News Where You Are

36

Sometimes Frank would see a film, usually American, set in and around a news room. He struggled to find any parallels with his own work environment. The journalists were always either hard-bitten cynics, or wide-eyed idealists — never the kind of shuffling unspectacular plodders that he felt himself and many of his colleagues to be. Their patter was fast and littered with one-liners, not the directionless drivel that passed between him and the others on slow afternoons as they asked each other about their sandwich fillings. Their Hollywood counterparts drank black coffee, never milky tea, ate Danish pastries, never Penguin biscuits, and they never seemed to cover stories about controversial new traffic-calming measures.

As Frank looked around at his colleagues in the morning production meeting, he thought wistfully of the kind of glass-sided meeting rooms with large oval tables where these meetings took place on-screen. Never once in a movie had he seen a hard-nosed news team crowded around a stained sofa next to a fridge that smelled of sour milk in a staff kitchenette. He noticed that the science correspondent had taken his usual policy of wearing casual, if not to say palpably dirty, clothes below the waist a step further and appeared to be wearing carpet slippers.

Martin, the producer, was talking about an item on a line of new eco-friendly fire engines being introduced in Coventry. ‘Apparently they’re made of a special kind of plastic, hence much lighter, hence use far less fuel.’

Mustansar chipped in. ‘Plastic? Won’t they melt when they attend fires?’

This was greeted with a few groans and half-hearted laughs, but Martin jabbed the air with his pen. ‘Good one, Mustansar. Frank, could be a nice little joke in there — could you work something up for us for the link? You know — a bit of Allcroft magic to make the item a little less dull.’

Julia replied before Frank could. ‘Less dull? How about dropping it altogether? That would be less dull.’

Martin ignored her and carried on to the next story. ‘Obviously Bonfire Night tonight. Now we had a nice feature last year about a lady in Walsall who makes replicas of world landmarks out of clothes pegs and then burns them on the night. Does everyone remember?’

Julia muttered to Frank. ‘Who could forget that scoop?’

‘So I thought we’d do something with her again. Sadly they’re not lighting the bonfire till seven, so we’re not going to be able to get any footage of the actual burning, but can we think of something else to do on her?’

Julia interrupted. ‘Why are we covering her again? We did her last year. Isn’t it enough that we run a weak item once?’

Martin shook his head. ‘The viewers will love a return visit, Joolz. She’s a local character. It’s a nice story. Come on — any ideas?’

A reporter spoke up. ‘How about at the top of the programme we run a little clip of the lady hanging out some washing, focusing on the pegs, and ask the viewers, “What’s going to be keeping her busy tonight?” You know, a little teaser.’

Martin nodded. ‘Yeah. I like it — bit of a mystery to catch their attention. What do we reckon?’

Frank thought it sounded pretty weak. He could feel the indignation seeping out of Julia like heat.

The same reporter spoke again. ‘Or … or — another possibility. At the top of the programme Frank says, “Tonight on the programme the White House” — or wherever it is she’s done this year — “in flames! More later.” ’

‘Great idea,’ said Julia, ‘because (a) obviously it’s funny to pretend the White House is burning down and (b) our viewers would totally expect that kind of story to be covered on Heart of England Reports. Sounds brilliant.’

Martin ignored her again. ‘Nice suggestion, Hugh — I think the viewers would take it in the light-hearted spirit it was intended. By the way, what is it she’s made this year? What’s the landmark? Where’s Sally? She’s the one who suggested this. Sally? Are you here?’

Sally had been lurking towards the back of the group saying nothing. ‘Um — yeah, I’m here, Martin.’

‘Sal, what’s the landmark this year?’

Sally looked awkward. ‘Yeah — I didn’t actually know what it was when I suggested it. I’ve only just got off the phone with her and found out.’

Martin was impatient. ‘Yeah? And?’

Sally grimaced. ‘Well … apparently, this year she’s made a replica of Al-Masjid al-Ḥarām.’ There were a few gasps.

Martin looked blank. ‘What’s that, then?’

Mustansar looked at him with disbelief. ‘That would be the Sacred Mosque of Mecca.’

Martin slumped in his seat and said, ‘Bollocks.’

But Julia looked up. ‘And she’s going to burn an effigy of it? In Walsall?’ She was beaming now. ‘Oh yes, the viewers will certainly take that in the light-hearted spirit it was intended. I take it all back, Martin — you’re a genius!’

Back at their desks, Frank said to Julia: ‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’

‘It was a small recompense for sitting through the rest of that crap. That man is such an idiot. He has such a low opinion of the viewers. He thinks they’re imbeciles.’ She paused, but Frank could tell she was only just getting started. ‘He’s not the only one, of course. I wonder sometimes who we are making this programme for. People who are desperate to hear us repackage press releases from the fire service? People who demand no greater interactivity than an email address on the screen? People who can’t focus on anything for longer than a minute and a half? All we do is bombard people with these random, decontextualized jumbles of facts and faces. Don’t you ever wonder who actually watches this programme?’

‘Well, people do watch us — there are viewing figures.’

‘Watch us? Really watch us? Do you reckon? Okay, maybe older people who’ve always watched us. But the bulk of those figures — we’re just on in the background. A familiar noise while they’re eating their tea.’

Frank shook his head. ‘But regional news is important. The small-scale, the local — that matters to people, it matters to me. Why shouldn’t we be able to see stories that happen here? Why shouldn’t we have a sense of our own identity?’

Julia laughed. ‘Are you joking? What identity are we talking about? What is this region? Our patch covers about a third of England. Who in Birmingham gives a toss about some ASBO gang bothering an estate in Stoke or a farming issue in Hereford? If they want to know about the rest of the country, they’ll watch the main stories on the national news. If they want local news, they want news about their locality. The only identity this programme reflects is whichever fool has been put in charge of the controls for the day.’

‘Sometimes we get it right.’

‘Rarely — more by chance than design. Most of the time we’re dicking about in no-man’s land with stories that are neither specific nor broad enough to interest anyone. Sometimes I feel as if we have a deliberate policy of avoiding the news, of reporting anything that actually matters.’

Frank reflected on this. ‘It’s just a time of transition — we’ve been through them in the past. The internet has changed everything and we’re still trying to work it out, but I think we will. In the meantime I don’t think we’re doing anything evil or wrong.’

Julia smiled. ‘No. Just utterly pointless. I like working with you, Frank — you know that, and don’t take any offence — but this is just the place you come every day for a few hours. It’s just a job for you. You’ve got family and stuff outside of work and you never let this be that important to you. But my work means everything to me. I want it to define me. If I think I’m doing a shit job, I feel worthless — it eats away at me.’

Frank smiled a little.

‘What’s funny?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I was just thinking how you actually sound like the kind of journalists you see in films — you know, fire in the belly — you sound like the real thing.’

Julia nodded sadly. ‘I’ve got to get out of here, Frank.’

‘I’m not sure you’ll find things very different wherever you go.’

‘Landmarks made out of pegs? Come on.’

‘The odd bit of local colour — there’s no harm in that.’

‘Year after year, the same bloody rubbish.’

Frank suddenly felt tired, worn out by Julia’s anger. He sat heavily in his chair. ‘Well, that’s just life, isn’t it?’