Chapter 1. Last Chance.
"Sit down Gregory," the editor said. When he called me "Gregory" instead of "Greg," I knew there was trouble brewing.
He sat looking down at some papers pretending to read; definitely a sign of trouble.
After a couple of minutes of this he looked up at me, unsmiling, and came straight to the dismal point.
"We've all had our women troubles but we don't let it interfere with our work performance."
This statement didn't seem to call for any response from me so I sat there abjectly with head bowed in what I hoped looked like humble submission.
After another pause as he bored through me with his sharp green eyes he went on, "I've counselled you twice already."
"Counselled" is a management euphemism for "A bawling out."
He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. Without being able to see it I knew my name was on it.
"Late arrival, failure to turn up at all, sloppy writing," he intoned. "You've reached the end of the line. I should sack you right now my boy; can you think of any reason why I shouldn't?"
I couldn't think of any reason but I stammered out the same excuses I'd used before during the "counselling" sessions.
"Well, sir," – I thought I'd better "sir" him for the occasion – "I...er...haven't been feeling so...so..."
"That's bloody obvious," he growled, "but as I say, we've all had our women troubles but we get over them and it's long past time you got over yours."
"Yes sir."
I think the "sir" must have had the desired effect because insofar as he was capable of it, he took on a benign look and said, "You started out very well, excellently in fact, and I thought you had the making of a good journalist."
He paused as if expecting a response, but I didn't know what to say.
"Now look here Greg," – "Greg," that was a good sign – "I don't want to ruin a young man's career but there's no room on the City Daily for the sort of sloppy work you've been producing, that is, when you deign to make an appearance at all, but I'm going to give you another chance."
"Thank you sir," I gasped, feeling the knot in my stomach unravelling.
He raised his hand to stop my flow of gratitude. "I've arranged to have you transferred to The Hill Weekly."
"W-w-what...!"
"No need to thank me, my boy, I just thought I'd take a risk and give you another chance."
Thank him! "Bloody hell," I thought, "why doesn't he shoot me and be done with it?"
The Hill Weekly was an offshoot from The City Daily and to be sent there was like being cast into the outer darkness of weddings, funerals, church bazaars and the local flower show.
Sir returned to his former sternness. "Don't think your going to get an easy ride, Gregory. Old Ned runs a tight ship and won't put up with sloppy behaviour or work, so just get that into your head. You start next Monday so you'd better get ready to move. Now, I've got someone for you to meet. He'll be taking over from you, his name is," he consulted a piece of paper; "Ah yes, Ian Foster. He's being transferred from The Hill Weekly and you'll be replacing him there."
My first reaction to all this humiliation was to resign on the spot, but I quickly had second thoughts. With my recent work performance and the sort of reference I was likely to get, who else would employ me? No, better to swallow my pride and await my time – see what the future would bring.
He said something into the intercom on his desk and sat back in his chair. "I suppose you'll need time to tie things up, so today and tomorrow you can show the new boy the ropes, and then take the rest of the week off. I'll tell my secretary to arrange some temporary accommodation for you at The Hill. You'd better start for it on Sunday, so we'll take it from there, okay?"
"Yes," I mumbled, omitting the "Sir."
A young guy about my own age came in his face wreathed in a simpering smile. He was a thin seedy looking specimen, but with that eager go-getter glitter in his eyes. I hated him.
We were introduced and shook hands, his was hot and dry.
I was once more instructed to "Show him the ropes," and I thought, "I know what sort of rope I'd like to show him." Then we were dismissed, or partially so since as I got to the door I was called back.
The editor was benign again. "Listen Greg, get that bloody woman trouble of yours sorted out, do a good job on The Weekly, and you might end up back here again."
I thought I'd better lay the ground for the future, so I said, "Yes sir, and thank you."
He waved me out of the office.
That day and the next I spent showing the enthusiastic rat the ropes. I think he must have known about my situation because he was very truculent; boasting of his triumphs on The Hill Weekly and then crowing over his imagined literary conquests into the future.
In the meantime I had to try and settle things ready for my departure. The lease on my rented flat still had a couple of months to run so I had to forfeit my original deposit. There was my furniture to put in store and the rest of my things to pack. I also had to face mum and dad.
I managed to make my transfer sound like promotion; this would give my mother something to boast about with her church women's group. My dad was a bit more cynical and muttered something about, "It's that bloody girl."
That "bloody girl" was Celia, my late fiancée. Two weeks before we were due to get married she had not simply called the whole thing off, but had disappeared with some guy who was going mountain climbing in Nepal or somewhere.
Imagine the chaos with most of the wedding arrangements made; and add to that my mortification, and while I'm at it I suppose I might make a further addition, my sexual deprivation. All added up to what I suppose was depression – a black despair; and now the final degradation of being transferred to The Hill Weekly.
Chapter 2. To The Hill.
I'd visited The Hill briefly once; a mining town set in the middle of an arid plain, a town populated by descendents of the Cornish miners who had come originally to work the mines for silver, lead, zinc and tin. Short, stocky and tough, and avid adherents of the trade union movement; what we call "Battlers" who had made The Hill there own.
The place looked like an older city suburb dropped down in the middle of nowhere. Dominating the city is a giant mullock heap, the waste of more than a century of mining; and would you believe, they've built a restaurant on top of it.
Like it or not, that was my current destiny; and like it I did not.
Sunday morning; the old Toyota heaped up with my gear, and me still seething with resentment centred on erstwhile Celia and a hardhearted editor I set off to meet my fate. Through the suburbs and the vineyards beyond, and then the wheat and canola growing country. Three hours drive and I reached the last frontier of civilisation – "Goodbye cruel world."
Another five hours drive; sheep, a few cattle. Red earth, salt and blue bush with the odd tree struggling to survive in the infertile, dry clay, emus staring at my car insolently before springing away; the carcases of dead kangaroos and wallabies littering the road, killed by passing vehicles in the night as they stood mesmerised by the headlights.
