"Childhood leaves no survivors"
Michael Dransfield
It was definitely all in the desk.
Of course, its commanding position in the room helped, as did the friendly reminders of its owner's stature. And the enormous chair also helped underline the message. But above all, it was the desk: the huge piece of wood that separated you from everyone else. It was amazing how much it could transform a person. After five years running the Gazette, she could attest to that.
"Boss? You want me to stay?"
"No, I'll finish up" she said calmly.
And the first speaker was gone, out the double doors, and the room was again silent and still.
She stared out from her mighty desk at the world around her. The newsroom - her newsroom. Her universe. In the dim glow created by the few remaining fluorescent lights, there was a haunting majesty to it. The half-shadowed keyboards, now silent, were reminiscent of some long unused armoury. Despite their stillness, their forms still echoed the angry business they had once conducted. Only a few hours ago, they had been pulsating with activity and noise, as they had built the paper - her paper. But now no more.
Finish up. She'd said it herself, and now it hung in her mind like an epitaph. Time to finish up.
Of course, the keyboards wouldn't stay silent, and the room wouldn't stay empty. And the paper would go on. But with a big difference. It would still be the Junior Gazette, but it wouldn't be her Junior Gazette. It would be someone else's, a new incarnation, with a new spirit driving it, and only the outer shell remaining the same.
Her logical mind told her it had to happen. You can't keep editing a Junior Gazette when you clearly aren't a junior any more. That made sense; Kerr was perfectly correct. But it still hurt. It still felt like betrayal, like she was losing her best friend, her direction, her whole purpose in life. Her emotional side was screaming that it wasn't fair, that she wasn't ready, that she deserved more.
Her shoulders slumped. This time, screaming and yelling wasn't going to change anything. This was just the way of the world. People got older, grew up, and moved on. And so things changed, they had to change, no matter how much you didn't want them to. That's what adolescence was all about, she mused. Not so much the change, but the slow, painful education of your brain to accept the irrevocability of change. As a child, everything is constant, as an adult, nothing, and in between is the difficult adjustment from one to the other.
Adult. She ran her brain back over the word like running her tongue over an ulcer. Yes, it was still strange, still painful, still frightening to hear. It didn't matter how old she was, she still wasn't ready for that label. It seemed so wrong, such a falsehood to dress her in such borrowed robes. She was the same person she had been in high school, but now, now she had a new title. And with it came all the responsibilities of the world. And that seemed almost impossible to bear.
She smiled to herself as she realised that a few years ago she had been demanding to be treated as an adult. To be not considered different, less important, less able to judge, to think, to decide, to do anything, just because of her birth date. It had seemed so incredibly unfair back then, on the other side. But now, as all the freedoms lay at her feet, she wanted nothing more but to crawl back to her youth. The difference had vanished, and left her the same as everyone else, and open to the same harsh world everyone else lived in. Gloriously free to make her own choices, but forever damned by the assuredness that she was now completely responsible for the choices she made.
She stood up and looked out the window, imagining the future stretching out ahead of her. No more free rides for her. She'd have to get a real job, earn real money, support herself, carve out a life for herself, become completely independent. Get a flat, get a car, get a mechanic. Get a cheque account. And eventually, get a house, a mortgage, a husband, a family, a superannuation…she stopped, chiding herself for going too far. She wasn't going to suddenly turn into her parents just because she was moving out of home. She smiled and realised she was over-reacting again.
She pulled herself up from the windowsill and shook her head. She still had time. Here, now, a door had closed completely, absolutely, and forever, eternally shutting off a part of her childhood. But there were other doors still open, and new ones would come. Nothing was going to happen overnight. Besides which, if she was going out, she wasn't going out kicking and screaming. She was going out like a soldier: upright, brave, determined, calm, accepting of her fate. Perhaps, and here she smiled inwardly again, learning to go like this was the real test of being an adult: the day you stop kicking and screaming is the day you really cross the threshold.
She moved such philosophy from her mind. Tonight was not a time for questioning the future, she reminded herself. Tonight belonged to the past.
The past. Was it already the past? Had all those years at the Junior Gazette suddenly jumped from reality to memory in these last few hours? All she had to do was walk out those doors, and it would become the past. But for now, in the silence of the empty newsroom, she could hold the past for as long as she wanted. No longer the present, for she had officially retired that afternoon…but not yet the past either. Not till she went through those doors. A perfect moment preserved between time, a last chance to say goodbye. And so she lingered, on into the night, sitting at her desk, holding time at a standstill, keeping the past alive for just a few more hours.
* * * * *
She thought about a lot of things that night. Sometimes she bent over the desk, working, writing, though in truth there was nothing left for her to do. Sometimes she just sat and stared out across the empty newsroom. A few times she got up and wandered over to certain areas, visiting them, seeing them, touching them that one last time. Goodbye darkroom, she thought to herself. Goodbye Graphics. Goodbye Colin's office. Goodbye stupid fourth window that never opened. Goodbye worn out duplicating machine. Goodbye desks, she thought, lovingly running her finger along their polished surfaces.
