Chapter 2
AJ
There are, in my experience, two kinds of people.
People who rinse the sink after making tea.
And people who apparently believe a communal kitchen is an abstract concept that cleans itself through positive thinking.
I stand in the newsroom kitchen and look at the state of the sink.
Somebody has abandoned a mug containing approximately half a centimetre of tea and what appears to be the remains of a digestive. Another person has left a spoon balanced across the edge like they intended to come back and complete the experience later.
The dishwasher is open.
Open.
Not full.
Just open.
Like a warning.
I sigh and turn the tap on.
This isn’t because I enjoy cleaning.
I don’t.
I just don’t understand the logic of creating a system and then ignoring it. If there is a dishwasher and your mug fits inside the dishwasher, there should not be a thrilling middle stage where the mug sits in the sink waiting for somebody else to become involved.
Besides, standing still has never done much for my brain.
Walking helps.
Running helps.
Cleaning, apparently, has joined the list.
Give me a problem and something mildly repetitive and my brain starts behaving itself.
I rinse a mug and slot it into the dishwasher.
Behind me the newsroom hums along in its usual organised chaos.
Phones ring. Somebody laughs. Somebody else is trying to sound sympathetic while clearly typing an email at the same time.
Local news has a particular energy to it.
Everything matters enormously until suddenly it doesn’t and you’re sprinting off to care about something else.
I like it.
I like the pace and the feeling that any random Tuesday might unexpectedly become useful.
My phone lights up on the counter.
I glance down.
LinkedIn.
I nearly ignore it because LinkedIn notifications are usually either people congratulating strangers on promotions or articles about leadership written by men who describe themselves as “visionary”.
Then I stop.
I pick the phone up.
Read it.
Read it again.
Helen Archer liked your post.
I stare.
Not because I’m unfamiliar with the concept of social media.
Just because Helen Archer is Editor-at-Large at the London Herald.
Which is not exactly the sort of person who spends her lunch break liking local fire coverage unless she’s catastrophically bored.
I open the notification.
No mistake.
My post.
The one from yesterday.
The article.
I’d pinned it to my profile with a short caption about local reporting and community impact because apparently I’m one of those people now.
I look at it.
Then, in the name of context and absolutely not curiosity, I click onto her profile.
Her profile says she’s viewed mine before.
Twice.
I immediately decide not to think about that and fail.
I put the phone face down.
Then turn it back over.
No comment.
No message.
Just a like.
Which means absolutely nothing.
Except people do not accidentally like things on LinkedIn. This isn’t Instagram. Nobody’s lying in bed at midnight accidentally appreciating local journalism.
I look at the article again.
Honestly?
It’s good.
Not perfect.
But good.
Strong opening.
Good human angle.
People always underestimate local reporting and then act surprised when local stories travel.
You find one thing that matters to people and suddenly everybody wants to talk about it.
I rinse the sink.
Dry my hands.
My phone lights up again.
Graham
Read your article. Really good.
I stare at the screen.
Because Graham reading one of my articles without being physically handed it is unusual enough to qualify as monumental.
My brother reads the Financial Times and books with titles that sound like airport business lounges.
He’s successful in a way that feels inevitable.
Not flashy.
Just one of those people who quietly turns out to be good at things.
At school, teachers used to ask him what he wanted to study.
They asked me whether football was still going well.
Nobody meant anything by it.
Graham certainly didn’t.
If anything, he’s always been annoyingly supportive.
Still.
It does something to your brain growing up next to somebody who succeeds in such a calm and efficient way.
Me
Did someone send it to you?
His reply comes back almost immediately.
Graham
No. Saw it on LinkedIn. Nice work.
I smile.
That one feels good.
Even Graham read it.
I put my phone down and finish wiping around the sink before stepping back.
Better.
Not because I cleaned.
Because I can think again.
I check LinkedIn once more.
Purely for statistical reasons.
Helen Archer still likes the post.
Excellent.
I slide the phone into my pocket and turn back towards the newsroom feeling irritatingly pleased with myself.
Chloe’s standing in the kitchen doorway holding a mug and looking around with visible suspicion.
Her eyes move slowly across the room.
“…What are you doing?”
I look down at the cloth in my hand and then back at her.
“Cleaning.”
She stares at me for a moment as if she’s trying to work out whether this is a joke.
Then she asks, very carefully, “Why?”
I gesture around the room.
“Because apparently we either work with animals or people who can’t read.”
She follows my finger.
Above the sink is the laminated sign somebody printed six months ago.
PLEASE LOAD YOUR OWN MUG INTO THE DISHWASHER.
There are little pictures and somebody added smiley faces underneath at some point. I’m not convinced it helped.
Chloe looks at the sign, looks at me, then slowly turns to take in the suspiciously tidy kitchen.
Her mouth twitches.
Just as she opens it to say something, the kitchen door swings open.
Ben from Sports walks in.
“Mate. Chloe.”
He gives us both a nod, walks straight to the sink carrying a plate covered in crumbs, abandons it in the middle of the freshly cleaned sink and turns around again.
He gives us a final nod as he struts out of the kitchen again.
