Tea is my typewriter

When the week’s final edition had been put to bed, it was normal for the editorial floor of the Clydeside News to fall silent as the grave. But today, the office gradually filled with a jovial buzz of conversation. Copy boys carried boxes of wine and poured crisps into bowls, and reporters milled around, leaning on desks or lounging in swivel chairs. By 4pm, plastic cups were filled and the office smelled of cheap warm wine.

Seeing the news editor standing alone, Danny ambled over, smiled and asked “Where is he, then?” 

“Fuck knows, Danny”, said the news editor, and laughed. “Tom comes and goes as he pleases, have you not noticed that? I stopped trying to get him to take orders a long time ago. He just delivers the goods.”

Danny was not yet confident enough in the newsroom to have an opinion, so after a long pause, he opted for “Tom’s quite unorthodox, isn’t he?”

“That’s one word for it, the cantankerous old fucker. He generates his own leads – it’s been years since he’s followed a story that I’ve given him, but he delivers the goods.”

Danny pondered. A few sips of the horrible wine seemed to have given him the confidence to speak to the news editor more freely than he had done before in his first few months in the job. “I didn’t think that was an option, just going off and doing your own stories, instead of bringing them to the morning meeting.”

“It’s NOT”, said the news editor, arching an eyebrow at Danny. “Don’t go getting any ideas, pal. You have a story, you bring it to the morning meeting, you run it past me. Tom Mclaws is not a role model, Danny. You’re doing fine, son. Your stories are good, you’re turning into a safe pair of hands. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t mould yourself on an old shite like Tom, he’s one of a kind. Ah, speak of the devil.”

A round of applause had started and Danny put down the horrible wine and joined in. Tom stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his dirty old sports jacket, looking somewhere between proud and contemptuous. With the side of one hand he rubbed behind his ear as he received the ovation, surveying his colleagues and giving the impression he’d never seen some of them before. He nodded, took a proffered cup of wine, and held it up to silence the applause.

Danny suddenly felt anxious about what was about to happen. All at once, the leaving party felt like a terrible idea.  Whatever Tom was about to say, it was very unlikely to be an expression of kindness and heartfelt gratitude.

Tom waited for silence, like a strict teacher. When it arrived, it took the form of a collective holding of breath, as if everyone had come to the same conclusion – that a leaving party for Tom Maclaws would have been much better if they’d waited until he’d actually left. 

Tom’s voice was gruff but clear. “In the last 40 years, I have served this community. I have seen reporters come and go, editors come and go, and the great and the good of this town come and go, many with a dishonourable discharge prompted by my own handiwork. 

“And year after year, I have won prize after prize for this newspaper.” Tom waved his wine towards the framed front pages and cabinet of trophies across the office. A few of the drunker souls gave enthusiastic applause, but soon realised their solitude and returned to silence. 

“This community, and this publication are all the better for what I’ve done here. So, as I leave for the last time, I can sincerely say” – he raised the plastic cup, poured the wine down his throat without a flinch, and crumpled it in his fist – “fuck the lot of you.”

There was silence. Danny felt rooted to the spot in horror. Then the office erupted. There was applause, cheers, and shouts of “back at you, Tom!”, and roars of laughter. 

Danny turned to the news editor who had tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. When he managed to catch his breath, he squeaked “Oh Tom. Best leaving speech ever.” Then spotting Danny’s bewilderment and shock, he started laughing again, this time waving colleagues over to look at Danny’s face. 

A glamorous senior reporter laughed and gave Danny what was probably intended to be a maternal hug, but Danny’s head was squeezed a little too close to her bosom for his comfort. “Oh Danny”, she laughed, “That’s just Tom! His speech was spot on. Let’s be honest – we’ve been basking in his glory for years. He brings in these brilliant stories – he’s got uncanny skills for someone who’s so bloody objectionable! And in return for great front page stories that sell papers, we let him treat us like shit. Today’s the end of an era, it really is.”

