My Magazine Ch. 02

Jenni Giles left the publisher's executive meeting on a big high. What she'd wanted had happened and she'd been given the key to unlock her future.

She sucked in air. Right, she thought. She was setting a very tight schedule to achieve an near-impossible dream of launching her own magazine but by God she and her team would achieve it.

"Yippee!"

She pulled off her new tight red shoes and in relief walked down the stairs in stocking feet to her suite of offices.

Raising her hands above her head she cried, "This has been one of the greatest days in my entire life."

"You editorial people do carry on," sniffed one of the evening cleaning ladies, on her way to the cafeteria to play a game of penny poker with her early arriving workmates.

"My head and heart are free!" cried Jennie, totally aware that a torrid mentally and physical time lay ahead.

"Bloody journalists – always on pills or booze," muttered the cleaning lady, clad in a faded yellow and blue smock and matching head band.

Jenni's staff who witnessed this looked on amused, only three of them knowing what she was on about.

* * *

Back in her younger days in New Zealand where she was born and raised, Jenni began in journalism after gaining a university BA degree with additional studies in creative writing. She joined the morning newspaper, the Waikato Challenger graded as a first year junior reporter, jumping the initial up to three years cadet stage because of her academic studies.

Although rather over-awed at first, she quickly picked up the rhythm of the office and soon no longer was constantly asking questions. That was in the days of growth in new-age computerisation when reporters were swapping their typewriter, usually old battered machines, for a computer with word processing software.

Initially the small articles she wrote were almost unrecognisable to her when they appeared in print substantially rewritten.

Late one afternoon she appeared in the subs' room and began burrowing into the unsophisticated archives of subbed articles of previous publications. At the end of each day all articles worked on that day were simply bound with a band of plain newsprint, which was glued and dated and stored on shelves for three months before being dumped, no longer available as evidence in dealing with public complaints or threats of legal action.

She extracted her articles of one particular issue, watched by the curious chief subeditor Anthony Burrows (also known as A.B.) who refrained from commenting until she had carefully replaced each article, glued a new band around the bundle and replicated the date from the broken band.

"You operate like a squirrel," commented A.B., a former housemaster and English teacher of a private school. "Are you looking to conceal the evidence of some statement you have written that will land us in court?"

"No Mr Burrows," replied Jenni, unsure whether he was being serious or stupid. "It's just that my articles as published have been changed considerably from the original version. I need to know what changes that were made to try to deduce the reasons, so have searched for my subbed originals."

"To my knowledge nobody has done this before."

"But I am nobody Mr Burrows, I'm me."

"Humph."

"Well, let me see what you've got there. Sit down beside me and I shall explain."

They worked away at the 'top' of the subs' table comprising two former kitchen tables of identical height, placed end on end. It was a dingy room, with all of the lighting centred over the tables. Files of four daily newspapers circulating in the province rested on sloping shelves in one corner of the room. The windows were conveniently facing south, away from direct sunlight and the view was of an oak tree and the neighbouring school's boys' and girls' toilet blocks.

Although most of the editorial staff had gone at 4:00 when Jenni managed the unthinkable and got crusty A.B. to give her one-on-one tuition, word got round about that extraordinary event].

It was said that grateful newcomer had the guts to tell him – not ask – after that informative session that she'd be back the same time the next day to tap into his fountain of knowledge.

One of the observers reported that instead of bawling her out, old A.B. simply grunted 'Humph'.

At 4:00 next afternoon two late-leaving subeditors witnessed this strange encounter.

Jenni entered, scratched around in the beer carton holding the previous edition's subbed articles stored as archives, and then took them to the chief subeditor, saying, "Here we are, Mr Burrows."

The subeditors continued to watch expecting A.B. to growled "Fuck off Jenni as I have no time for this carry-on."

But no, he picked up his blue-lead pencil and worked away with her.

Before long Jenni's articles on flower shows, Women's Division meeting reports and the Old Folks' Association concert presentations were passing over the subs' desk and leaving for production processing virtually unchanged. She even began composing her own headings.

