by Bill Condon
‘Hope I didn’t freak Zoe out too much last night. She say anything to you?’
‘Nuh.’
‘I almost got us both killed, Bull. She must have said something.’
‘Well there was one thing . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘She said you’d be a terrific driver overseas.’
‘Why overseas?’
‘They don’t have kangaroos there.’
Pleased with himself, he tosses Wolfie a piece of toast.
‘Don’t make fun. I’m being serious. I was pretty shaken up after the roo and I might have snapped at her . . . I did snap at her. She didn’t mention that?’
‘Listen. I got no idea what you talked about with her. All she told me was that she hoped she could do it again – go out drivin’ with you. She likes you, Tiff. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but I can’t.’
‘Aw. Okay. Thanks, Bull.’
‘Too easy. Now can you get out of the way of the tv?’
It’s much more laid-back at the Eagle today. The paper’s been printed and everyone’s got a copy on their desk. They sit around reading it like it’s some fantastic bestseller. Like they’re all little William Shakespeares – even the ad reps – and they’ve just cranked out another work of genius. The Shark and Jordie are smiling to themselves, patting each other on the back. Come on. Get over it. I flick through the thing in about ten seconds. The Eagle is so deadly dull.
Andrew moseys over, the paper in his hand. He drops it on my desk and returns to his office without a word. A story is circled in red pen. I take a closer look . . . it’s only small and it’s buried in a corner, that’s why I missed it before. It’s that press release about the mayor that Andrew kept getting me to rewrite. The Eagle has suddenly got interesting. My name’s under the story! I’ve scored a by-line!
‘Thanks!’ I stand outside Andrew’s office, pressing my story up against the glass. He looks up from his computer, nods, raises his thumb, and then continues typing.
Back at my desk and desperate to share my news, I tap the Shark’s arm.
‘You rang?’
‘Check this out. My first story. My first by-line.’
He sighs, like it’s a really big effort to look at it. It’s then that I realise I’m the only one it matters to. Should have just kept it to myself.
The Shark gives it a swift once-over.
‘Not bad, not bad. That’s one down. Only a million to go.’
‘Right. Thanks, Shark.’
I should have known to expect something like that from him.
‘Now that you’ve proven yourself I reckon you’ve earned a go at a very important assignment.’
‘Making tea?’
‘No, I said important. You want to have a crack at it? ’
‘All right. That’d be good.’
‘That’s the way. Run down the post office and get the mail for us. Key’s hanging up in the front office. When you come back I want you to open it up and sort it into three piles: good stuff, bad stuff, and shit. Off you go.’
You bastard, Shark. You bastard. I say that to myself as I trudge away.
‘Oi. There’s one more thing.’
I turn to face him.
‘It wasn’t the greatest story in the world by a long chalk, but I saw you there, working at it. You tried hard. Did the best you could and didn’t give up. One thing I know: Andrew doesn’t hand out by-lines unless they’re deserved. So well done. Now pick yourself up, girl. It’s a good day.’
I’m buzzing after the Shark’s little speech, but it wears off as the morning drags by. Andrew goes to his editors’ seminar – probably for the rest of the week – and the Shark’s too busy to talk to me or can’t be bothered. All I do is open mail and make tea and wonder why I ever thought I’d like working here.
Then Joan Maxwell arrives. Nancy told me I’d know her when I saw her. She’s right. Joan’s a large lady with a jolly smile – someone’s favourite aunty, or maybe their grandmother. I like her immediately.
‘You must be Tiff. Hello. I’m Joan.’ She looks at the wall clock, shaking her head. ‘That can’t be the time.’
‘I think it is, Joan.’
‘Oh, rats. I’m running late. I struck every red light. And now I need to go to the loo. I didn’t want to go at home when I had time. But now I do. Why do our bladders play these mind games?’
I can’t think of an answer to that, but I’m in luck because she doesn’t want one anyway. As soon as she says it she rushes off to the toilet, only pausing to yell out to me before she turns a corner.
‘When I come back I’m going off to an interview. Like to join me, dear?’
I look across to the Shark for permission.
He nods. ‘Think I can scrape by without you.’
A few minutes later I’m in Joan’s car. She’s driving, and chatting.
‘I work three days a week, Tiff; interview people, do profiles, features, the social pages – who got married, who died – the nuts-and-bolts of life. The Shark calls them “fluff” stories. I suppose he’s right. Mind you, he thinks that about any story that doesn’t involve a body count.’
This morning we’re on our way to meet Clarence Dawkins. The only thing that makes him newsworthy is that today he is one hundred years old.
‘Next week he’ll be on the front page of the Eagle,’ Joan says. ‘God I hope he can hang on till then. If he dies we’ll be really stuck.’
I search her face for some sign that she’s kidding. There isn’t one.
We arrive to find the street packed with cars – so many that Joan has to drive around the block twice before we find a parking spot. Inside the house there are balloons and glitzy decorations, a heap of cards strung together along a wall, a chocolate cake with what has to be a hundred candles, and a continuous slide-show with photos of the birthday boy. His whole life is up there: from when he was a baby, to a school kid, to the army, to marriage and family, on and on till today.
