Local Rag Hero

By Les Pobjie

Nick Carter‘s future seemed as bleak as Oakbury’s rainy, pot-holed streets when he stepped off the coach. He had come seeking a reporter’s job, but bus chatter made it plain this was no place to start a newspaper career. It was a deadly dull town with more gossip than news. Council was even planning to cash in on its unenviable reputation by holding a Boring Festival.

Then there was his accidental vandalism on the coach, witnessed by the paper’s owner whose son Gordon also wanted the job, and a foolish pact with his disapproving dad that could see him back in Sydney within weeks.

But a big man with a rifle and cartoon character masks has plans, too. His late-night reign of terror will shake the town and threaten Nick’s life.

The wannabe cadet reporter struggles to fit into a weird new world where hoaxes, humiliations, a burning pub, suspected explosive sausage and being shot become part of a day’s work. All that, plus balancing relationships with Sally, who keeps finding him unconscious at her feet, and feisty colleague Belinda.

Who will win his heart? Will the vengeful owner’s son end his career? Will he survive long enough to discover who’s behind the cartoon masks? And will Oakbury ever again be deadly dull, instead of flat-out deadly?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925814149

Les Pobjie

Les Pobjie is a retired newspaper editor. Much of what he considers his productive career has been with newspapers in various guises: photographer, reporter, sub-editor and editor. He has worked on regional newspapers in Queensland and on metropolitan and community newspapers in Brisbane and Sydney. Les has written two books of twist-in-the-tail short stories (Murmurs in the Night, More Murmurs in the Night), a humorous novel (Local Rag Hero) and a murder mystery (Handy Guide to Murderville). After struggling with failing sight for the past few years, Les is now blind. This book was written entirely by dictation and he is now aiming to continue writing fiction. He lives in Sydney with his wife Helen. They have four adult children.

Book preview

1

Slow Coach to the Future

In the kitchen of his unit, the big man ran his fingers along the smooth brown curves. Gently, they rounded a wide, firm area then slid along the dark surface to touch a harder coolness. Then back again.

So beautiful, he whispered. I can’t wait to take you out. Show you off. His fingers lingered, caressed, rubbed. He chuckled. They’ll all be struck by your … He paused. Not beauty. That was for him. Your menace.

He picked up his new love, smiled at the deadly symmetry, admiring the skill that created this wood and metal instrument, threat crafted into every surface, curve and crevice. He slowly bounced its full length on outstretched hands, enjoying the weight. No toy this one. He visualised the fear on the faces of his chosen ‘victims’. They would gladly give him every cent they had, intimidated by the dark stare of the thrusting metallic eye.

He sighed and placed the weapon gently back on the black cloth at the end of the table, near two cartoon character masks and a plastic shopping bag. He picked up a red marker pen, unfolded the map of Oakbury and bent over it. His forefinger moved along streets, stopping from time to time to circle an address.

Half a dozen should do. He grinned. For a start. Now for a restful Sunday afternoon. Tonight he would case the first joint.

* * * *

Come on. You must admit it’s deadly dull. Day after day, night after night, week after week …

The sharp tone woke Nick Carter. He hoped he wasn’t being questioned. He didn’t know anyone on the coach. Although he was familiar with boredom.

Nothing happens. So dull. Isn’t it?

Nick opened his mouth to say Pardon?, but closed it again when he realised the speaker, a middle-aged woman across the aisle, wasn’t looking at him. Her large eyes were staring through thick brown frames at the old man in front of Nick. She had wispy, pale blue hair and wore a yellow, fully-buttoned cardigan over a light blue-and-grey floral dress.

Nick regretted his staring when the woman turned her gaze on him. Fortunately, the old man answered the ‘dullness’ question and Mrs (Nick had noted the wedding and other rings) Yellow Cardigan refocused on her original questionee.

In some respects, yes, the man said. Dull and boring. But there’s a lot to be said for dullness. Peaceful, quiet, lots of friends, no McDonald’s, helpful shopkeepers. And, especially, no crime.

We could do with some crime, Mac. Real crime. Just for interest, like, Mrs Yellow Cardigan said.

Nick didn’t want Oakbury to be dull either. I knew it. Clare’s voice cut into his mind again. How can you be a reporter in a place with nothing to report?