Although photo-composition had replaced hot-metal composition, because of union threats if jobs were lost to machines leading to the down-sizing of staff, the production department compositors were still employed in those early days of 'electronic transition' to re-set all editorial and in-house advertising.

Jenni progressed to doing the shipping column, collecting the lunches for the subeditors and drawing up the weather map in 'Indian ink'. This graphic was compiled from a mix of text and numbers that arrived via the teleprinter (a device in those days that telegraphed messages) looking not unlike hieroglyphics from an Egyptian tomb.

Then it really changed for her.

One Saturday night Jenni was assigned to cover the speedway featuring midget cars that came from all over the North Island, and occasionally from the United States for the national championships.

Jenni hadn't have a clue about speedway racing or why the cars were called midgets, but when she walked into the pits wearing a tight white sweater and a black leather mini dress and long white leather boots asking for help, she found the men were really keen to help her.

The roaring of engines being fined tuned for racing, the smell of exotic fuels and exhaust fumes, the shouting and joking of grown men playing with their toy-like cars fascinated Jenni.

Until them she only had seen men at play on the rugby or soccer grounds or on the tennis court. Almost unknowingly she became a 'petrol head' for that evening. Although alcohol was banned, she'd been handed a whisky and then a glass of beer before the start of the second race.

During the first interval she was taken for two circuits of the track by one of the ace drivers, sitting on his lap locked against him by his safety harness in the single-seated racer. They returned, the twenty-two-year-old Jenni white-faced, her vomit splattered over herself and driver.

The driver – a married man with three children – and his mechanic, who was his father, rushed Jenni into the drivers' changing room where despite her protests they stripped her, thrust her under the icy shower, pulled her out, dried her thoroughly and dressed her in clean overalls and her leather jacket.

Remarkably, they'd done that and had her back to the press box in three minutes, just in time for the start of the first round of the feature event.

Next day was Sunday, and just before lunch Jenni came to terms with her vivid memory of being stripped and man-handled into the shower by two yahooing men who then towelled her dry with almost complete indifference. She began to smile, and the smile turned into a bout of screaming laughter.

There was an ancient Imperial typewriter in the sleep-out, so she typed up the report of the speedway meeting, and then clipped a copy of the official results of the meeting to her report. Previously, the newspaper's succession of reporters had written up the results themselves, never thinking of asking the chief steward's assistant to do a carbon copy for them, as Jenni had done.

The next day chief sub Burrows took a story into editor Monk, and tossing it down in front of Ivan, said, "Boss I think you'd better take a gander at this," and returned to his desk.

Absentmindedly Ivan screwed a finger into his right ear as he read the article.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and walked up to Jenni in the general reporters' room.

"Is this your writing, word for word?"

"Yes"

"Bloody hell.

"Do you think anyone took a photo of you and Don Parsons in his midget?"

"Yes, I saw Mrs Parsons take several shots, laughing her head off because we were both covered in goo."

"Right, find where Mrs Parsons and her camera are, grab a taxi and rush back here with her film. You must find her Jenni, understand?"

"Yes Mr Monk. You've indicated it's urgent and I know how to respond."

"Good girl."

"By the way, you're promoted to intermediate grade reporter as of this moment, so call me Ivan or Boss from now on. Now get cracking, I think you will find Don Parson's number under Don Parsons Motors Ltd."

"I have it Boss. I needed to find out where to return the overalls and singlet I borrowed."

Ivan walked into the subs' room, tossing the article to the chief sub. "Page two and well displayed Anthony."

Ivan smiled, noting that chief sub Burrows already had a layout sheet in front of him, numbered Page Two, with a heading already in place read, 'My Sickening 60 mph Laps Harnessed Against Midget Car Ace'.

Two subeditors held up a hand, offering to sub the article. A.B ignored them, choosing to do it himself. He called, "Tonks get Giles' mugshot from the photo files."

"Yes, Mr Burrows."

