Harry's Protégé

Sunlight streaming through the windows awoke Sierra, who stretched, feeling fine but with slow memory recall. She wondered how she managed to get home after falling asleep at the pub.

It was amazing.

On to way to the toilet she saw a small stack of groceries - more than enough to survive the day. She went out to catch fish for breakfast.

After lunch Sierra walked to the village and enquired at the store.

Mrs Chalmers pointed across to the pub and said late yesterday Mrs Petrie from over there purchased those items Sierra had mentioned.

Sierra entered the pub and some old guys waved and moved aside for her to sit down.

"Do I know you guys?"

"Yeah, you entertained us brilliantly yesterday," said the bearded one.

She felt pleased.

"Yeah we want to hear more about your whoring days," said the toothless one.

Sierra was aghast. What the fuck had she told them?

Excusing herself she went to the bar.

"Are you Mrs Petrie?"

"Yes dear. You look well but I'd advise you to stay off the booze today. Come out to the back. It's time I had a coffee break. You look in need of coffee - I'll run you back to the cabin when you're ready."

"But how did you know I was there?"

"I could say women's intuition, but then again you do look vaguely like you father who's a regular here when he comes to north head," Mrs Petrie replied diplomatically, thus satisfying Sierra's curiosity.

Sierra crossed back to the store and stocked up for with an instant dinner, salt and a few other necessities and things to make a tasty 'farewell the beach' luncheon tomorrow.

Mrs Petrie drove slowly and they chatted like old friends, almost like mother and daughter.

Just as Mrs Petrie was about to drive off, Sierra invited her to stay for lunch. "It's just a hearty salad I'm afraid.

Mrs Petrie accepted and that pleased Sierra.

The visitor helped with the salad and set the table out on the deck, facing the great expanse of sand as the tide was now well out.

"You've been here before, haven't you?" Sierra said.

She'd observed that Mrs Petrie had known whatever she wanted was in a certain drawer or cupboard, not that there were many places for storage.

It could have been intelligent guesswork of a dab kitchen-hand but it was the blue and white milk jug that did it. Mrs Petrie went unerringly to the bottom cupboard, second one in from the stove, and produced it. Her father loved it; her mother hated it and insisted to be kept from her sight.

The flush told Sierra what she had figured out.

"It's all right, Mrs Petrie. I know daddy is a naughty boy - your secret is safe with me and I am almost happy about it."

"Call me Mary," invited the blushing woman with a powerful build and sizeable breasts. "You father is a wonderful man."

"Yes and everyone knows it but mommy, though I must say just lately their relationship has improved."

"Do you have any liquor Sierra? You have rather knocked the wind out of me."

"Wine or beer - your choice."

"Wine please and would like you to drink with me. I'm so embarrassed."

Sierra hugged her, performed some clucking, and they were away laughing.

Mary didn't have a cell phone but invited Sierra to use the phone in the pick-up.

After two false starts, attempting to remember Harry's number, Sierra finally connected to him.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Somewhere."

"Well I'm telling you I've been over-run with calls of news media wanting you for follow-up and calls from nine or ten magazines wanting to do a profile and picture spreads on you, a national TV station wants you urgently to appear on their 'Meet the Press' Sunday night prime time feature and someone called Linda, who sounds like a sweet schoolgirl, wants you for a 30-minute live special tomorrow night. I've listed every call. You best come here quickly and deal with them."

"What day is it?" she asked.

"For goodness sake Sierra it's..."

Harry stopped, by then assuming the poor darling was spaced out, recovering but still having no idea what day it was.

"It's a beautiful Saturday and I'm in the office filling in for Frank who is attending his sister's wedding, her second I think."

"Oh Marcia, of course."

"Who's Marcia?"

"His elder sister Harry; don't you know anything?"

There was a silence but Sierra let her rebuke ride apart from offering a quick "Sorry".

She added, "Be a darling and toss the list of callers away. No, wait - call Linda and tell her I'll meet her in the studio at 6:00 tomorrow evening for a briefing and then to go to make-up. You'll do that for me darling won't you?"

Mr Charming Editor-in-Chief cleared the growl from his throat.

"Yes, but I'm a little unhappy about this darling tag. Females like you don't usually call an unspectacular guy like me darling. Why are you calling?"

