The life and soul

THE silly bugger must have come in for a warm. Had she been flogging papers outside?

I was alarmed by the old woman pulling such a funny face but really didn't want to pay her so much attention.

It was my first day on The Meltham Comet after all.

Still,the sight of ‘veteran’ reporter Sylvia grimacing stopped me in my tracks.

She was thrashing around, fiddling with her shoelaces.

I didn't know where to look. She reminded me of Brenda Fricker in one of the Home Alone films. All she needed was a bloody great pigeon on her head.

Sitting awkwardly on a rickety chair, she wheezed heavily and muttered something about ‘friggin' corner shops.’

Scraps of egg came flying from a lopsided mouth with far too few teeth.

Christ, I mused, she could give Shane MacGowan a run for his money.

Looking up, Sylvia flashed me a smile. More pieces of chewed up egg, spewing from her lips.

Euuugh I wanted to say out loud but feared it wouldn't help make a good impression.

“Is she okay?” I asked Liz Welch, the reporter assigned to take me under her wing.

“Oh that’s just Sylvia, you have to take her with a pinch of salt."

"She keeps the rest of her teeth in a drawer – with a comb. Don’t worry they both get an outing before she does.”

Sylvia's untamed dark hair with flecks of grey, not to mention – could it really be? - the merest hint of a moustache - made her look ripe for retirement. Her clothes, a crumpled grey skirt and jacket and grubby fawn top, looked straight out of Oxfam.

A slither of congealed egg yolk glistened on her lapel and crumbs from recently gobbled toast speckled her chin.

“Does she get on all right with people?” I asked, aghast.

Liz burst out laughing.

“Get on all right with them? She’s bloody brilliant – watch and learn mate, watch and learn.”

Sure enough, within 20 minutes Sylvia had taken a succession of calls – each as “urgent” as the next...

No the callers would not speak to anyone else, no they couldn’t hang on, please could they speak to Sylvia NOW?

First was a bloke from the council, could he drop off next week’s planning agenda in the pub tonight? There were whispers of one of the officers being nobbled by a developer.

Next came a dinner lady from the local college, did Sylvia know a lecturer had been sacked, something to do with a young catering student and a hard boiled egg?

Then it was the clerk at magistrates' court – though she’d deny it if ever challenged. “Sylvia, come quick! The mayor’s wife has socked him one. They're trying to sneak her in before anyone else.”

As I watched Sylvia take the calls, calmly grinning and nodding as source after source confided their nugget of a tale, I couldn’t help but admire her style, even if she was the scruffiest woman I'd seen in my life.

That morning was no different to any day of the week, I was to learn.

I lost count of the ‘exclusive’ by-lines Sylvia enjoyed.

She was also one hell of a mentor, teaching me how to cover a lot of ground quickly, how to be charm itself on any doorstep, and most importantly, how to get one over on the Meltham Journal – the evening paper on our supposedly lowly weekly’s patch.

We laughed together at the thought of the bollockings the Journal’s reporters would get week in, week out. It was mainly thanks to a job well done by Sylvia, but just once or twice, as I picked up her tools of the trade, it was down to me too.

"I'll just have to call you 'Scoop'," she smiled and I basked in her compliment.

Sylvia’s warmth and ease could get even the frostiest of interviewees ‘on side’. Her dogged questioning made senior officials and policemen divulge things they really shouldn’t.

Her writing was a dream. I wished I could match it.

We used to joke that if you cut her in half, it would say “Meltham Comet” right through – like a stick of rock.

In real life, we knew her insides wouldn't be so pretty.

She ordered a fried egg sandwich from the same greasy spoon most days. “Bollocks to Rosemary Conley, that’s my motto” she’d say defiantly, usually coughing from the Silk Cut she had on the go.

Or, if she was off to magistrates’ court, she’d opt for a pastie gulped down on the way – a habit I came to share.

Sylvia started to comment on my weight.

Talk about pots and kettles.

“Hey Alan, you’re turning into a bit of a gutbucket,” she called out as I was chewing on some chicken and mushroom.

“Charming,” I said. “You’re not exactly Twiggy yourself.”

At court, Sylvia’d settle into the press bench to do her Guardian crossword, oblivious to that day’s feckless parade of petty thieves and joyriders.

She’d only bother to send back any copy when it could make a few extra quid from the nationals.

Soon, I found out that Sylvia was only 39.

“How old did you think I was?” she asked when she saw the shock on my face.

“Ooh about 41,” I lied. “Sorry.”

I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was such a good friend. By now, we were as thick as thieves. We shared the same ‘ambulance chaser’ mentality and childish sense of humour.

“What’s another word for car park?” she’d say and I’d crease up.

I’m not sure anyone else got the joke. I’m not sure we did.

Yet I respected Sylvia and hoped she felt the same way.

It was rare that anyone let me know how I was doing at The Comet, but my gut feeling was okay.

