Cherrington Triumphs

Roland read the in-depth interview with Sammy Henderson and the material was 90% new.

New was the fact that Sammy's father had been the grave-digger at the churchyard before Sammy succeeded him. That was in the days before the arrival of small mechanical diggers. Sammy recalled when he was eleven, the oldest of eight children, his mother began crying one night, saying their father must had decided to run away to sea to leave his family responsibilities behind him because he'd failed to come home for his dinner.

Two hours later Sammy and oldest sister went out with a lamp and searched the church and grounds. They found their father asleep at the bottom of a collapsed grave, with his arms pinned under his back by the cave-in. He awoke and said, "It's about time someone came to find me. Has your mother saved my dinner?"

New was the fact that Sammy had wanted to become a village policeman but he was unable to qualify before he was so short and the fact he had a record of petty crimes as long as his arm, none of which landed him before the court. They included peering into windows to watch women dressing/undressing, stealing meat for his family, raiding orchards for the family and multiple occasions for being caught riding his bicycle drunk. According to Sammy, Senior-Sergeant thought all those penalties rated no more than a kick in the arse. "And the bastard delivered those kicks wearing his boots."

New was the fact that two of his sisters went through university on the scholarships they'd won and his younger brother was Richard Henderson, who'd retired as one of Great Britain's leading steeplechase riders.

New was over the years he'd found three people who'd committed suicide on the grounds of the church and thirty years ago he'd been detained for questioning when a gold chalice had been stolen from the church but he was released when an elderly woman marched into the police station with the missing treasure and said her mentally retarded son had decided to take it home to drink his Milo from it.

And so the new disclosures continued.

Before too long Cherrington became recognized as the top newspaper journalist in the region and had some awards to show for that.

After three years with the Eastern Post she finally accepted another attempt to lure her to the Morning Sentinel, a six-day newspaper with a circulation in excess of 43,000, three times the circulation of the Post.

Cherrington had a great farewell and before leaving gave Stanley a laptop computer to replace the dinosaur desktop computer she'd seen in his home office when there for a party and she gave Charlie a bottle of premium Scotch.

On the night before moving on, Cherrington produced a stunning necklace for Aunt Mae and a Sony Handycam for her uncle, both being thrilled with the gifts.

* * *

The HR manager at the Sentinel had arranged boarding accommodation for Cherrington.

Emma Wright, a widow, was a charming person and she greeted the 21-year old warming and within days they were acting like mother (almost grandmother) and daughter.

Emma's family dropped in to check out the young woman with a funny name and the feedback they gave their mother and aunt was warm and generous. Cherrington had developed the ability to interface with people that could only be described as brilliant. She projected friendliness, charm and openness and had a refined gift of actually listening to people fully, rather than just bits of what people say. And her memory and ability for instant recall was most impressive.

"You won't last long here," John said. She'd been placed beside John, a senior reporter, and he added, "I've seen your work. You will be spotted by someone in London."

"God, spare me."

He laughed. "God Cherrington if I weren't married..."

"Well you can screw me if I decide in time I really like you but you'll bear the guilt about adultery, not me."

"Um then perhaps I shouldn't. I've always been true to Stella in our eight years of marriage."

"Then keep it that way you oaf."

They laughed and knew an accord had been established.

After two weeks initiation conduced largely by John, Cherrington was moved into features and given assignments. She liked that because although general reporters worked mainly from 2:00 to 10:00, she would work from 8:30 to 4:30 with a paid half-hour lunch break. Sally Owens, features editor, told the newcomer she also had the Saturday interview to do and the deadline was next day at 4:00.

"Who is up for the interview?"

The cold bitch said, "Find someone."

As soon as she was clear of assignments early afternoon, Cherrington went to the city council chambers and asked to see the mayor.

"Make an appointment. You won't be able to see Mayor Shields this week because he's in Austria on a Sister City visit."

Cherrington started on the walk back to the office and watched a street photographer at work, hustling passersby albeit gently. Cherrington went into a nearby coffee shop and minutes later the female photographer came in and as she began looking for an empty table Cherrington waved her over.

