Page 57 of The Woodcarver's Model
“Mr Marshall, and extend our deepest apologies explaining the error and what we can, and can’t do about it at this stage.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Look, I don’t want to step on any toes, but if I may make a suggestion?”
“Which is…” Cedric said with some hesitation in his voice.
“Kyle is an excellent photographer.”
“The photo was a good shot, as I recall.”
“He just needs experience,” Rob explained. “Perhaps you could contract him for a local shoot when the opportunity arises. He’s a natural and, with his lack of professional credits, you could get him for a song. It’s a win-win situation.”
“Well, I’ll give that some consideration.” Cedric said.
Rob said, “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“No, not at all,” Cedric replied.
Rob continued, “Now, as for my other challenge. You seem to have edited the piece in such a way as to change the whole point of it.”
“The point of the article was to be a puff piece on an unknown island in two thousand words. What you provided me with was a well-written political diatribe of thirty-five hundred words. I simply edited it for size. For the story to maintain any coherence, I had no choice but to lose the eco-politics.”
“But—”
“Mr Hanson, there are no buts in the publishing business. If we don’t give the readers what they want, they will not buy, and what they want is to be inspired, not made to feel guilty.”
“But don’t you have a responsibility to the writer?”
“I counter with this—doesn’t the writer have a responsibility to read their contract?”
With this Cedric turned and opened his filing cabinet drawer. “Marsh Island,” he continued to preach as he searched through his files, “is now old news to my readers. They are consumers who gobble up lightweight fluff disguised as learned prose. The sooner you realise that the pap you write is the junk food of the literary world, the better. It’s consumed one moment and shit out the next, soon to be forgotten as they move on to something new.”
In the few moments it took Cedric to locate and extract the contract, Rob reached over and stole the letter Cedric had been trying to hide.
“As you can see, Mr Hanson,” Cedric said, handing Rob his contract, “you have agreed to have the piece edited for length…at the editor’s discretion…as you would have known had you read your contract. Something I am sure your agent would have recommended. And to show how much I appreciate your talents, I will pay you in full in spite of your kind offer to give it to us for free. I’ll write you a cheque right now.” As Cedric rooted through the chaos of his desk, looking for his cheque book, which he extracted from a pile of papers, he continued to speak as he hastily scribbled in the details on a blank cheque. “Now, any attempt to sabotage the development at this point is too little, too late. The cogs are already turning quickly on that project.” He tore the cheque from the book and handed it to Rob. “There. Now, be a good boy, take the money and get the fuck out of my office.”
There was nothing he could come up with to fight the facts. But that wasn’t why he’d paid Cedric a visit.
Rob left the office and noticed Brenda was still not at her post. Either she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her or she’d gotten fed up working for that asshole and abandoned ship. When Rob reached the street, he pulled his phone from his pocket and switched off the record feature, then glanced at the paper he’d liberated from Cedric’s desk. Rob smiled. He’d come to Cedric’s office with the feeble hope that he would catch him saying something more incriminating than an insulting remark about the intelligence of his readership. He’d walked out with something far better. He put the letter back into his jacket pocket. The satisfying crackle of folded paper reassured him that he still had a fighting chance.
Rob reached his hotel room, opened his computer and began to write.
A time comes to each and every one of us when we are called upon to take a stance against an injustice, when we are asked to take up arms against a tyranny which threatens the soul of what we hold dear to us.
This was to be his manifesto to save Marsh Island and to prove himself to the man he had fallen in love with.
Chapter Nineteen
Ricky turned up the dirt and gravel road.
“Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to go?”
Frank looked at him. “What did I ever do to deserve you? Oh yeah, you’re the boss’ son.”
Ricky wasn’t used to off-road driving. Country roads like the one to Tofino were rough enough for him.
“It’s not even really a road,” Ricky muttered.
“Will you just drive?” Frank sighed. The other two in the back said nothing.
