“So what do you think you owe your long marriage to?” asked Miles.
“Eh?” said the old lady.
He had forgotten to yell.
“SO HOW HAVE YOU MANAGED TO KEEP MARRIED FOR 50 YEARS?”
“OH! ITS ALL ABOUT MAKING AN EFFORT TO GET ON. YOU KNOW WORKING AT GETTING ON?”
“What’s that dear?” said the husband, who had been sitting by her, smiling inanely.
“I SAID IT’S ALL ABOUT WORKING AT GETTING ON!” she snapped, irritably.
“Oh!” he said and went back to smiling.
The happy couple were sitting on a modest lounge suite in the front room of their double fronted brick house two blocks from Koala Bay’s surf beach. Set on a coffee table beside the sofa for the occasion was a large black and white photograph of the pair at the ceremony 50 years before. He had been a strapping man; she a pretty bride. Their looks had long gone but they had children, including the middle-aged daughter who had arranged this interview and was sitting with them, grandchildren, and a good TV with cable. Most days they walked along the beach. They also had each other which, Miles supposed, was an advantage.
“YOU’VE LIVED IN THIS HOUSE 30 YEARS?”
“YES, YES, 30 YEARS..”
“HAVE THERE BEEN MANY CHANGES IN THAT TIME?” asked Miles, searching for something interesting to put in the story.
“OH. EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED.”
“ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR?” he asked hopeful.
“OH EVERYTHING!”
“CAN YOU GIVE AN EXAMPLE.”
“JUST EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED. YOU KNOW A LOT OF CHANGE. BUT WE’VE ALWAYS WORKED AT GETTING ON.”
“What did you say dear?” said the husband, springing into life.
“THAT WE’VE ALWAYS WORKED AT GETTING ON,” she yelled.
“Oh, okay,” said the husband, unaffected. “Mary still looks the same as she did when I met her,” he told Miles. He was a good deal older than his wife, and had made that observation three times previously.
“DARLING BE QUIET AND DON’T INTERRUPT THE MAN,” snapped his wife.
Miles excused himself as Emma arrived to take the photographs, and Miles went outside to wait for her to finish. They were rarely at the same job at the same time but as they were going to put in a rare double appearance for the next job, which might be a story of substance, for once, he was going to wait for her. The wait also meant he was in one place long enough to be cornered by the daughter - a large, commanding women, who wanted to know things.
“When will I see the story?”
“Might be in the paper next week. Depends on paper sizes and how much material we have.”
“That’s fine but when will I see it.”
“If you mean before it goes in, sorry. We don’t show stories beforehand.”
“But why not?” she exclaimed.
“It’s our story. We don’t show it to sources to vet.”
“I don’t believe it. It’s my parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
“That’s why we’re taking the trouble to talk to them. But the story’s ours.”
“What happens if there’s an error in the story?”
“Then you can complain.”
“What good would that do - the story‘s already in.“
He shrugged. “That’s the way we do things.”
Miles was being hard line in this. Other journalists might figure that a 50th wedding anniversary story was not worth fighting over and send the daugher their version in an email. However, after a couple of bad experiences in the country where the sources thought they had some control over the stories - and that the story should express only their point of view - he had decided never to show stories to sources.
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m not going to say she snapped at him,” Miles said, guessing that was the error that the daughter wanted to correct in any story. By their nature such stories had to be played straight and cheerful, with only veiled hints at any deeper troubles. But that meant sentiments like “we’ve always worked at getting on” would not stretch very far. Maybe he would just write a caption. He should have done the interview by phone.
“I should think not, indeed! She did not snap, you arrogant puppy.” Miles smiled and that made her angrier. “I’m going to complain. What’s your name?”
She made a great show of taking paper out of her purse and asking Miles to spell his name. In response he took a copy of the latest Koala Bay Bugle out of his car and handed it to her. She made to hand it back after ostentatiously writing his name but he said “keep it madam” and left her holding it.
