While Miles was gaining his small victory over the legal profession, life at the Bugle Group went on with Justin topping his previous efforts at demoralising the group’s reporters by hiring a political writer. The concept of a senior journalist being hired to write political pieces and comment focusing on state politics that could run through all the papers was not a bad one. Justin occasionally wrote such material, but it could be done more often and certainly it could be done better. The problem was in the execution.
As all the other reporters quickly realised the new writer - one Jeremy Blackrush – was an old mate of Justin from the metros who needed a job but would not stoop to working on a suburban for which, in any case, he was unsuited. This old mate was then paid double anyone else, or so the rumour went, to work from home producing a dull weekly column that said pretty much what the political writers on the metros were saying with some local adaptations, plus a few rewrites of state government press releases which were intended to be news stories. Blackrush apparently thought that he did not have to try very hard for local papers. To make matters worse on the few occasions he appeared at South Forest, he completely ignored all the journalists except for Justin.
The group political writer’s continued existence became such a sore point that Ellen from the Lovett Bay Bugle, as head of the union house committee, made the grand gesture of going down to South Forest and confronting Justin.
“Is it true you hired that political writer off the scale?”
Justin shrugged. “I thought the group papers needed some more general political coverage to broaden each paper’s appeal. To get the good writers you’ve got to pay.”
“But he writes crap! Haven’t you read his stuff?”
“It’s good stuff,” he said, unmoved. “This week’s column really gets stuck into the Premier.”
“He’s just saying what the rest are saying but coming out with it later. If the readers want that stuff why don’t they go to the Tele or the Herald? Why bother to read us?”
“They have to buy those papers, they get our stuff free.”
“But wouldn’t it be better if you had original stuff that was free? If you want politics why not approach it in a different way. You’ve paid heaps for a column that puts people to sleep, and a few rewritten press releases.”
“We get reaction all the time to that column.”
“What reaction, where? We don’t even get letters about his stuff from the known loonies. They can’t be bothered with him. The problem is, he’s just recycling stuff and you’ve been paying him good money. Why not promote internally if you want that sort of material? You’d get the same result for less money.”
Justin did not bother to hide his disgust at that suggestion. “I want some decent writing and to get that I have to pay money for someone good.”
“So you’re saying he’s better than us, even when he just rewrites press releases.”
“I’m saying he’s a good writer ‘cause he’s been on metros and we need to lift the paper.”
“So just because he’s been on metros, he’s automatically better than anyone here.”
“Of course, he’s better. That’s why I’m paying him more.”
When Justin’s comments were relayed to the supposedly second class journalists who did the reporting work, morale sank a few more notches.
Miles never got involved in the affair of the political writer. He was just happy that Justin had supported him on the Werribee and Wilson story and then stayed away. And he had other issues to think about. He happened to ring Jake at home to ask about a company cricket match they were organising and got Tomasina. They swapped notes about being sued by Allen – neither of them had heard anything since returning the letters of demand – and he asked about Anne.
“If you want to know about Anne why don’t you call her?”
“Um – should I?”
“It’s up to you, but I know she was very grateful over the help you gave with the bushfire. So call her.”
This was a strong signal. Miles did not know much about how women interacted, but he was fairly sure that Tomasina would never have said a word unless she knew that Anne would not object. But there were still reasons for hesitating.
“Um, well, it’s just that she seems a little beyond me.”
“How so?”
“She has this wealthy family and a red BMW, brand new, and I’m this dirt poor suburban journo from the bush. And Allen is this lawyer who arranged trusts.”
Tomasina hesitated slightly. “I don’t think she cares about that sort of thing at all, Miles. You should call her.”
“Hmm! Is she still at her aunt’s place?”
“I haven’t spoken to her for a few days, but I’m sure she still is.”
A few days later Miles plucked up enough courage to call Anne’s mobile only to get a ‘this number is disconnected’ warning. Humph! Tomasina could have told him the number had changed!