All right, for good or ill, nothing happens in the place, Mac said, turning to face Nick. He sniffed, adding temporary wrinkles around his nose to the permanent web that masked his face. Dull. Boring. He turned back to Mrs Yellow Cardigan. OK?

It wasn’t what Nick wanted to hear. From the start of the journey, his mind had been picking at his decision like fingernails at a scab. Right? Stupid? Selfish? Ambitious? Betrayal? The coach rumbled on, taking him closer to an exciting future—or further from his last hope for a safe and lucrative one. Over-dramatic? Possibly. No, spot on, Clare would say about the last bit.

Mrs Yellow Cardigan leaned across the aisle and, touching his sleeve, asked: Have you ever been to our little town, love?

Never.

A bit boring, Oakbury, she said, in case Nick hadn’t absorbed that yet. He nodded glumly.

A grey-haired woman in front of Mrs Yellow Cardigan said: True. Nothing much from one day to another. She leaned across and looked at Nick. But some interesting folk live there, she said. Even one on this bus.

She waved a thin arm vaguely. See down the front? That’s one of our richest citizens, Dennis Browne. Owns the bus company. Got bags of money. Owns the local rag, too.

Nick could only see the back of the owner’s head, fair hair with a bald dome poking through the top.

The Times? The two women nodded. I’m going for a job there tomorrow. Interview with the Editor.

Sam Cookson. Good luck with that, Mrs Yellow Cardigan said in a way that made Nick uneasy.

The paper doesn’t print much news, Mrs Grey Hair said.

We get more interesting ‘news’ from gossip, Mrs Yellow Cardigan said.

Better than stuff the paper prints.

Like when old Garrity hung his wife’s cat on the clothes line, Mac said, laughing. A young woman down the front joined the hilarity. Nick was embarrassed to be caught in the middle of this jolly, but loud, group.

The event amused Mrs Yellow Cardigan so much she gurgle-laughed loudly, waking a child up the back, who began crying. She tapped Mrs Grey Hair on the shoulder.

There was that big story in the local rag once, about the town being doomed. Facing ruin. Great, Nick thought. Put all my eggs in the one basket and it turns out it’s a basket case.

What’s happening? he asked.

Nothing, as it turned out. Right at the bottom we learnt it was just the winning entry in a school essay competition.

No truth in it? Nick asked.

Not a skerrick, Mac said.

By a ten-year-old girl, Mrs Grey Hair said. But it was a good read. Sold a lot of papers.

More false than gossip, then. What sort of paper was The Times? Not a newspaper evidently. His naggers in Sydney might have the last laugh. Clare broke in: See! See! No news. Running off to a one-horse town to play reporter. Where there’s no news to report. Clare’s voice, tormenting him. One-horse town. One-horse town. He blinked her voice away.

He turned to gaze out the window, which framed brown paddocks gently sloping up to low hills. Distant sheep dotted the sparse grass, a few cows stood under trees. It reminded him of the kid’s farmyard set he had played with many years ago—before he had ever seen real ones. A damaged hand-me-down plaything from his Dad. It wasn’t until he saw pictures in a book at kindy that he learnt horses had four legs and pigs curly tails. His parents couldn’t afford TV in those days—or books, apparently.

A door slammed, startling Nick back to the reality around him. He turned in his seat and saw the toilet’s red occupied light was on.

The journey from Sydney to Oakbury takes almost five hours. Nick continually shifted in his seat, vainly seeking comfort. He was glad the seat alongside was empty. The coach was about half full. Many passengers, when boarding, had greeted others, exchanging brief enquiries of health, family, work, crops, sheep. Small town folk. They seemed a cheerful lot. Maybe they had settled lives.

He had felt curious eyes on him when he got on in Sydney. He stood out because he was a stranger, but also because of his appearance: tall, dark eyes and hair, clean shaven, and, according to Clare, bordering on handsome—but that doesn’t make up for your lack of commonsense, she had said. She had said a lot of things when he told her what he was going to do.

But here he was, travelling in a coach full of strangers to a town he had never seen, with baggage that included jumbled guilt and apprehension. Despite this, his overriding feeling was of excitement.

The coach was about an hour out of Sydney when Nick made the mistake of opening his backpack to get a magazine. In the crowded space between the seats he couldn’t avoid the bag tilting sideways. Half a dozen small cans fell out and rolled around the floor. He hadn’t known there was any sort of food in his bag.