They began talking and the woman agreed to be interviewed and Cherrington called the office and asked for a photographer and gave the address.

That evening her landlady's youngest son and his wife Pamela and Pamela's brother came to dinner and Alfie, the brother, took an immediate shine to her.

She went to the kitchen to assist Emma serve and Emma said, "Young Alfie can't keep his eyes off you."

"So I noticed."

"Well Cherrington, don't play it so cool that you end up missing out."

"Pardon me?"

"Dear don't make me spell it out. At the first opportunity invite him to stay and when the others leave and take him to your room."

"Are you sure you won't mind?"

"No of course not. And for ears only I would like you to know I'm not past it. My gardener and I occasionally have an afternoon rest together."

"Mr Thompson?"

"Yes dear and don't be surprised. He's not passed it either."

When topping up Alfie's red wine, Cherrington whispered, "It's okay if you wish to stay on and talk to me in my room."

He almost leered and asked was that okay with Mrs Wright.

Cherrington winked and he grinned, confirming he had the assurance.

When his sister and brother-in-law rose to leave, Alfie said casually he'd stay on and talk to Cherrington.

Emma smiled at them and escorted the couple to the front door.

Cherrington took Alfie's hand and led him to her room and locked the door.

"I've been rock hard ever since you whispered to me," he said. "It was Pamela's idea for me to come for dinner. She called Mrs Wright who thought it was a great suggested because you scarcely knew anyone in this city. Pamela thought you being a journalist would likely to be promiscuous."

"Did she now?"

"Don't worry what Pamela thinks; feel this."

"Oooh, hard as. Get it out for me pal, Emma said, squatting and touching herself.

She almost wet herself when she saw how big it was.

"Oh god."

"Relax, it's not overly thick and I won't use any more than your comfortable with. Now suck."

"Yes sir."

Later she bent over the bed, thinking that would create more distance for connection and she was correct. Alfie was able to slap his sweating groin against her sweating butt as she bucked back at him and the penetration was comfortable for her. She was glad she'd told him to roll on a condom because he'd forgotten to do that.

He began panting and slowing and so she squeezed down on him.

"Fuck," he groaned.

Well yeah, that's what they were doing.

"Can I (pant) pull out (pant) and squirt over (pant) your back?"

"Sure," she said, thinking he was free to squirt anywhere but up her.

He pulled out. She arched her back to give him a clear target. But most of it missed her back, the first squirt flying over her head to almost dump on her keyboard of her laptop that was open. The next two shots went mostly into her hair.

Fuck, well she had noticed he had big balls.

"Well?" he asked, expecting to be praised no doubt, as he rested while she cleaned the carpet and the back of her chair at the computer.

"I'm happy for you to leave. Once is enough for me tonight."

"Once for me too, you almost sucked and then squeezed me dry. I meant was I any good."

"Oh the best I've ever had," she yawned.

He was satisfied and left, saying he'd give her a call. But he never did.

On Monday everyone arrived at the office to find a scathing bawl-out from the chief reporter when they booted their computers.

'How the hell is that that our youngest mid-grade journalist can waltz in here coming from the sticks and pick up our best local stories in weeks about a woman who works on the street with a camera within fifty yards of the front door of our building. Christ get off your backsides and look for local color, all of you, particularly in your own rounds (allocated areas of responsibility). Stories are sitting there, waiting to be found and written. If you don't know what this rave is about, read the back page of Saturday's front section of our newspaper. I wasn't here on Thursday when it was filed and I was still away when the page proofs came through for final reading. I read it over breakfast Saturday morning and was delighted, almost levitating, knowing we have at least one journalist in our midst who knows why she's here and what she has to do to earn her pay. Congratulations Cherrington.'

Cherrington, white-faced, rushed over to features editor Sally Owens and said, "Mrs Owens, I require to get out of the office right now. If I stay here I'll be spat upon, possibly lynched."

"I think I know what you are on about darling, I've just read our heroic editor's message to us all. Please call me Sally from now on. You just sit at your desk and take the accolades and ignore those who eye you coldly."

