Read Online The Death-Defying Pepper Roux by Geraldine McCaughrean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geraldine McCaughrean
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word wherever he found it. He had clearly also heard that words cost money, because he was constantly in search of them. He sipped and sucked them up—off tickets, public notices, other shop signs, match-boxes, food packaging, and calendars. After glancing through the day’s mail, he let his eyes stray along the counter, reading advertisements and announcement forms:
“…three cob mares sound in wind and limb…”
“…to Godet-Dupont a son 5 pounds…”
“…Lebec-Belot at the Church of the Bleeding Heart…”
“Limoges, Albert, suddenly at home, aged 89. Gone to Glory.”
Unsatisfied, his eyes came to rest on the death notice Pepper had just filled in. Snatching it up, he turned the form this way and that to read the extra words written up the sides for lack of space:… placing himself between the ravening beasts and the child…
“Did we cover this? I don’t remember us covering this? Who posted this? A relation? Local? Did we cover this story?”
Pepper was all set to creep away, but the woman pointed him out as the culprit.
“What are you? A relation?” demanded the editor.
“No,” said Pepper.
“There’s a story here, isn’t there? A good story?”
“Oh yes, sir, probably,” said Pepper, who hated to disappoint.
“How come you’re posting the death, then?” The questions were sharp and aggressive, like a hand pushing him in the chest. Pepper retreated, starting to panic. What if an Étoile journalist went to the Marseille zooand asked about the man in the lion pit? Pepper was not even sure Marseille had a zoo.
The editor picked up a telephone and wound a handle beside it. “Who’s free to do a story in Marseille?”
“I am!” blurted Pepper, and then, when the editor paid no attention: “I’ll write it!”
“You?” said the editor, absently browsing through the telephone bill and an invoice for staples.
“Why wouldn’t I?” said Pepper. He was starting to get the journalistic hang of this talking in questions.
“You’re a journalist?”
“Would I offer if I weren’t?”
“What’ve you done before?”
“What haven’t I?” But that came out sounding cocky, so Pepper quickly added, “You remember that Hongriot-Pleuviez Amendment? A scandal…particularly clause five.”
The editor coughed and ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. Studiously he read a dropped shopping list and bus ticket lying on the floor. “You covered that story?”
“Didn’t you?” said Pepper.
“Freelance?”
“Yes and no,” said Pepper, who had no idea what itmeant but liked the sound of the lance .
“Who do you work for right now?” said the editor, reading the maker’s label inside Pepper’s jacket.
“For you, sir, don’t I?” said Pepper. And found that he did.
Well, people see what they look for, don’t they? And people who never look at their fellow men get what they deserve. Thus Pepper stepped into L’Étoile Sud , a silo of words, hoping the words would close over him like grain and bury him from sight.
They found him a desk and asked him to fill seventy-five column inches each week with newsworthy stories. The other journalists peered toward him through dense palls of cigarette smoke, screwing shut their eyes. The paper was losing money: Maybe the editor was bringing in younger, cheaper men, to save on wages.
Pepper had no idea how to fill seventy-five column inches. He only knew that he did not want his stories to be as depressing as all the ones he had read by candlelight, in bed, in the Marseillais Department Store. First he wrote up the story of Claude Roche, making it even more racy and heroic than before, throwing in adying wish for good measure: Roche was heard to shout, before the lions attacked, “Tell my wife I love her!”
And after that, he wrote the kind of stories he would himself have liked to read, curled up under the sheepskin rug in the Soft Furnishings department. Take Henri Leclerc, who won nine thousand francs in the
“…three cob mares sound in wind and limb…”
“…to Godet-Dupont a son 5 pounds…”
“…Lebec-Belot at the Church of the Bleeding Heart…”
“Limoges, Albert, suddenly at home, aged 89. Gone to Glory.”
Unsatisfied, his eyes came to rest on the death notice Pepper had just filled in. Snatching it up, he turned the form this way and that to read the extra words written up the sides for lack of space:… placing himself between the ravening beasts and the child…
“Did we cover this? I don’t remember us covering this? Who posted this? A relation? Local? Did we cover this story?”
Pepper was all set to creep away, but the woman pointed him out as the culprit.
“What are you? A relation?” demanded the editor.
“No,” said Pepper.
“There’s a story here, isn’t there? A good story?”
“Oh yes, sir, probably,” said Pepper, who hated to disappoint.
“How come you’re posting the death, then?” The questions were sharp and aggressive, like a hand pushing him in the chest. Pepper retreated, starting to panic. What if an Étoile journalist went to the Marseille zooand asked about the man in the lion pit? Pepper was not even sure Marseille had a zoo.
The editor picked up a telephone and wound a handle beside it. “Who’s free to do a story in Marseille?”
“I am!” blurted Pepper, and then, when the editor paid no attention: “I’ll write it!”
“You?” said the editor, absently browsing through the telephone bill and an invoice for staples.
“Why wouldn’t I?” said Pepper. He was starting to get the journalistic hang of this talking in questions.
“You’re a journalist?”
“Would I offer if I weren’t?”
“What’ve you done before?”
“What haven’t I?” But that came out sounding cocky, so Pepper quickly added, “You remember that Hongriot-Pleuviez Amendment? A scandal…particularly clause five.”
The editor coughed and ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. Studiously he read a dropped shopping list and bus ticket lying on the floor. “You covered that story?”
“Didn’t you?” said Pepper.
“Freelance?”
“Yes and no,” said Pepper, who had no idea what itmeant but liked the sound of the lance .
“Who do you work for right now?” said the editor, reading the maker’s label inside Pepper’s jacket.
“For you, sir, don’t I?” said Pepper. And found that he did.
Well, people see what they look for, don’t they? And people who never look at their fellow men get what they deserve. Thus Pepper stepped into L’Étoile Sud , a silo of words, hoping the words would close over him like grain and bury him from sight.
They found him a desk and asked him to fill seventy-five column inches each week with newsworthy stories. The other journalists peered toward him through dense palls of cigarette smoke, screwing shut their eyes. The paper was losing money: Maybe the editor was bringing in younger, cheaper men, to save on wages.
Pepper had no idea how to fill seventy-five column inches. He only knew that he did not want his stories to be as depressing as all the ones he had read by candlelight, in bed, in the Marseillais Department Store. First he wrote up the story of Claude Roche, making it even more racy and heroic than before, throwing in adying wish for good measure: Roche was heard to shout, before the lions attacked, “Tell my wife I love her!”
And after that, he wrote the kind of stories he would himself have liked to read, curled up under the sheepskin rug in the Soft Furnishings department. Take Henri Leclerc, who won nine thousand francs in the
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