* * *

Jennie returned to her office at Zephyr Media in Bexley, South East London, after working with Charles Trump to check through the employment contracts that Sue had sent her.

She looked at her watch – 3:10 time to have a leisurely coffee. She walked quickly through the editorial room to her office, avoiding eye contact.

"Coffee pleases Rhonda it's all going, but still keep your lip buttoned. Tell everyone management has called an important staff meeting for 4:00 in the boardroom and I want everyone there. Then come back as I'll want you to start bringing in several people to me, one by one. But you'll have the chance to sign first."

Of course it was no longer a secret. As soon as Rhonda uttered the words "Management is calling an important meeting of staff of our magazine" the smell of death began to permeate the office.

Faces fell and colleagues began to unburden themselves.

As two individuals were successively called to Jenni's office there was initial concern for them. Then the uniformed discussion began that perhaps management was offering those people the opportunity of a similar posting elsewhere in the organisation.

Suppressed excitement was obvious on the faces of the first two people called.

Later Timothy returned scowling and his eyes mutinous. He refused – as had the others – to disclose the nature of his discussion. It was Lisa, the no longer required photographer, who came closest to the truth.

"Jenni is offering selected people the chance to join her on a new venture. I've never got on well with her and so I'm out the door with my severance windfall. It's obvious our magazine is a goner."

That started an excited buzz, with some of Jenni's girls confirming they had accepted offers. It became apparent that no more people were being called to her office, and two of the staffers who hadn't received the call began to weep, the result of deflated self-esteem.

Then it was 3.55, time to troop upstairs.

Faces said it all – the bright smiling ones were obviously Jenni's girls, the glum and in two instances tear-stained faces were those not on the A-list.

There was one passive face – that of a male.

Jenni was invited to sit up front, but declined, saying she preferred to sit with her team. Extra chairs had been placed in rows at the far end of the table.

Ron Wiggins introduced the company's chairman, and legal adviser and human resources manager.

He then announced that long-serving editor Jenni Giles had decided to jump ship to set up her own magazine, and had already negotiated with several of her existing staff to leave with her.

"Management wishes you to know that shortly before4:00 this afternoon it received the resignations of staff who are joining Jenni Giles. We wish those people well."

"We have looked at the legal implications of this but after careful consideration have decided not to block this evacuation. As all of you know the company has been battling for almost two years to reverse the falling sales of your magazine but it is now conceded that the market has turned against that publication."

"Taking everything into account, management had decided to begin closing down that magazine as from 4:00 this afternoon, thus terminating employment of staff of that magazine who have not resigned."

"We ask that those persons stay on at the conclusion of this section of the meeting to discuss details of their severance with Miss Sparrow. Mr Trump will also remain to discuss any legal questions that may arise over redundancy."

"Before closing, are there any questions?"

One question was whether the company was enhancing the statutory requirements for redundancy payments. The answer was no.

Timothy ask how could those people joining Jenni Giles be sure that she could get her new magazine off the ground and if it failed how could she meet any payments required under the terms of her guarantee of payment of salary due for each of the first eight weeks.

"That, sir, is for Miss Giles to answer. However I can confirm that early this afternoon I receive a letter from Miss Giles' solicitor. It advised that Miss Giles has deposited into the trust account of Hines, Willis & Boyd a sum of money well in excess of two months' salary payments which answers that question. We have also been informed that Miss Giles has also signed a properly executed document that guarantees she will indemnify Zephyr Media Ltd. from any claims arising from any person being on the staff of Garden Secrets, Kitchen Successes as at this day that have signed on with her who chose to take legal action against Zephyr media in closing down the magazine they were employed to produce."

"The upcoming issue of that magazine at present going through production will be the final issue."

"Thank you for your services, everyone, and the company wishes everyone well. This is a sad day for everyone and I feel it deeply."

"Would people who have resigned from the company please leave now with Miss Giles. Others who have been declared redundant please remain with Mr Trump.