“You mark my words, I shall complain.”
“Uh huh!” said Miles. The thought of what Justin would make of a complaint about a story that was not even in the paper made him smile again, and that made the daughter even angrier. Emma finally came out and he had an excuse to walk away from the still-spluttering daughter. They took her car a few blocks to the next story. For Emma had taken one look at Miles’ orange utility on a previous job and refused to be seen in it.
“I’ve been cruised by guys in utilities heaps of times. One time they even had a can of weed killer in the back.”
“Yeah? What brand of weed killer?”
“Eeyouh! Miley, who cares what brand? You still need a different car for Sydney girls.”
This was true, as Miles had to admit, but his bank account did not agree. Maybe with a little more saving it might.
“They weren’t as bad as some anniversary couples,” said Emma, when they got into her car together, and Miles had mentioned the wife snapping. “There was one fiftieth anniversary I did where I couldn’t get them to sit together on the same couch, ‘cause they’d had a fight. Best I could do was to get them sitting at the opposite ends of the couch looking away from one another, arms folded. I rang the daughter and said ‘you’ve got a problem’.”
“What happened?”
“They couldn’t work out how to write the story without saying the couple fought all the time, and the daughter begged us not to put it in so they didn’t do anything. Still got it at home, but – it’s a classic!”
“Must show it to me.”
“Must, and while we’re on the subject of people’s love lives, how did it go with you and Marie?” Since the party the photographer had arranged for him to meet a girl called Marie who, as it happened, was experimenting with different ways of interacting with potential partners for a sociological thesis she was doing. As Miles understood the concept, and he had spent a little time on the phone with Marie working it out, this meant that she did not go out on “dates” as such. Instead, she insisted that Miles come along as part of a group of friends going to a night club. He knew no one else in the group and Marie’s idea of interaction with him had been to ignore him the whole evening. He scored a dance with a complete stranger – she was interested but devoted to her boyfriend, who was out of town - but otherwise he thought he could chalk another one up to Darwin, or sociology. He wondered if he would be mentioned in her thesis.
“But what was wrong with her?” asked Emma.
“Nothing was wrong with her. She doesn’t believe in dates so I went out on this group thing and she was surrounded by men. I never even spoke to her.”
“Who was surrounding her?”
“A John and a Martin – I think.”
“They’re both gay.”
“The gay guys got to talk to her? If I was gay, do ya think women would talk to me, at least. Strange ways in the city.”
She smiled. “No chance of you turning out to be gay, Miles.”
“So whadda reckon about internet dating sites? Should I put my picture up on that?”
“I think you’re a traditional guy, Miles. Better stick to the traditional ways.”
“Have to find a traditional girl. One who believes in dates, anyway.”
The story for which Miles and Emma had taken the trouble to put in a rare joint appearance was a substantial development on the foreshore - just how big, Miles did not appreciate until he walked in and saw a scale model of the development. Koala Bay was shaped like a shallow horse shoe with rocks on either promontory, to make it a smaller version of the more famous Bondi and Coogee beaches. Along the southern curve of the horse shoe, at almost the edge of the usable beach and barely 10 meters back from the high tide line, the recently formed Koala Bay Development Corporation proposed placing an eleven-storey building, combining shops and offices in the bottom two storeys with five storeys of luxury apartments in the top. Not only that, by cutting a deal to move an impoverished bowls club, buying up a couple of houses and closing a piece of redundant road the developers had found room for a cluster of units and a small village green. As part of the trade-off for building this monstrosity and associated units almost on the foreshore, a set of tennis courts was to be built on the other side of the Koala Bay CBD, plus two multi-use playing fields.
The head of the KBDC was a red-faced, thick-set man in a dark suit called Graeme Clark – certainly not the hearty, black-slapping type wearing gold chains and white shoes which Miles, in his bush innocence, thought was the prototype for all developers. Clark had also brought his lawyer, a heavy jowlled man in an expensive suit. Miles was to discover that, as a general rule, lawyers at press conferences spelled trouble, but for the moment he could only see endless weeks of front page stories. The development was still a proposal as it had yet to be put to council for approval, so a lot of community consultation lay ahead.
