‘Then you don’t need me. You suss it out and let me know if you want me to follow it up. Get that ol’ story antennae working.’ She smiled and wiggled her fingers on top of her head. It was a continuing joke between them that Andy could smell a story a mile before anyone else had twigged to its potential.
‘I think the show needs a fresh perspective, a new generation to look at it. Do you have big plans for this Saturday evening?’
‘Not big, but plans.’ Veronica had planned to get a pizza and a DVD.
‘Come along, Veronica. Keep me company for a bit. Just join us for the cocktails, milling around and watching the old clips from some of those early programs. You don’t have to stay for the dinner and speeches.’
She knew Andy’s invitation wasn’t that of a lonely older man seeking her company. She was very fond of him as well as respecting him enormously as an experienced journalist and producer. He was wise in handling the sometimes temperamental creative talents working at the network. Andy had been widowed for five years and his
children were scattered around the globe. His marriage had apparently been a very happy one and he’d planned to retire and travel, but after his wife’s illness and death he chose to stay on at work. Veronica socialised with Andy within the context of their work and mutual interests connected with the show, the staff and the station and occasionally she accompanied him to an opening night at the theatre or a movie premiere. But this reunion was a bit out of their normal routine.
‘So what are the clips they show? Like blooper reels, funniest film mistakes?’
Andy chuckled. ‘No, but I wish I knew what happened to some of those. These are just surviving clips from the National Archives of classic early TV dramas . . .
Whiplash, Riptide, Homicide
. And some of the old hands who worked on them are still around.’
‘And movies?’
‘Yeah, they sometimes have film clips. Not the real early stuff – you know Australia made the world’s first fulllength feature film more than a hundred years ago – but these clips will be from films of the 1960s and seventies.’
‘All very nostalgic, I suppose,’ said Veronica politely.
‘For those who worked on them. That’s just a short portion of the evening, twenty minutes or so while we’re having drinks, catching up, before a few presentations and then a long dinner. I’d be interested in your reaction to the clips. There’s always a good story in the Aussie film industry, what we’re making, not making, what we should be making. Sometimes a modern name turns up to present an award, say a few words.’
‘Umm. Let me think about it.’
‘Just come for the drinks, meet a few people. I wouldn’t expect you to sit through dinner with the old farts.’
Andy knew that Veronica had been interested in film making a short while ago when she was with Eddie. They’d
talked about making a documentary one day. Andy didn’t pay much attention to the social life and romances of his staff but as he had a closer working relationship with Veronica and liked her, he was more aware of her personal life. Andy hadn’t been sorry to see Veronica and Eddie split up, though he hated to see her feel so wounded. But Eddie was wrong for Veronica who was loyal and trustworthy to the back teeth, while Eddie wasn’t, so it had been Andy who had pulled strings to get Eddie transferred interstate after the break-up. Not that Veronica knew it. Had Andy’s wife been alive she might have accused him of interfering in Veronica’s life. But he was pleased to see Veronica blossom in her new role with the extra responsibility and the way she managed the staff with grace and firmness. But she didn’t party with the team the way she had before her promotion and now kept her private life to herself, which led to some speculation on occasion. Only Andy knew she spent most evenings alone reading material for work or writing scripts and ideas.
‘Can I let you know in a day or so, Andy?’
‘See what better offers come in? Please yourself. But I want you to think about a story linked to our film industry. Got to be an angle somewhere,’ said Andy.
Finally, Veronica agreed to meet Andy at the City Bowling Club on Saturday evening to spend an hour or so at the Pioneers’ Reunion. She’d had a surprise dinner invitation from her sister, Sue. Sue had asked to make it late-ish, around nine pm, after her children were in bed. As Veronica and her sister both had busy lives they didn’t socialise as much as Veronica would have liked, but she hoped this was not another attempt to line her up with some friends of hers. Veronica had suffered a few painful dinners in restaurants with her well-meaning sister.
Both Sue and Philip, her husband, were high flyers. Sue was a lawyer, working in a firm specialising in
environmental law and Philip was a senior executive in an engineering firm and while both were highly successful, it came at a cost. Veronica found her sister’s lifestyle was one of stress and being constantly exhausted by work and the need to care for her husband and two girls aged four and two. But Veronica enjoyed her sister’s company and since it fitted in neatly with Andy’s invitation, she decided to join him first for an early drink at his nostalgia evening before dinner with Sue and Philip.
At the club she was ushered to the main dining room where a banner was strung across the small stage announcing ‘The Annual TV & Film Pioneers’ Reunion’. The bar was packed with women dressed in cocktail dresses and men in suits. All wore name tags. To one side was a large TV screen where black and white images of old-fashioned television ads were playing. Andy spotted her hovering near the doorway and came towards her.
‘Great you came. You look lovely. So, a big dinner date?’
‘Just dinner at my sister’s house. I don’t see her all that often, we both lead busy, busy lives, so I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Let me get you a glass of wine.’ They headed to the bar, where several people greeted Andy and gave Veronica, in her short black dress, approving looks.
‘This is Alec Blair, a film director friend and Jim Winchester, who is a news editor,’ said Andy. The men shook Veronica’s hand.
‘You must be Andy’s right hand, eh?’
‘We’ve seen some of your stories, Veronica. Good work.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ answered Veronica, quite touched. ‘Andy’s great to work for.’
‘With,’ corrected Andy. ‘I thought she should come along to get a sense of the industry she’s part of and see where it all began.’
‘Times have changed, but a good story, told well, is the core of any show, whether it’s news or drama,’ said Jim. ‘Technology is really the only difference between the old days and now.’
‘I don’t think that film techniques have changed as much as television has,’ commented Alec.
‘Alec directed some of our first TV dramas,’ said Andy. ‘Let’s go and have a look. They’re still running some of the old Artransa ads, then we’ll see a couple of the shows that were made at these studios.’
