printed copies of that week’s Koala Bay Bugle. On the front was Miles’ story about the residents of Mudlark Ave with a large picture of several residents, including the Kennys, underneath the Mudlark Ave street sign looking sour as the next best thing to looking angry. Below that main story was the service station story. Miles thought that it all looked well, and there was of course that nice feeling of seeing one’s own byline on a story, even on one about angry Mudlark Ave residents. The service station story was much better but Angela’s byline was first. Then Ros saw him.
“EXPLAIN THIS TO ME!” she screamed coming to the door of her office, and pointing to a copy of the paper in her hands. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO RUN THOSE STORIES. AND THE OTHERS. LOOK AT THIS! THIS!” Ros flicked open the paper pointing at the stories she had banned.
The receptionist and the sales lady, Kate, sitting in her small office, stared at Miles in alarm. The reporter, for his part, flicked through the other pages, ignoring Ros. The subs at South Forest had done a good job in laying out the pages.
“Looks good doesn’t it,” he said to no-one in particular.
“IT’S SHOCKING. THIS IS GOING TO RUIN US. I’VE BEEN BUILDING UP A REPUTATION AND NOW LOOK AT IT. ITS JUST A SCANDAL SHEET! MISTER YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE.”
“Oh no, I’m not…”
“YOU WAIT UNTIL JIMMY HEARS ABOUT THIS.”
The noise was such that the receptionist from the adjacent insurance broker looked curiously through her office door.
“Ros…”
“DON’T THINK YOU CAN CRAWL OUT OF THIS ONE.”
“Ros…”
“YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I SAID. YOU BASTARD!”
“Ros…”
“I’M GOING TO SEE YOU GET TRANSFERRED – NO I’M GUNNA GET YOU SACKED.”
“Ros..”
“YOU’LL GET WHAT’S COMING TO YOU..
“Ros.. I WAS TOLD TO IGNORE YOU!”
“What?”
“Justin told me you had no say in editorial.”
“When did he say this?”
“Friday. I confronted him in the car park as he was leaving work. Your mate Bronwyn never passed on any of my messages, so I went down there.” Ros’s mouth gaped open, as did that of Kelly, the receptionist. “He was surprised to find you were still here. He thought you’d been moved on.”
“Why did he think that?” she snapped.
“He also said that you have nothing to do with editorial, and that he’d have a word with Jim Charles about it. Now I answer to Justin, and he answers to Jim Charles.”
“Jimmy told you I control editorial here.”
“Beg to differ. His exact words were I should listen to your suggestions. Well I listened to your suggestions and none of ‘em were worth a rat’s rear end. You want to block all the stories worth running and you want me to write about panel beaters and real estate agents.”
“I promised them..”
“Don’t care! I report to Justin. I’m not even the editor, I’m the reporter who’s here. If you wanna get stuff in the paper that’s got no news value then he’s your man. I’d have to say I don’t think he’s going to care about panel beaters in Koala Bay.”
“We’ll see about this, mister!”
“You couldn’t have kept it up much longer, anyway. They were beginning to notice at South Forest that there was no news in the newspaper.”
“I’m going to call Jimmy.”
“Whatever! Why don’t you tell him, while you’re at it, that I said you should never have been allowed anywhere near editorial,” Miles turned away from her and grabbed a handful of papers. The receptionist was still staring at him open mouthed. “Hello Kelly!”
“Oh, hello Miles.”
“Hello, Kate, have a nice lunch?”
“Hello, Miles,” said Kate from her tiny office. She had to put up with a lot of nonsense from Ros for the sake of providing for her two teenage daughters, and had vastly enjoyed the confrontation.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, mister!” spat Ros.
Not bothering to reply, Miles sat at his desk. Angela was also starting at him open mouthed.
“Hello Angela.”
“Hmph!”
He put a newspaper on her desk out of courtesy and she glanced at it, meaning to toss it unread with the others on the orange interview chair beside her, when she caught sight of her byline. She read read the story without recognising a single sentence in it, then folded the newspaper and put it on her desk without comment. Later, when Miles was not there she looked at it again, with the thrill that even the dullest of journalists knows of seeing their own byline. When her mother called to say she had seen the story and to say how she was developing into a “real” journalist, Angela never mentioned that she had not touched it. Over time she even came to believe she had written it. But somewhere, deep down, she knew she was unable even to begin to do what Miles had done in the short time she had been out having coffee at the police. That was Miles’ crime in her eyes. He knew stuff.
Just as Ros started shouting on the phone, Jake called.
“How’s the hyper reality going over there?”
“Mate, we are knee-deep in hyper reality,” said Miles, half listening to Ros shouting on the phone. He was surprised to find that his confrontation with Ros had made him shaky inside, and a little apprehensive that Justin might buckle under the pressure. All of what he had said was common sense, but Miles suspected that common sense was not valued highly in the Bugle group. He was glad of someone to talk to.
“Told you’re looking for a place in which to bound your infinite spirit nightly?’
“A flat to live in. Yes.”
“Mate of a mate from uni looking for a house mate cum house minder. Cheap but you gotta keep the garden under control.”
“The cheap part sounds good, but where is it?”
