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Authors: Sharon Griffiths
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breath and went into the reporters’ room, bracing myself for seeing Will. I could cope. Of course I could cope. This was only a TV programme, for goodness’ sake. It wasn’t real life. As I hung my coat up, I took a quick look around, oh so casually, and when I came to his desk, I prepared myself, controlled my expression … but he wasn’t there. I let out a huge sigh. I didn’t know whether from relief or disappointment, but I’d been holding my breath so hard that my chest hurt.
Gordon was talking to the other reporters, Alan, Tony and Derek, allocating jobs.
‘Billy’s over in the district office today, chasing something up, so you can do his jobs,’ he was saying to Alan.
‘Anything for me?’ I asked, keeping a desk between me and Gordon. I was careful not to stand too near to him. Already he had a habit of getting even closer and ‘accidentally’ brushing against my bum or breasts. He didn’t smell too sweet either. Personal hygiene doesn’t seem to have been a big thing in the 1950s. I felt like hitting him, hard, but remembering I had to be all teeth and smiles, I had, so far, restrained myself.
He looked up at me as if wondering who the hell I was.
‘If she does all the shorts today, why doesn’t she do the Prettiest Village feature tomorrow?’ asked Marje quickly, lighting a cigarette. You only ever saw this woman through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve booked a photographer but I’ve got a lot on.’
Gordon looked at me again. ‘I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘If you’ve got other things to do, Marje. I suppose if she makes a mess of it, you can do it on Friday.’
The condescension of the man!
‘Right,’ I said, all brisk and businesslike. ‘What does this involve?’
‘You tell her, Marje,’ said Gordon and went back to his desk.
‘Well, now it’s spring,’ said Marje with a wry glance through the tiny grubby window to the rain outside, ‘it’s time to start our village feature. Simple idea, you know the sort of thing. Go along to one of the prettier villages, lots of lovely pictures and then maybe a few words with the oldest resident, squire, lady of the manor, vicar, that sort of thing. Anything newsworthy or interesting. Gets people buying The News and we might dig up a few stories for the rest of the paper while we’re at it. We’ll make a few contacts at least. You should be all right. The postman reckons it’s going to fair up tomorrow. I was going to start with Middle-ton Parva. You all right with that?’
‘Fine,’ I said. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but it was a lot more fun than Princess Margaret’s planned visit to the local regiment. There are worse assignments. ‘But how do I get there?’
‘You can team up with George and take the van. But Charlie’s out with it for most of today. So if you can just sort out some of those short pieces while you’re waiting. Or check in the files on Middleton Parva.’
‘No problem,’ I said, quite looking forward to a day out of the office. With that the door opened and an oldish woman came in carrying a long narrow wooden box full of brown envelopes. Everyone stood around her as she gave them out.
‘Rose Harford?’ she said, looking at me.
‘That’s me.’ And I went up to her, like a child going to Santa.
My present was a brown envelope full of money. I was getting paid for this, what a bonus. £8. 12 s . 6 d . to be precise. In my normal life that would buy a couple of coffees and a sandwich. Here it was meant to provide for a whole week. But judging by what I’d seen of prices, it would buy quite a lot. I put the money carefully away in my purse.
I’d just started my list of NIBs (News In Brief – mainly jumble sales, meetings and talks in the Literary and Philosophical societies), when one of the young messengers poked his head around the door.
‘Billy in?’ he asked.
‘No. He’s over in the district office. Why?’
‘Oh his missus is downstairs wanting him. Probably
Gordon was talking to the other reporters, Alan, Tony and Derek, allocating jobs.
‘Billy’s over in the district office today, chasing something up, so you can do his jobs,’ he was saying to Alan.
‘Anything for me?’ I asked, keeping a desk between me and Gordon. I was careful not to stand too near to him. Already he had a habit of getting even closer and ‘accidentally’ brushing against my bum or breasts. He didn’t smell too sweet either. Personal hygiene doesn’t seem to have been a big thing in the 1950s. I felt like hitting him, hard, but remembering I had to be all teeth and smiles, I had, so far, restrained myself.
He looked up at me as if wondering who the hell I was.
‘If she does all the shorts today, why doesn’t she do the Prettiest Village feature tomorrow?’ asked Marje quickly, lighting a cigarette. You only ever saw this woman through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve booked a photographer but I’ve got a lot on.’
Gordon looked at me again. ‘I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘If you’ve got other things to do, Marje. I suppose if she makes a mess of it, you can do it on Friday.’
The condescension of the man!
‘Right,’ I said, all brisk and businesslike. ‘What does this involve?’
‘You tell her, Marje,’ said Gordon and went back to his desk.
‘Well, now it’s spring,’ said Marje with a wry glance through the tiny grubby window to the rain outside, ‘it’s time to start our village feature. Simple idea, you know the sort of thing. Go along to one of the prettier villages, lots of lovely pictures and then maybe a few words with the oldest resident, squire, lady of the manor, vicar, that sort of thing. Anything newsworthy or interesting. Gets people buying The News and we might dig up a few stories for the rest of the paper while we’re at it. We’ll make a few contacts at least. You should be all right. The postman reckons it’s going to fair up tomorrow. I was going to start with Middle-ton Parva. You all right with that?’
‘Fine,’ I said. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but it was a lot more fun than Princess Margaret’s planned visit to the local regiment. There are worse assignments. ‘But how do I get there?’
‘You can team up with George and take the van. But Charlie’s out with it for most of today. So if you can just sort out some of those short pieces while you’re waiting. Or check in the files on Middleton Parva.’
‘No problem,’ I said, quite looking forward to a day out of the office. With that the door opened and an oldish woman came in carrying a long narrow wooden box full of brown envelopes. Everyone stood around her as she gave them out.
‘Rose Harford?’ she said, looking at me.
‘That’s me.’ And I went up to her, like a child going to Santa.
My present was a brown envelope full of money. I was getting paid for this, what a bonus. £8. 12 s . 6 d . to be precise. In my normal life that would buy a couple of coffees and a sandwich. Here it was meant to provide for a whole week. But judging by what I’d seen of prices, it would buy quite a lot. I put the money carefully away in my purse.
I’d just started my list of NIBs (News In Brief – mainly jumble sales, meetings and talks in the Literary and Philosophical societies), when one of the young messengers poked his head around the door.
‘Billy in?’ he asked.
‘No. He’s over in the district office. Why?’
‘Oh his missus is downstairs wanting him. Probably
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