Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 18
Pleased to be back in the familiar territory of daily news, Summer embraced the political beat at The Daily Tribune. She wasted no time building her contacts in the New South Wales Parliament and honing her reporter’s instinct in the press gallery. At media conferences she grew bolder by the day, aggressively jostling for interviews with politicians and hurling carefully framed questions at their staffers, while walking the delicate line between revealing her angle to the media scrum and leaving the event without a story.
As the weeks and months passed, the pall of humiliation that had cloaked Summer in the wake of the Australian Goodwill Society scandal began to dissipate, and she begrudgingly agreed with April that today’s news really is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping. She soon acquired a reputation for being a “dog with a bone” for her determined pursuit of a lead and for her commitment to being first with the story. At the same time, and to her dismay, she earned the moniker Sex Bomb from her mostly male colleagues who, while never using it to her face, routinely ribbed her for her unbridled ambition and good looks. It was true, however, that she was in her element. Armed with her notebook and tape recorder, she thrived in the chaos that was The Daily Tribune newsroom.
One day, returning from an interview and propelled by the rising panic of an approaching deadline, Summer shot out of the elevator and made a beeline for the newsroom. Crashing through the swinging doors, she deftly navigated the subeditor’s workstation before rounding the corner into a narrow corridor and slamming into a little old man who was leaning on the wall. His titanium black-framed eyeglasses flew off a balding head and he keeled over. He would have hit the floor had the copyboy, who he had been speaking with, not seized his wiry frame in time.
“Shit!” Summer said, helping to right the old man. Then seeing no harm was done, she added. “Sorry mate,” patting him on the shoulder before continuing toward her desk.
That evening, after the paper was put to bed, the late shift retired to the Sydney Journalists Club across the street where, over a beer, Summer learned that the little old man was the paper’s owner visiting from the United States where he now lived.
“What you did was a sackable offense,” The Editor said.
Summer protested that the collision had been an accident.
“And besides, how was I to know? He looks nothing like his pictures.”
“Not the point mate, he’s no media boss caricature, there’s only one of him...” He shook his head, “You’ve got the luck of the Irish, O’Flynn; damned if I know how you escaped his wrath.”
Summer shrugged. The old man had seemed so unassuming, charming even. Definitely not the pioneering, business-savvy media mogul everyone talked about.
“Anyway,” The Editor said, “that copyboy, I want you to take him under your wing.”
“What copyboy?”
“Scotty, the kid who saved your ass today.” The Editor qualified. Then he laughed.
“What?” Summer demanded.
“He told the boss you were a nice girl... smart, for a woman, and worth hanging on to.”
Summer bristled, “Fuck you!”
“C'mon. It got a smirk from the boss... and you’re still here, aren’t you?”
Summer let it go. She was more concerned about the burden of The Editor’s proposal than picking a fight she knew she couldn’t win.
She softened her tone, “Don’t do this to me,” she pleaded. “I literally haven’t got the time to coach and mentor a cadet.”
“It’s not negotiable,” The Editor said, “It’s what the boss wants.”
Summer bristled again, internally this time, and tried to set aside her distain for the paper’s commitment to an outdated practice. There had been talk recently among the women journalists about the usefulness of the copyboy; a position that was created to help boys with no qualifications work their way up from running errands to a reporting role. But management, detecting dissent, had stymied further discussion, issuing a company-wide statement about the importance of creating opportunities for the under privileged.
“More like opportunities for the boys’ club,” a colleague had muttered, under her breath.
The Editor ordered another beer and caught the eye of one of the senior journalists across the bar, motioning him to come over.
“Look at it this like this,” The Editor said to Summer, “that senior political reporter role you’ve got your eye on, do you think you’d get there on your own?”
“Why not?” said Summer, “I’ve had to do everything else myself, why should this be any different?”
“Don’t act like you’ve never been given anything,” said The Editor. “I gave you an opportunity, didn’t I?”
“Sure. But I came to you with skills, ideas, and a portfolio of published clips,” Summer protested. Then, seeing The Editor’s expression darken, she backed off. “Look, I’m not saying I won’t help,” she leveled, “I routinely advise my colleagues, but you’re talking about training the kid from scratch. That’s not my job, it’s yours.”
“And I’m giving it to you. Just bring him up to speed on the basics,” The Editor said, turning away, “and all will be forgiven.”
Summer held up her hands in defeat, “Alright,” she said, accepting the finality in The Editor’s tone.
In the cab going home, Summer turned her thoughts to her own career trajectory; there were definitely benefits in making the time to develop the kid. A demonstrated claim of leadership experience on her resume could not do her any harm. She considered how to go about increasing Scotty's understanding of the political arena; the ways in which she might help him to acquire the skills he would need in order to frame questions that get to the truth. How she would teach him to read people and to read between the lines. And what about building that all-important news sense? How do you teach that? She wondered where her own news sense had come from, but when she probed her memory, the voice telling her to “always trust your instinct” belonged to Nana Laurel, not to any of her professors or editors.
The following Monday morning, Scotty appeared at her desk declaring he was ready to begin work as the Daily Tribune’s newest cadet.
“Here I am,” he announced, flinging his backpack onto the floor and throwing himself into the chair next to Summer’s desk.
“That’s the spirit,” Summer laughed, disguising her surprise at his self-assuredness.
She inquired about his background, then probed his commitment to fair, accurate, objective reporting, accepting his observation that not everyone upheld these notions.