"Again I thank you. You are all invited to return here at 5:00 for a farewell hour of drinks and reminiscing. Finger food will be served. Free taxis will be provided on request."

"You will each find a generous gift from the company on your desk, expressing our appreciation. As is usual in such circumstances, a security officer will remain stationed in your offices until they are finally locked at 7:00 this evening."

* * *

Staff grouped around the subeditor's table with Timothy declaring that he would open his large box first to show everyone what a useless gift they were getting.

But that was not the case – the opening of the box drew gasps, as there lay an expensive Italian espresso coffee machine.

"Good gracious, someone in management has made a mistake and ordered coffee makers instead of four coffee cups."

"No Brenda, that's what Jenni asked Mr Wiggins to provide," Rhonda said. "Inside that envelope along with a best wishes card you will find a slip allowing you to return the product if you wish in exchange for other goods, but not for cash."

There was more subdued excitement when those staff being declared redundant arrived back at the office.

"God I'll have everyone in my apartment building coming in to watch me make coffee," laughed Lisa, a veteran photo-journalist. She thought she would put her severance money towards a month's trip around the south coastline, taking photographs.

She would submit the best of them to companies operating libraries supplying high quality photographic transparencies to publishers, publications and advertising agencies. Her husband had eight weeks' leave owed to him that his employer was urging him to begin taking, so they would have a happy time together.

The most distressed redundant worker was Elizabeth – more distressed at not being asked to join the new venture rather than being thrown out of her current job. She said nothing, but looked at her coffee-maker thoughtfully.

Her husband had a serious drinking problem and she was close to gaining the same status herself. Her brother-in-law had on more than one occasion urged them to resign from their jobs and seek long-term residency at an institution specialising in the treatment of alcoholism. He had wanted to assist them financially and he and his wife would provide emotional support. She was thinking of asking Kevin to enrol them for appropriate treatment, and when he had done so she would present him with the coffee-maker. Kevin's addiction was to coffee.

Rhonda entered Jenni's office carrying a covered tray. She lifted the tea towel to expose two glasses, and a half-size bottle of vodka sitting in a pail of crushed ice.

"With twenty minutes to go we may as well get started rather than risk damaging our finger-mails by idly twiddling them," Rhonda said, smacking her lips keenly as she pulled the chilled vodka from the ice bucket.

"Yes and that's a splendid idea, Rhonda. Now, this is a personal question but I feel I must ask it. You drink out and pubs and clubs at least twice a week from what you've told me. Is there not a risk that you will develop a drinking problem?"

"Oh no," Rhonda chuckled, sliding the fingers of one hand up and down her necklace of tiny beads. "Three drinks, four at the most is usually tops for me – singles for spirits and wine poured never more than two-thirds up the glass."

"But very occasionally I like to get smashed which is a useful reminder what excessive drinking does to one. I'd truly describe myself as a moderate drinker."

"Good – the use of the word moderate indicates to me that you know where you are at."

"Why is it good?"

"Because I am thinking of asking you to work brief sorties in drinking situations such as bars to gather gossip and some serious stuff, and turn the best of what you get into a lively column."

Rhonda almost dropped her glass.

"Wow! But hold on, I'm not a trained journalist."

"That's not a problem. What I'm worried about is sending you into situations where you will be exposed to alcohol and be urged to drink."

"If I was a trained journalist and you sent me into a dressing room to interview the victorious captain of a men's rugby team, would you expect me to have sex?"

"No not really."

"Not really?"

"I mean no, not unless it was your decision or something terrible happened to you in there."

"Dammit Jenni, I'm talking hypothetically and you're talking as a cynical but thoughtful journalist. We are unlikely to satisfactorily conclude this line of conversation."

"Would you be confident that you could comfortably cope with being over-exposed to liquor and drunks?"

"Yes and I say emphatically so. Truly, I do have will-power you know – I never lost my virginity until I was almost nineteen."

"Good gracious Rhonda, I was not probing for a declaration of that nature."

"Do you sleep with men Jenni?"

"Occasionally."

"Women?"

"No never!"