"Accolades, I don't believe you understand my situation."

"I do darling. I knew when I put your story through to the chief-sub it would impress him and others including the editor and the executive editor and all reporters who deserve to call themselves journalists. You are among professionals Cherrington, people who will recognize your budding greatness."

"My what?"

"Yes and that proves those who have it are among the last to recognize it."

"What?"

"Dear Cherrington. That Saturday feature of yours turned a busy street photographer that none of us gives more than a frowning glance into an immensely interesting personality."

"God Cherrington, I've walked past Iona McDonald for I think eleven years and have not known her name or anything about her and yet we daily share the same street. I was amazed that the old white-haired guy who worked that patch for years before took his place was her father, a celebrated World War 11 young photographer whom we all thought had retired in the seventies or eighties and perhaps died. I was astonished to read four days after he became ill and died, only hours after the funeral his unmarried daughter Iona McDonald, who had sold her photo-processing business days earlier, took to the street to carry on the McDonald tradition. And then I remembered years ago I'd seen Iona as a young girl with a camera working beside Leo, her father. My god what a story and how well you drew out some of her experiences of working the street. Oh I make her sound like a prostitute. A great story Cherrington, brilliant in fact and you found it yourself."

As Sally had predicted, reporters and sub-editors and photographers as they signed on that day and read the chief reporter's rant, came into the room to offer congratulations, some kissing her.

Cherrington felt so humbled at being recognized by mostly her senior peers. Sally had given her a couple of rewrites to do while that was happening. At 3:00 she went to the airport with a reporter and photographer who covered the arrival home for a brief visit of a celebrity cook Desmond Brie who was based in Paris.

Cherrington attended the press conference and as it was about to end she slipped out and caught Desmond as he was walking with his mother to her car. Desmond talked as they walked and stood for another two minutes answering Cherrington's questions into her digital recorder and then as he placed his mother in the car before walking around to get into the driver's side of the vehicle, Cherrington opened the door and got a couple of questions answered from his mother before she thanked them both and closed the door as the chef started the vehicle.

Back in the office Cherrington pulled up everything in the newspaper's archives about Desmond and then trawled the web for articles about him, especially interviews by journalists in different countries. She found a file photo of Desmond receiving an International culinary award presented by the French President that Cherrington's newspaper apparently was unaware he'd received. She got Sally to use her company card to make the payment to allow Cherrington to download the digital copy of the photograph with the right to publish it once.

Next day she thought the reporter who had a half column long story of Desmond's news conference published under a photograph must have been amazed to see a box inserted within his story pointed to a feature on Desmond on page three of the Features pages in Second B. There he would have found a full page presentation including two pictures covering Desmond's early life, his career, his international cooking awards and some quotes apparently made yesterday and two quotes from his mother who hadn't said a word at the news conference.

Guy Brandon came storming into Features and glaring at Cherrington charged, "You made those quotes up, you unethical B. You weren't there at the end of the news conference and you came running to the car after it ended, making us wait almost ten minutes for you."

Sally called across the room, "Play it to him Cherrington and then tell him to apologize or else to go and bury his head."

Cherrington pressed the start button on her recorder. She spoke hurriedly and the reply was unmistakably the voice of the visiting chef who said she had four minutes to speak to him provided she walked with them at the car. Then Cherrington addressed his mother, asking two questions and Mrs Brie replied.

Guy had slumped on to the visitor's chair. When Cherrington switched off the recording he said, "Miss Vixen, I owe you a huge apology. I'm sorry and to think I almost called you an unethical bitch, although I guess I did while not finishing the word after the letter 'b'. Brilliant work again and I'll lick your shoes if you wish."

"No your apology is sufficient Guy. I suggest you think before you bark in future. You may kiss me."

"And may I date you?"

"Yes I suppose so providing you don't verbally abuse me."

They laughed and looked across at Sally who was smiling, shaking her head.

And so the reputation within that newspaper of Cherrington Vixen being a consummate journalist grew as the word spread about how she exhibited that edge through being fully focused and being prepared to go that extra mile.

