Small Bamboo (28 page)

‘Well, it’s a little intimidating when you’re surrounded by all these men!’ I tried to banter back.

He’d laugh and go back to his work but slowly his comments turned into chats and these in turn became longer conversations. Mullet would always finish with, ‘Thanks for the chat’, and this is how he came up with his very own nickname for me—Chattzee Vo. I think the day he named me was the day Mullet and I became mates. After that we bonded over many things—including a mutual love of food—and he was intrigued about my family’s background and always asking questions. Mullet helped me come out of my shell during those first months on the production desk. So much so, years later, one of his favourite lines about me is: ‘For a young lady who didn’t say much at the beginning, now she won’t shut up!’ He watched me grow and move up in the newsroom as a full-time reporter and he was always encouraging. I knew I’d done a good job when I heard the words, ‘Good onya Chattzee!’ Mullet also created opportunities for me over the years, among them one of the most exciting experiences of my career, a trip to Africa.

I wasn’t always the only young female on the six o’clock news production desk. Lizzie Pearl was another associate producer who had been at Nine for about a year before I started. She was intelligent, gorgeous and had balls. I was in awe of her confidence and spunk. Unlike me, who would sit there quietly, diligently working away, Lizzie was loud, vivacious, cheeky and sassy. I suppose our differences partly explain why we became the closest of friends: we bounced off each other, we supported each other and we wanted the same thing—to eventually become full-time reporters. Our friendship made work fun and every shift we were on together was full of laughter. I like to think we spiced up that news desk a little.

What I loved about Lizzie was that there was never any rivalry between us, even though we were both ultimately vying for the same goals. I must admit I expected to find cattiness and all-out war between young wannabe journos in the big city, but it wasn’t like that at all. Don’t get me wrong, it was a competitive environment but it was healthy competition. We pushed each other to reach that next level, to further our careers, but it was always encouraging and supportive. Career-wise Lizzie and I would travel down the same path at pretty much a similar speed, and we were never far away from each other. We were desk buddies in production, and would eventually end up stationed next to each other as reporters, when our loud laughter once again rang across the newsroom. Much to the dismay, and amusement, of our editorial manager Mary Davison who, having nurtured both Lizzie and me from our first production days to on-road reporters, had already copped years of listening to us carry on.

Mary’s been part of the Channel Nine family for more than twenty years; she was the newsroom’s mother hen. I have so much respect for her; she is just a beautiful person. Everyone loved Mary. From the junior producers and reporters to the seniors and the bosses, Mary was there for everyone. If you were feeling down, Mary was the woman to turn to; she’d always give you a lift. In any newsroom situation she was so calm and collected. She made me feel comfortable from the beginning. I was amazed by her patience and her clarity when I needed advice. Mary was one of the people who would give me courage, confidence, nurturing and guidance over the years at Nine.

She was also the one who gave me my newsroom nickname. It actually may have started with my first executive producer, Rob Hurst, but then it was coined by Mary. Every bulletin works off a rundown in the newsroom computer system. Labelling and naming is a crucial part of keeping the rundown organised. When a story is listed, the reporter’s surname is placed alongside. My surname would confuse the editors and even the producers themselves because VO stands for voice-over, which is a short piece the presenter reads. The only solution was to rename me ‘TVo’ on the computer system and, because Mary then used it whenever she spoke to me, that nickname has stuck ever since.

After about a year or so at Channel Nine, I was building up more experience on the road. Then, in early 2009, Darren Wick took over the ship as news director for the Sydney newsroom. I’ve learned in the media that where there’s a change of bosses or management, your role or job is never guaranteed. I was anxious because under the previous agreement, I had been promised a reporting role in the future. But then Darren arrived, and I wasn’t sure what he had planned for me. We had a meeting during which I told him of my ambition to be a full-time reporter. He was unflinchingly honest.

‘Look, Trace, the way I see it, are you ready for 6 p.m.? No, you’re not. But keep working at it. Keep filing stories for the 11 a.m. and 4.30 p.m. news bulletins and we’ll see where we can go from there.’

