Rolling News

First published in From Glasgow to Saturn #35, January 2015

In the living room. Phone to my ear. Hear it ringing though you’ve got it on silent. See the discomfort in your face as it vibrates against your thigh, the twitch of your eye, teeth lightly clenched right there in front of me in LED HD 55 inch. The hard line of your jaw next to the fireplace. The joy of rolling news: I know where you are. I know why you’re not here. It’s there scrolling across the screen.

…AKING NEWS … announcement expected from Downing Street … BREAKIN…

Huw Edwards says, Live outside Downing Street right now is our correspondent Mark Brighting. Mark, have there been any developments?

Of course there hasn’t. But you have to be there, anyway, just in case. They announced there would be an announcement and until then nothing will happen. You can’t say that though, can you? Can’t tell the truth. Can’t say:

As expected, Huw, there are no developments. They are all locked inside with a policeman on the door and they’ll stay there until they are ready to make the announcement. There was some excitement earlier when a car pulled up and the Home Secretary got out and went inside. Unsurprisingly, you could say, but don’t, she said nothing in the three or four seconds between the car and the door. I will however remain on watch because apparently I've got nothing better to do.

Nothing better.

Like going to Rome with me.

Never could tell the truth. It’s what makes you a good correspondent and a shit partner. I hit redial. I catch the jolt in your face as it connects, vibrates in your pocket, though you hide it well. You thought I’d given up. I still have twenty minutes until the taxi comes and the BBC can’t show you speculating wildly for that long. There’s got to be a weather forecast or sports coming up. There always is.

Rings out.

I want to hear you say it. That’s all. Say work is more important. Tell me to go to Rome by myself, that you’ll catch a later flight, meet me there. That it’s not your fault, that you don’t work in Downing Street, you can’t control the news. You’ll be there tomorrow. 

‘Why?’ I’ll ask. ‘Is there no news tomorrow? Is the rest of the world taking a day off? And if they are, don’t the BBC need you to speculate about what they might be doing?’

And you’ll think about the day in 1930 when the BBC said there was no news and played music instead. You can’t help yourself. It’s your favourite anecdote.

Rings out.

In the bedroom I open my suitcase. I need to repack. I need more space. I empty your suitcase on the floor, your neatly folded clothes in a heap. Your scarves, the red one from Morocco, the green one from Cambodia, the blue check one from the Lebanon. The yellow one I bought you in Uruguay. I put it back in your case, quickly fill it with my things. The books will have to wait. I’ll send my sister round for them. The records are yours. Through the flat, phone to my ear, making a mental list. The painting from Singapore. The bowl from Turkey.

A different talking head. You’re off air. Redial. Straight to voicemail. You’ve switched it off.

Maybe it’s just the signal.

Every evening. Weekend. Holiday: ‘Switch it off. Let’s have an hour or two to ourselves.’

 ‘I can’t. I might miss something.’

You’re back on TV when the doorbell goes. The Home Secretary left again without speaking. What does it mean? Huw asks.

We can only speculate.