Danny was glad when she let him go, but still felt a bit bewildered. 

—-

When the staff of the editorial floor had collectively disbanded to the pub, Danny made his way across the carpet of plastic cups to the framed front pages that hung behind Tom Mclaws’ desk. 

“Revealed: museum staff take home treasures”

“Back to basics: local Tory’s love triangle”

“Building bribes at dawn: planning chief’s briefcase of bank notes”

“Local filth: community environmentalist unmasked as serial flytipper”

Danny reflected on this tip of an iceberg of brilliant local stories. Danny had grown up reading them – the headline-grabbing side of local news-gathering, holding leaders to account when they failed to practice what they preached (in the case of one man of the cloth a few months ago, quite literally). This was local news at its strongest – giving decision-makers good reason to respect the press, and preventing the overblown and puffed-up from taking liberties with public trust or funds. Front pages like these had been some of the reasons that Danny wanted to be a journalist – building a stronger community, making the town a better place to live. But it was hard to reconcile this public interest journalism with the prickly and solitary misanthrope who’d just insulted his colleagues. It made Danny curious. 

“Like what you see, new boy?”

Tom Mclaws came up behind Danny and put his arm around his shoulder. Danny’s knees almost buckled at the weight of Tom’s arm and the smell of his boozy breath. But he managed, “I’m just admiring your career, here, Tom. You’ve done well.”

“Indeed I have, young Danny, indeed I have. This rag would never have survived without me. Fuck knows what’ll happen now that I’m gone – but so what? I’m done here. Got the pension sorted and I’m off for a dotage of golf and fishing, thank you. What about you, young Danny? What do you want from this shithole?”

Danny looked hard at the grizzled old hack. It’s probably safe enough to be honest, thought Danny – he’s too drunk to remember. And besides, I won’t be working with him again.

“I want to be useful. I want to build a better town.” He admitted. “I love local news. I love how happy folks get when they’re in the paper. I love it when you write a story and things get done as a result – y’know, the little things like the repairs to the community centre roof, or the council finding money for the school trips. I love talking to people and learning about what makes them tick. I love being part of the communication and connection that, well, that makes the world go round.”

One look at Tom’s face and Danny felt a prickle of heat running round his collar and down his back, and his cheeks flushed. Danny had never really before thought of how you would define ‘withering stare’, but he saw one now, close-up, on Tom’s face. 

To Danny’s surprise, Tom said, “Can I buy you a drink, Danny?”

—-

Half way through his first pint, Danny was starting to realise why so many of his colleagues took their contacts to the pub. He seemed to be talking a lot more than usual, and Tom seemed to be interested in what he had to say. They were never more than an arms-length away from one of their newsdesk colleagues here, and Danny was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Lollipop ladies”, Danny said. “They are so helpful. They get all the chat from the school-run mums. There’s one brilliant woman, Agnes, outside St. Cuthberts – talk about having an ear to the ground! You remember that story I did last week about the kids from the karate classes having a fight in the park? Agnes tipped me off on that one after the mums were talking about it on the way to school.”

“Is that right, aye?” Grinned Tom “And did ye shag her?”

Danny laughed and spluttered lager across the table. As objectionable as Tom was, he did get funnier after a few drinks. “Of course not! I bought her a cup of tea. And a bacon roll. I go by her crossing every Thursday morning. I walk to work a different way each day so I can check in with more people.”

“Sounds like a shit-load of work to me”, said Tom, shaking his head and sucking his teeth.

“But it’s not really work!” Danny protested. “It’s listening, and chatting, and being friendly. It’s amazing how much people want to tell you when you want to listen, don’t you think? Listen, here’s my Tuesday routine. I stop by the van on Duffy Street, get my bacon roll and have a chat to Mike. That man serves most of the workies on the building site at the old print works, and the police coming off night shift. He tells me loads because” – Danny paused to feign straightening up his long-removed tie and dusting his lapels – “I am a good listener from a reputable paper, who never shafts him by printing things he doesn’t want printed. In short, I have earned his trust.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “And how many hours of getting yer tits bored off does it take to get each story?”