The rattling startled the old man in front of him, who sat up with a What’s that? and caused a 30-second pause in the conversation of the two women across the aisle.

Where did they come from? asked Mrs Yellow Cardigan. She bent down to peer back along the floor.

My Mum— Nick began.

Your Mum? Mrs Grey Hair said. She also turned to look.

My Mum packed food cans in my backpack. Baked beans. Didn’t tell me. Now this. Thanks Mum.

Mums are like that, Mrs Grey Hair said.

Nick didn’t want to scramble around the floor collecting the cans in front of all the passengers. He hoped they had settled and would remain in their respective spots. The coach veered and cans rattled against metal seat parts as they rolled. The driver called out: Somebody stop that racket.

Nick squatted on the floor and grabbed three nearby cans. Three more rolled away from him as the coach took a left curve. He frog-hopped along the aisle and retrieved another one at the old man’s feet. He knew many eyes were on him. Two to go. Another bend in the road sent him toppling backwards. Somehow, he kept his grip on the four cans against his chest. He steadied and hopped back to his seat, where he securely tucked the cans under the backpack.

He heard another can about two rows back and went down on hands and knees, crawling towards it. This is great Mum. He stretched his hand towards the now stationary can and grasped it. The young man seated above wore headphones. His feet were tapping and jigging, as if in time with music. One foot stopped dancing when it inadvertently pressed Nick’s thumb against the metal seat base. He yelped and fell back against the seat on the other side of the aisle, which was fortunately empty. The young man’s feet didn’t miss a beat.

Will the owner get those cans, please? the driver called.

Nick wished someone would help him, instead of looking on as if he was part of the coach’s entertainment system. He still held the fifth can. From his low, angled position he saw the last one.

It was under a seat occupied by a woman in her thirties, wearing a dark red dress. She was asleep. He carefully reached under the seat, fingers searching for the errant can. He touched it and it rolled slightly. He quickly grabbed at it.

The woman woke with a scream as his hand went around her ankle. She sat up, trembling, and looked down. Nick smiled at her from shin level. At least he now had the last can.

Why did you grab my ankle? She turned to the woman behind her, who had dropped her book when she screamed. He grabbed my ankle.

Nick, aghast, stood, cans in hand. Sorry. Feeling that wasn’t sufficient, he added: After baked beans.

Are you drunk? Or do you have … She stopped, bit her lip and turned to look out the window. Positioning her head against the seat back, she closed her eyes. Nick saw that further explanations wouldn’t help. He saw many eyes were on him and he heard sniggers. As he turned to go back to his seat he noticed a man in a business suit looking back at him from a seat near the driver. The paper’s owner. Had he been disturbed by the fuss? No doubt. Back in his seat, Nick repacked the cans.

Mrs Yellow Cardigan watched until he closed his bag. She asked: Get all your little cans, eh?

Yes, thanks. Sorry if I disturbed you.

One or two might have been annoyed. Not me. Could do with more entertainment on these tedious trips. Nick wished he hadn’t been the entertainment.

The owner seemed annoyed. Stared at me for some time.

I’ve heard he tends to like things just so.

Oh shit! Nick thought. Oh is what he said. He was glad his cans hadn’t rolled to the front. Great introduction if he had grabbed the leg of his possible future boss. Not much better that he’d heard the cans ruckus or saw him hopping around like a bloody frog. Unlikely Browne would have thought ‘There’s a fine candidate for our reporter’s job’. Thanks Mum.

He gazed out at the ever-changing sameness. All right for him. Going after his latest dream. Not for others. Mum, worried for his safety, saddened by the loneliness she imagined lay ahead; Dad’s life-deadening, unfair, ultimatum, bemused by another erratic decision by their only son; Clare, more angry than sad, for his ‘betrayal’, robbing her of the cosy future she had planned for them.

You’ll never amount to anything, Nick, Clare had said, raising her voice sentence by sentence. Never settle on anything. Now you walk away from Dad’s job. So much money, so much security. Gone.

He sighed and shifted into a different—nothing was more comfortable—position. He looked at his watch. Long time to go. He closed his eyes, hoping the gossipy passengers would respect his privacy. But Mac turned in his seat again and said: Hey, young fellow. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about our town. Bit late now.

