Syd Moore - Witch Hunt

Maggie’s eyes brightened – pound signs were presumably whizzing through her brain. ‘Now you’re talking. What are you saying – six, twelve articles?’

‘I don’t know yet. Let me see what I can come up with.’

‘I like it. I really like it. Sounds like you’re talking ahead of the next deadline. Can you come up with this in three weeks?’

I’d already thought about that and shook my head. ‘I’ll definitely need longer.’

Her eyes dipped and hardened. ‘You’ve got a current deadline. This is like an ongoing column. Readers will be expecting a piece in the next issue. Be a dear and sort something out for that please.’

I already had something up my sleeve. ‘What about little-known Essex Girls of import … ?’

Maggie picked up my line. ‘That go against the stereotype …’

I gave her a stony stare. ‘All Essex Girls go against the stereotype …’

She ignored my comment. ‘Yes, okay, you can have that. But I don’t want you trotting out the regulars: Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell … yada yada. There was a piece like that in the Standard just the other week.’

‘I’ve got enough research to concoct a decent article pretty quickly. There’s Anne Knight who campaigned against slavery and for women’s suffrage …’

Maggie sniffed. ‘Not too political though please, Sadie. We need an arts or culture steer.’

‘Come on – she’s a notable woman. A lesser-known

notable …’

‘Oh dear. I’m going off the idea. Who else have you got?’

‘Okay,’ I said, reaching mentally for someone a little more exciting. ‘Maggie Smith?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Oh and also Mary Boleyn – the “other Boleyn Girl”. You could run a nice pic of Scarlett beside it.’

‘Was Mary from Essex?’

‘Lived in Rochford for about ten years.’

‘Born here?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘She’ll do. Stick in a couple more like that and think pictures.’

She wrote something down in the book on her desk. ‘Good, good,’ she said to herself and bit the end of her pen with gusto.

‘Then I can go into Hopkins?’

‘Darling,’ she said, replacing the pen and fixing me with one of her scary smiles. ‘After that you can do whatever you like – as long as you hit your deadline and make it contentious. We need debate. Especially on the website. The bigger the better.’

‘Great. Thank you.’ I said it in earnest. ‘I’m going to get something good out of it – got an instinct with this, believe me.’

Now she leant forwards. ‘Very topical Essex is right now.’

‘That, I know, dear Yoda.’

She grinned. ‘Do you think you could explore your contacts and get some coverage in the nationals? If you come up with anything biggish?’

‘I can’t promise anything but it’s always a possibility. I’m pretty sure there’s an angle I could work out that could pull in the wider population. Hopkins has more than a regional fascination.’

Maggie’s eyes were fixed on my face. ‘Excellent. I want more than an “And Finally” on Look East . God knows we need to boost circulation.’ She leant forwards and picked up her mug.

I mirrored her. The coffee was hot and delicious so I gulped it greedily, feeling the heat in my throat, then processing her last comment, I said, ‘I thought you were doing great.’

Maggie sighed. ‘We are, in terms of readership and profile. Best it’s ever been. But our landlord’s putting the rent up; the price of paper is going through the roof right now, and what with the recession or whatever this dire slump we’re passing through is called, a lot of our regular advertisers have had to pull. A fair few have gone bust still owing us. Marketing is always the first thing to go when times are hard.’

I stared up and caught a sagging around her eyes. ‘I had no idea.’

Maggie reached for a fag and projected her chair to the sash window. Lighting it, she pushed the bottom half up and craned her mouth to the opening.

‘Please don’t tell anyone, Sadie. I’m confiding in you as a friend, not an employee. I don’t want it to get out to the others.’ She blew a long sigh of smoke through the gap. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still trading this time next year.’

‘Ouch,’ I said.

She faced me. Her regular kittenish expression disappeared. There was more of a hungry alley cat look going on there. ‘Pull this “Essex Girls’ History of the World” article off and I’ll think about upping your rate to something bordering on decent and throw in your expenses.’

I sat back and looked her squarely in the face. ‘That’s a generous offer. Considering …’

‘I said I’d think about it. You know me, always one for a get-out clause.’ She laughed, and the kitten returned. ‘Let’s call it a calculated risk. I have faith in you.’

A strong blast of air came in through the crack, scattering several loose papers across the desk and blowing my notebook shut. I gathered them up, feeling a little less excited than I had been just moments before. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m not sure that I deserve it. Not yet.’

‘Don’t be so down on yourself.’ She shot me another look and said more softly, ‘You sure you’re okay?’

It was an invitation to talk. But I didn’t want to open those particular floodgates so I sniffed, swallowed down all self-doubt and wobbliness, and smiled as brightly as I could. ‘Fine. Honest.’

‘Right then,’ her tone changed: she was wrapping up. Our transactions were like that. I’d got used to Maggie’s looping behaviour that swung from utter professionalism to friendly concern then promptly back again. ‘Can’t stay here chatting about books and whatnot. You get going. Crack on with your witches. When do you think you can give me an idea of where you’re going with your leads?’

I told her about two weeks should do it and stood up to go.

‘Great,’ she said as I made for the door. ‘Oh, and Sadie. Call me if you need any help sorting Rosamund’s house.’

I told her she’d be the first on my list and said goodbye.

She was second actually, but I appreciated the gesture.

Okay, so the first on my list would be Dan. I wouldn’t ever say that he was like a father to me: he came onto the scene when I was hitting my twenties. Although Dad had upped sticks and remarried by then, we stayed in touch, and he did his paternal duties to the best of his ability. There was no gaping hole there and I had no desire for another father figure. Thankfully Dan didn’t attempt to patronise me by insinuating himself into my life. That’s not to suggest there was conflict there – although we enjoyed a good debate, holding opposing views on many issues, it rarely strayed towards heat. We gradually learnt that we shared several traits: an unfashionable respect for the Beckhams, a crossover in early punk CD compilations, a distrust of online shopping and, of course, we both loved my mum, Rosamund.

I couldn’t understand where he had disappeared off to?

It was so unlike him.

But I was going to sort it. I was determined. After I left Mercurial I drove over to Leigh.

Dan’s flat was on the third floor of a large 1920s block with stunning views over the Thames Estuary to Kent and beyond. It wasn’t massive: two large bedrooms, a contemporary kitchen/diner and a lounge with a balcony just big enough to squeeze on a round table and two small chairs, three at a push if I happened to pop in. The first time I visited I was impressed by the minimalist interior. Later I discovered his style was a product of divorce and OCD, rather than fashion statement.

Over the past few years he’d chosen his furniture carefully, with an eye on simple classic design, and as a consequence his flat had a groovy, contemporary vibe that was quite charming.