Shall I bring you a cup of coffee in bed? he asked pleasantly.
No, Ill come down and be with you, she said, hastily getting out of bed and reaching for her dressing gown.
I cant stay long, he said. Im seeing Ian South this morning, about the job.
Oh.
And Ill ring the estate agent, shall I? See what sort of value theyd put on this place? So we know where we are?
Patrick, I really dont want to move
He shooed her out of the room and down the hallway to the kitchen ahead of him. Come on, darling, I cant be late this morning.
Ruth spooned coffee and switched on the filter machine.
Instant will do, Patrick said. I really have to rush.
Patrick, we must talk about this. I dont want to sell the flat. I dont want to move house. I want to stay here.
I want to stay here too, he said at once, as if it were Ruths plan that they move. But if something better comes up we would be stupid not to consider it. Im not instructing an estate agent to sell, darling. Just getting an idea of the value.
Surely we dont want to live down the lane from your parents, Ruth said. She poured boiling water and added milk and passed Patrick his coffee. Toast?
He shook his head. No time. He stopped abruptly as a thought suddenly struck him. You dont imagine that they would interfere, do you?
Of course not! Ruth said quickly. But we would be very much on their doorstep.
All the better for us, Patrick said cheerfully. Built-in baby-sitters.
There was a short silence while Ruth absorbed this leap. We hadnt even thought about a family, she said. Weve never talked about it.
Patrick had put down his coffee cup and turned to go, but he swung back as a thought suddenly struck him. I say, Ruth, youre not against it, are you? I mean, you do want to have children one day, dont you?
Of course, she said hastily. But not
Well, thats all right then. Patrick gave his most dazzling smile. Phew! I suddenly had the most horrid thought that you were going to say that you didnt want children like some ghastly hard-bitten career journalist. Like an awful American career woman with huge shoulder pads! He laughed at the thought. Im really looking forward to it. Youd be so gorgeous with a baby.
Ruth had a brief seductive vision of herself in a brod-erie anglaise nightgown with a fair-headed, round-faced, smiling baby nestled against her. Yes, but not for a while. She trailed behind him as he went out to the hall. Patrick shrugged himself into his cream-coloured raincoat.
Not till weve got the cottage fixed up as we want it and everything, of course, he said. Look, darling, I have to run. Well talk about it tonight. Dont worry about dinner, Ill take you out. Well go to the trattoria and eat spaghetti and make plans!
Im working till six, Ruth said.
Ill book a table for eight, Patrick said, dropped a hasty kiss askew her mouth, and went out, banging the door behind him.
Ruth stood on her own in the hall and then shivered a little at the cold draught from the door. It was raining again; it seemed as if it had been raining for weeks.
The letter flap clicked and a handful of letters dropped to the doormat. Four manila envelopes, all bills. Ruth saw that the gas bill showed red print and realized that once again she was late in paying. She would have to write a cheque this morning and post it on her way to work or Patrick would be upset. She picked up the letters and put them on the kitchen counter, and went upstairs for her bath.
The newsroom was unusually subdued when Ruth came in, shook her wet coat, and hung it up on the coatstand. The duty producer glanced up. I was just typing the handover note, he said. Youll be short-staffed today, but theres nothing much on. A fire, but its all over now, and theres a line on the missing girl.
Is David skiving? she asked. Where is he?
The duty producer tipped his head towards the closed door of the news editors office. Getting his cards, he said in an undertone. Bloody disgrace.
Whats the matter?
Cutbacks is what, he said, typing rapidly with two fingers. Not making enough money, not selling enough soap powder, whos the first to go? Editorial staff! After all, any fool can do it, cant they? And all anyone wants is the music anyway. Next thing we know itll be twenty-four-hour music with not even a DJ music and adverts, thats all they want.
Terry, stop it! Ruth said. Tell me whats going on!