Danny felt unusually belligerent. “To me, finding a story is like panning for gold. You’ve got to sift through a lot of grit and gravel till you find the speck of gold, yes – but you need to love the grit and gravel, because there’s always so much of it.” 

Danny went on, only fleetingly noticing how the lager had made him so bold as to not only talk to but to argue with the eight-time winner of Local Journalist of the Year. “And you’ve got to be loyal. If you want your contacts to be faithful to you, you’ve got to be kind and you’ve got to be loyal. We’re all people! We all want to communicate and we all want to be seen and heard! Nobody wants to put their trust in someone who breaks their word!”

Tom’s withering stare was on show again. “Well, I’m not buying you another drink, young Danny, you’ll be getting out the kombayas in a minute.”

Danny laughed. “So, how do you treat your contacts then Tom? Because you’re the local news king! Surely you’ve got your ways of keeping people sweet? Or do you just use the old” – he rubbed his thumb and finger together – “cold hard cash?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes.” he said. “I’ve got my ways.”

Danny was properly curious now. There was no way that Tom could get through his career without a big, fat contacts book, full of his sources, the folks he’d wined and dined. Danny thought of his own contacts book, getting plumper and more thumbed each week as he added phone numbers, business cards and assorted scribbled notes about people’s hobbies, holiday destinations, children’s names. Losing that would be job suicide. 

The evening went on, and Danny felt increasingly puzzled. Tom’s redeeming features were few. He was incessantly rude. He never thanked a colleague when another drink appeared in front of him. He frequently wandered off when people were talking to him. His face was a near-permanent condescending smirk. 

It was while Tom was away on one of those unexplained absences that Danny realised how bewildered he felt. How could this man have done so well in local journalism for the last 30 years? If this was the face of success, was Danny actually doing it all wrong? He stared at his pint glass. Rather than face the fear that perhaps he had chosen the wrong profession and he was completely out of his depth, Danny decided it was probably time for him to go home. 

As he put on his jacket, Tom sidled back up to him. “Do you fancy a nightcap, young Danny?”

Danny laughed. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Come on, my flat’s just round the corner.”

Danny raised an eyebrow.

“You cheeky bastard, nothing like that. Listen, I like you, Danny.” He rubbed the side of his hand behind his ear as he spoke. “I mean, you’re a bit of a wee do-gooder, but you’ve got a no-bad news sense, and I reckon that with a wee shove in the right direction and the right contacts, you might be the next king of this shitey wee hill. So, if you come up for a wee glass of a fine single malt, I’ve got something for you.”

Danny’s mind flew to an imagined fat, dog-eared contacts book, held together with tape and overflowing with business cards. 

“All right”, he said, “but just the one. I’m going to the football tomorrow.”

—-

Danny was gasping for breath as he hauled himself up the third flight of stairs. Tom had taken the stairs at a surprising clip, light footed and agile, as Danny admired the ceramic tiling in the close. 

Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen to his brain but it seemed that each consecutive flight had more ornate decoration, and the final set of stairs had been painted brilliant white. As he neared the top, potted plants lined the steps, and when the stair opened on to the final landing, there were flowers, trailing spider plants, assorted geraniums and pretty painted pots leading to Tom’s front door. It was as if a trail of fertility was emanating from the door, which itself was radiant. Stained glass formed two panels to either side of the heavy wooden door, which itself featured a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a paw. The stone floor was inset with mosaic tiles, and above the door was a semicircular panel of stained glass with representations of a fish, a tree and a bird. 

Danny admired the entrance as his heart pounded in his chest. It felt like he was approaching a shrine, as if abundance poured from here. He wondered if this was where Tom might bestow on him a fat contacts book, brimming with abundance, providing the manna of great stories.

