Making Headlines

Flipping over, Rachel's eyes snapped open – sleep ripped from her like a Band-Aid from a wound. Shoving a pillow over her head, she tried to block out the noise from the TV in the next room. She was surrounded by blaring screens all day at work and another dose of news wasn't what she needed right now. Sleep was the priority with an early start the next day but Tim wasn't making the slightest effort to help.

Then the TV stopped and some indie folk music began. It grew louder. Could Tim really have forgotten she was trying to sleep? She lay there, deciding whether to confront him or search for earplugs. Yet another argument would be exhausting. Heady fumes wafted under her door. That was it. Enough was enough.

‘Jesus, Tim.' Rachel stumbled into the lounge-room. ‘You do know I'm working tomorrow? And seriously, I don't mind if you have the odd joint now and then, but on a Sunday night?'

‘Ease up, babe.' Tim smiled lazily through the haze, lying on the brown leather couch. ‘Crop's just come into harvest. Had to road test it. Thought if I turned on the music you'd come out sooner or later and have some. Then you'll sleep well. See how thoughtful I am?' His hand reached out, offering her a drag.

‘What do you mean, crop's just come into harvest'? Whose crop are we talking about? Christ, you're not dealing are you?' She waved the joint away, shaking her head.

‘The one in the backyard. Don't tell me you didn't know?' He started laughing.

‘Are you serious?' She plonked herself on the couch next to him. ‘You're growing dope in OUR house? Oh fuck. I thought they were tomatoes.'

Tim took another drag. ‘God, you're priceless. And no, I'm not dealing. It's just recreational. Good stuff. Try it.' He passed the joint under her nose.

Again she brushed it away, covering her face with her hands. God, she was naïve. Tomatoes. Really.

‘What if someone sees the crop over the fence and reports it to the cops? How would that look? I'd become the news instead of reporting it.'

‘Rach, you're getting paranoid. It's not officially your house anyway. You just stay here a lot. Just enjoy the moment.' He stroked her hair, moving it to one side and nibbling her neck. Her body tingled, despite her annoyance.

‘Easy for you to say. You don't have a job to lose.'

‘Well, I don't know about that. Got an interview tomorrow for a sales gig. In an electrical department. Not ideal, but it might be okay in the short term. It'd help me get some funds together so we could find a new place.'

Rachel couldn't see into the future at that point. There were too many clouds on their relationship horizon and this discovery just added a thunderbolt. ‘Whatever happens, you need to dig up those plants and get rid of them.'

Tim butted out the burning stub. ‘Let's talk about it tomorrow. Right now, we both need a bit of shut-eye.' He pushed her gently off the couch and she stood up, feeling woozy.

As they lay in bed, Rachel noted that Tim had been right about the joint helping her to feel sleepy. Surrounded by fumes, just passive smoking had left her nodding off. Tim was clearly ready for sleep too. One light kiss on her lips, then he rolled over. Not even a moment of intimacy

‘Night, sweetheart,' he whispered.

‘Hmm,' she murmured. Tim was smart, and he could be sweet and generous, but the negatives were adding up. The longer they lived together, the more he took her for granted. She wanted the old Tim back. The Tim who would surprise her with a huge bowl of fresh fruit salad in bed for breakfast. Or a spontaneous picnic in the Botanic Gardens. The Tim who was great company at dinner parties, entertaining guests with his sharp wit. The Tim who wanted to ravish her before they went to sleep. Unemployed, dope-growing Tim was losing his appeal by the second. But maybe she needed to make more of an effort.

She spooned up against him, her hand creeping over his belly, stroking. Moving down, she started tickling his inner thighs. He gave a muffled chuckle, taking her hand and holding it to his chest. Staring at his back, she lay there, willing away the need. There was no point trying any more. Better to succumb to haziness and drift off to sleep.

***

‘Then
whack
! He slams that cricket bat smack down on your desk, missing your hand by a whisker!' Julia slapped her hands under Rachel's chin.

Rachel jumped, vibrations ringing in her ears. ‘And this is the man you think could be our new boss?' she said, spinning her chair around to switch on her computer. As she reached for a notebook a growing unease began to fester. Her fellow reporter had an uncanny knack of being spot-on with rumours.