He pulled the paper irritably out of the typewriter and thrust it into her hands. Theres your handover note. Im off shift. Im going out to buy a newspaper and look for a job. The writings on the wall for us. Theyre cutting back the newsroom staff: they want to lose three posts. Davids in there now getting the treatment. There are two other posts to go and no one knows whos for the chop. Its all right for you, Ruth, with your glamour-boy husband bringing in a fortune. If I lose my job I dont know what well do.
I dont exactly work for pocket money, you know, Ruth said crossly. Its not a hobby for me.
OK, he said. Sorry. Were all in the same boat. But Im sick of this place, I can tell you. Im off shift now and Im not coming back till Wednesday if Ive still got a job then. He strode over to the coat rack and took his jacket down. And its still bloody raining, he said angrily, and stormed out of the newsroom, banging the door behind him.
Ruth looked over to the copy taker and raised her eyebrows. The girl nodded. Hes been like that all morning, she said resignedly.
Oh. Ruth took the handover note to the desk and started reading through it. The door behind her opened and David came out, the news editor, James Peart, with him. Think it over, James was saying. I promise you well use you as much as we possibly can. And there are other outlets, remember. He noticed Ruth at her desk. Ruth, when youve got the eleven-oclock bulletin out of the way could you come and see me?
Me? Ruth asked.
He nodded. Yes, he said and went back into his office and closed the door.
There was a brief, shocked silence. Ruth turned to her oldest friend. What did he say to you? she asked David.
Blah blah, excellent work, blah blah, frontiers of journalism, blah blah, first-class references, blah blah, a months pay in lieu of notice and if nothing else turns up why dont you freelance for us?
Freelance?
The new slimline Radio Westerly, David said bitterly. As few people as possible on the staff, and the journalists all freelance, paying their own tax and their own insurance and their own phone bills. Simple but brilliant. He paused as a thought struck him. Did he say you were to see him?
After the eleven-oclock, Ruth said glumly. Dyou think that means that Im out too?
David shrugged. Well, I doubt it means youve won the Sony Award for investigative journalism. Dyou want to meet me for a drink after work? Drown our sorrows?
Yes, Ruth said gratefully. But perhaps I wont have sorrows to drown.
Yes, Ruth said gratefully. But perhaps I wont have sorrows to drown.
Then you can drown mine, David said generously. Id hate to be selfish with them.
Ruth rewrote the bulletin, one eye on the clock. At the desk behind her David made telephone calls to the police, the fire station, and the ambulance, checking for fresh news. He sounded genuinely interested; he always did. She remembered him from journalism college: when everyone else would groan at a news-gathering exercise, David would dive into little shops, greet shop assistants with enthusiasm, and plunge into the minutiae of local gossip.
Anything new? she threw over her shoulder.
Theyre mopping up after the fire, he said. Theres an update on the conditions from the hospital. Nothing too exciting.
She took the slip of copy paper he handed to her, and went into the soundproofed peace of the little news studio. The door closed with a soft hiss behind her, Ruth pulled out the chair and sat before the desk to read through the bulletin in a murmured whisper, marking on her copy the words she wanted to emphasize, and practising the pronunciation of difficult words. There had been an earthquake in the Ural Mountains. Ural Mountains, Ruth whispered. Ural.
At two minutes to eleven the disc jockeys voice cut into her rehearsal. News coming up! Are you there and conscious, Ruth?
Ready to go, Ruth said.
Thank the Lord for a happy voice from the newsroom. Whats up with you guys today?
Nothing, Ruth said frostily, instantly loyal to her colleagues.
We hear of massive cutbacks, and journalists out on the streets, the DJ said cheerfully.
Do you?
So whos got the push?
Im busy now, she said tightly. Ill pop down and spread gloom and anxiety in a minute. Right now Im trying to read a news bulletin.
He switched off his talkback button. Ruth had a reputation at the radio station for a quick mind and a frank turn of phrase. Her headphones were filled with the sound of the record the Carpenters. Weve only just begun Ruth felt her temper subside and she smiled. She liked romantic music.
Then the disc jockey said with his carefully learned mid-Atlantic accent: Eleven oclock, time for Radio Westerly news with Ruth Cleary!
