Page 4 of The Cottage in the Highlands

“I had been thinking about it before,” I carried on, fighting to sound positive. “We could have a few more competitions and get some of the local businesses on board. That could boost the paper’s revenue.”

Frances sniffed louder and didn’t say anything.

“Or we could have a feature such as the Silver Ness Reader of The Week. Highlight a local who’s done a lot for the community…” My voice tailed off at Doug’s distinct lack of enthusiasm for my ideas.

“Don’t you think I’ve been driving myself round the bend recently, trying to come up with counter arguments against this? I’ve looked at our advertising revenue, possible feature ideas…” Doug ruffled up his greying hair and left it sitting on top of his head like a wild, petrified animal. “I’ve been pushing poor Cheryl to the limit at home, doing nothing else.”

I slumped in my desk chair. “So, it’s definite then?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

I glanced at my PC screen, not seeing the text flickering on there. The words were misting over through a haze of gathering tears.

“And what does this mean for the three of us?”

My boss’s sullen expression avoided mine for a moment. “HR have said I can take retirement now.”

I swallowed. “And what does all this mean for Frances and me?”

Frances squirmed in her chair. She couldn’t bring herself to look across at me. “Doug said they’ve offered me a part-time reporter post on the new title.”

“Right. Ok. That’s great.”

“It’s not perfect,” she admitted, “but it’s something.”

There followed a heavy silence.

“And me?” I croaked, my apprehension rising like the tide outside. “What about me?”

Doug looked as if someone were standing on his toes. The words tumbled out of his mouth in one long, apologetic rush. “I’m so sorry, Leonie. I really am. I pushed to have you taken on at the revamped title or at another of our sister publications. I even asked if you could be taken on at another of our papers on a part-time basis, but they kept chucking falling circulation figures and cutbacks at me…”

You’re out of a job, hissed a voice in my head. That’s what that means.

Icy fingers gripped me.

Doug continued to talk. He was saying something about a decision to retain the existing quota of staff on the Drummond title but I was fighting to process any of it. It was just a jumble of sentences he was talking, which all led to the same awful conclusion. I was about to be made redundant.

My stunned eyes scanned our modest newsroom, of which I was so fond, despite it needing a fresh lick of paint. He may as well have been reciting his weekly shopping list for all the attention I was able to pay.

“But nobody knows their own area like a local reporter,” I croaked. “I was born in Silver Ness. I grew up here…”

“I’ve been pointing all that out,” insisted Doug. “I’ve stressed what a great journalist you are. How embedded you are here in the community and what solid contacts you have—”

Frances jerked up her head. Her flapper-style bob swung onto her cheeks. She cut him off mid-flow. “Wait a minute. How long have you known about all this, Doug?”

Doug blanched.

Frances shifted forward in her chair. “Well?”

He looked like he wanted to slither away under the door. “I’ve done my best to make them reconsider…”

So, he’d known this might be a possibility? He’d known that the future of The Silver Ness News was at risk?

Frances and I swapped electrified looks. “Why didn’t you talk about all this before?” I managed, unable to conceal my accusatory tone.

Doug looked wretched as it was, without me piling on the guilt. Nonetheless, why, if he had known about what was to happen, hadn’t he told Frances and me? Why hadn’t he warned us? He was often calling us The Three Musketeers, for pity’s sake!

Could we form a united front together to fight this? To make management reconsider?