The hallway, however, was dimly lit, and there was a faintly unpleasant smell that Danny couldn’t place. He followed Tom’s voice to a kitchen, where the old man was putting cut glass tumblers down on a wooden dining table.

It was a large, airy room, but messy – a testament to Tom’s famous batchelor status. Dirty dishes waited to be washed, empty bottles and cans overflowed the bin. The table was covered in magazines, books, pools coupons and unopened mail.  An old leather armchair and footstool sat beside the window, covered by a pillow and duvet. By the sink was a mug with a toothbrush and toothpaste. A small portable tv sat beside a well-used microwave. It’s as if he’s only got one room, thought Danny – but this is the only flat on this floor. Can this really be how he lives?

“Cleaner comes tomorrow”, explained Tom, “So make as much mess as you like.” He handed Danny a generous measure of whisky.

“So, young Danny”, he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “I think I have something that might be of interest to you. Take off your shoes.”

In his stocking soles and carrying his drink, Danny followed Tom out of the kitchen to the door at the end of the hallway. Tom’s movements had become deliberate and cautious, almost reverential. This is it, thought Danny. I’m going to be granted access to the master’s chamber. He must have a home office, maybe even his own word processor. Danny anticipated a shrine to Tom’s success – awards, more framed front pages, an extensive library – and of course, the contacts book.

Gently turning the door handle, Tom softly called “Hello, ladies, I’m home. Are you? Can I come in?”

Danny stifled a cough as a noxious mixture of rotten fish and excrement hit his nostrils. As the door swung open he saw one of the largest window bays he’d ever seen – five wide sash and case windows with panes stretching from floor ceiling, giving the most incredible view of the town. It would have been a wonderful spot to sip a single malt in a comfortable armchair at the end of a day – but not in this room.

Although an estate agent might have described the room as the stunning showpiece of the property, it was not currently fit for human habitation. A three piece suite had long since seen better days, stained and scratched on every side. The carpets and cushions were covered in a layer of short hairs. All around the floor lay bowls of water and unidentifiable brown substances, and just as many litter trays.

Taking in the full horror of the room, Danny lifted his head to look at Tom but instead found himself face to face with a pair of lantern-green eyes staring at him from a bookcase. He jumped in fright before recognising it as a small black cat, which, having completed its mission of frightening the newcomer, leapt to the floor and walked off. 

Danny began to notice cat after cat after cat. It was like a puzzle in a child’s comic – How Many Cats Can You Spot In This Picture? Gingers, tortoishells and tabbies were all clearly at home in their feline luxury penthouse. 

No other cat showed any interest in the arrival of their visitors. Each continued to wash or scratch or sleep. Danny and Tom might as well have not been there. No shins were rubbed, no ears were offered for scratching. These creatures were self-sufficient to the point of contempt.

But Tom was smiling a soft, admiring smile as he looked around. 

Danny was speechless. After opening and closing his mouth a few times, he finally managed “You’ve got cats, then?”

“Not just any cats, young Danny”, said Tom, himself now bright eyed and animated. From a shelf he took a tin of cat food and set about it with a tin opener. As he tipped the contents into an empty bowl, Danny was reminded of a priest at a font – Tom’s moves were careful and controlled, almost reverential, despite the amount he’d had to drink. As he filled the bowls a couple of cats lifted their heads to watch, but none appeared interested enough to investigate.

Danny took in the scene. A 65 year old man, reverentially taking care of a pride of cats, in the most beautiful room in his home, while he himself appeared to eat and sleep in the kitchen. A 65 year old man known for sticking his finger up at the system was in fact a slave to his pets, who seemed entirely indifferent to him. Well, thought Danny, the evening’s taken an unexpected turn. He downed the malt.