Neither of us says anything for a second.
Chloe watches him leave.
Then she looks at me.
I look at the plate, then back at Chloe.
“Animals," she sighs.
“Thank you!”
I take one step towards it.
She immediately says, “No.”
I stop and look at her.
“Marie Louise wants to see you immediately.”
“What about?”
Chloe shrugs. “No idea.”
Then she leaves me alone in the kitchen with Ben’s plate.
For a brief moment I consider putting it in the dishwasher but decide not to tempt the bear. If Marie Louise says immediately, she means five minutes ago.
As I walk across the newsroom, I remind myself not to be ridiculous. Editors call people into offices all the time and most of the time it means absolutely nothing.
Probably.
Still.
The article did well. People engaged.
I’m not expecting applause.
But maybe she’s seen the numbers. Maybe she thinks the angle worked. Maybe she’s got feedback.
Good piece.
Strong angle.
Keep going.
That sort of thing.
Her door is half open so I knock lightly.
Nothing.
I push it open.
Then stop.
Marie Louise is behind her desk with her glasses pushed up into her hair and her phone pressed to her ear.
She glances up when she sees me, lifts one finger to tell me to wait and turns away again.
Her expression tells me absolutely nothing.
Her voice does.
“…No, I understand your concern.”
Marie Louise listens for another few seconds, writes something down and then says, “No, Josh. I understand.”
There’s a pause.
She glances at me.
Then back at whatever she’s written.
“No. I agree.”
Another pause.
“I apologise,” she says firmly.
That catches my attention.
Not because the apology itself means anything.
Just because I can’t remember the last time I heard Marie Louise sound quite that serious.
“I’ll call you back.” Then she hangs up.
For a second she just sits there looking at her notes.
I wait.
Nothing about this feels urgent.
If anything, she looks distracted.
She gestures towards the chair.
“Sit.”
Marie Louise takes her glasses off and sets them on the desk. Then she looks at me for a second in a way I don’t immediately recognise.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
More like she’s deciding where to start.
Then she says, “We’ve had a complaint about the article.”
I swallow hard.
“My article?”
She nods. “The farm fire.”
That surprises me enough that I laugh slightly.
Not because it’s funny.
Just because I’m confused.
People complain all the time. Usually because they disagree with facts or because they expected an article about a road closure to contain more road closure.
But this one?
I frown.
“What about it?”
Marie Louise folds her hands.
“The complaint came from Station Manager Josh Walker at Fellside Fire Station.”
The name means nothing to me.
“He believes the article has an underlying sexist framing.”
For a second, I’m not confused so much as completely unable to put that sentence anywhere useful.
“Sexist?”
Marie Louise nods.
“Yes.”
I sit back slightly. “I didn’t say anything about her not being capable because she’s a woman.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t question whether women should be in charge.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t even make the complaint about her being a woman.”
“No,” Marie Louise says. “But you included a resident saying, ‘Maybe she was following procedure,’ then you identified Philippa Hart as the county’s first female watch manager. You put criticism of her authority next to her gender and left readers to make the connection.”
I don’t answer.
Because for the first time, I can see the two paragraphs sitting beside each other.
And I don’t like how they look.
Until now, I’ve only been reading the article as the person who wrote it.
I know what I meant. I know what I thought I was doing.
I know that the quote about taking charge quicker was there because it captured frustration and uncertainty and because local journalism lives in those moments where ordinary people try to understand things they weren’t trained to understand.
But I also know I put that quote there.
And then I put her underneath it.
And then I added the line about being the first female watch manager because it felt relevant and interesting and honestly, at the time, I thought I was giving her credit.
I look at the paper again.
The paragraphs suddenly feel much closer together than they did yesterday.
I sit back.
“But that wasn’t my intention.”
Marie Louise nods straight away.
“I get it.”
I wait for the but.
“That doesn’t make it disappear.”
I look away.
There’s a strange sort of embarrassment creeping in now. Not the dramatic kind where somebody catches you doing something terrible. Worse.
The sort where you realise you’ve done something stupid while trying to do something clever.
I rub a hand over my jaw.
“I genuinely didn’t think—"
I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence.
I didn’t think what?
That people would read it differently?
That women might experience stories differently?
That words next to each other become meaning?
Marie Louise waits.
“I thought I was being fair.”
She nods once. “I don't doubt that.” Then she leans back in her chair and lets out a breath. “This one’s on me as well.”
She gestures at the paper.
“I approved it for print.” She shrugs. “I should have challenged the structure.”
I frown.
“I saw the criticism and I saw the detail about her being the first woman and I didn’t stop to think what those things were doing once they sat next to each other.” She looks at me. “I should have.”
She taps the article.
“You’re not a bad journalist, AJ.”
I look at her.
“But you missed something important,” she says. “So we learn from it, and we make sure the next piece is better.”
I stare at the page again.
That annoyingly doesn’t make me feel better.
I think about this morning.
Helen Archer.
LinkedIn.
Graham texting.
The article doing well.
The tiny, embarrassing part of me that walked over here thinking maybe somebody had noticed.
Now I feel like somebody noticed and I wish they hadn’t.