‘Yep,' grinned Julia, leaning back in her chair. ‘That's Helmut Becker for you. Bit of a nut job, but they say he gets results. And it is all about the ratings after all.'

Beyond their desks the usual pandemonium reigned. Early-morning rush hour — TV monitors blaring, phones ringing and people shouting, and Rachel didn't want the glue that held it together leaving. She stared towards the news director's office. ‘I wish I could change Tony's mind.' It was like the plates beneath her feet were shifting. Too much change, too soon.

‘Fat chance. The media release is already out. And stop looking like that. Anyone'd think you had a boss-crush.'

Rachel turned back to Julia. ‘Don't be ridiculous. I'm just sad he's leaving. I mean, he gave me my big break and has always been so supportive. Are you sure this Helmut character
is
taking over?'

‘That's the word on the office grapevine. It's a hundred per cent gossip guaranteed.'

‘Damn. Just when I thought I had a career plan mapped out, a bat-wielding crazy guy comes along . . .' She paused as a striking man with shoulder-length dirty-blond hair strode past their desks towards the edit suites at the back of the newsroom.

‘And don't get hooked on him either.' Julia rolled her eyes. ‘That's the new head editor, Mitch. Really rates himself, and hates working with juniors, so steer clear.'

‘You crack me up,' said Rachel, shaking her head. ‘You know I'm taken.' She turned back to her computer, inhaling deeply. The editor had left a scent in his wake and it wasn't aftershave. It was like he'd just shaken the surf from his hair after riding a wave into work. An absurd thought. Who'd go surfing in the middle of autumn? She snuck another look as he walked away, taking in his strong physique. As if feeling her eyes graze the back of his neck, he turned, giving a lopsided grin as he caught her out.

Embarrassed, she smiled back stupidly and sucked in her breath. Damn, he was good looking. She wondered what he was doing at work so early. Surely as head editor he could take his pick of the shifts and leave the early stints for the juniors? She shook her head. She had to stop this. No flirting. That's what had landed her in enough trouble already.

‘Thought there were problems on the home front,' said Julia, as if reading her mind.

‘Oh, not really—' She didn't want to tell anyone what she'd discovered in Tim's backyard last night.

‘Rachel Bentley, get your arse over here.' Rob Kingsbury's strident voice cut through the mayhem. As Chief of Staff he sat at what was known as the COS desk, the hub of the newsroom. Rob carried himself like a boxer. Sporting one of his standard check flannel shirts, he was like a lumberjack ready to swing his axe at anyone in his way.

Rachel scurried across and Rob began to read from his computer. ‘Children's Anzac Day Service at the Shrine. 10 am start. Bugle call essential. You're with News Eight.'

Her heart sank as he handed over a media release with additional details. More than six months into her job, Rachel was used to Rob's verbal shorthand, but still felt she hadn't won his approval. She'd been hoping to graduate to meatier stories by now but was still being assigned anything involving kids and animals. ‘Aye, aye, sir,' she said brightly, with an enthusiastic salute.

He glared. ‘Fine. Get moving then because you don't want to miss the bugle call.'

At least she'd be working with her favourite camera crew. News Eight meant Gary Bouts, a patient cameraman with a talent for turning the most mundane story into a visual masterpiece. Not that an Anzac Service was mundane, but this one still involved children. She heard a beep from the news car, grabbed her notebook and ran for the door.

When the news car pulled up at the Shrine of Remembrance on the hill just across from the city of Melbourne, it was still edged in gold from the morning sun. Robust cameramen hauled equipment up the steep stone stairs as ex-servicemen moved slowly behind them. Noisy hordes of schoolchildren ran around and harried teachers tried to herd them into place.

Rachel saw a familiar face among the crowd. Derek Jacobsen, a former colleague from the
Melbourne Times
. She waved, catching his eye and pushed through to reach him.

‘Hey, Derek, you trying to scoop me again?' she called out.

He gave his famous one-raised-eyebrow and peer-down-the-nose number usually reserved for interviews with philandering politicians. ‘We hardly consider show ponies competition, Bentley.'

