Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time

by Dominic Utton

  Seriously. I know I shouldn’t be thinking this (despite everything) but Train Girl’s a proper looker. Standing there, waving my paper, her face lit up, her hair pushed back behind her ears, coat off, arms bare, that short skirt, the perfect taper of her legs perfectly outlined in thick black tights… she even makes thick black tights look hot.

  And then, when she got to my seat, as I sat slightly bashful and a bit embarrassed, she threw her arms around my neck, planted a big smacker on my lips and laughed, saying ‘Look at you, Woodward and Bernstein!’ and ruffled the bit on the back of my neck where my hairline ends.

  And what did I do? I wasn’t sure what to do. Everyone was staring. Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum paused mid-phone conversation and stared at me with an expression of part confusion, part shock, part worry on her face (has she just realised she’s been sharing her calls with a Sunday Globe journalist?). I just looked at my lap and kind of stammered something about just doing my job, ma’am, and Train Girl laughed again, and sat down too, angling towards me as always, her hand still on my arm, our knees touching.

  And then she told me, at some length, most of the way to London (including the ten extra minutes you so thoughtfully laid on to our service today, above and beyond the advertised and scheduled time for the journey), how she had read my story in bed on Sunday morning. Alone. Lying sprawled in only the old East 17 t-shirt she sleeps in (when she sleeps alone), half-in and half-out of the duvet, curled around a cushion… how she had read my story and couldn’t help but get excited about it.

  ‘There I was,’ she whispered, ‘basically naked but for my t-shirt, still all mussed-up from sleep, stretched out in my big bed by myself… and I was reading words you’d written! It was like hearing you speak to me – in bed, in the morning. And I imagined you writing them, I pictured you on the trail of the story, chasing down the leads, nailing down the facts, and I could almost see you directing the photoshoot, those two girls in their sexy little uniforms, I could almost hear you grilling them about exactly what they used to get up to with him…’

  And she said all this with a smile on her face, a laugh in her voice, but I knew she wasn’t making fun of me. ‘Honestly, Dan, I had to take a shower after. The whole thing was just so… hot.’

  And then I had to change the subject. Obviously. Of course. We were on a train, there were people standing in the aisles and also, you know, I’m married. I’m a married man. I had to change the subject.

  Unfortunately the only thing I could think to change the subject to was to firm up a date for our next night out. So we’re going out on Saturday. After work. I would say wish me luck, but I’m not sure whether you would or not. You probably don’t approve, do you, Martin? You’re probably tutting and shaking your head as we speak. I don’t blame you. I am, after all, a bit of a dick.

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  ‌Letter 77

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 22.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, March 15. Amount of my day wasted: ten minutes. Fellow sufferer: Overkeen Estate Agent.

  Back to life. Back to reality. Back to the here and now. You know that sales spike on Sunday – the one led by my lead, the one brought about by good old-fashioned tabloid journalism, the one that heralded the revival of our paper and the point at which we kick against the pricks and start our glorious fightback? Yeah, that one. Well, as it turns out… it’s not made a blind bit of difference.

  After a day or two going after the dishonourable member, the focus is firmly back on us. The police are promising more arrests. The government are demanding answers. And even after claiming the scalps of the features ed, the showbiz ed, the chief exec and Goebbels himself, the great British public are crying out for more blood. Scapegoats are being sought, Martin, and, as the top copper promised in every daily newspaper today: ‘Nobody is safe. From the lowliest cub reporter to the managing editor and every single employee of the company in-between. None of them are safe. We are coming after you and we will find you and we will bring you to justice and we will keep doing so until every last person responsible for the systematic culture of illegality at the newspaper has paid the price before the law.’

  And that, I would say, is fairly unequivocal.

  But you know what it put me in mind of? You know what that kind of language evoked for me? It conjured up a single word, Martin: ‘cleansing’. They want to cleanse the paper. They want to bombard us and batter us and smash us up and tear us down and then they want to bulldoze us all away until there’s no trace of the former regime left. They want to cleanse us, same as your man in North Africa is cleansing the old rule and the new rule out over there.

  The advertisers – our last barrier against their offensive, the great buffer we had against whatever they threw at us, the enormous safety net which meant we could keep putting our paper out, keep generating profit, every week – the advertisers are pulling out.

  Two major supermarkets split yesterday, a multinational department store, a couple of clothes chains and a global restaurant franchise jumped today. There will be more tomorrow. This has got momentum now.

  And meanwhile… meanwhile we keep turning up for work. Shouldering our way past the pack outside, ignoring the catcalls and yells from the saddos with placards (‘Murderers!’ is what one woman screamed at me this morning. Who exactly does she think I murdered?), submitting ourselves to third-degree searches from the same security guards we saw throw Goebbels out of the building… We keep turning up here, keep sitting down and logging on and trying to get on with the job we’re paid to do.

  And I’ll be honest with you, Martin. It’s not much fun, you know? It’s really not at all.

  Wee Tim’rous Trainee is scared. In the pub after work, with Harry the Dog and Bombshell, she just said it: ‘I’m scared.’