Clarence is sitting in a plush red leather chair with a handful of people clustered around him, all speaking very loudly so he’ll hear.
‘The journalists are here from the Eagle,’ one says. ‘We better let them do their job.’
A path magically clears before us. Power of the Press. I like it.
‘Morning,’ he croaks. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Clarence is a shorty. I have to look extra hard to convince myself he’s not shrinking in front of us as he talks.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Joan gestures for me to move closer, which I do. ‘And this is my young friend, Tiff.’
I want to tell him that he looks like he’s in good shape for someone who should have been dead twenty years ago, but I give it a miss. Some people don’t know how to handle compliments.
‘Hi.’ That’s all I say.
‘From the newspaper, eh?’ He peers at the business card that Joan gives him. ‘So I suppose you want to know all about my life.’
‘Oh yes. Very much. I’ve been looking forward to it.’ Joan is so polite. ‘That would be lovely.’
I hope he’s not planning to give us the day-by-day version.
‘Let’s see now.’ He tilts his head back and plays with the dangly skin flapping on his neck. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Not even a turkey. ‘I still do my exercises every day. Eat lots of spinach and cabbage. Always been very fit. If you know what I mean. Very capable. Still am.’
He arches an eyebrow and looks at Joan like a sex-charged tortoise, before leaning forward and resting a hand on her knee. Joan watches in stunned amazement as his fingers tiptoe up her leg, along her thigh – oh-my-God! She pushes her chair way back and jumps up, all flustered and fluttery.
‘Now, now, Clarence.’ She wag
gles a finger at him. ‘I think that might have been just a little naughty.’
They both smile. It’s full-on embarrassment with Joan. With him it’s good old-fashioned lechery.
We’re there for another half an hour before Jordie arrives to take photos. It’s a perfect excuse for us to leave. In that short space of time Joan’s captured Clarence’s life in her notebook, at least the part of it that anyone’s interested in. There’s only one more thing to ask.
‘How did you get to be so old, Clarence? What’s the secret?’
‘Got no idea,’ he says. ‘One breath after the other. Keep on doin’ that, you get there.’
It’s incredibly dreary, but he’s a hundred so it’s still newspaper gold.
We start to make a run for it.
Joan says, ‘So good to meet you. It’s been quite an experience.’
I say, ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Hang on, lass. There’s something I want to tell you.’
He waves me closer. Joan frowns, her meaning clear: Stay away, stay away. I go over to him anyway. I figure a real reporter would.
‘Yes, Clarence?’
I feel his dry lips brush my ear and then hear his gravelly whisper, ‘I’m only ninety-eight. Keep it under your hat.’
‘Okay. I will.’
As soon as we’re out the door Joan wants to know what he said.
If I tell the truth Clarence might never get his front page. And yet I don’t want to lie. Think. Think.
‘Tiff?’
‘If it’s all right with you, Joan, I’d rather not repeat it.’
‘Oh goodness me.’ She nods and sighs and gives me a consoling pat on the back. ‘I was afraid it would be something like that . . . the silly old goat.’
For a few minutes over dinner I get a taste of what it’s like to do stand-up. I tell Bull and Reggie about Clarence and his wandering hands; and Joan jumping up and looking horrified; and how he’s really ninety-eight, not a hundred. I time my punch lines just right and the laughs crash over them like waves.
I also work in a mention about my by-line, brushing over it like it’s not important, hoping they’ll think it is.
Bull: ‘You got your name in the paper? Already? Jeez, that’s not bad.’
Reggie: ‘Did you bring it home for us to have a look at?’
Me: ‘I’m not sure . . . I think I might have one in my room. I’ll check.’
The truth is I’ve got five copies; thought I’d stock up just in case I never get another by-line.
Bull reads every word out loud. Reggie looks on over his shoulder. They both say they’re proud of me. Like the Shark said, it’s a good day.
Reggie goes to bed early.
‘Love yer, Tiffy.’
He’s saying that more now than he ever has. I catch his hand and hold it for a second.
‘Love you, too.’
Bull grabs his keys. ‘Goin’ up to see Dan at the servo. Won’t be long.’
I block his way. ‘How come you never say you love me?’
‘Savin’ it up.’
‘What for?’
‘Me deathbed.’
I look around for something to throw at him, but he strikes first, picking me up like I’m nothing, whirling me around and then dropping me down on Wolfie’s beanbag. He stands over me grinning like a lunatic.
‘Night, mate.’
‘Night, Bull.’
We must have had a thousand moments like this, being together and happy. Not one of them stands out from the rest. I suppose it’s like eating chocolate. You love it at the time, but after you’ve licked the last trace from your lips, it’s just gone.
I turn on my computer and write about today in my journal, so I can keep it.
I’m ten or fifteen minutes into my journal catch-up when Kayla texts me.
‘tiff! need to talk. can u come up?’
I phone her straight away.
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll be there . . . hey, are you crying?’
‘I was trying not to. But nothing’s wrong, well, yes it is–’
‘What’s going on, Kayla?’
