Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum
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learned of her personal connection to the story. She was impressed at how brave Olivia was through it all, and only rarely did she allow herself to believe the same of herself.
Even more sensational were the revelations from another pilot sacked by SAR for apparent insubordination. Olivia had given Nicola Tim Manning’s number after he’d contacted her to offer his sympathy. Manning had also let on that SAR had questionable business practices, which tallied with her knowledge of logbook tampering. He urged her not to accept any finding that laid the blame on Matt.
Nicola thought her eyes might drop out of her head when Tim told her about SAR’s cost-cutting measures, which included experimenting with fuel mixes, and running tanks as low as possible. He’d had a number of close shaves, one time almost running out of fuel as a result. When she’d asked why he hadn’t come forward, he’d said he had, only to be dismissed by the ATSB as biased because of his history with SAR.
The ATSB had picked up on the fuel and raked SAR over the coals for it, suspending their aviation licence pending the outcome of the investigation. But they seemed set on laying the majority of the blame on Matt; saying he’d over-revved the second engine when the first had failed. They’d added the patronising footnote that it was an understandable error, given Matt’s low number of flying hours.
But what Nicola hadn’t been able to shake were the incredible odds of two engines failing on the same flight – that couldn’t have been pilot error. And as it turned out, the odds should have been nearly impossible. But all the experimenting with fuels had exacerbated damage to a defective piston and caused it to fail after the extra exertion placed on it.
If they hadn’t done that, they might have limped home on one engine and the story would have been an exciting holiday tale for her and Ruth and Paul to discuss over Sunday night roast dinners. But it wasn’t to be.
She sighed. She still missed them terribly, but slowly, over the past four years, the wracking tears and sadness had been replaced by a dull ache.
It had been a tragic web of mismanagement, error and coincidence that had taken her and the team ages to unravel. And it had been worth every sleepless night, every heartbreaking detail she’d had to learn to get the closure she had. She’d been relieved to have been partially responsible for clearing pilot Matt’s name.
But perhaps most of all, Nicola was pleased the coroner had managed to get the regulations changed to require all flights across water to carry life jackets – previously they were only necessary on flights with more than ten passengers, or those that travelled further than thirty nautical miles from land.
Yep, they’d all done a good job; producing a well-balanced presentation of facts and humanity. And now the industry had spoken.
Despite drinking far too much bubbly to counter the nerves, Nicola had managed to react appropriately. The first time her name had been read out she’d nearly missed it. She’d been too busy trying not to give in to the tears that always threatened when she heard the pilot’s mayday call.
She’d given a startled cry at hearing her name, and stumbled dazed up onto the stage. The story was good, but she’d never thought the industry would award her with a Walkley. As a consequence her speech was a bewildered mumble of thanks. At least she’d remembered to say it was a team effort.
The second time her name was called up – for the Gold – she’d been sipping champagne nonchalantly, barely even listening for the results. Her shock had been genuine. She’d paused to take a few deep breaths and still her racing heart before sliding her chair back and walking slowly to the stage pondering what to say.
She’d started off shakily thanking the industry and fellow journalists for their support before remembering to name every member of the team. She’d then looked Bill in the eye as she thanked him for his faith in giving her the opportunity. His nodding back had served to give her strength, and she’d gone on to pay tribute to her parents and all the other passengers on flight 519. She’d then bowed her head for a few moments of silence. Looking up again out to the sea of faces, she’d given a final nod, said ‘thank you’, and calmly walked from the stage amidst loud applause.
When dressing for the occasion, she hadn’t for a second thought she’d be the centre of attention. She was pleased she’d gone with safe. She looked good; nothing the glossies could pick on for being too glam, too dowdy, or ‘out there’.
Boy was she glad she’d ignored three new designers offering to dress her in exchange for free publicity, and instead settled for a simple yet elegant strappy number that showed off her slender arms but hid her long but sturdy legs. She’d hoped the diamantes on her new Manolos would be more visible – why spend eight hundred dollars if no one saw them?
She closed her eyes and relived the night.
‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey, Life and Times.’
When she’d seen the clip slotted alongside the other five contenders up on the massive plasma screen, it had seemed different, almost unrecognisable as her own. It was as though she’d distanced herself from her personal connection and was watching a story about people she’d never met.
She supposed she had to a certain extent; the raw emotion had left her when she’d become focussed on finding out the truth. There was nothing she could do to bring Ruth and Paul back, but she could do something for Matt, and in turn Olivia and his parents, Grace and Peter.
The more time she’d spent with them, the stronger the feeling that she had to find her own truth had been.
Halfway through the assignment she made the decision that when the story was finished she would start the search for her biological parents; when she was satisfied she’d done all she could for Ruth and Paul, who had been such good parents to her. She knew Scott wouldn’t approve; he thought the past should be left in the past. She’d given up trying to explain how it felt to be the child of adoptive parents. He’d just told her she was being silly and feeling sorry for herself. But the feelings weren’t that easily explained away.
The morning after she filed the story she’d been unable to get out of bed. She’d felt so emotionally, mentally and physically spent. Scott told her to fight it – no pain no gain. Of course he meant well, he just didn’t understand. But how could he? He only spoke to his parents out of polite obligation, and he’d never even been to a funeral.
So Nicola had put on a brave face and waited until he was at work before dissolving into tears. For a whole week she’d moped around the house.
Without saying as much, Bill seemed to understand what she was going through. When she phoned him in desperation and told him she thought she was having some kind of breakdown and might never be able to return, instead of telling her she was being ridiculous and to get a grip (like Scott had) he’d left the office and come straight over.
His explanation, that what she was experiencing was probably a mixture of delayed grief, shock, and relief, made sense. It also made sense that it was occurring now she’d stopped after being so driven, so focussed for so long; her brain now had the time and energy to process the trauma. He’d finished by telling her he thought she just needed some time and to take as much as she needed; ‘After all,’ he added with a lopsided grin, ‘you’ve accumulated a shitload of leave.’
When the Walkley nominations were announced six months later, Nicola had spent the first week smiling sweetly and agreeing that yes, the nomination alone was enough, while all the time desperately hoping for success. She knew that many in the industry saw her as little more than a well made-up clothes horse with ample cleavage.
That Scott was so dismissive of her nomination hurt. He seemed to share the view of many of her peers, and clearly didn’t think she had a hope in hell of winning. She consoled herself that he knew nothing about journalism, let alone the magnitude of what a Walkley nomination really meant. If he did, he’d be reacting differently.
This was her chance to prove she had both brains and beauty; that Nicola Harvey was a journalist to contend with, not just a glorified presenter with impeccable hair and makeup.
Though