"I'm on a borrowed phone. This is your invitation to that special place to come and take me."

Noting the pause; Sierra knew he was teetering.

It was up to her - her brain was shouting, say the right thing, smack kisses to him, say you're sorry, and say sweet things to dig under that stupid conservative façade of his.

Her instinct told her to slap him.

"Get off your high horse Mr Prickly Proper. I'm inviting you to come here. In fact you can come as many times as you wish, once you have finished administering those cute sloppy kisses of yours. My pussy is freshly shaved."

"Sierra," Harry said stiffly. "We're on the phone."

"Harry listen very carefully. This is how I am and I'll never change greatly as this is me and I want to be me. Mommy made the mistake of trying to change and control daddy and look at the loneliness she landed herself in. Make your decision carefully but this is your final call - I'm giving you sixty seconds. For God sake make the decision you can live with Harry. The countdown has commenced."

Sierra thought Harry brain would be telling him he hadn't a clue what she was talking about. Fortunately the other half must have had the edge and there was a brief pause while he cleared his throat: "Where do I come...er...find you?"

Sierra told him she was at the cabin and said when he should arrive.

"You want me there at 4:45 in the morning - that's just before dawn?"

"It's a condition of the invitation darling; you may be earlier but not later. If you're not here by 4:45 I'll be gone."

"Where?"

"Don't concern yourself; just be here on time."

"I'll be there. What do you want me to bring?"

"Just your manly self, darling and wearing a huge genuine smile. Remember it's the beach and dress accordingly."

Returning to the cabin, Sierra found Mary looking upset. "You were calling your father about me I suppose?"

"Oh Mary, drink your wine and don't be a wet. I said your secret is safe with me, and I don't renege on secrets, not even to my father."

Mary stopped wringing her work-hardened hands and looked as if she'd been anointed.

"You appear to be a lovely person Sierra. I bet there's a lot of your mother in you."

"Indeed - the good parts fortunately. Come on, let's finish this bottle and you can then drop me off at the Fleming's gate. You'll be wanted back at work for the Saturday lunch-time trade, which is why I served lunch early. Regarding that phone call, I was calling the man who I hope will become my lover, inviting him to visit me."

"Well dear, if you can't tag him here you never will."

"My thought exactly."

Mary dropped her off and Sierra walked up the short drive to the farmhouse.

Barking dogs drew Mrs Fleming from the house.

"It's a woman Charlie; she'll want to hire a horse to ride the beach."

As the visitor got nearer Mrs Fleming shrieked, "God, it's Sierra - the fabulous Sierra Bycroft."

The whole family left the lunch table to line up with Mrs Fleming.

"You're famous, Sierra. We've read your stuff in the newspaper and we watched TV4 for hours with clips of you popping up all the time and then that breakfast show yesterday - you looked dead on your feet and yet you performed so regally. Grandpa called it statesman-like although he knows you are a woman."

"Thank you Mrs Fleming..."

"Irma, please."

"I wanted to hire Black Beauty to go down the beach. I want to feel free."

"Charlie will saddle up as soon as you've come in and had some food to fatten you up, you're all skin and bone, ah, expect for one place."

"I've had a good breakfast thank you Irma. But I'll join you at the table and have a glass of water."

"Our water out here is crap, and the store is out of bottled water. We're drinking beer or Coke or Charlie could pour you a glass of wine - he's opened a bottle but it's not sweet enough for me."

"Dry wine will be fine, thank you."

"Okay guys, not a word about the mining disaster investigation, Sierra is at the coast to escape all that. Understand?"

"Yes," they chorused.

A fifteen second respite followed.

"What's it like been on TV Sierra?" asked one of the daughters, aged about ten, fingering the hair of her doll.

"Mary-Jane - you are to call her Miss Bycroft please."

"Sierra is fine by me," smiled Sierra, and then answered and a grilling went for fifteen minutes before Charlie saw Sierra was uncomfortable and said, "Come, let's saddle you a horse."

"Not a horse Charlie. Black Beauty."

"She hasn't been ridden for months."

"That's okay, Charlie she may remember me. Besides, a good work out will do me well and get me ready for tomorrow."

Charlie limped into the tack room to fetch Black Beauty's bridle. "What's on tomorrow?"