Outside work, we were also getting on like a house on fire. She even put on a bit of lip gloss and combed her hair when we went to the pub. People talked about us briefly, saying I must be her toy boy.

Sylvia was horrified. She was more like a big sister.

Besides, she was so dedicated to her job, there was never any room for romance.

If she wasn’t busy on her latest story, she was keeping the rest of us in stitches. Sylvia was the life and soul.

I loved it when she told us how she’d been confronted with evidence of a burglary at the office.

The raiders had discovered a stash of porn magazines, Shaven Ravers, in the gents’ loos and had stuck them up all over the walls in the distribution department.

That unforgettable sight greeted Sylvia when she turned up for early morning calls as close to 7am as she could muster – 7.25am to be precise.

She had to call head office and break the news.

The news editor, Ginny Yates answered. Was now a good time to point out she had a hearing problem? Sylvia wondered aloud.

“Shav-en Rav-ers, I said SHAY-VENN RAY-VURZZ,” Sylvia repeated to a bemused Ginny, each time taking ever longer to pronounce each syllable. It cracked me up. Tears of laughter streamed down my cheeks with every roll of her tongue.

“Bloody Jo Brand’s got nothing on you,” I told her.

Two years after joining the Comet’s district office, I was moved to another one, 15 miles away. Sylvia was gutted.

Another 12 months passed. Me and Sylvia would still meet for drinks after work but then I quit the Meltham Comet for The Journal.

I loved the people, especially Sylvia, but three years was longer than I’d planned to stay at a weekly.

My name was mud but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to fill ‘dead men’s shoes’.

Me and Sylvia lost touch quicker than either of us hoped.

Then, five years later, when my wife Julie was in hospital having our son, Sylvia rang the ward.

“Please tell him that Cameron is a very strange name for a girl,” she told the nurse.

It was typical Sylvia – a well meaning but surreal message, which made me smile, even if my old friend couldn’t organise herself to visit.

She wasn’t a big fan of babies, with no kids of her own. She’d not got that far with a partner, too many late nights in the office or some bar with her contacts.

Later I started to freelance around bringing up Cameron and his little brother, George. What with Julie being in the police, it made sense. She earned far more.

Inevitably, I began to do some public relations work.

When I had to ring Sylvia about any press releases, I felt so awkward.

I couldn’t stand it if my buddy thought I’d ‘lost it’.

Of course she teased me relentlessly. “This is crap,” she’d say. I knew she was right.

“PR addles the brain,” Sylvia joked. "Bloody PR people wouldn't know a tale if it smacked them in the face.”

Once we met at a charity party that I’d helped organise.

I tried to speak to Sylvia but she was too busy rushing off to speak to Andy Horsfield, local football hero and fund patron.

I was disappointed but understood – she had to get a chat with Andy else she’d be in deep trouble.

Especially as Andy’s girlfriend had left him for a soap star the week before.

I had little time to reflect on my disappointment.

The freelance stuff was mounting up. I was far too busy and wanted to spend more time with my boys. I needed someone to help. One, then two writers joined me. Liz Welch helped out now and again.

Eleven years after I met Sylvia, the call came.

Sylvia left a hushed, nervous message.

Hesitantly, I called the number back.

“That was very polite, not like you, what d'you want?” I said as Sylvia picked up the phone.

I knew what was coming and it broke my heart.

Sylvia took a deep breath. Then she blurted out:“Thing is I’m off with stress, they’ve moved me to Collington, I’m gutted.

“My doc’s prescribed a heart condition too – all them bloody fried eggs and fags, have you got any jobs going?”

Part of me wanted to answer: “Who could refuse such an impressive offer?”

“No mate, I haven’t," I said. "You know I’m still doing PR these days don’t you? I thought you said PR was a mug's game.”

“Oh yes, sorry about that, it comes to us all I suppose,” Sylvia almost whispered.

“But who’s going to take me on with a heart condition? F******* angina.”

I broke the awkward silence. I felt pathetic.

“Perhaps I’ll have something for you in the future,” I suggested meekly.

“Hang on, I’ve got to turn over a burger,” said Sylvia as a tinny “Ding!” rang out in the background.

“And in seven minutes time I’ll have to do it again. Haven’t got the knack of this healthy eating lark.”

And so as the fat spurted out of Sylvia’s burger until the grill’s timer pinged again, we chatted.

We reminded each other what a joke Ginny Yates was and tutted over the fate of so many other colleagues, off work with stress.

Sure, I’d call her back if I had any work.

I never have.

Comments

[thatollie]

It's a nice story, all the bits are in the right place and the characters are well defined right from the off. One thing, until you mentioned Alan's name I thought he was female. Thankfully it didn't make a difference to how much I liked him.

[Linda]

Hi Ollie - thank you - interesting that you thought he was a woman - perhaps I need to work harder at a man's POV!