Tom stood beside Danny, smiling benignly as he surveyed the disgusting room. “And now”, he said, “we’ll wait.” He poured them each another whisky.

“What are we waiting for, Tom?”

“We’re waiting for Pheme.”

“What?”

“You need to meet Pheme. She’ll make everything clear.”

Danny felt like he had questions, and as he tried to figure out what they were, the two men waited – standing by the doorway, as there was clearly nowhere for a human to sit without risk. The sun was setting and the lights were going on in the flats across the road. The cats went about their business, coming and going by means of a cat flap in the living room door, and another in the front door. 

“There’s a cat flap in the back door of the building”, Tom explained as they watched a tabby leave. “They come and go as they please. Which of course, is the way of the cat. It’s all on their terms, not ours. You’ll need to remember that, young Danny. They’re not our pets. They owe us nothing. They’re cats.”

After some reflection, Danny tentatively put forward “A bit like you and the newsdesk?”

“Exactly. You’re a smart lad, young Danny. That’s why you’re here.”

“Can I have another drink, please?”

Before long, the front door rattled in a slim, smooth haired, silver cat strode into the room. She ignored Tom and Danny, made her way to a bowl to give it a cursory sniff before springing on to a mauve cushion in the centre of the sofa. 

“That’s Pheme”, said Tom. “Come and meet her.”

Danny crouched beside Tom as he looked at the cat. He tried hard to balance rather than touch any part of his body  to the revolting carpet or the hairy settee. The cat looked at them both with equal disdain.

“Pheme is the third cat in her line who’s lived here. I would say she’s the third cat I’ve owned, but I don’t own her, just like I didn’t own her mother Cleo, or her mother, Poly. Nobody owns a cat. Especially extraordinary creatures like these. It’s passed down the female line.”

“What is?”

“Hold out your hand, Danny. Pheme, this is Danny. He’s the one I was telling you about.”

Danny offered his hand to the cat. Her face was almost contemptuous, but she didn’t flinch or hiss. She sniffed and seemed to nod, ever so slightly.

“She says yes”, Tom grinned “Go on and give her a little scratch behind the ears.”

Danny looked at Tom. “Are you sure she won’t go for me? She doesn’t look too happy.”

“You’re fine.”

Danny shrugged and reached for the cat.

WHOOSH

It was daylight. It was outside. He was walking on grass and birds flew away as he approached. Cars were going to fast and they were far too high up, above his head. There were smells, so many smells, and walls, and suddenly he was on top of the wall, watching birds in the trees from a much better vantage point, but still they flew away. There was a huge house and he looked at it for a long time, watching the post van come up the long drive, the driver deliver a parcel and drive away again. Back on the ground he got closer and closer to the big blue door of the house, sniffing pot plants and watching a ladybird. Then there were a woman’s shoes and a hand reaching out to him, and they were massive, like she was a giant, and her voice said “ah, poose-poose-poose” before he turned away

WHOOSH

Danny fell over backwards, hard onto his back on the disgusting carpet, barely retaining his drink.

“What the fuck was that?”

Tom was grinning. “I KNEW it! I knew she’d trust you! Danny, my boy, this is your future! You are a made man, my boy. Oh, this is marvellous.”

“Did you spike my drink, Tom? Was that crystal meth? Because I just had a hallucination, Tom. Seriously, something really odd just happened.”

“Thank you, Phemes,” said Tom, “I’m going to talk to him now.” 

Tom picked Danny up off the floor and took him back to the kitchen. Phemes sat impassively on her cushion and started to wash.

Danny washed his face in the kitchen sink and had a glass of water. When he turned around, Tom was sitting at the kitchen table smiling beatifically.

Tom began. “Polly, Phemes’ grandmother, came to me when she was a kitten. I’d never liked cats, but she was insistent. I’d come home and she’d be on the doorstep. I fed her and she kept coming back, but she’d go wild if I tried to touch her, hissing and scratching. And then one day, she let me touch her. And that was the first time I experienced it.”