  Everyone stared at her.

  ‘I’m scared of what’s happening at the newspaper. I don’t want to get arrested. I hate all those people calling us scum. I hate it. What am I going to do if I get arrested? What will my mum say?’

  Harry the Dog put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, smooth as butter. ‘I won’t let them arrest you.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘Nobody’s going to arrest a fucking trainee, darls,’ put in Bombshell. ‘I mean, seriously, why bother? You’ll be fine, serious.’ And she clinked Wee Tim’rous Trainee’s glass. ‘Anyway, so I was in this totes lush bar last night and… where are you going?’

  And that was that. Wee Tim’rous Trainee just got up and walked off, right in the middle of a Bombshell anecdote, without saying goodbye, without finishing her drink. Harry and I stared open-mouthed – and then he burst out laughing.

  Bombshell fixed her retreating figure with a withering look and then drained the rest of her glass. ‘Whatevs,’ she said.

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  ‌Letter 78

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 17. Amount of my day wasted: 14 minutes. Fellow sufferers: No regulars (Saturday).

  Hey you. It’s date night!

  Actually, I lie. Or at least, exaggerate. It’s not date night yet. It’s the morning before date night. It’s Saturday morning, I’m sitting at my desk at the worst place in the world; I’m fresh off one of your terrible trains; I’ve got a whole bunch of stuff to write on deadline; and instead I’m writing to you.

  I didn’t see Train Girl on my way in this morning, of course – it’s Saturday, and ordinary people don’t work on Saturdays. But I’ll be seeing her tonight. That’s the plan. She was very excited about it yesterday – said she had an outfit planned especially. Something knockout, she said. Something to knock me out.

  Do I want to be knocked out, Martin? Is that what I need right now? I’ve got
to confess: a big part of me says yes. But another part of me… I don’t know. I kind of think all I want to do is go home and sleep. Maybe call my wife. Maybe not. I’m exhausted.

  Anyway. Date night it is. And yes, I did have a shave especially, since you asked.

  But first, I’ve got the whole day to get through. Deadline day. What we do this for, the thrill and the adrenaline of getting the paper out. The energy, the enthusiasm, the white-knuckle ride of writing for the world’s most-read English-language newspaper. That’s why we’re here, right?

  Except, like I said in my last letter, the office isn’t such a thrilling place any more. Nobody’s talking to each other. Nobody trusts each other. All that gossip, the whispers and rumours, the conspiracy theories, black humour, daily sweepstakes and healthy cynicism… that’s all gone. We each sit at our desks, in front of our computers and our phones, letting every call go to voicemail where once we’d snatch the headset up on first ring – and nobody speaks. Every time anyone leaves their seat they log off; everyone carries their mobiles and laptops everywhere with them. Everyone’s paranoid.

  And every time anyone’s asked to do anything, to chase a particular lead, to look into a particular story, their first reaction is not the usual (excitement, keenness, anticipation of the breaking story) but suspicion. Why me? Why not him? Or her? What’s this really about? Am I being set up?

  As for the bosses… since Goebbels left we’ve been kind of rudderless. The deputy is acting up in his place, but he’s as nervy and untrusting as the rest of us. And then there are the big bosses. And they really are freaking everyone out.

  For three hours yesterday, Martin, we had no access to our own emails. A (printed) memo was distributed, claiming that ‘in accordance with requests from the police’, editorial staff were being locked out of all email accounts ‘for the foreseeable future and at least until their investigations have been concluded’.

  There was nearly a riot. You want to try putting out a newspaper with no email access? People got up and walked out. People threatened to resign on the spot. In the end the acting news ed and all the foreign desk went upstairs themselves to sort it out. And finally, after three hours, the email system came back online. Unbelievable.

  And since we’re on the subject of incompetence: how about the latest insider knowledge from the fair streets of North Africa? Or rather, not from there (they’re anything but incompetent in North Africa right now. Quite the opposite. They’re frighteningly competent. Ruthlessly, terrifyingly competent. They know what they’re doing, all right. Cleansing the place. The trials, the executions, the public floggings and stonings and hangings. Incompetence is not the word, not by any stretch). No, not from the blood-soaked streets of North Africa. But from the marbled halls and lofty atriums of the United Nations, where the business of North Africa is currently toppermost on the agenda. That’s where the incompetence lies.

  All the speeches. All those words. Debating back and forth the merits or otherwise of the North African delegation. Discussing just what the official view on the events of the last year over there is. What line they should be taking. Whose side is the right side. The original regime? The brief, inglorious revolution and its ramshackle attempt at order? Or the new regime, the all-too-competent one? All have blood on their hands. No one is innocent.

  Why aren’t we up in arms about it? Where have all the protesters gone? When the original rebels stood up in the streets, when they unfurled their flags and raised their fists and stormed the citadels, they were hailed as saviours. Speeches were made, bandwagons were jumped upon – they were an example to us all. And now?

  Where are the protests? Whither the rioters? It wasn’t so long ago they were showing solidarity all across Europe. Maybe they’re all exhausted too.