He announced her name as if there should have been a drumroll underneath it. Ruth grinned and then straightened her face and assumed her solemn news-reading voice. She read first the national news, managing the Ural Mountains without a hitch, and then the local news. At the end of the bulletin she read the local weather report and handed back to the DJ. She gathered the papers of the bulletin and sat for one short moment in the quiet. If David had been sacked then it was unlikely that they would be keeping her on. They had joined at the same time from the same college course, but David was probably the better journalist. Ruth straightened her back, opened the swing door, and emerged into the noise of the newsroom. She passed the script of the bulletin to the copy girl for filing and tapped on the news editors door.
James Peart looked so guilty she knew at once that he would make her redundant. He did.
This is a horrible job, James said miserably. David and you, and one other. Its a foul thing to have to do. But I have suggested to David that he look at freelancing and I was going to suggest to you that you look at putting together some light documentary programmes. We might have a slot for some local pieces: family interest, animals, children, local history, that sort of thing in the afternoon show. Nothing too ambitious, bread-and-butter stuff. But its the sort of thing you do rather well, Ruth. If you cant find full-time work, you could do that for us. Wed lend you the recording equipment, and you could come in and use the studio. And youd get paid a fee and expenses, of course. He broke off. I know its not much but it would keep your hand in while youre looking round.
Bread-and-butter? Ruth asked. Sounds more like slop.
James grimaced. Dont shoot the messenger, Ruth, he said.
Who shall I shoot then? she said. Whos responsible for putting me, and David, and someone else out of a job?
He shrugged. Market forces? he offered.
This is rubbish, she said firmly. Why didnt you tell them that you couldnt run the newsroom understaffed?
Because my jobs on the line too, he said frankly. I did tell them that we should keep the staff, but if I make too many waves then Im out as well. I cant lose my job for a principle, Ruth.
So I lose mine for the lack of one?
He said nothing.
We should have had a union, she said stubbornly.
Yes, he said. Or better contracts, or better management, or more profits. But those days are gone, Ruth. Im sorry.
She was silent.
Look, theres nothing I can do but offer you freelance work, he said. Ill do my best to take everything you do. Youre a good journalist, Ruth, youll make it. If not here, then London. And Ill give you good references. The best.
Ruth nodded. Thanks, she said shortly.
Maybe Patrick knows of something in television, James suggested. He might be able to slot you in somewhere. Thats where the money is, not radio.
He might, Ruth said.
James got up and held out his hand. Youll work till the end of the week, and then take a months salary, he said. I do wish you luck, Ruth. I really wish this hadnt happened. If things look up at all then youll be the first person Id want to see back on the staff.
Ruth nodded. Thank you, she said.
If theres anything at all I can do to help he said showing her towards the door.
Ruth thought of her inability to pay the bills on time and run the flat as it should be run, of Patricks legitimate desire for a meal when he came home after working all day, of Patricks pay rise and the ascendancy of his career. Maybe a period of freelance work would be good for them both.
Ill be fine, she said. Dont worry. It looks like its all falling into place.
She rang to leave a message for Patrick that she would meet him at the restaurant, and she ran through the rain to the pub. Although it was barely opening time, David was sitting up at the bar and was smiling and lightly drunk.
Flying start, he said genially. I took the sensible course of a vodka tea.
Gin and tonic, Ruth said, hitching herself up onto the barstool. Double.
You got the push too?
I did.
What did he suggest? Freelancing for Panorama? Career opportunities on News at Ten? Or you could go back to the States and run CNN?
Its odd, Ruth said with mock thoughtfulness. He didnt mention any of them. Probably thought they were beneath me.
David made a face. Poor bastards doing his best, he said. He promised me if I went freelance theyd use my pieces, and I could come into studio to edit for free.
Ruth nodded. He offered me the same. Suggested I do local bread-and-butter stuff for the afternoon programme.
Its a great business, the media! David said with sudden assumed cheeriness. Youre never out of work. Youre either resting or freelancing. But youre never unemployed.