Emma went first, taking her pictures and left. Then it was Miles’ turn.
“This is a large development. The building is much higher than anything else on the foreshore, and closer to the beach. Will you be able to get council approval for this?”
“We’ve had preliminary discussions with council members and offices in the council, and believe that the project will meet with success,” said Clark.
The answer was word for word identical to a sentence in the press release which Miles had been given.
“Okay.. so do you reckon you’re gunna get much community reaction from this proposal.”
“We will consult with community groups about the proposal, and point out the advantages to the community when the development goes ahead,” said the developer.
Again, this echoed a statement already in the press release. Miles tried again.
“What stuff have you guys done before. What other developments have you done?”
Clark and his lawyer exchanged glances. “There’s background information on a separate sheet in the folder,” said the lawyer. So there was. This minimalist form of interviewing went on for a few more minutes until the reporter gave up and began to excuse himself.
“We will need to see the story, of course,” said the lawyer.
It seemed to be Miles’ day for sources thinking that he was some form of glorified copy writer, with the job of writing ads for their development proposals.
“But you haven’t told me anything beyond the release!” he exclaimed. “Everything you’ve said is here on the release.”
“My client must be able to see the story to check it for factual inaccuracies,” said the lawyer. “He is about to raise a great deal of money from private investors. Public announcements must tally with the information we give to investors.”
“We won’t touch any matters of opinion,” said Clark, in an exasperated voice. “We only care about the facts.”
As if that changed anything.
“Sorry. It’s our story not yours. Anyway, you can show the investors your press release. That’s all you’ve told me. No doubt I’ll be speaking to you soon.” He stood up to go.
“I shall complain to your superior,” said the lawyer, briefly peering at notes to remind him of the name, “Mr. Justin Brock. We will tell him that we find your attitude is unsatisfactory.”
The lawyer said this with a stern look, lips tight, as if uttering some terrible threat. Miles gave them what he hoped was a disarming smile and shrugged. “If you want to complain about me to Justin join the queue.” The lawyer’s face turned a shade of red that matched that of his client. “Now if that’s all you’re going to give me, I’ve got a lot to do.”
He walked to the office, which was only two blocks away, thinking he would collect his car with a stiff walk after work. On his way he encountered Anne and did his best to smile and wave politely as she passed, to show that he was not upset at being selected out, but did not stop. She half-smiled back, but he thought she seemed preoccupied. Well, he had his own preoccupations.
When he reached the office, he found someone was sitting at his desk using his phone. The stranger had the angular features of a film star, carefully brushed brown hair and small moustache, and wore an expensive black suit. The stranger cut such a sharp contrast to the mess on Miles’ desk, that for a moment the reporter thought he must have come out of a space ship. Then he caught the flash of a gold chain on the stranger’s wrist and it occurred to him, finally, that he must be connected with Angela. To compound his offence of being so well-groomed, this stranger was sitting back with both immaculately tailored legs up on a corner of the desk. Miles did this himself, sometimes, as it was just possible in that cramped space, but it was tiresome for a complete stranger to do it. Then, when the stranger realised Miles was standing at the newsroom door, he pointed forcibly at Angela and resumed his conversation, which seemed to be about a property deal. He had assumed Miles was a visitor like himself and was referring him to Angela who worked there.
Miles’ reply was to reach over and drop his note book and biro onto the desk with a ‘thwack’, that made the stranger look up again, irritation showing on his face, and point more forcibly at Angela. That reporter was having one of her lengthy, irritating conversations and had not seen Miles come in, not that she would have bothered to ease the situation. Miles snatched the coffee cup from his desk – this time the stranger looked surprised – and went to make himself coffee, but by the time he came back the stranger was still on the phone, still with his feet on the desk. Miles put his cup, pointedly, on the desk and stood there, arms folded. The visitor looked up puzzled.