‘What’s Artransa?’ asked Veronica as they all took their drinks and sat at a table near the TV screen.
‘It was the first big purpose-built studio complex constructed to make TV productions. It was out on the Wakehurst Parkway at the old blinking light at Frenchs Forest.’
‘They made mostly TV ads to begin with, but they were like small movies,’ said Alec. ‘Then we got overseas co-productions and money for drama. Some overseas actors came to Australia to star in those early TV series.’
‘Had to have an OS star, even a third rater. Producers wouldn’t use our top-notch talent. Didn’t think that they would have the drawing power. But they learned, eventually,’ said Andy to Veronica. ‘Have you heard of Peter Graves? He came out to do an Australian “western” and went back to star in the original
Mission Impossible
TV series. Here, take a look at this gem.’
Stippled gum trees were still and silent. Sunlight glittered on the sheen of leaves as if a huge lamp was shining through the lonely bushland setting. Like the crack of a rifle a spindly branch snapped, falling heavily to the ground. No breath, no movement, no man had caused this sudden severing
.
Then, racing through the trees, came six horses pulling
a flimsy mail coach. Perched atop the driver’s seat sat a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a shirt laced up with leather strips, surprisingly immaculate tight moleskin trousers and a bush hat jammed low over his eyes. He lifted a long bull whip and cracked it above the galloping horses
.
Thick bullock-hide straps, which suspended the coach above the large wooden and iron wheels, were designed to cushion the ride over the rough dirt track. But inside the swinging, squeaking, swaying coach, a woman passenger fanned herself looking hot, faint and seasick
.
Then, dramatically, the horses reared and snorted as they were suddenly reined to a shuddering halt. In the middle of the track appeared a dishevelled rider on a strong black horse, a kerchief tied about his face. He aimed a menacing rifle at the coach
.
‘
Stand, driver. Throw down your gun. I am Captain Starlight
.’
‘
I’m Chris Cobb and I carry mail, not gold,’ answered the coach driver in a strong American accent
.
‘
Your weapon.’ The bushranger cocked his rifle, pointing steadily at the coach driver
.
The driver took his pistol from his belt and threw it to the ground
.
As the frightened woman in the coach huddled into a corner of the padded seat, her gentleman companion stuck his head from the window
.
‘
Mr Cobb, what is this? Surely not a hold-up
?’
‘
Afraid so, Mr Harris. This cowardly man prefers not to show his face yet claims to be the famous Captain Starlight
.’
‘
Oh, dear, oh my,’ moaned the woman
.
‘
Tell your passengers to throw out their valuables or I’ll take them myself. And the mail bags, Mr Cobb,’ came the muffled response
.
The masked rider edged his horse closer to the coach’s passenger door so he could see the occupants, his rifle still
aimed at the coach driver. ‘Hand over your valuables. Watch, wallet and your jewellery please, madam. Throw them onto the ground, there
.’
Anxious to appease the bushranger, the portly man threw down his wallet and fumbled with his watch as the woman undid the clasp of the locket around her neck and tearfully handed it over
.
‘
And now the mail bags, Mr Cobb
.’
The handsome man frowned. ‘I have built my reputation by delivering mail and passengers safely and on time,’ he began as he turned to reach for the large sacks tied to the roof of the coach
.
The bushranger was impatient. ‘Just throw them down and you can be safely on your way
.’
But the driver moved swiftly, lifting his long bull whip, snapping it with a flying crack
.
The stinging sharp tail whipped across the bushranger’s face cutting through the cloth of his kerchief and causing a deep cut which began to bleed profusely. Another crack and the whip was wrapped around the bushranger’s shoulders, sending him tumbling from his horse as Christopher Cobb, the dashing American owner of Cobb and Co coaches, leapt down and, snatching his rifle, stood over the now helpless bushranger . .
.
‘The coach driver was Peter Graves?’ asked Veronica. ‘Was that about the gold rush days?’
‘
Whiplash
was the story of Cobb and Co, the coaches that trundled around the bush then. Started by Chris Cobb, an American,’ said Andy.
‘They took a real story and loosely based the series on it. Wasn’t too bad,’ said Jim.
‘I’m told that Peter Graves, who played Chris Cobb, was a nice man but those
Whiplash
scripts he had to work with were abysmal,’ said Andy.
‘That’s because they were written by Yanks who’d never been here. Someone told me that one of the scripts called for a herd of ferocious killer sheep!’ laughed Alec.
‘Ah, now look at this. Who could ever forget Ty Hardin,’ said Jim as the next black and white clip appeared on the screen.
‘Who?’ asked Veronica.
‘Yankee actor called Ty Hardin. We called him Try Harder. He was so keen to come out to Australia and star in a show he put his own money in it. But he never did become a big star,’ said Jim.
‘Rule number one of show business, Veronica. Never use your own money,’ said Alec.
The ocean was calm. Small foam-crested waves brushed against the hull of a sleek white yacht cutting through the waters off the Great Barrier Reef. On the deck stood the tanned, bare-chested skipper, a captain’s white hat with gold trim crammed on his blond hair. His white pants were rolled casually above stylish canvas deck shoes. Lifting his binoculars the sun-baked Californian peered towards the horizon as a shapely brunette in a bikini emerged from below deck
.
‘
Hey, Moss, where’s the island
?’
‘
We’re still some distance away. Just checking for reefs, but I’m wondering about that boat out there. Looks like it could be in trouble
.’
‘
My goodness, it just looks like some sort of canoe.’ She shaded her eyes and squinted
.
He handed her the binoculars. ‘I’ve heard that there are pirates in these waters masquerading as native fishermen in trouble. Keep out of sight. But pass me my gun
.’