She stopped her fist from landing a playful punch on his shoulder. ‘Sorry? What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Come on, sweetheart. TV jocks don't get to the real story. They just follow our
leads from the papers, give a quick outline and worry more about shaping their hair than the words.'

‘That's not true,' she protested, at the same time clocking she was dressed in a new suit and red Italian shoes. ‘If you think—'

‘You're one of them now, Bentley,' he interrupted, eyes raking her up and down. ‘A regular TV news chick. You sold out.' He marched towards the Shrine steps.

Rachel stared, mouth open as he walked off, struggling for a witty comeback. She'd thought moving into the world of television was a step up, only to discover her old work buddy thought she'd fallen into a pit of superficiality.

She toyed with the idea of taking out her compact mirror and re-doing her lipstick just for his benefit. It wasn't worth the effort. Better she focus on tackling her story and proving him wrong.

She looked around for News Eight. Gary and his assistant, Justin, had been filming exterior shots downstairs and were now setting up for the service.

How could she make her story special? Not just a chronological summary of events. She looked at the fresh-faced school children swarming around her. Then it came to her. They were the answer. Their perspective. Surrounding Rachel, they were buzzing with the excitement of an excursion. She needed to tap into that energy. Gary and Justin looked doubtful when she explained her plan.

Camera rolling. ‘Are you enjoying the day?' she asked a cherubic eight-year-old with short blonde pigtails.

‘Yes.' She blinked up at Rachel and smiled.

Agonised groans from Gary and Justin who quickly advised Rachel to never, ever ask children questions that can be answered with a simple 'yes' or 'no'.

‘What does today mean to you?' She tried again.

More blank looks. It was like pulling teeth from a patient with lockjaw. Why did children on TV seem so articulate but couldn't string a sentence together for her?

Every child she'd seen interviewed on CNN seemed to possess the confidence of a budding President. After five more unsuccessful attempts, she gave up. The service was about to begin. How could she salvage the story? Gary shook his head as they walked to the media seats.

The call of a lone bugler cut through the air, heralding a minute's silence to remember the war dead. Rachel shivered and watched as the students stilled. It was as if spirits of the past were making their presence felt. She gazed at the time-ravaged faces
of the war veterans, seeing painful memories replay through their eyes. The bugle continued and Rachel turned her head away, blinking. Stories of the Anzacs' bravery and sacrifice came flooding back. The weight of it left her humbled.

It was the bugle that did it. It got her every time. She was forced to use a tissue to dab at welling tears. Justin eyed her with contempt, Gary with sympathy. It didn't matter what they thought. At least now she knew how she needed to talk to the children. Get to the emotional core of the story. It already had heart. She just had to show it.

When the service finished, she took control. Introducing a small group of children to some ex-servicemen, she then asked Gary to record their exchanges.

He sighed and raised his eyebrows.

She stood firm. ‘No, this time it will work. I'm not going to say anything. Let's just let them chat without interrupting.'

He shook his head but she saw him smile as he went to move the camera. Thank God she'd been assigned News Eight. Any other crew would have lost patience with her by now.

Rachel gave the children and veterans a few ideas for their conversation then left them alone. And it happened.

‘Why do you have that?' asked a six-year-old boy, pointing to a cane held by a veteran, sitting on a bench.

‘Got shot in the thigh. Been a problem walking ever since,' he said, patting his left leg.

‘Ow. Must have hurt bad,' said the boy, moving closer, as if trying to see the wound.

‘Ah, I was one of the lucky ones,' said the veteran. ‘Some of my mates never came home. The hurt here was worse.' He placed his hand on his chest.

‘Is it better now?' asked the boy. He took the man's hand and clutched it tightly.

‘Not really. But you will grow up big and strong. Knowing that, helps.' The old man smiled gently.

And so, without trying to force something, a connection between the generations grew.

Walking back to the news car, Rachel hummed. Now she could build a story that would inspire and impress. She could already see herself receiving accolades from the producers for such a masterpiece. The drive back to the station took about half an hour, so she had plenty of time to make notes and plan visuals.