‘My office, if you please, Miss Binks.’
Verity flinched. Mr Bailey sounded very serious for a Friday afternoon. Usually at this time of the day the chief editor was full of bonhomie and a hankering to get down to the Glebe Hotel before the six o’clock swill.
‘Certainly, Mr Bailey. I’ll be right there.’ She dropped her coat and hat over the back of her chair and picked up her notebook and pencil.
‘You won’t be needing that. Just a moment of your time.’ Verity smoothed down her skirt and crossed the floor to his office.
‘Close the door behind you.’ Twisting his swivel chair from side to side, his face hidden by a wreath of smoke, Mr Bailey offered a half-hearted smile. ‘I was most impressed with your article. I think we can find room for it in the weekend edition. Bicycles—who would have thought? An excellent angle.’
A great bubble of happiness blossomed in Verity’s chest and she beamed at Mr Bailey.
‘Chip off the old block, hey?’
Perhaps. It was the first full-length piece Mr Bailey had ever accepted. Grandpa Sid would have been so very proud. ‘I have another idea that I would like to …’
He raised his hand. ‘Verity, let me speak.’ With a long and rather painful cough he stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. ‘I really don’t want to have to do this but I’m afraid I have no option. The management’—he pointed to the ceiling with a yellowed finger—‘have decided to implement government policy to the extreme. We have so many returned servicemen out of work. They’ve fought for their country and they deserve all the help they can get.’
Of course they did. So many men, homeless, injured and down at heel begging for money on street corners or curled up in doorways. It was a disgrace. Maybe she should think about writing a piece about that. A call for government assistance, job schemes, housing …
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