that was almost beautiful in its committed desperation. Snow floated in the dark sky and lay gleaming on the branches of fir trees. The wolves and deer were part of an elegant yet ferocious ballet of life and death. Sheff enjoyed the passing thought that Wickham’s mutt would not survive a week in such an environment, would be torn to pieces by those feral cousins, its black hide shredded like trouser material. He dreamt that night of clean winds, forests and elemental forces, and woke with all of it receding like a mist before the sun.
CHARLOTTE HATED BEING IMPRISONED IN THE COT,
would rattle the cage and shriek. If no one came she would settle to gnawing at the top rail. Sometimes when Sheff looked in covertly, she was there, a little beaver, using her front teeth, all she had, to get through the paint and into the wood. He was concerned, but Lucy said it was special baby-proof paint with no toxicity at all. Afterwards he could still run his fingers over the bare patch, and feel the indentations that were the sign of their child’s industrious fury.
CHAPTER SIX
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON he wore his best trousers, and met with the other McInnes award judges at Annabel’s apartment in a low-rise complex in Mount Eden, looking out to the park. Before he’d married, Sheff used to jog in the park in the evenings several times a week, and he was reminded of that and his present lack of fitness. Annabel he’d met several times at functions: for fourteen months they had the same employer, though her expertise was management rather than front-line journalism. She had a soft, slightly spreading body that she kept contained in stylish business clothes, and something of an Australian accent she’d picked up while working for several years in Sydney. She was no mug, despite her obliging manner.
Gordy Howell’s plane was delayed and he arrived rather late for the meeting. Sheff judged him to be about his own age. Gordy was short, but with the large, even-featured and benevolent face of an academic accustomed to being paid attention. A face close-shaven and with a slight glisten of lotion.
The meeting was a professional situation familiar to all three, and they showed a polite deference to one other’s views in the initial discussion. Sheff could see his colleagues had done their homework, and their shortlist candidates were much as his own. Annabel had checked the list of previous winners, and was concerned with thegender and ethnic imbalance; Gordy talked of the ‘wider implications’ of a selection. ‘What message will we be sending the industry?’ he asked. ‘We need to keep in mind that it’s a banner award for journalism.’
‘Just the best piece of investigative writing will do it for me,’ said Sheff.
He believed it, but knew he would probably betray the standard. Robert Malcolm’s articles were superior, but Sheff was open to argument that would justify passing him over. So it must be at even the highest levels of selection, he supposed, selfish and venial considerations disguised as judicious decisions. Popes and tennis club chairmen alike chosen by convocations motivated by self-interest and prejudice rather than the merits of the candidates. ‘I do find occasionally a certain complacency in Robert’s stuff,’ Sheff heard himself saying. ‘There’s a pervasive tone almost of self-congratulation, but the intelligence is there. No doubt about that.’ It was an ambiguous floater to sound out his companions without committing himself.
‘All else being equal,’ said Gordy, ‘I consider it quite legitimate to bear in mind the overall body of work as well as the specific articles for which candidates have been selected.’
‘And there’s always the danger of being influenced by the status, or lack thereof, of the medium in which the material appears,’ said Annabel. ‘If the best stuff is in a women’s fitness magazine, are we brave enough to say so?’
‘Anyway,’ said Gordy, ‘can we agree
CHARLOTTE HATED BEING IMPRISONED IN THE COT,
would rattle the cage and shriek. If no one came she would settle to gnawing at the top rail. Sometimes when Sheff looked in covertly, she was there, a little beaver, using her front teeth, all she had, to get through the paint and into the wood. He was concerned, but Lucy said it was special baby-proof paint with no toxicity at all. Afterwards he could still run his fingers over the bare patch, and feel the indentations that were the sign of their child’s industrious fury.
CHAPTER SIX
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON he wore his best trousers, and met with the other McInnes award judges at Annabel’s apartment in a low-rise complex in Mount Eden, looking out to the park. Before he’d married, Sheff used to jog in the park in the evenings several times a week, and he was reminded of that and his present lack of fitness. Annabel he’d met several times at functions: for fourteen months they had the same employer, though her expertise was management rather than front-line journalism. She had a soft, slightly spreading body that she kept contained in stylish business clothes, and something of an Australian accent she’d picked up while working for several years in Sydney. She was no mug, despite her obliging manner.
Gordy Howell’s plane was delayed and he arrived rather late for the meeting. Sheff judged him to be about his own age. Gordy was short, but with the large, even-featured and benevolent face of an academic accustomed to being paid attention. A face close-shaven and with a slight glisten of lotion.
The meeting was a professional situation familiar to all three, and they showed a polite deference to one other’s views in the initial discussion. Sheff could see his colleagues had done their homework, and their shortlist candidates were much as his own. Annabel had checked the list of previous winners, and was concerned with thegender and ethnic imbalance; Gordy talked of the ‘wider implications’ of a selection. ‘What message will we be sending the industry?’ he asked. ‘We need to keep in mind that it’s a banner award for journalism.’
‘Just the best piece of investigative writing will do it for me,’ said Sheff.
He believed it, but knew he would probably betray the standard. Robert Malcolm’s articles were superior, but Sheff was open to argument that would justify passing him over. So it must be at even the highest levels of selection, he supposed, selfish and venial considerations disguised as judicious decisions. Popes and tennis club chairmen alike chosen by convocations motivated by self-interest and prejudice rather than the merits of the candidates. ‘I do find occasionally a certain complacency in Robert’s stuff,’ Sheff heard himself saying. ‘There’s a pervasive tone almost of self-congratulation, but the intelligence is there. No doubt about that.’ It was an ambiguous floater to sound out his companions without committing himself.
‘All else being equal,’ said Gordy, ‘I consider it quite legitimate to bear in mind the overall body of work as well as the specific articles for which candidates have been selected.’
‘And there’s always the danger of being influenced by the status, or lack thereof, of the medium in which the material appears,’ said Annabel. ‘If the best stuff is in a women’s fitness magazine, are we brave enough to say so?’
‘Anyway,’ said Gordy, ‘can we agree
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