  Or is it cowardice? Apathy? Either way it doesn’t reflect well on anyone concerned. And you know what: I’m not even talking about North Africa any more. I’m not even talking about the Globe. I’m talking about my confusion over tonight’s date with Train Girl. I’m talking about my life. When I get worked up about North Africa, when I act like a dick over work, I’m really getting worked up about my life.

  Hey, we’ve got a few minutes left. Do you want some more from Beth’s Gmail account? Here’s a choice one, from ages ago, from Christmas, from when I first told her about Train Girl.

  The thing is, I know he wouldn’t do anything and that’s what makes it worse. And it’s like I’m punishing him for my stupid mistake. But what can I do? I almost wish he had done something and then we’d be quits, and then I could feel better about being so horrible to him.

  I’ve been horrible twice, Kaz, once for doing what I did and now again for acting like I am over this girl on his train, and I know you keep saying that I need to tell him, but how can I now? Now that I know he wouldn’t do to me what I did to him? I’m trapped. All I want to do is say sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got myself into a massive tangle.

  And yes, you are right about Dan. I know he wouldn’t have done anything with the girl on the train. He’s not the cheating kind. He’s just not. Even if he wanted to, he’s not. I know him better than anyone, and I know that he’d never do it. But is it weird that something so good as that makes me feel terrible?

  Remember that, Martin. I’m not the cheating kind. I’m just not. And wish me luck on my date tonight.

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  ‌Letter 79

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 20. Amount of my day wasted: seven minutes. Fellow sufferers: Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum, Universal Grandpa. (Where is Lego Head? He’s not been on the train for ages.)

  Good morning, Martin. How was your weekend? Enjoy your sneaky tabloid fix this week? Was it worth the potential approbation of your neighbours? What’s that? No? No. You’re right. It was not a vintage edition. It was poor. It was pitiful. It had nothing worth the cover price in it. Even my stuff was rubbish.

  Sorry about that. Try again next week, eh? That’s the great thing about news, about newspapers – there’s always the next issue, the next edition, the next story.

  Tomorrow, for example, is the budget. Tomorrow everything will be more expensive than it is today. Tomorrow, after the price of booze and petrol has gone up yet again, after the NHS and the DSS have been slashed yet again, after the squeezed middle find themselves squeezed further still and the grindingly poor ground further down… tomorrow, amidst all the misery, it will still at least be tomorrow. And there will be something to report in next week’s paper. There will at least be case studies to find (the single parent, the middle-class-two-kids couple, the first-time homebuyer, the nurse, the policeman, the stockbroker, the war veteran) and we’ll be able to put out an edition with at least something to read in it.

  So, you know, like I say: the sun also rises, right?

  Talking of which, Train Girl’s not on the train this morning, which I’m actually rather relieved about, so I can give you the full Date Night story without fear of interruption.

  OK. Here it is. The whole story. Everything that happened. Get ready, Martin…

  Nothing happened.

  I didn’t go. I stood her up. Well, I didn’t stand her up, exactly, I sent her a text to tell her I wasn’t going. I said I didn’t feel well (true enough, but that wasn’t the reason). I cancelled and I went home and I drank a bottle of wine by myself and I went to bed until Monday.

  Why did I do that? Why did I choose to drink sad cheap plonk by myself instead of painting the town red with a beautiful, funny, sexy girl who’s so obviously (inexplicably) got the hots for me? Well, maybe because she’s so obviously (inexplicably) got the hots for me. I got cold feet. I got scared. Because I wanted to… because, when it came down to it, I wanted to. And I know that, despite it all, despite what Beth did, I know I shouldn’t want to. Or if I can’t help wanting to, I sho
uldn’t do anything about it. I shouldn’t be going out painting the town red with beautiful, funny, sexy girls who so obviously (inexplicably) have the hots for me. Because I’m still married. Because my wife is right. I’m not the cheating kind.

  Jesus, Martin, I’ve just re-read that. I’m an idiot, aren’t I? What was I thinking of? Going home alone because of my marriage, of all things? I’ve not even spoken to Beth in God knows how long. I’ve not even spoken to Sylvie.

  Do you think I should try to speak to Sylvie? You’re right. I should. If I can’t speak to Beth, I should speak to Sylvie. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll speak to my baby daughter. Maybe that will stop me crying every night.

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  From: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  To: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 20.

  Dear Dan

  Thank you for your recent correspondence. I can tell you that your train on March 13 was delayed thanks to a driver failing to turn up to work on the Tuesday morning. As it was so early, his absence wasn’t noticed for some time, and so the knock-on effect continued for some hours. On the morning of March 17, a mix-up in essential engineering schedules meant that a section of track on the Oxford–London line was wrongly improved, resulting in delays across the whole network.

  In addition, I would like to add a personal note. Although I understand the temptations of a night out with Train Girl must be manifold, I would still urge you to try to make amends with your wife before you do anything you might later regret. I am not an especially religious man (although I often pray for less trouble from the Network Rail infrastructure!) but nevertheless, I do hold that two wrongs do not often make a right.