“But it’s what good journalists strive for,” she stressed before asking him about his professional goals and explaining that the by-line he craved would take work to achieve.
“Just as the work we will be doing together is a two-way street,” she said. Then to be sure he understood, she added, “a give and take that goes both ways.”
“‘course,” said Scotty, as if it was obvious.
She had created a sort of organizational chart to help Scotty navigate the newsroom’s daily operation through the hierarchy. Now, she took extra time to time impress upon him the importance of prioritizing his relationships with the paper’s subeditors, explaining that without those “obsessive prose lovers,” the voice of the paper would sound, as The Editor frequently lamented, “like a dog’s bloody breakfast.”
Scotty laughed at that.
Though Summer approached her new responsibility with optimism, she struggled to shed a sense that Scotty was not really listening to her. But she did overcome a private concern about her pedagogical abilities when, several weeks later, she experienced intense gratification when Scotty at last grasped the concept of the news story as an inverted triangle.
“I get now why you don’t save the best till last,” he beamed, as they both reviewed the edited version of Summer’s story. “If we’d put that sentence in where I wanted it,” he admitted, “the subs would’ve cut it.”
“Yep, and the story would’ve lost an important part of its hook,” Summer said.
She even began to feel a fondness for the kid, who occasionally dropped his cockiness, revealing a boyish vulnerability that she found sweet. On these occasions, she chastised herself for an earlier suspicion that he saw her not as a colleague but as a means to an end.
Though she was making progress with Scotty, four months into the partnership, she was forced to admit to gaps in her ability to help him overcome habits that would not serve him as a reporter.
“He’s a quick learner,” she told The Editor, during their monthly catch-up, “but he’s hopelessly disorganized, unapologetically late, and uninterested in acquiring skills he doesn’t think he’ll need later.” On the latter, Summer openly showed her frustration. “For example, he complains of fatigue when assigned tasks he believes are beneath him.”
“Like what?” said The Editor.
“Like trawling through interview notes to identify quotes or scanning the wire services for story leads,” she said. “Instead, he finds shortcuts for these tasks and loudly objects to having to do them.”
But The Editor waved away her concerns.
“He’ll be right,” he said. “Just be sure he’s building his contacts.”
One morning, about a month later, as Summer was preparing to leave the office for a news conference at the New South Wales Parliament, her phone rang. She hesitated, checked her watch, then answered.
“Summer O’Flynn.”
“This is Colleen Barnes, Scott Barnes’s mother.”
“Hi.”
“Scotty said to tell you he’ll be in later.”
“Is he unwell or just running late?” Summer asked, barely hiding her irritation.
“He’s exhausted,” Mrs. Barnes replied curtly. “You’re working him too hard.”
Summer sighed. She had delegated Scotty to record the Premier’s announcement at Parliament House this morning, a responsibility for which he had demonstrated a lack of enthusiasm. Now she would have to do this herself.
“When can we expect to see him?” she asked.
“He’ll come in when he wakes up.”
The accusatory note in Scotty’s mother’s voice struck at Summer like a blow to the head. Momentarily, she felt off-kilter. Then she composed herself.
“Mrs. Barnes,” Summer began, trying to keep an even tone, “please try to understand that journalism’s a profession not a job and that your son is a cadet; a position many people would give their right arm for. If you want him to advance at the Tribune, then I suggest you rip off his duvet and tell him to get his butt in here, right now.”
“How dare you tell me how to be a mother,” Mrs. Barnes said, her voice pitching. What would you know? Why don’t you just do your job? And try getting his career off the ground instead of running him into it.”
Before Summer could respond, Scotty’s mother hung up.
Summer stared at the receiver. But now she was running late; there was no time to unpack the conversation. She pushed down the indignant voice that was telling her to call Scotty’s mother back and made a mental note to speak with The Editor later; one thing was certain: Scotty’s behavior had gone far enough. She threw her bag over her shoulder and strode toward the elevator.
When she returned, the Editor waved her over.
“What the hell did you say to Scotty’s mother?” he demanded.
“What you should be asking,” Summer said, not hiding her surprise, “is what kind of man sends his mother to do his dirty work?”
The Editor looked over Summer’s shoulder, “Keely?” he shouted. Then returning to Summer, he said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m putting Scotty onto Brian’s team, starting tomorrow.”
“But he’s got commitments; stuff I need him to do,” Summer protested.
Keely, a newish member of the reporting staff, appeared beside Summer.
The Editor passed her some pages, “Make these changes, then you can file.”
Keely scurried away without a word. The Editor stood and Summer stepped back.
“Brian’s setting up a digital team,” The Editor said,” looking down at Summer, “I need Scotty on it.”
“Digital? I thought the digital program was eighteen months away?” she said, “Is there a job there for me too?”
The Editor considered Summer tiredly.
“Management is bringing the launch forward,” he said, “Scotty’s got an interest in that area, and he understands the younger generations. That’s all it is, so don’t start preaching about fairness and being sidelined.”
Summer looked hurt.
The Editor softened his tone. “You’ve done a good job with him, mate.” He patted Summer on the shoulder, “let Brian take him from here.”
“Alright,” Summer said, without emotion.
Summer walked back to her desk through the rows of cubicles, each divided by half-height glass partitions. Some reporters had pinned family photos or story clips to the flimsy walls. But the name plates positioned at each entry were mostly empty; their Velcro patches redundant. Summer quickened her pace, uneasy at the transient culture taking hold.