ONE
A journeyman journalist is how the hot-shot contemporaries categorize Roddy Maitland as they claw their way on to higher ground in the world of print journalism, some becoming columnists, war correspondents, editors and photographers of international acclaim.
Roddy had stayed put, but is remembered by his protégés because he is considered to be one of the best frontline tutors in the business.
Twenty years ago when being assigned a desk after completing his cadetship as a reporter on the
Sounds Gazette
, Roddy was assigned Desk Five against the window. It has an unrestricted view straight up Richmond Sound after which the town and its 156-year-old newspaper are named.
No staffer ever sits at that desk; rumour is that the culprit's body will return to the town marina on the incoming tide next day.
Precisely at 9:30 the current editor, Rosie McLeod, arrived alongside Roddy's desk with his 100th protégé in tow. Roughly five percent of graduate cadets had not finished their professional immersion with Roddy, so he makes no claim to achieving one hundred percent success.
"Roddy, this is Wendy – Wendy, this is our famous Mr Maitland."
"Good morning, Mr Maitland. It is ever so auspicious to meet a legend."
Roddy blinked. Where in the fuck did Rosie dredge up a big-tit, pasty-faced recruit like this who uses an archaic word like auspicious? Shit, the kid is shaking in her knickers. Rosie, what the fuck are you doing to me!
"Mr Maitland will shape you into a journalist with extraordinary skills, Wendy. So place yourself entirely in his hands, cooperating with him fully, but dear, stay out of his bed."
"Yes mother."
Oh no, groaned Roddy to himself, not the fucking daughter!
Rosie stared at Roddy with a cynical smile, as if saying I challenge you to make something out of this unfinished young university graduate you heartless bastard.
Mother McLeod could, of course, recall being fucked by Roddy during late lunch on her first day in her editor's chair, on the floor of her office in fact and without the door being locked!
They were safe with the door left unlocked, because nobody, not even Edith, Rosie's personal assistant and editorial secretary, was coming near her as the entire office was extremely hostile that the board had appointed the newspaper's first woman editor and the bitch had now arrived.
Roddy had walked into the editor's office without knocking, which was usual, and found Rosie crying. He opened his arms and she flew into them, sobbing, asking what she should do.
Roddy didn't mince words. He said first they should fuck then work out a strategy.
Rosie suggested they just work on strategy. Roddy said sorry, but he didn't do things in halves and went to walk out. Looking aghast, Rosie called softly for him to close the door and return to her arms.
Their professional mutual respect from that moment flourished.
Rosie remembers the moment well, it being her first and only adulterous experience.
While watching Rosie walk from the newsroom, Roddy was startled to hear the youngster say: "It is impolite to stare at a woman's buttocks in that manner."
"Eh? Sorry, Wendy. Just got lost in thought for a moment, recalling you mother's first day on this newspaper."
"Yes, I know the story. She was under siege, with talk of strikes and picketing the offices. Then you came in, hugged and kissed her and told her not to worry, that all she had to do was to tell the bastards to go on strike and that you and she would win community support by putting out your own news sheet.
"You told her the gutless wonders would back down and she would thereafter rule without problems, and that's exactly what happened."
Roddy scratched the back of his neck.
"Your mother told you and your family that I hugged and kissed her?"
"Yes, my mother is a very honest woman."
"Right, yes," Roddy said almost wetting himself in severely suppressing his mirth.
"What's behind that comment your mother made about my bed?"
"She does not believe young female reporters leave your side still as virgins or not having their claim tested that they are not a virgin."
"Goodness, your mother must rate me as a resident of the sewers."
"My mother thinks you are the greatest man she's ever known, except for my father of course."
Roddy's mouth fell open.
"Don't look like that, Mr Maitland. She's frequently extolling your merits around the dinner table."
Roddy got his mouth shut and then open again to say: "It's going to be dangerous having you around, Wendy."
"You'll learn to trust me in the six months I work as your operative, Mr Maitland. Even should you manage to get me into your bed, my mother will never know."
Roddy pretended her didn't hear that. Picking up his jacket he told Wendy for follow him. He entered details on a log book at the editorial administrator's desk and she unlocked a steel cabinet and handed Roddy a set of keys.
"Good flying," she said, adding, "Hullo, Wendy. Do try to keep out of his bed."
As they went down the single flight of stairs Wendy asked: "Has Maureen in admin been in your bed."
"Yes."
Wendy waited in vain for an elaboration.
"My first day here and I get to go flying. This is almost as auspicious as mother's first day."
Roddy flushed at the first day comparison and told Wendy to abandon her usage of the word auspicious.
"It's a powerfully meaningful word."
"Yeah, obviously you've been a fan of Bronte. Use advantageous, favorable or opportune instead."
"If you insist."
