Free Carnival Sky by Owen Marshall

distracted by the pressures of the job that not long ago had been his. ‘So why are you in?’ she said.
    ‘Couldn’t keep away from you.’
    ‘Come to see what sort of a mess we’re making?’
    ‘A chat with Chris, actually. He probably thinks I’m bored silly.’
    ‘And are you?’
    ‘Not at all. I’ll head off overseas for a while.’
    ‘Good on you,’ said Raewyn. They talked for a bit about places each had been to, or wanted to visit, then Sheff went out, knowing how busy she was. He’d never seen her play badminton, but knew she was a bit of a star. He imagined her on the court, compact and nimble, leaping for a high shot with her racquet arm extended, pale, but muscular. There had been boyfriends, but no regular partner as far as he knew. Maybe she was too ambitious and independent to wish to be tied to any one man. Maybe she was disappointed with those on offer. He gave himself some small credit for not offering her advice concerning her new responsibility, or seeking favour by mentioning that he’d suggested her for the promotion. He had suffered people who couldn’t pass the baton without unsolicited instruction as to its use.
    As he went back through the reporters’ room Sheff was surprised, after several weeks away, how hot it was, and Chris’s office was little better. How could he have put up with the fug of the place for years without noticing?
    ‘Good to see you,’ said Chris. ‘Been up to much?’ He pushed back in his chair to show that he wished to give Sheff full attention.
    ‘Bugger-all, and that’s the joy of it. Reading, watching sport on SKY, I’ve even ventured out armed into the section. I’ve discovered plants and paving I never knew existed. And I’ve taken some hidings on the squash court, but improved nevertheless.’
    ‘You’re looking okay. What’s top of the list in Europe?’
    ‘France and Italy certainly, maybe Scandinavia, and I’m thinking of other places. With the cost and time of getting over there, it’s no use going for less than five or six weeks.’
    ‘It won’t be cheap, though, will it?’ said Chris.
    Money. That’s what he wanted to talk about. He had an offer for Sheff to send back some articles for the paper. Travel impressions, contrasts with home, whimsical characters: he would leave choices up to him. Not so many pieces that Sheff would feel his holiday imperilled, but enough to bring in some cash if the need was there. Chris made no big thing of it, but Sheff knew there wasn’t a large budget for freelance work; the proprietors expected the staff to provide the paper’s content. ‘I can’t promise to publish everything,’ said Chris. ‘And not a lot of boring stuff about economics and politics, for God’s sake.’
    ‘So something out of character?’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Chris.
    ‘I might think of something right away. I’ve just had a repair bill of 750 bucks for the car.’ Sheff’s tone was light-hearted, his comment more a criticism of the mercenary nature of all occupations except journalism, than an admission of hardship.
    ‘Bummer,’ said Chris. ‘Well, why not? If you come up with something catchy I’m happy to look at it. You know that.’ It was an expressionof goodwill that Sheff appreciated, although he showed it only in the strength of his handshake when they parted later. He wondered, however, about Chris’s private opinion of the choice he’d made. The editor, at a morning meeting with Raewyn and Wayne, might say he wondered what had got into Sheff, why the hell he felt he had to resign, and that things seemed to be unravelling in his life. Each of them might give a summation of his motivations, his personality and his future. Together they might casually agree he deserved better than he’d received, or they might be more critical.
    On Sheff’s way back through the reporters’ room he stopped to talk to former colleagues. People were friendly, but he knew that for most he was no longer of significance, no