Swimming Upstream by Ruth Mancini Read Free Book Online Page B

paranoia of the
national psyche. That headline was for anyone who worried about trade unions
taking over the country, about immigrants stealing their jobs and their women,
about reds under the bed. I quickly typed up the rest of the national bulletin
and then began to search for a local story. There was nothing from the police
today. I glanced again through the feeds that Simon had left me.
    “And finally,” I typed. “A farmer in Whittlesford
is lobbying parliament this week with a petition signed by four hundred Kent
and Sussex farmers against the proposed Channel Tunnel link.” I stopped writing
and spun my chair round.
    “Why?” I asked Simon, who was now sitting at the
desk behind me, eating a pork pie.
    “Why what?” He looked defensive.
    “Why,” I asked impatiently, “does a farmer in
Whittlesford give a flying one about the Chunnel link?”
    Simon didn’t answer.
    “It's going from London to Paris,” I elaborated. “There's
no detour planned via Whittlesford.”
    “So?” said Simon. “Maybe he's coming out in
solidarity.” I knew that this was a dig at Larsen’s left-wing politics, with me
as the object of torment. I hadn’t told anyone at work that we had split up. I
certainly wasn’t going to tell Simon.
    I folded my arms. “Am I going to have to delete
this news item?” I asked him.
    Simon grinned. “The farmers - united - will never
be deleted,” he recited, punching the air with his fist. He chuckled and rocked
back in his chair.
    “It's not funny Simon. This is supposed to be a
story. Either it is or it isn't.” I stood up and went over to the desk where
all the information came in from the General News Service.
    “Listen to the clip …” Simon began.
    “I don't have time,” I said, edgily, sitting back
down at the computer screen. “If it's going in I need it now, finished.” I was
aware that my voice had risen by at least a couple of octaves.
    I could hear Simon getting up and moving around
behind me. He leaned over my shoulder and placed a pile of carts onto my desk
in front of me, then left the newsroom.
    I glanced at my watch, picked up the carts and my
crutch and stepped into the studio.
    When I came out Greg Chappell, the programme editor,
was waiting for me. He smiled and sat down at the desk behind me.
    “That was quick,” said Greg, when I came out
again. “You had another two minutes to play with there. You'll be giving those
lunchtime listeners indigestion.”
    I slumped down into my chair. Greg put down his
pencil.
    “Look,” he said. “Don't let him get to you.”
    “That's easy for you to say,” I muttered. “I'm fed
up of doing Simon’s job for him and then feeling like an autocratic old nag for
minding. It's like working with my brother.”
    “I didn't know you had a brother,” said Greg,
trying to be tactful, trying to change the subject.
    I hesitated a moment. I wasn’t sure that I wanted
to have a discussion about my family. “Yeah. Just the one. His name’s Pete.”
    “And he wound you up, right?” Greg continued. “That's
what being a brother is all about. It's in the job description.”
    “Yes, well, it's not in Simon's, is it?” I said.
    Greg looked at me sympathetically. “You need to
get out of here. You need a new start somewhere else. You've outgrown this
place.”
    I felt a glimmer of hope inside me, something I
hadn't felt in a while. “Do you really think so? I thought I was only just
getting somewhere.”
    Greg wheeled his chair over to mine. “Look,
Lizzie. You've got loads of potential. You could easily get a job in town.”
    “I already am in town.” I was confused.
    “I'm talking about London,” he laughed. “One of
the independents, or the BBC stations even. You're hardworking, you've got what
it takes. Don't keep selling yourself short.”
    I eyed him suspiciously. “You're leaving,” I said.
“Aren't you?”
    “Yes,” said Greg.
    “When?”
    “End of the month. It's an attachment, but...” he
trailed