Sadly, for me, there was an ugly moment and it was caused by Tugga. For a big man he’s light on his feet and can creep up on you without warning. The toilet facilities were primitive – smelly starting blocks, as we call them – and we were going into the dunes for a pee. I had just finished when I stood up to find Tugga standing a few feet away with his trousers down, but not wanting to pee. I told him he was gross and to stay away from me. He called me a cock-teaser as I ran back to the beach gathering. He is getting seriously weird and I’ll have to be careful I don’t let him catch me like that again.
I didn’t tell the others as there is a good vibe in the group. Us Kiwi girls don’t like to create a fuss, unlike some of those Australian prima donnas!
We didn’t get much sleep that night as we were up before dawn to go back to ANZAC Cove to experience the time of the landing. It was spooky in the half-light and then everyone freaked when a firework exploded. I’m sure it was Tugga, or one of his Mob, but it was hard to tell with tourists from three buses mingling around the headstones at Ari Burnu, and they never owned up.
We spent a few more hours there exploring other famous battle sites – significant for us Kiwis and Aussies – before hitting the road for Istanbul.
Breakfast was fresh Turkish bread. This van arrived out of nowhere and I think we cleaned him out of loaves in a few minutes. Bread, jam and sugary tea – a basic breakfast, but so much yummier compared to what Poppa and his mates ever got to eat at ANZAC Cove. I think word spreads quickly along the coast when Antipodeans land at Gallipoli – again! This time the meetings are much friendlier. We’re all now looking forward to exotic Istanbul and shopping at the Grand Bazaar.
The diary-holder flicked back through several pages to the briefer entries made during the days in Greece. Such a contrast in experiences and impressions of two ancient cultures. It was what the Big OE was supposed to be all about; opening blinkered South Pacific minds to the wider world. Yet, there was always someone selfishly wanting to spoil things, to get their own way. The diary was returned to its safe place once again.
Chapter 10
The butterflies in Curly Rogers’ stomach struggled to keep up with the lift as it ascended rapidly to the executive offices on the tenth floor. He had been a journalist for 21 years: 15 working in television and the last 10 with this station, but he had never reached these heights before.
Most newsroom employees summoned to the upper levels rarely returned to rejoin their workmates. The lucky were permitted to collect their personal possessions, arrange a wake at the nearest pub and then depart the building with some dignity to search for a new network. The unlucky were escorted from the premises by a security guard, or two, only stopping long enough to retrieve their briefcases from the newsroom. Sometimes it was handed to them outside the front door.
That was the standard early departure for heads of news, executive producers and senior producers who had outlived their usefulness. The occasional female presenter who survived long enough to reach her 50th birthday might be allowed a final broadcast if she promised not to cry on air.
The hoi poloi – producers, reporters, editors, directors, camera operators, technical staff, engineers, media ops, librarians and admin staff – didn’t need to go to the top of the cliff to be pushed off. A senior manager would sweep into the newsroom to declare a new cull was imminent because of poor ratings, budget blowouts or dwindling advertising revenues.
Thanks for your efforts; TV is a tough business; good luck out there.
The unfortunates would find out their fate from Human Resources in a few days. That usually stifled newsroom protests as no one wanted to put their heads above the parapet: the bullet with their name on it might not be fired in that skirmish with management.
Curly noticed in recent years that the Human Resources department took on extra staff to handle these company purges, yet their temporary positions became permanent after the newsroom bodies were removed.
The lift doors opened to a corporate world of white opal walls, plush dark carpet, floor to ceiling windows that framed vast swathes of the city, a two-seater sofa and a solitary receptionist who looked like she was recruited straight from a fashion shoot. It was the amazing views of Port Phillip Bay that reassured Curly he hadn’t emerged from the TARDIS into a multi-national headquarters in London, Paris or New York. He didn’t have time to decide if the décor was meant to welcome visitors, or intimidate them, before the receptionist greeted him.
‘Good morning, are you Mr Rogers from Melbourne Spotlight?’ She emerged from behind a long rectangular desk. ‘I’m Zara, the Executive Assistant to Mr Hackett.’
Zara didn’t offer to shake hands, accurately summarising from Curly’s story-gathering attire: Rodd & Gunn chinos and open-neck shirt and sneakers that he was indeed one of the station minions, and therefore didn’t require the star treatment.
Zara was stunning, even with her corporate no-nonsense face, toned and tanned legs in heels that elevated her to least 180cm, blonde shoulder-length hair and all packaged in a mid-calf dark blue sheath dress.
Curly struggled not to be snippy with his response, though he let Zara’s inquiry hang for a moment longer than necessary to remind her they were both part of the same company.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he finally acknowledged as his eyes made another slow sweep around the glamorous surroundings. ‘You’ve never visited the Spotlight office? Such a shame, it’s only a hundred metres as the crow flies – but you might need a GPS to find us down at the coalface.’
Confirmation of his bona fides was accompanied by a smile, and was received with the professional mien he expected. The haves and the have nots in the company had formed their battle lines.
And here I thought we were struggling to survive. The bosses clearly don’t know the meaning of the word!
‘Mr Hackett is expecting you. Follow me, please.’
Interesting that The Hatchet’s EA is the gatekeeper.
Zara pivoted and strode down a central hallway. They passed half a dozen doors with nameplates for executives, and the board room. All the doors were closed although the murmur of voices could be heard. Zara approached a corner suite, knocked and entered all in one fluid movement.
As Curly was presented with another majestic view of Melbourne’s seaside suburbs he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Journalists never want to reveal when they’re impressed.
Hackett showed little courtesy as he sat at his desk and tidied spreadsheets. ‘Rogers, is it?’
‘Christopher Rogers, as chosen by my mother at birth, but these days I answer to Curly.’
Hackett lifted his eyes from the paperwork and noted the lack of any follicles to support that moniker. He snorted. ‘Newsroom humour?’ He waved Curly to a seat facing the desk as he swept the papers into a folder and pushed it to the side and moved onto the next topic.
‘Right, thanks for popping up here, ah, Curly. Tugga Tancred – I have to admit his death is causing more surprises than I expected.’
Curly’s radar immediately pinged on the word surprises. Surely Hackett didn’t know about the second-vehicle theory yet, or the dope crop Tugga grew in Apollo Bay?
Curly had only talked to the Lorne cop half an hour ago and didn’t think the station grapevine extended to this tower. Do they bug our offices now? Paranoia was a required survival skill in the television industry. He decided the best option was to draw out whatever information Hackett had before sharing his revelations.
‘What