‘It’s complicated. There’s really good news about Colin and Inky. But there’s something else I have to tell you – about us.’
‘Us?’
‘I need you to be here when I tell you. Face to face. You coming up, Tiff?’
‘On my way.’
I hear Bull come home and race out to catch him before he drives into the garage.
‘Need a lift up to Kayla’s. Okay?’
‘What happened to being nearly eighteen and all that Miss Independent stuff?’
‘That was then.’ I jump in beside him. ‘Something’s wrong with Kayla. She was crying on the phone and not making any sense. I have to be there – now.’
Bull drops me outside her door.
‘I’ll come in with you if you like.’
‘No offence, but Kayla just wants to see me.’
He taps his phone. ‘When you’re ready to come home, give us a shout.’
‘Door’s open. Come on in.’
Kayla’s not the only one who’s been crying. Inky has too. She and Colin huddle together on the yellow lounge. No sign of the kids.
‘Where are Rowie and Harrison? They all right?’
‘Asleep,’ Kayla says. ‘They’re fine.’ She hugs me like I’ve just returned from a long trip, or I’m about to go away.
‘Will someone please tell me what is–’
Colin interrupts. ‘We’re getting married, Tiff. Me and Bess.’
Inky bawls her eyes out as if it’s bad news from the doctor; like she’s got Terminal Matrimony. Colin holds her in his muscly butcher’s arms and rocks her side-to-side.
‘And I didn’t even have to ask him,’ she says. ‘He wants to do it because–’ A fresh stream of tears get in the way and Colin has to finish the sentence for her.
‘It’s because I love her.’ He says it loud and strong, not afraid of the words; proud of them. ‘Took me time working it out. Weighed it all up, knew this was right for me. Bess and the babies, Kayla, little Montana just around the corner; family, it’s what I’ve always wanted.’
‘Now do you know what I mean?’ says Kayla. ‘How could I tell you all this on the phone?’
Can’t argue with that. This definitely needed a personal visit. And a few extra boxes of tissues.
‘Well done, you two!’
I go over for some hand-shaking. That’s good enough for Colin, but not Inky. She pinches my cheeks together like she’s moulding play dough and plants a sloppy kiss on my nose.
‘I’ve never been married before,’ she gushes. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’
‘Whatever I tell ya.’ Colin grins wickedly.
Kayla’s eyes widen – I think she’s about to whack him one.
He puts up his hands in surrender. ‘Only kidding.’
Inky looks fragile. Kayla takes her in her arms and shoots me a look that says: ‘Help me out here.’ So I join in. We’re a couple of blotters soaking up her mix of sad and happy. Colin stands back watching us, looking proud and glad, and when he blows his nose, all of us laugh, because he sounds like a honking duck. It’s a stand-out moment that I’ll remember for a long time, but I have a feeling there’s something else waiting for me, as if this is one of those good news, bad news stories. Okay, I’ve heard the good part . . .
‘Kayla, you said on the phone this was about us, too.’
She nods. Colin takes Bess by the hand.
‘We should leave the girls alone to have a talk,’ he says.
‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ Inky rubs my arm. ‘Everything’s going to turn out for the best.’
Hold on, I’ve seen this movie. That dialogue is straight from a scene where the condemned guy is being led to the electric chair by the prison chaplain. Whenever anyone says there’s nothing to worry about, you can be sure it means the exact opposite.
Inky and Colin go into their bedroom and shut the door. Kayla sits beside me on the lounge. She takes a deep breath and begins.
‘Tiff, I’m really, really sorry – I never wanted to say this, hate it so much, but I know it’s going to be all right–’
Is she deliberately trying to torture me?
‘Kayla, will you please just get to–’
‘We’re leaving Gungee. Colin’s got a house for us – in Perth.’
Well, I knew this would happen. Right from that very first day on the bus when we were kids. I’ve never been very good with people. Don’t know why I ever thought it would change with Kayla. If I was meant to have a sister then I would have just had one, without any wishing or hoping, without any of this.
‘Fine. Cool.’ That’s what I say. ‘When you going?’
She stares at me, her mouth open.
‘Don’t you even care, Tiff?’
Sometimes words just don’t get you there . . . don’t let you say all the stuff from deep in your heart, stuff that no dictionary has a name for.
I head for the door.
‘Where are you going? Come back in here and talk to me. Tiff!’
A light rain is spitting outside and there’s a wind raking up the leaves on the driveway as I run down to the road. Kayla’s behind me, talking, talking. It only makes me run faster.
‘You are not going anywhere’ – her hand falls heavily on my shoulder – ‘till we sort this out.’
I stop but can’t bring myself to face her.
‘I do care.’ I say it to the road. ‘You know I do. I just care too much. That’s a problem I’ve always had. People like me, we’ve got no halfway – we take life too seriously and we get hurt and . . . Kayla, you’re my only friend.’
‘Hey!’
She stands in front of me with her hands wrapped around mine. I can’t avoid her eyes now.
‘How long have we known each other, Tiff? Eight years? Ten?’