Broadchurch: The Letter: A Series Two Original Short Story by Erin Kelly, Chris Chibnall Page A
Authors: Erin Kelly, Chris Chibnall
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reputation as an old fool. She closes down the document; there’s only one printer here.
‘Olly’s getting coffees,’ says Lucy. ‘What’ve you got for me today, Mags?’
‘Same as yesterday,’ Maggie says, pulling up a half-completed spreadsheet on Lucy’s screen. ‘Only this time I’d like you to finish the job. You’ve got until about four o’clock to fill the classified pages from these businesses.’
‘Yes, sir ,’ says Lucy, winking.
Maggie turns to her own to-do list, shorthand curlicues on an A4 pad. They’re as prepared for tomorrow’s trial as they can be. They’re building profiles of the legal teams. They’ve stockpiled interviews with local people. This will be Olly’s first major trial and she’s been coaching him in the ethics of court reporting. Increasingly she feels that her legacy is not the words she’s left on the pages over the years but what she can teach Olly. If he’s willing to learn. It’s a sobering thought that Olly is her second-in-command; if she were to go, who would the news group draft in as her replacement? Would they really entrust the newspaper to an over-ambitious kid and his car-crash of a mother? Keeping the paper’s integrity is perhaps the strongest grounds of all for Maggie to stay, and her resolve wavers for a second. But fuck it. Her employers aren’t showing her any loyalty. Why should she stand by them? She pictures her resignation letter sliding out of the printer. It could be on Rory Costello’s desk by the morning.
Lucy’s already hit the phones, reading awkwardly from the sales script that Maggie’s laid out. She sounds about as confident and convincing as a six-year-old trying to read Tolstoy.
The other line rings and Maggie picks up. ‘ Broadchurch Echo .’
‘Ah, the organ-grinder herself,’ says a voice she recognises. Former pilot Roger Wilson has devoted his retirement to petty complaints, anything from speed bumps to the King’s Arms letting people take their glasses outside in the summer. He calls at least twice a month with what he thinks is a scoop. He’s never onto anything but they have learned that it’s quicker to humour him than to fob him off.
‘They’ve put tenants in the Crown Farm cottage and they’re parking across the entrance to Crown Lane.’ She can hear him breathing as he waits for her to divine the importance of the situation. ‘They’re blocking the entrance to the public footpath, so I’ve got ramblers and all sorts hacking across the back of my land. It’s not so much for my own benefit but they’re forcing innocent people to trespass.’
‘Isn’t this something you should take up with the council?’ asks Maggie wearily.
‘Believe me, I have. I’ve usually got Jan Barnsley’s ear, but she’s gone quiet on me on this one.’ Maggie doesn’t need to jot down the name. Jan Barnsley is a right-wing councillor who has built her career pandering to the prejudices of a vocal handful of elderly voters. Her latest crusade is the closure of the Cliffside drug rehabilitation centre: she doesn’t want addicts scaring away the tourists. ‘It never hurts to get the local rag on board too, does it? Belt and braces, and all that.’ Maggie doodles Crown Farm on her notepad while Roger drones on. She knows he won’t let a little thing like the biggest story Broadchurch has ever seen stop him bombarding them with calls. As she hangs up, Olly comes in, balancing a cardboard tray of takeout coffees.
‘I just got an email from Karen White,’ says Olly as Maggie takes the lid off her coffee to check it hasn’t got froth on it.
‘Your little friend from the Daily Herald ,’ she remembers, as Lucy purses her lips. ‘Will we be seeing her in court tomorrow?’
Olly sets his coffee down on the desk. ‘Nah, she’s in Dubai. Day after the Herald made her redundant, right, she walked into a job as head of content for one of the big newswires out in the Gulf. Sixty grand a year, tax-free.’
‘Sixty
‘Olly’s getting coffees,’ says Lucy. ‘What’ve you got for me today, Mags?’
‘Same as yesterday,’ Maggie says, pulling up a half-completed spreadsheet on Lucy’s screen. ‘Only this time I’d like you to finish the job. You’ve got until about four o’clock to fill the classified pages from these businesses.’
‘Yes, sir ,’ says Lucy, winking.
Maggie turns to her own to-do list, shorthand curlicues on an A4 pad. They’re as prepared for tomorrow’s trial as they can be. They’re building profiles of the legal teams. They’ve stockpiled interviews with local people. This will be Olly’s first major trial and she’s been coaching him in the ethics of court reporting. Increasingly she feels that her legacy is not the words she’s left on the pages over the years but what she can teach Olly. If he’s willing to learn. It’s a sobering thought that Olly is her second-in-command; if she were to go, who would the news group draft in as her replacement? Would they really entrust the newspaper to an over-ambitious kid and his car-crash of a mother? Keeping the paper’s integrity is perhaps the strongest grounds of all for Maggie to stay, and her resolve wavers for a second. But fuck it. Her employers aren’t showing her any loyalty. Why should she stand by them? She pictures her resignation letter sliding out of the printer. It could be on Rory Costello’s desk by the morning.
Lucy’s already hit the phones, reading awkwardly from the sales script that Maggie’s laid out. She sounds about as confident and convincing as a six-year-old trying to read Tolstoy.
The other line rings and Maggie picks up. ‘ Broadchurch Echo .’
‘Ah, the organ-grinder herself,’ says a voice she recognises. Former pilot Roger Wilson has devoted his retirement to petty complaints, anything from speed bumps to the King’s Arms letting people take their glasses outside in the summer. He calls at least twice a month with what he thinks is a scoop. He’s never onto anything but they have learned that it’s quicker to humour him than to fob him off.
‘They’ve put tenants in the Crown Farm cottage and they’re parking across the entrance to Crown Lane.’ She can hear him breathing as he waits for her to divine the importance of the situation. ‘They’re blocking the entrance to the public footpath, so I’ve got ramblers and all sorts hacking across the back of my land. It’s not so much for my own benefit but they’re forcing innocent people to trespass.’
‘Isn’t this something you should take up with the council?’ asks Maggie wearily.
‘Believe me, I have. I’ve usually got Jan Barnsley’s ear, but she’s gone quiet on me on this one.’ Maggie doesn’t need to jot down the name. Jan Barnsley is a right-wing councillor who has built her career pandering to the prejudices of a vocal handful of elderly voters. Her latest crusade is the closure of the Cliffside drug rehabilitation centre: she doesn’t want addicts scaring away the tourists. ‘It never hurts to get the local rag on board too, does it? Belt and braces, and all that.’ Maggie doodles Crown Farm on her notepad while Roger drones on. She knows he won’t let a little thing like the biggest story Broadchurch has ever seen stop him bombarding them with calls. As she hangs up, Olly comes in, balancing a cardboard tray of takeout coffees.
‘I just got an email from Karen White,’ says Olly as Maggie takes the lid off her coffee to check it hasn’t got froth on it.
‘Your little friend from the Daily Herald ,’ she remembers, as Lucy purses her lips. ‘Will we be seeing her in court tomorrow?’
Olly sets his coffee down on the desk. ‘Nah, she’s in Dubai. Day after the Herald made her redundant, right, she walked into a job as head of content for one of the big newswires out in the Gulf. Sixty grand a year, tax-free.’
‘Sixty
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