Sierra looked skywards. "I thought I'd do a spot of fishing."

"Pull my other one. You can be one-eyed, one-legged with a heart condition and running a fever and still go fishing."

Sierra took charge to divert Charlie.

"Catch the horse Charlie and I'll lug out the saddle and blanket."

Black Beauty gave Sierra quite a time before accepting who was boss. Irma came out with a pack of sandwiches and flask of coffee and Charlie put them in the saddle bag.

"Ride for hours if you wish Sierra," Charlie said. "You've had a tough few days and we both know riding unaccompanied can bring such grand inner peace. If night falls catches you don't worry. Blackie knows where chaff awaits her."

Fifteen minutes later, plodding along the great expanse of beach, surf crashing way out, Sierra was sure in her mind she was in heaven.

* * *

Harry felt the jut of his jaw and fingers clench when he realized Sierra had once again shafted him although an inner voice was warning, "Did she have any alternative?"

Yes, recoiled Harry angrily; at the very least she could have confided she was on a secret project and all would be revealed soon. Would he have accepted that provocative revelation without pressing for more information? Perhaps not, but did it matter? When you're shafted, you're shafted.

He'd found in difficult at the conference when the plenary session was suspended just after it started - an unheard of occurrence at these overly precious law conferences organized by straight-back thin-young-things professionally trained to the gills in staging and running events to the nth degree.

But delegates were running from the room to take calls outside the auditorium or remaining inside reading text messages urging them to watch TV4. As the trickle of absconders began to turn into a flow the chief organizer stopped proceedings and instructed that the big screen display the TV4 broadcast.

Harry wrestled with the twin passions hurling through him - anger and admiration. Sierra was performing brilliantly - he didn't have to hear the comments around him confirming that. People who knew him or identified by his name tag were either slapping his back or giving verbal accolades.

Someone shouted to him, "That Sierra of yours is worth her weight in gold."

Envy wracked him and he felt ashamed of harboring such a reaction, but he was what he was. Could he live with it?

He took another blow with Sierra telling him firmly she didn't want him there - although to be fair she indicated he could rush back if he must, but murmured astutely that would be a huge declaration of non-confidence in his protégé if he did that.

Protégé - at last she accepted she was under his wing. He bit into his tongue, rolling his eyes as if pleading for higher intervention, and he accepted the term was apt. He had the duty of handling a wildcat protégé, to tame her.

Hadn't he worried through those same thoughts before?

Before he could answer he became aware of the comments around him - suitable for delegates to a conference discussing media advertising law: 'That's a defamatory comment', "That's sailing close to the wind" and "No you guys, she's cut and thrusting with immunity due to her cleverness."

The plenary session resumed, with lecturers requesting the chief organizer switch on the big screen as soon as any major new development began screening.

Later poor Harry took it on the chin.

"Harry's going to jail, Harry's going to jail," chorused delegates in the bar to hapless Harry wearing a fake huge smile of confidence in his deputy when she announced to the nation that she'd risk going to jail if it meant defending the freedom of the press.

"Who indoctrinated her," yelled a half-drunk lecturer. "He or she should be lecturing here."

Harry resisted the urge to put his hand up for kudos.

Women delegates shrieked with glee, surrounding him and saying such things as "Lucky boy" or "I'm available tonight darling" when Sierra made the totally unacceptable comment in public - on TV beaming nationally for God's sake - that if Harry also ended up in jail perhaps they could share a cell and she'd get to know him better.

Suddenly everyone wanted to buy Harry a drink, before dinner and afterwards. Predictably late that evening he was carried off to his bed, out cold.

On the flight home the air attendants recognized his name and plied him with champagne, almost overwhelming him with their chatter about Miss Bycroft.

Arriving home almost drunk and near exhausted Harry decided he would have this out with his protégé once and for all: either Sierra must act normally like any other responsible deputy editor-in-chief or she must request her father to transfer her to another division, preferable commercial printing because it was about to be transferred out to the edge of the city.

When Harry walked into the offices next morning, Saturday, he received accolades, starting at reception. Then the duty editorial writer who also edited Letters to the Editor and edited articles on the page facing the editorials and letters, bounced out to shake his hand. Like the sole receptionist on duty on Saturday, he offered congratulations without elaboration.

For what?