Again, she heard the roar of battles past as she surveyed her armoury. How much action had she seen here, had they all seen here? How many hard fought victories, stories cracked, mysteries solved, crimes exposed, villains thwarted? And between those moments, how many every day struggles had they endured? Hundreds of issues, hundreds of runs, hundreds of printing deadlines, hundreds of times when that desperate, frantic push before final paste-up had meant the difference between survive or fall.
And in all that, how many articles, deadlines, edits, rewrites, furious arguments over said rewrites, how many news team meetings, pizza meetings, late duties, how many litres of Tippex, how many gallons of ink, how many buckets of sweat, tears and even blood had they all poured into this place, into the paper?
And now no more.
She sighed again, and her shoulders fell. She reminded herself again that the paper would go on. But that just made it worse, more unfair. If it were dead, she could mourn. But it was just gone, no longer hers. Forever now unfamiliar, strange and apart. No longer a part of her, no longer a home.
She almost sniffed at that, caught herself, and then let it come anyway. Hell, she thought, if anyone deserves a sniffle, it's me. I've been here longer than anybody. Since page one.
Page one. She smiled at that, and turned ninety degrees to face "the shrine". This was an alcove to the right of her desk where the great moments of the paper were displayed. All those that had been saved from the fire, that is. There it was - "Casing the Joint". Or, she smiled again, the "disco info" page. Spike's phrasing had forever stuck. Spike. Now there was someone who had left an unfillable gap when he had left the newsroom. Not to mention when he left her life. Of all of them, she wished she could see Spike again the most. But he was probably a million miles away now.
The next page was Kenny's glue sniffing story that had been so exciting. Next, Sarah's child abuse special that had done so much good. It was amazing how far Cindy had come since those days she mused. She had so effortlessly replaced Colin, handling the finances of the paper expertly all these years. And now she too was moving on. She sobbed inwardly when she realised how much she owed Cindy, how much she owed them all.
Seeing them all up here, she felt they were with her again. Spike, Kenny, Sarah, Julie, Colin, Frazz…everyone. The headlines brought it all flooding back. The huge party - and subsequent all-nighter - when they saved Wellside. The downfall of the local councillor, Gordon Coles. The exposure of Mr Winters. The bombing in Cresswell road that almost killed Spike. The siege where Colin almost died. And the fire that had changed so much…
All of it captured, framed and displayed on the wall in front of her. Looking at it, she could only gape as she thought to herself: my God, my whole life is up there. Every moment she treasured, her greatest achievements, all her expression, all her existence, it was all there, and nothing more. She kept staring from one cherished moment to another, flicking back and forth from success to failure, from triumph to disaster, until it all became a blur, and then finally the tears came. She leant back against her desk and let them come, pouring out all her sorrow and all her anger. She stood there, half bent, for a long time, her chin on her chest, shuddering slowly, tears staining her white shirt. In the silent empty room, the echo of her occasional sharp breaths was the only sound.
When the tears subsided, she looked up again at the mighty wall, and smiled bravely through her moist cheeks. It was strange that she felt closer to the old team more than any of her current friends. But then, they had been together during the golden years, and it was her friendship with them that had most influenced her life, that had changed her so much. She owed them all so much of who she was. And one in particular.
And only then did she lift her eyes above the framed pages to the massive photo that glowered down on the whole newsroom, the ultimate reminder. The plaque underneath simply read "Lynda Day: 1988 - 1992".
How many times had she stared at that picture since she had become editor? In some ways, she felt closer to the picture than to the person. She had been able to tell the picture all the things she could never tell Lynda. About how much she had inspired her, how she had tested her, taught her, trained her to be like her. To be tough, to fight, to never give up. To be the best damn editor she could be. She was also able to tell the picture exactly how much of a bitch she really was, and just how she had loathed her all the times when she had shot her ideas down or discarded her articles. As time went on, though, she seemed to remember those things less. What she remembered was the lessons she had learnt by example. She remembered how Lynda had shaped her life, made her who she was. And for all Lynda crimes, this gift was enough to absolve her in Tiddler's memory.
Tomorrow, she thought, they'll put my picture up there. Toni Tildsley, 1993 - 1997. She found herself wondering if the next person in the chair would talk to her picture late at night, asking advice on editing, or layout, or who to fire tomorrow. She wondered how she should pose. Lynda had managed to look proud yet humble, removed and careworn like a victorious veteran handing over the fight to the next generation - and yet, somehow, she also communicated a tense watchfulness, as if to say that if said generation stuffed it up, she would be back to get them for it.
Proud, but not haughty, she decided for her expression. Composed. Austere even. And maybe a ping hanging off each ear. With that she giggled, and the last vestiges of the tears were gone. Good, the picture said to that. Time to walk out of here like the editor you are. Bold as brass and strong as steel. Never let them see a moment's weakness. No more time for tears; just time to go. Tiddler stood up straight and stared one last time into Lynda's eyes. She felt like saluting, but there was no need. They were the same now, equal, and nothing needed to be said. They just shared one last look, woman to woman. Then she turned, grabbed her bag and walked straight out, banging the double doors behind her.
She didn't look back.