Fiona Ritchie Walker
After the paper went to bed
the boys began gathering, Friday afternoon,
the weekend brewing, beers carried up
past the front office, open newsroom door,
to the small space upstairs, a storeroom really,
the projector unpacked, plugged in
and one by one, from editor to office junior,
their typewriters grew silent, cigarette packs
and lighters put in pockets, coins jangling,
a quick see-ya lay-ta to the new girl left
with the weekly filing, manning the phones.
That first Friday on the payroll, her wanting
to know where the rest of the reporters
were going, asking Ray, the only one left
at his desk, who scratched his toupee,
smiled: lad’s stuff, but I’m too old for that.
The muffled sound of drummed feet,
drunken cheers, whistling, get, them, off,
her posh teenage voice when answering
the phones, no not available, out on a job
but she could take a message
until the one that wouldn’t wait,
the woman’s voice, weary: listen
love, I know about the blue movies,
he was crowing about how with you starting
there’s no rota needed to stay downstairs,
but you can tell him from me
a Friday night shag is off unless
he’s sober enough to buy me
my Blue Nun and Virginia Slims
when he finally staggers home.