Then the declaration of the poll story swept other thoughts from his mind. Normally the declaration of the poll for the local state seat was a dull ceremony held in the State Electoral Commission office in Koala Bay CBD – a smart, stand-alone office just off the main drag. The local returning officer read out all the voting figures and declared the candidate officially elected. This minor ceremony was now required to declare the new MP, who had narrowly won a post-Christmas by-election for Labor. Although such an event was normally a picture story at best, but there were hints this event would be different.
Coustas was the first to ask him whether he was going.
“Wasn’t going to. Why?”
“Dunno. Hoping you could tell me. There’s word around that people should go along.”
Then Evans the lawyer rang to ask whether he was going to the declaration of the poll and to see if he knew what might happen.
Mystified but hopeful of a decent story Miles and Emma down to the electoral commission office on Friday, his busiest day. Both journalists were surprised by the size of the crowd. The attendees were mostly dressed for business but at the front, near the electoral office itself, a contingent of three men stood out. The leader – he wore a tie – had frizzy hair, a thin face framing intense eyes and a hooked nose. In the 1970s he might have been an academic telling anyone who would listen he was building a worker-student alliance. His hefty mates were definitely on the workers side of that alliance – they wore overalls. No ties for them. The MP-elect, Geoffrey Bashaw, a round-faced school teacher and a decent enough man was standing in front of the crowd close to the commission office’s window, eyeing the odd-looking trio with concern.
Miles saw Bashaw step forward and speak to the academic-with-tie, who shook his head dismissively, and waved Bashaw away. He two mates grinned thuggishly. The reporter spotted Coustas in the crowd and circled around to him.
“G’day Miles. Guy in the middle is Barry McKinnon. Seen him around. Always agitating for this ‘n’ that. Wanted council to declare that marina area a park, but couldn’t get any support. He’s on the left faction in Labor and tried for the pre-selection on this seat.”
In fact, Miles had heard of McKinnon and had even tried to contact him for comment during the preselection struggle.
“Might be some fireworks then,” he said.
“Maybe, and it’ll happen outside. No way they’ll get us all in the office.”
That point obviously occurred to the returning officer, a gray functionary in an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt, who came out of the electoral office shop front to gaze open-mouthed at the crowd. Then he shrugged, went back into the office and dragged out an ordinary kitchen chair, which he stood on. Bashaw came out of the crowd to stand beside the office window. The official took a sheet of paper from his pocket and started reading in a monotone.
“I hereby declare the results for the by election for the seat of Eastern Hawkesbury. Geoffrey Bashaw, gained 17,280 first preference votes...”
“That seat’s mine!” yelled McKinnon. The crowd murmured
“..And Bruce Akehurst gained 16,196 votes….” Akehurst had been the Liberal party candidate.
“You bastard Geoff, you stole it from me!” More murmurs.
“Barry, mate,” pleaded Bashaw, “the deal’s done, the seat’s gone. This just looks bad.”
“..Brian Tweed gained 3,854…”
“Bad, I’ll show you what looks bad,” snarled McKinnon. Lunging forward he pushed Bashaw against the electoral office window. The crowd gasped, and took out their phones. The electoral official looked around in alarm. McKinnon’s two mates turned and folded their arms as if to warn off anyone who wanted to interfere. Emma immediately went forward and to her left, to get just the angle she wanted, taking pictures. The two workers eyed her apprehensively. Miles also surged forward, first thinking ‘what a great story’, and then hoping Emma would not try to get too close to the action. Meanwhile, Bashaw had the sense to grab his opponent’s arms and keep reasoning with him. He did not want to start his shining new career as an MP by brawling with fellow Labor party members. “Barry, mate, quit this; it looks really bad.”
“Do you want me to call the police?” asked the official, who had turned, on top of his chair to face the struggling pair.
“No, no! Not the police!” exclaimed Bashaw, still pinned firmly against the shop front. “It’s okay! He’s just excited. Please keep going.”
“You bet I’m exited,” growled McKinnon. The crowd murmured.