Roddy, hawked nosed with pale blue eyes on a very lean frame, blemished by receding sandy hair, looked more like an ageing military operative than a small town journalist with a reputation for being able to nail a story when all others had failed. Incredibibly thought it may has he was also acknowledged as the benign and very effective office 'godfather' to raw recruits who tended to tremble in his precence, such was his reputation.
With some assignees, Roddy would have said yes he insisted that Wendey drop the use of that word, but instinct told him this young woman, though appearing nervous did not appear flaky and would not need telling anything twice. If she had her mother's grit and energy she would fly.
Roddy wondered if the kid was struggling as Rosie seemed to imply. It could be that Rosie had expected she'd raise a daughter who'd be a genius as a journalist, and was disappointed at the preliminary results. Roddy resolved to give Wendy his best shot; any mother who regards him with such unbelievable esteem deserved that, as did her daughter.
"My mother told me you have your own plane. Why is that?"
"Because I'm the only reporter that has a pilot's license. She persuaded the company to purchase it for me some five years ago in replayment for some little favour I did for her."
"Wow, that was an extravagent purchase."
"I cover the Sound with its three hundred bays and islands, though most are uninhabited. By the time formalities are completed to charter a helicopter and a pilot and machine are available to come in and pick up a reporter and photographer, I've been out, got my story and heading home.
"Some of the other journalists use boats – the newspaper owns a high speed power board and a launch. They are moored down here at our private marina where my float plane is hangared."
"Are you sure hangared is a proper word?"
"It is, you smart-ass," grinned Roddy.
Right then Wendy decided she liked this man, she told Roddy later. It had been touch and go, and although she desperately needed to like him if she were to succeed, she'd postponed making that decision after meeting him, deciding she'd know when the decision had been made. She could not recall anyone ever calling her a smart-ass. Until now she'd thought the term was vulgar.
Fifteen minutes later their four-seat float plane lost height rapidly as it cleared a ridge.
"I might be nervous; I've never done this before."
Without thinking Roddy responded: "Regard it like your first time at having sex: just close your eyes and enjoy."
To her astonishment Wendy could hear a female in near hysterics, and then realizing it was her. "I'm all right," she gasped, curbing the hyena-like sound. I'm just a little nervous."
"Take it easy. We'll land with some bump, perhaps bouncing into the air briefly, and you may experience heavy jolts and sounds as if bits are flying off the aircraft, but they rarely do. Oh, the rattles may be frightening. Just don't worry; there is nothing we can do but sit it out.
"Oh, water will rush past your side window – that's where it's meant to go. If it comes inside we've got trouble."
Wendy asked if that was all.
"Yes, it's not much, is it? Oh, keep your thighs clamped do that you don't pee involuntary. You've got tits I should imagine. Just press them firmly together as we're landing and that will keep your breathing regulated and reduce any terror."
"Is that all?" she asked weakly.
"Prepare to transform into a boat," yelled Roddy. "Here we go!"
They hit the water at a far faster speed than Wendy thought prudent. But she pressed her breasts together and kept her mouth shut. There wad a thump and the aircraft seemed almost to rise and three more thumps followed at decreasing intervals and the spraying water outside her window was reducing significantly.
"We're down safely," shouted Wendy, thrilled.
"Unless we hit a log or other debris."
"Oh God."
"Not a bad choice if things get bad."
Wide-eyed Wendy looked at Roddy and saw he was grinning like a maniac; the bastard, he was enjoying this!
As they headed toward the beach Wendy became nervous again. The plane engine roared and she closed her eyes, knowing they were going to strike the beach. But the plane rolled up the slope and was turned into the slight breeze and stopped.
"I thought I would save you getting you feet wet," said Roddy. "Usually I anchor in knee deep water and wade ashore to save stress on the aircraft."
"Thank you, much appreciated."
"You can let go of your tits now."
"Thank you, I found it very helpful."
"Really?" said Roddy in surprise. "I just made up that hold position as a joke."
Wendy opened her mouth but didn't quite know what to say. So she closed it and simply glared at him.
Outside an elderly farmer was looking through her window, staring at her breasts.
"Hi, Larry," called Roddy. "Everything ready?"
"Yes, who's the bird?"
"Wendy, she's Rosie's daughter. First day on active duty."
"Rosie's daughter, eh? Well, you won't be getting into her pants."
The farmer walked away without opening Wendy's door.
"That's Bert Slyfield, who owns thirty-five percent of our newspaper company and his wife Jill owns another twenty-eight percent. They own seventy-five thousand acres of land in the Sound, much of it crap land but it includes islands and sandy beaches."
"But he looks as if he doesn't own the shirt on his back."
"Appearances are deceptive, Wendy, you only have to look at me."
Wendy looked rather unimpressed at that comment.
When they approached the cattle yards, Bert was holding a halter on an enormous Hereford Bull that Roddy told Wendy had been imported from Scotland as a cost of more than $260,000 including shipping and quarantine holding fees.
Roddy introduced Wendy to Jill who was dressed in a torn smock and it would seem very little else. She was barefoot.