Not a bad place, if you don’t like excitement. But we have our occasional car accidents, and … a few things … Nick sighed.

Don’t forget that thing in the park, Mrs Yellow Cardigan said. You know, the Mayor and his … in the bushes.

Yes! And the new gardener bloke, Mac said.

Just mention of it brought a round of laughter. The driver didn’t seem to mind laughter, only escaped baked beans cans. Mrs Yellow Cardigan looked at Nick for a moment as if expecting him to ask about it. When he didn’t, she and the other two settled down in silence. Good.

He turned to look back up the aisle and saw the green ‘unoccupied’ light was on. He went to it. A sign on the door said ‘Unigender Toilet’. Was the paper’s boss a prude? Maybe no sex words in his paper? The room was as cramped as he had expected. Concentrating on doing what he was there for, he braced himself against the wall as the coach careered around two bends in quick succession.

He swivelled around to wash his hands at the small basin and turned the tap on. Too hard. Water gushed out with explosive force, spraying up the curve of the basin, drenching his shirt and trousers. He yelped with annoyance. There was a knock on the door.

All right in there, sonny? came a man’s voice.

Yeah. Just wet my pants—

Left it a bit late, eh?

Nick didn’t answer. He was hurriedly tearing sheets of paper towel off the roll and wiping his front. He saw the floor was splattered, too. He bent down with a handful of sheets.

Unfortunately, the sheets he tugged weren’t fully detached from the roll, and it was pulled off the bench. He watched in horror as it flew into the toilet bowl. Why hadn’t he closed the lid? Damn. The roll was half submerged, three-quarters soggy, and entirely useless for drying anything. Another knock was followed by a cough.

Nearly finished, Sonny? I’m getting a bit desperate myself.

More time. Still wet. Clothes flecked with wisps of wet paper. Have to get the paper roll out. Reach in. Ugh.

Just a minute. Got to get it out—

There’s your problem. Should have done that first.

Nick groaned, bent and pulled the sodden roll from the bowl. Where to put it? He held it in both hands against his shirt, soaking it more widely. The passengers will … And his maybe boss: the coach owner. He roughly tilted the bin lid up. It broke off and clattered to the floor. He shoved the swollen roll into it. Plopped the lid on top. It sat askew on the roll. Another knock. Urgently, he mopped the floor with a handful of toilet paper. Into the toilet. Flush. And again. He hurriedly wiped his clothes front and back with toilet paper. All was damp. Smelt damp. Damn. Damp. Damn.

He grabbed the disinfectant spray can. A strong push on the button sent a sickly-sweet spray onto his chest. Wrong way round.

Another knock. Louder and longer. Queue’s building. Another two waiting.

Nick opened the door and quickly brushed past the man and a woman—and Dennis Browne. He mumbled Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Wishing he had something to hold in front of his wetness, something to smother the sickly smell, he went quickly down the aisle, head down, face red.

Mummy, a toddler’s voice rang out, seeming to fill the coach, that man’s got a toilet paper tail.

The boy’s mother said Shhh but the laughter rolling around Nick’s ears made it obvious her quiet order was too late. He blamed Mrs Yellow Cardigan for waking the kid.

He pulled the strip of paper from the back of his trousers and it fluttered out of his hand and settled gently over the hair and face of the woman who had been reading and was now dozing. Nick decided against retrieving it, it wasn’t actually his paper. He knew it was clean. And damp.

As he plopped into his seat a woman screamed. He heard something hit the floor and turned to see a book in the aisle. A white ribbon of toilet paper floated down to settle on it. Someone said: That young bugger up there. He guessed what the question had been. His face was burning, but not hotly enough to dry his clothes. He hoped nobody would want to dry their hands at the toilet, but knew that, of course, they would. One who would have to use his handkerchief was the man Nick wanted to work for. The journey couldn’t end soon enough for him—and probably for a few other passengers, too. Especially any nearby with sensitive noses.

The two women across the aisle smiled at him, although Mrs Yellow Cardigan held the edge of her hand above her lip, partially blocking her nostrils. Nick interpreted the smiles as sympathetic. He smiled back.

Dark grey clouds had silently pushed aside the early afternoon’s optimistic blue and white. It began to rain and soon the windows were splattered with streaking, dribbling water. They seemed like tears to Nick. It was that sort of trip.