“Up your way somewhere. Call ya back. We gonna have another debate about alcohol on Friday?”
“I reckon I’ve tasted port enough to take its existence as read. I’m with Kant on that one.”
“Maybe it does exist ‘n maybe it doesn’t. Mere sensory stimulii alone cannot decide the issue.”
“Yeah? The sensory issues are real hard to escape the next morning.“
“Details my friend. Drink a shit load of water before reality sets in. But listen, you’re a Mexican.”
“Victorian. Last time I looked.”
“You’re from South of the border and came up here to take jobs away from us hard working New South Welshman. Anyway, another mate o’ mine is looking around for a few guys to play that weird aerial ping pong game you’ve got down there. ”
“You mean the grand game of Australian Rules Football?”
“That’s the one. This mate is also a refugee and a few of us other guys have decided we’ve gotta show southerners how to play the game. In fact, there’s whole leagues of that weird game around here.”
As there were leagues of teams for almost any sport that does not require snow in Sydney Miles should not have been surprised by the news, but he was. It had not occurred to him that AFL would be played much except by the Sydney Swans. As it happened back home he had been selected to represent his district – an honor - and had been wondering about playing the sport in Sydney.
“I see. I would’ve picked you for league.”
“Mate, rugby has nothing more to offer me and how hard can AFL be?”
“Dunno about that, but if a Victorian turns up – a guy who might know the rules – will he get a run?”
“Rules are for Victorians mate, but as I understand it they’re desperate. A heap of players are moving to Queensland.”
“Sounds grim. I’ll be there. But at the mo’ the mate of a mate’s place sounds more interesting.”
“Get right back.”
Jake called back within a few minutes and, as it happened, the house in question was about 15 minutes drive away – very close by Sydney standards. As it also happened the owner was home and wanted to see Miles right away. Muttering to Kelly that he would be about an hour, and leaving Ros still shouting down the phone in her office, Miles drove off. Reporters have considerable freedom of movement and Miles was freer than most as he was the only reporter in the office - or, at least, the only one who mattered.
His hopeful landlord, Joshua, was not much older than Miles but very much better dressed in a business suit and armed with a laptop, briefcase, luggage that went on wheels and a suit bag, all piled neatly by the front entrance when the reporter arrived. He was one of those high-powered computer system consultants who flew around the world sorting out computer problems in exotic locations for an immense salary. Miles felt a twinge of envy. He had been called to journalism, but his calling seemed to have a vow of poverty attached. Later he discovered that many consultants wanted to become journalists, that is, provided they could keep their vast salaries.
One part of Joshua’s life that Miles did not envy was the house. It was a two bedroom timber bungalow on wooden blocks, covered in peeling paint. There was an equally dilapidated shed on one side which turned out to be the garage, and a tiny back garden with a circular clothes hoist.
“I thought I should buy something in Sydney – the way house prices keep going up,” said Josh, almost apologetically. “And I got this block. The house came with it, but I couldn’t help that.”
“It’s more than I’ve got.”
“As soon as I get the money this place is history, but I’m not here much.”
“Spend a lot of time overseas. Hard life.”
“Not all it’s cracked up to be,” said Josh warming to the reporter. He had decided that Miles would be acceptable. “Um, I’ve got a taxi coming for me and you come highly recommended. Jake says you’re a man who knows a lot about philosophy.”
“Certain subjects, I guess,” said Miles cautiously. “We’ve talked about metaphysics.”
“That’s - that’s good.” Joshua tried to look as if he knew what metaphysics meant. “You can take the keys and move into the spare room. I’ve cleaned it out. You can use whatever in the house. Someone got in when I was away last time and took the lot. I’ve replaced it with second hand stuff.”
“They took everything?”
“No one here, see, and not much to take but they took it anyway. There are some real desperate people in Sydney, Miles.”
“Seems so.”
Josh told him the rent.
“That sound do-able”
“But you gotta mow the lawn. There’s a lawnmower in the garage. And keep the front looking reasonable. I don’t give a shit what you do with it, just keep it so the neighbours don’t point, which they’ve been doing.”
“Got it!”
“Here’s the key for the door, and the windows. That’s the key for the garage but prefer you didn’t use it; my car is in there. Park yours in the driveway. Is that it outside?”
There was a mild note of disbelief in Joshua’s voice, seeing his new house mate’s battered orange utility in the street. A near neighbour back home had given the vehicle to Miles in exchange for some farm work and, after being notified of the amount he could expect each fortnight by the Bugle Group pay office, Miles knew the utility would remain with him for some time yet.
“It got me to Sydney,” he said.
A taxi pulled into the driveway and beeped its horn. Josh looked at his watch, and forgot about Miles’ vehicle. “Gotta run. Take care. I’ll call you with my numbers ‘n stuff tonight. You’ll be here?”
“I think after seven, after I grab my stuff.”
When he got back to the office, there were no urgent message from South Forest. Kelly looked tense but otherwise, after her initial eruption, volcano Ros had subsided and was now only giving off clouds of muttered curses and threats.
Ignoring Ros, Miles went back to his desk and decided that life at the Bugle Group might be bearable after all.