“You’d never touched a cat before?” Tom’s trademark withering stare barely crossed his face. Now he was softer, more relaxed, his crunchy exterior had given way to passion and enthusiasm. Danny felt even more unsettled.

“She wasn’t just any cat. Polly was a muse. She’s a messenger. She’s a four-legged news-gathering machine. She’s a miracle – and so are Cleo and Phemes.”

Slowly the pieces began to fit into place in Danny’s mind. 

“So when I touched – when I – so what was that?”

“She showed you, Danny. She shared her memories with you. Where she’d been this evening.

“A garden, a house with a blue door, a woman with brown shoes…”

Danny thought, like trying to capture a dream just after waking up – the otherness of seeing through someone else’s eyes, the disconnect of vision and recognition, the more he tried to remember the harder it was.

“A garden, a house, or the car park behind the council chambers, or the big bins at the industrial estate, or outside the Masonic hall – all sorts of places where people are getting up to the things they don’t want anyone to know about, when they think nobody’s looking.”

“You’re telling me – your stories, all those stories – your CATS told you about them?”

“Cat, Danny, just the one. Phemes has the gift, but it’s difficult to keep her pals out once you have a cat flap. She invites them all in.”

“So you don’t actually do any work?”

“Haw, I resent that, young Danny. I still investigate, I still have to sift through a lot of dead birds and fights and insects to catch the stories. I still follow it up, do the doorstepping, check the evidence. And I still write. But the girls bring the leads. Polly was my first lead, followed by her daughter, and now her daughter’s daughter.”

Danny felt like he could laugh but he didn’t really know how.  Tom Mclaws, the biggest newshound of them all, owed everything to a cat? And lived in one of the most beautiful properties in the town – where he was merely a keeper of a temple, a slave to the cat?

“So all your stories are… don’t you ever… do you have… any other, any – contacts? Human people?” Danny wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say. 

“I’ve got a few contacts, aye, I do check things out once she’s tipped me off, but nobody I need to keep sweet. Because I’ve always got the truth. People find it strangely disarming, when a journalist knows what they think was a secret.” Tom smirked.

Danny felt a bit sick. “This is cheating. This is like surveillance, Tom. You’re spying.”

“Oh, come on Danny. You know I’m doing this for the public good. God knows how much money I could have made from extortion, knowing what I know. But people need to held to account, that’s why we have newspapers, and awards. I’m doing a public service. Me and the girls, we’re backing up democracy.”

Danny shrugged. Fair enough, this was an unorthodox news gathering mechanism but – illegal? No. Immoral? Probably not. Disappointing, though, he thought, to not get a look at Tom’s contact book.

Tom was smiling when Danny met his gaze. “So, young Danny, what do you say? Are you ready to take over? Fill my shoes? Will you be the new chief tin-opener and litter tray emptier?”

Danny looked blank. “You want to give me your cat?”

Tom laughed. “I could no more give you a cat than give you the moon. Phemes is her own feline, she’ll not do what I ask her. But she let you touch her, and she’s not let anyone else do that before. I’m fairly sure she’s taken to you. So will you take her home with you?”

Tom held up the tumblers of whisky, one eyebrow raising quizzically, smiling at Danny.

Danny thought of the awards and framed front pages on the wall. He thought of his Thursday morning bacon rolls and standing in the rain with Agnes. 

News gathering was a way of life. Maybe it gets in the way of your relationships sometimes, makes you keep antisocial hours, makes people dislike you or think you’re a nosy bastard. But I get to use my own judgement, thought Danny, follow my own nose. I get to meet people and learn about humanity. I’m not a slave to an ungrateful beast. 

Danny looked around at the squalid kitchen and the duvet on the arm chair. Then he took the tumbler and drained it. Putting on his jacket he said “Tom, I really appreciate your offer, I really do. But I’m a dog person.”

And he left.