“..Um, after distribution of preferences,” continued the official, hurriedly, “the votes were as follows…” He rattled through a list of figures which Miles did not hear. He had eased to the front of crowd and was trying, unsuccessfully, to hear what the two men were saying. They had both lowered their voices.
“..and I declare the winner of the poll for the seat of Eastern Hawkesbury to be Geoffrey Bashaw.”
The crowd would normally have clapped a little at that point, but they were too intent on the piece of street theatre before them. By that time, one of the workers had noticed Miles, scribbling notes just behind Emma taking pictures, and eh crowd itself working their phones and finally realised that the whole incident was being recorded. They nudged McKinnon and whispered something to him. The disappointed candidate released Bashaw stepped back and looked around.
“Bastard!” he snapped at Bashaw and walked away, the workers following.
Miles then had to tackle one of the more difficult parts of being a journalist, of fronting up to potentially violent people at a time when feelings were running high and asking questions. He dove right in.
“Mr. McKinnon, Mr. McKinnon!”
“Fuck off!” said McKinnon, not slowing down. The two workers glared at him.
Miles trailed along behind, trying to match McKinnon’s manic walking pace, speaking to the man’s back. “Miles Black, Koala Bay Bugle.”
“Never read the local shit!”
“You’ll wanna read next week’s paper. You’re gunna be in it.”
That made McKinnon stop, turn and glare at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Miles could see Emma take another picture, but she sensibly kept a few paces away. The two workers also stared at him.
“What are you going to say?”
“Just what happened. You’re saying the seat should have been yours. Why should the seat be yours?”
“The left shouldn’t have given it away,” he said, staring Miles directly in the eyes and pointing a finger at his chest. “But if you know what’s good for you then you won’t print this.”
Miles stared right back.
“That’s a good quote, Mr. McKinnon, thanks. You wanna say anything else? I‘ve got a whole notebook here.”
McKinnon, beginning to realise just what a mistake the whole incident had been, sneered and stalked off. His two mates stared warningly at Miles, who ignored them, then followed McKinnon.
“What did he say?” asked Emma.
“Told me, if I know what’s good for me, I won’t print this.”
“So are you going to print it?”
“Of course!” Miles was surprised by the question. “Your pictures’ll look a bit strange without any story.”
She giggled. “’Suppose they would. Beats taking pictures of fourtieth wedding anniversary couples. Anytime you want to show a girl some action Miley, just call on me… I meant photographic action, Mr. Black.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. I know that you were thinking.”
In that playful spirit they walked back to Bashaw, who sighed when he saw Miles and gave a wry grin.
“Going to be all over next week’s paper, is it?” he said.
“’fraid so. I just had a yarn with our friend McKinnon.”
“What did he tell you.”
“The left should’ve had the seat.” Bashaw snorted. “And not to write this up, or else.”
Bashaw’s eyebrows shot up. “Did he threaten you?”
“Um, yep!” Later Miles realised he had given Bashaw something to report to his central committee. Once they heard McKinnon had been making threats to reporters he would have a lot of trouble getting preselection anywhere. “So do you wanna tell me what all that was about? Why was he upset enough to manhandle you?”
Bashaw thought about this for a moment. “Okay, look, its officially no comment from me – the party secretariat will ring you with an official comment - but off the record, right?” Miles nodded. “It was just as you reported during the campaign, and I know you spoke to others about it. The factional deal was done and the left, bless them, had to accept me in the seat and they told Barry he couldn’t have it. He didn’t like it, and nobody saw him for a while. Then I heard that he’s angry and he’s going to make his point at the declaration of the poll. I thought he was just going to yell a bit, but he turns up and does this, with mates too.”
“Hmm! Who were the other guys?”
Bashaw shrugged. “Seen ‘em around. They’re just mates of his. Barry’s living in the past. That strong arm stuff puts voters right off. Um, Miles, are any of the dailies up here today?”
“If there were any, they’d be right here asking questions. Dunno if tghey’ll pick it up from the social media though.”
“That’s true,” he said relieved. The longer the dailies did not find out about the incident the less newsworthy it would become, and Miles was not about to tell them before his own paper came out.