Harry entered the newsroom and the entire room erupted into 'Great stuff', "Well done', and the applause was huge.

Bewildered, Harry turned to chief sub Eric Park, a straight talker and cynical former Englishman trained in Fleet Street London near the end of that newspaper street's glory days.

Eric would know.

"What's this all about? I had nothing to do with Stage Two of our investigation, absolutely nothing."

"This is nothing about that," Eric said, slapping his boss on the back, making his eyes water.

"It's all about what you've done with her in such a short time - everyone in the know, and in this office, that means everyone. We all thought the chairman had asked you to do the impossible. But here we are - your protégé has made the transformation from gadfly bar-hopper to a rising media queen in weeks, not months or even a couple of years."

"Your achievement to harness her raw talent and coax it out is miraculous, Harry, and the poor young woman has been knocked sideways by her eruptive ascension. You'd better go to her - you are the one she needs at this hour."

"Where is she?"

"No one knows, but she'll call you when she'd ready."

Harry look dumbfounded. "But how can you predict that?"

Eric sighed. "You understand women Harry, despite being unmarried. I've been married twice and have five daughters. Like you I understand women. She'll call you when she feels the implosion within her is over and she needs to adjust to her new status. She's young, on a steep learning curve Harry. She can't manage alone."

"Eric, for fuck sake listen to me. I've done very little for her expect to push and criticize and try to tone her down and urged her to refocus. I had nothing more to offer; she's a good jurno."

"Harry I'm not here to wet nurse you; just accept you've done it for her. Go look up linchpin and role model in your dictionary."

Harry began walking off, eyes glazed.

The weekend PA fill-in called to him. "Everyone wants her - offers have been coming in from magazines, TV stations and newspapers and professional speaking groups all over the country."

"We are expecting you to keep her here, boss," someone called.

The entire room went silent.

"Why would she want to leave here?" he replied. "This is family and not only the hereditary thing; she wouldn't be so happy anywhere else."

Newsroom activity returned to normal again.

Harry went to his office a troubled man. He wondered if he should head off overseas and make a new start, perhaps find a quiet woman who knew nothing about journalism, whose only thoughts were keeping the house clean and attending to his needs and trying very actively to get pregnant. Is that what he wanted? Yes, but... What did he mean by ending on 'but'. What was the problem, Harry?

Harry knew very well. He'd become very attached to her. He was also aware he'd helped to tame her, she being very cooperative about that, making real effort. He also knew she wasn't completely tamable and neither should she be; that was what had driven her to this new height. The fire had allowed her to take a crazy risk going into that ring-fenced quarry. It had quite frightened him to read what had gone through her mind in going in there. She'd written in her lead article:

It was something like entering a lions' den I guess. There could be men here quite prepared to silence Jake Withers and me if they deduced our activities pose a grave threat to them and their employers would expose their criminal acts. We agreed that we were involved in a dangerous operation. With shaking hands and anxious stomachs we shook hands and decided to press on. We hoped that acting out our meticulously prepared plan would keep us safe.

Harry thought Sierra was bright person, so interesting and lovable, at least to him, but with tough edges making her a toughie who'd slap him if she thought that was necessary or simply lost her cool; he was sure of that.

She was a wild one but she also had soft edges and clearly had become attracted to him. He should seize the opportunity to have her.

Harry scratched his head in torment, wondering could he handle living with her.

He called Eric, asking him to take over for a while, that he was going out. Harry couldn't recall ever walking out like this since he'd been promoted into his first position of responsibility.

Harry greeted Margo who was pleased to have been asked out for coffee by a personable young man she fancied as her son-in-law but an hour later they parted, Harry was frustrated that she had contributed little during their chat. Margo really needed a rev up.

Well there was one other person to consult.

He phoned Duncan who said he was at the Old Immigration Wharf Restaurant with someone called Fishhead.

Harry wondered if that might be Peter Fish - it sounded a likely nickname for Peter.

The three of them sat in the shade outside the restaurant, listening to seawater slapping against piles below and eyeing the yachts and other small craft.

Early in the conversation Harry learned that a new and quite deep relationship had opened between Peter and Sierra and so at the appropriate moment, having filled their glasses with light alcohol wine, Harry said, "Right guys, what am I going to do about Sierra?"