He got out a little book he had picked up when he boarded, from a rack behind the driver: Handy Guide to Oakbury by Sam Cookson. He had been attracted by the author more than the subject. He might get a taste of the Editor’s style and, perhaps, learn something about the town. Maybe something better than he had heard so far.

He turned to the Contents page. There were just six chapters and in his agitated mental state few caught his interest. He began the first chapter, which told of the town’s early days. Not auspicious.

The first settlers had made a mistake when they named the little village. But nobody had cared enough to notice. Almost a hundred years later a town councillor, who had been given a gardening book for Christmas, suspected the oak trees were, in fact, maples. Investigation confirmed this. The council debated whether to change Oakbury to Maplebury or plant half a dozen oak trees. The town’s dinkum Aussie trees were rejected for a new name, so the town didn’t become Eucalyptusbury or Stringybarkbury.

Commonsense, or something like it, prevailed and they planted three oaks at each end of town and kept the name Oakbury. Two died in the first year.

He sighed and flicked through to the Appendix, on page 151. There was one sentence printed across the top of the otherwise blank page: ‘To ensure the good health of this book the Appendix has been removed’. It seemed Sam Cookson had a weird sense of humour. It might make for an interesting interview tomorrow.

Clare nagged in. You can’t be a reporter. You can’t write proper English, let alone shorthand. Or spell. Remember Reverend Hill? You wrote Reverend Hell.

He shut the book. The journey—with Mum’s canned food rolling rampant and toilet disasters, the paper’s owner, the gossipers and the Editor’s bizarre idea of a handy guide—had dampened his enthusiasm for becoming a reporter in Oakbury.

His Dad popped in: Son, we hoped you would do something useful with your life—not become a reporter.

He was moving from his parents, his girl and a well-paid job with her father’s used car dealership. For what? To live alone in a town with a low median IQ. He thought ‘bury’ was an appropriate suffix for the town and for his future. But, he just wanted a start. His new career had to begin somewhere. If Oakbury didn’t work out, he would have to return home, tail between his legs. Maybe forever. A promise is a promise. Especially to your Dad.

You’ve got a month, son. Four weeks to make it. Then it’s … He shuddered and determined to give The Times his best shot.

The coach arrived in Oakbury at 6.15pm. Sunday. It was dark and raining. The passengers gathered their belongings and tumbled out of the coach. About half a dozen people waited on the footpath, under shelter, to greet loved ones. Nick had left his behind. He sat in his seat while people passed along the aisle. He didn’t want to bump into the owner of the paper and coach line.

Out the window, he saw Mrs Yellow Cardigan talking with Browne. They looked at the front door and the passengers getting off. Browne turned to look along the coach and stopped when he spied Nick looking down at them. The woman pointed at him and beckoned. He groaned and slowly stood, picking up his backpack and briefcase. He stepped onto the road, avoiding a puddled pothole. There were several. The road needed repair.

As Nick rushed to get under shelter, Browne walked towards him. Nick, distracted by the man’s approach from the side, stepped heavily into a large puddle. Water sprayed up his trousers, wetting parts he hadn’t soaked earlier. Browne adroitly skipped back, avoiding most of the muddy water. When he saw Nick had safely reached the footpath, he offered his hand. They shook, hands touching briefly, like boxers before a fight.

Dennis Browne. He wrinkled his nose and took a step backwards.

Nick Carter. He didn’t move, thinking it best to keep his scent to himself, as much as possible.

Mrs Yellow Cardigan had retreated to stand near the front window of a closed dress shop. She watched the two men with a satisfied expression.

Mrs Hopper tells me you’re here for a job interview at The Times, Browne said without smiling.

Yes, Sir. For Cadet Reporter.

I hope you can behave better than you did on the coach. Nick moved his mouth, trying to form words that might help. Before he did, Browne spoke again. My coach business would go down the drain if we had too many passengers as disruptive as you were. Trashing the toilet, spraying yourself with disinfectant, rolling cans around the floor like a kid with Jaffas, and molesting women.

Nick wanted to say it wasn’t as bad as Browne had made out: he didn’t trash all the toilet, didn’t roll the cans and it was only one woman he … He just said: I’m sorry, Sir. Accidental.

I wouldn’t want anyone at The Times—which I also own—behaving like that either. Nick was dumbstruck. Browne looked at him for a moment before switching the subject.