“Hang on, Geoff, hang on – what is it?” said the strange, the last question being directed at Miles.
“Get out of my chair and desk, please, ‘n use someone else’s phone.”
The stranger looked puzzled then looked around him, as if only now realising that he was in Miles’s desk.
“I’m with Angela.”
“Fine! Use her phone.”
“She’s using it.”
“Look, mate, do you want to hang up? It’s been a long day. Go ‘n use someone else’s chair and phone - please.”
The visitor’s first response was to the person on the other end of the line. “Hang on, Geoff hang on, some guy here wants his phone back. It’s his desk, seems like. Yeah all right. Yeah, hang on mate.” Then the visitor spoke to Miles. “Look, can you use your mobile for a mo, this is really important.”
“Work doesn’t pay for the mobile, and I want to sit at the desk. I’ve got stuff to do. Wind it up.”
The stranger stood up while Miles edged around him, but still kept talking. “Hang on Geoff, hang on. Listen mate it’s not that desperate, the property will sell at the price we want. We just have to wait.” Then, after listening for a few moments, “well, just talk to them. There’s room in the deal for them… Oh come on, everybody’s after something.”
This went on for several minutes, while Miles tried to start his story. He actually only needed the phone to call Jake about football practice, but it was the principle of the thing. In any case he could not work with this person shouting almost in his ear. He finally caught the stranger’s eye and made a hanging up motion, and after saying a few times “gotta go, Geoff, yeah I’m with Angela. I gotta go. I’ll call you on the way to her place. I gotta go. Yeah mate. We’ll talk about it. Gotta go. Bye!”
“Sorry about that,” said the stranger, making an effort to smile. “Partner’s a bit edgy.”
“You sound like a busy man,” said Miles, picking up his phone headset.
“Steve,” said the stranger, holding on his hand.
“Miles.” They shook, very briefly.
“So whadda you do around here?”
“I write stories for the paper. I’m the reporter here.”
“You help Angela?”
“We work independently. Here’s a paper.” He handed Steve a copy of last week’s paper, which he looked at as if he had never seen a newspaper before. Perhaps he had not.
“Oh right, this is what you guys do in here.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I see your name here and here..” He then flicked through a few pages, looking for Angela’s name.”
“You’ve passed it. Page four.”
“Oh right, I see. Good story, Ange.”
Angela had finished her conversation and put her bag up on the desk. It was the end of another day of doing nothing.
“Yeah, guess so,” she said, glancing at the paper he held. She did not deign to look at Miles. “Always do police notes.”
“Say, what sort of commission do you guys get on the ads?” said Steve, looking at a large ad for a real estate agent.
“None,” said Miles, “this is editorial. Kate in the other office does advertising.”
“Oh right!” Steve’s eyebrows lifted.
“C’mon, Stevo let’s get going.”
“So you guys sell the words?”
Steve’s knowledge of newspapers was not deep, it seemed.
“We don’t sell anything. We write. We’re editorial.”
“You must get a bit under the counter then,” said Steve, grinning, making a motion with his hand as if receiving a small bundle from someone behind him.
“Nope! Good way to get fired.”
Steve’s grin faded slightly. “Nothing in it for you guys.”
“Apart from our meagre salaries, nope.”
“And no mobile phone.”
“Nope.”
“You should get ‘em to give you one as part of your salary package. I know an accountant who can work out tax effective stuff on a car and mobile.”
Miles had a sudden mental image of himself asking Justin for a car and mobile phone and chuckled.
“Listen mate, the only packages we know about at this end of the office, come in the post ‘n have addresses on ‘em.”
Angela led a still puzzled Steve out at that moment but Miles could hear them talking as they were walking out through the reception area.
“Do you work with that guy?” Steve asked her.
“Not really, he’s no one.”