“They treat us like fucking mushrooms,” Ed, the senior reporter, spat, as we waited for the kettle to boil. “Keeping us in the dark about everything and feeding us shite.”
We were confident today’s meeting wasn’t going to include news of bonuses being reinstated. We were also confident our lack of confidence about whether or not we’d even have jobs this time next week was well-placed. Really all that was left was to find out what, specifically, the bad news was. That was what this 10.30am meeting was about, and we were down to about five minutes before we expected Arnold, the MD, to arrive and reveal all.
“Happy birthday to me,” I added, glumly. “It’s bad enough having to spend my birthday in this crappy newsroom, but having this meeting with Arnie really takes the biscuit.”
“Speaking of,” Ruby, the sports reporter, piped up, “do we have any biscuits, given the crap day that’s in it?”
“Nope,” Ed replied. “Mushrooms don’t eat biscuits.”
“Calm down,” I said, spooning coffee from the industrial-sized tin of Maxwell House, which we all hated but drank about a gallon of each day in work regardless, into three chipped white mugs with Knockrinny Chronicle printed on the side - a throwback from the good days when we were awash with corporate branding. “Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.”
“Make sure you hold on tight to that mug,” Ruby quipped. “If your grip on it is anything like your grip on reality right now I’ve a feeling you’ve coffee-soaked clothes and a broken mug in your near future.”
Disappointing coffee made, we all trooped back to our desks and awaited our fate.
“He’s here!,” Ruby, who sat closer to the stairs and in addition had a keen sense of hearing, squeaked.
As Arnold climbed the stairs a sense of doom settled on us. This was it.
“Hi folks,” a chipper Arnold began as his head popped into view, followed by his fancy suit, coffee and shoes. Almost as if we’d practised we chorused “hi” back in a wary monotone, focusing on our suddenly attention-worthy coffees.
“Guys, I know you’re all uncertain about what’s going on, so I’m going to press straight on,” Arnold began, in that faux-concerned tone we’d come to recognise.
“As you know, right now is a very difficult time for Murtagh Media,” he continued, pulling up a chair in a manner that suggested we were about to start a friendly book club meeting instead of find out what was to happen to our fledgling careers.
“We all know that the bottom fell right out of the economy last year, and while the group is still afloat, changes are necessary to ensure that remains the case into the future,” he continued.
“Certainly,” he admitted, “I have to deliver some bad news today. But let me tell you it’s not as bad as it could have been. Not by half.”
“Focus, Lucy,” I silently coached myself, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat.
“Fabian Murtagh asked me to close the Knockrinny Chronicle,” Arnold said baldly, before taking a deep swig of his takeaway coffee.
“Don’t think about it,” I told myself, trying to ignore the tears I could feel behind my eyes. “Think happy thoughts. You can cry all you want later, but don’t let him see you breaking down now.” I couldn’t look around to see how Ed and Ruby were dealing with the chat, but judging by the atmosphere in the room I was pretty sure they were doing much the same as me.
“However I implored him not to go down that road,” Arnold continued, unaware or perhaps uncomfortable with the emotion that had entered the room, “and the good news is that I have six months to prove to him that closing is not the way forward. However, saving this newspaper means having to take some actions that are, shall we say, unpalatable.”
Eyes still averted, I concentrated on getting my mug to my mouth and back to the table again without being scuppered by shaking hands that even Hyacinth Bucket’s neighbour Elizabeth would pity.
“I’m not going to drag this out,” Arnold said. “Let me spell out in clear terms where we go from here. The Knockrinny Chronicle is at present a paid-for weekly title. Going forward it will make the transition to becoming a free title. As a result advertising revenues should increase, lighting the way to a much stronger future for the title.
“However, the bad news - and I must underline how difficult it is for me to say this - the bad news is that in order to do all we can to ensure the survival of the Knockrinny Chronicle, cost savings must be made. To that end, it’s been decided to cut reporter numbers from three to just one, who will relocate to work from the main Inch Echo office.
“I know this is hard, and it means two of you losing jobs in an uncertain market. I want you to know that I rate every one of you as journalists, and so rather than choose who should stay I’m going to leave to let you discuss this between yourselves and with your friends and families. I will accept applications for the one remaining Knockrinny Chronicle post up until Monday week, and the new conditions will be put in place one month from now.”
Binning the remainder of his coffee, which would no doubt be put down as an expense anyway, Arnold trotted down the stairs, leaving us drowning in a morose silence.
“Oh fuck,” Ruby whispered.
I began to laugh in spite of, or probably because of, the curveball we’d just been thrown.
“Come on,” Ed said, adding the only sensible thing I’d heard all morning. “We’re going for a proper drink.”
No comments:
Post a Comment