My son Gordon works in The Times’ office. He hopes to change soon.

For a better offer? Nick asked, without caring. They were standing in front of the Pack ’n’ Go Travel Agency. Past Browne’s shoulder, colourful posters tried to entice Nick away from the puddled streets of Oakbury with cheap holidays in Paris, Rome, New York, London. The sun shone in each one.

He thinks it is. He’s applied for the cadet reporter job.

Oh, Nick said, hiding his dismay. I hope he … he—

Gets it? Browne laughed. Nick smiled weakly. He wanted the conversation to end so he could go hide in his hotel room.

Let’s leave it to the Editor, shall we? As he turned away, he grinned at Nick and said: Good luck with the chair.

Nick watched him go with relief. He didn’t know what Browne’s parting comment meant, but by now he didn’t care. He walked past the mostly closed shops. A Chinese takeaway was open. A sign on the front window offered ‘Free Delivery’ with ‘10% Discount for Eat In’. He wondered how many would see the free offer for what it was. Although hungry, he walked on, hoping to be in time for the included dinner at the Criterion Hotel.

* * * *

He found the hotel and checked in. Luckily, dinner was still being served. No need to fall back on baked beans. Half an hour later he thought the baked beans would have been a better choice.

Tomorrow he might learn what his future held. Tonight was for sleeping. The room was sparsely furnished. Floral curtains matched the green walls only in the degree of fading. There was mould in the bathroom. He flopped on the single, iron-framed, bed. It creaked alarmingly. A cockroach came from under the bed and wandered without any discernible pattern around the carpet. Nick watched until it scampered for the door and disappeared under it. The cockroach had left him to it.

He lay awake, staring at the smoky-grey ceiling. Rain beat against the windows. Wind blew through a jagged crack, billowing the damp curtains. He could hardly stand the anxiety he felt. He was up against the owner’s son. It didn’t matter what experience or references he provided, how could he compete against the owner’s son? And his experience was almost none, his references, almost as worthless.

I told you not to go off on this wild goose chase. Clare wouldn’t leave him alone. She was probably right. Maybe his Dad too, harping on his unsettled past, littered with abandoned jobs. He had hit Nick with a quote from a Robert Service poem: So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. Thanks, Dad.

A wasted trip, a fresh mistake? No. He would go through the motions tomorrow. Having an interview with an editor was all good experience, even if nothing came from it. Tonight, he would put negative thoughts aside. Shut out Clare and Mum and Dad and Robert Service. Sleep would do that.

Tomorrow morning, he would walk to the Times building, in Grand Street, two blocks from the main street, oddly named Manes Street. Maybe it wasn’t a one-horse town, after all.

* * * *

Later, while Nick slept on his creaking bed, the big man sat in a car parked opposite the pub, near a street light. He studied the late-night pharmacy a few doors down the street. It would be closing soon. Once, he had quickly turned his face away when a woman came out the door and crossed the road behind the car. Good, only one late night customer tonight. Fewer the better. He smiled as he wrote in a small exercise book. He looked at the dashboard clock, closed the book with the pen inside. Tuesday night, then, he muttered to himself. He smiled with anticipation, started the car and drove away.

2

Sign of The Times

Monday morning, the sun was shining in a blue sky. Nick was glad the rain had stopped overnight and the few clouds were an encouraging white. He had to step around several puddles along the footpath. The council seemed to be behind in its maintenance work. He was half an hour early for the interview he hoped would start his career as a reporter.

Reporter. He liked the sound of that. He said it aloud. He had wanted this for the past year as he worked as so-called PR Officer at Clare’s Dad’s dealership in western Sydney—a made-up job if ever there was one. After a year editing a church newsletter part-time and getting hooked on movies such as The Front Page, All the President’s Men and The Paper he knew he wanted the real thing. Reporter. But, now, when he was finally clear where his future lay, the odds were stacked against him.

He stood at the edge of the footpath looking at the newspaper building.

It didn’t look like a place to start a brilliant career. Red brick frontage, big window, half covered in posters promoting local events, some yellowing, months past, twisted grey Venetian blind, light grey door, wispy brown grass covering the footpath, a narrow garden bed with sagging flowers below the window. It all had a sad look.

But up there, high above the door was the big sign ‘The Times’ in red letters. Well, once red. The colour had faded to almost pink but that was to be