Thirty-year old Guy Brandon proved to be a great companion for Cherrington. He was looking for a woman to marry and Cherrington said well not her. They screwed for the first time on the second date, three times in fact. They'd gone back to Guy's flat he shared with two guys who were away on a boozy few days in France. She stayed the night.

Guy had a dick more to her liking and away from the pressure of newspaper work, he wasn't at all bombastic.

He was surprised when doing it for the first time, Cherrington steered it in for him.

"I've not struck that before."

"Does that mean you are not casting widely enough to catch the more enterprising women?"

"What?"

She just smiled and said she was waiting for him to start humping.

He impressed her by his fitness and his tenderness.

"Do you have a regular girlfriend?"

"Not at the moment," he puffed. "I was going steady until three months ago but then at a party she finished up with one of my friends, now an ex friend."

"Oh good, then may I have you for a while?"

"You mean to go steady?"

"Yes."

"But with you looks and fire-power you can do much better than me."

"That's debatable. Well do you want me as your steady?"

"Hell yeah," Guy shouted, and his eyes rolled up and he filled the end of the condom.

Guy had described Cherrington to his mother but she appeared to be more concerned about Cherrington having a name like that. She suggested he bring this girl to visit the farm.

Guy and crossed England for a three-day weekend to visit in the West Country. It meant driving southwest skirting London and going to near Frome, in Somerset. Guy said they would arrive at the farm late morning.

"They won't like me because I'm not a farmer's daughter."

"Yeah you're probably right Cherry (as he often called her). But knowing you I'll expect you to worm your way out of that difficulty. Please don't tell her this is a temporary romance otherwise I will be lectured all weekend on how I'm wasting my time being with you."

"You might make a mistake and impregnate me."

"Oh god aren't you on the pill?"

"Is that a proper question to ask a lady?"

That left Guy floundering until he saw the grin.

"Yes I'm on the pill," she admitted. "It's just that you are easy to tease. So we are supposed to be having a romance are we? Where are the chocolates, flowers and very tender sweet nothings from you when we are smooching?"

"Um I guess I can try talking sweet nothings."

"Guy do that and I'll squeeze your balls, hard."

"Oh was that more teasing?"

An hour after stopping for tea and scones, Guy said, "We are twenty miles from our destination. My parents farm moo-moos."

"Oh what are they?"

"Cows," he laughed triumphantly and she smiled and said at last she'd fallen for one of his attempted teases.

His weathered-faced mother, wearing a smock top over jeans that appeared two sizes too big for her came running out and grabbed Guy and said, "Oh my darling boy, my darling boy," and engulfed him in her huge bosom. Cherrington enjoyed witnessing that.

"Mom this is..."

"Omigod, you found her at a fashion show."

"She's a features journalist on the newspaper where I work mum."

"Oh I'm sorry Miss Vixen. I'm sure one or two females in journalism look great like you but you should see the ones we have around here."

"I think the real test is can they interview and write well Mrs Brandon. Please call me Cherrington. May I ask what should I call you?"

"Bert will insist you call him Bert so please call me Nellie."

"I've never been on a farm since two school visits and I have no intention of marrying your son and we would like to sleep together while we are here. Now that I've got that off my chest, should I go?"

"Do whatever you wish Cherrington. We are straight-talking people in the West Country and I appreciate you telling me all of that. I now know exactly where I am with you. You can't be that beautiful and not be charming. You are just like a film star with that long auburn hair with ringlets, your green eyes and beautifully contoured body and I do want you to stay. Your interest me intensely and it will be a change from looking at cows."

"Moo-moos."

"What was that?"

"Oh that was just a repeat of your son's pathetic joke. He told me you farm moo-moos and I asked what they were."

"Guy I'll clip your ear if you mislead Cherrington like that. Come with me Cherrington and Guy you bring in the bags. You are in your old room and Cherrington is in the guest room. Cherrington I'm not changing my decision where to place you. It's up to you to sleep where you wish."

"West Country mothers are straight talkers Guy," Cherrington called, and Nellie bellowed in laughter.