I appreciated him being candid as well as willing to give me a chance. So I grabbed every opportunity I could to file stories for the daytime news bulletins. I was picking up some 6 p.m. reporting shifts over the weekend as well. It was a huge deal to make it onto the evening news, I was stoked. I didn’t care if I worked seven or fourteen days straight, I would say yes to every reporting shift. I think my longest stretch was thirty-six days straight. I knew it was what I needed to do. I was always told to get as many runs on the board as I could. I would be exhausted some weeks but I didn’t care. This was my goal and I always knew I’d have to work hard from the beginning.

One of my first big stories occurred on a weekend where I reported on a house fire in Sydney’s west. On Monday ‘Wickie’ said he wanted to have a chat. He took me into one of the edit suites and pulled up my house fire story. We went through it together then he stopped at my piece to camera, which is where a reporter appears on camera to add their ten- to fifteen-second piece to the report.

‘Just a couple of things,’ he said. ‘Your piece to camera—next time, add some movement to it. Do a walk, move around or move your hands. Add some excitement.’

I was so appreciative that my boss made time to give me feedback, but he said he just wanted me to get better. I kept following his instructions. He gave me some voice training too, and built up my confidence over time.

However, I had, by now, learnt that I couldn’t just rely on people coming to me and offering me advice. I also had to be proactive. One thing I did throughout my years at Nine, and I still do it now whenever I get the chance, was look at the scripts of the senior journalists. I was in a newsroom with the likes of Peter Harvey, Mark Burrows and Damian Ryan. I had colleagues with decades of knowledge and experience. Why wouldn’t I learn from them if I could? I wanted to improve my writing and every day I would observe those journalists craft their stories. I was particularly in awe of Mark Burrows. During my university days, I admired what he did and loved watching his reports.

After I had a few runs on the board, ‘MB’, who was quite reserved, pulled me aside one day.

‘That factory fire story you did the other day. It was good. Who shot your piece to camera?’

My piece to camera for this particular story was shot quite wide so viewers could see the smoke rising in the sky. I looked quite small on screen. I told MB who filmed it.

‘It was okay. But I wanted to see a close-up of you. I want to see you, the reporter.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ I stammered. ‘Thanks for the tip.’ I couldn’t believe that Mark Burrows was taking the time out to give me advice!

‘Everything else is good,’ he continued. ‘Your writing is good, your voice is good and you look good.’

Mark Burrows thought my writing was good? I was gobsmacked.

MB was the first journalist at Channel Nine to give me guidance and from that day, he became one of my mentors. I soaked up everything he told me. I would go to MB if I needed advice on a script or if I got stuck on a line. I remember I had to write a script for him during the 2009 New South Wales floods. I was so nervous. How could I possibly write a script for Mark Burrows? I threw the script together. I didn’t have much time but I did the best I could.

‘It’s good, it’s good,’ Mark said as he scanned over it. ‘I’m just going to tinker around with it a little.’

I don’t think he had the heart to say that it could be better. He was so kind. Still, the final product didn’t have many changes and I was pretty happy with that.

At the beginning of 2009, Channel Nine News welcomed a new frontman, Peter Overton, to the Sydney newsroom. I was very excited. For years I had admired and respected Peter for his work on
60 Minutes
. I was a little surprised that we clicked straight away—I felt so young and inexperienced while he was, well, the opposite—but a national disaster would see our bond strengthen.

Peter had been in the newsroom less than a month when the Victorian Black Saturday bushfires struck. On the Monday morning I was warned by the executive producer that I might have to travel to Victoria to produce Pete, which meant being out on the field and assisting with production as well as supporting Pete with whatever he needed. A few hours later I was told I was booked on a 1.30 p.m. flight so I jumped in a cab with just my handbag and work gear and met Pete at the airport. It was a blur, a frenzy. We had to get there, find a location and set up all the camera equipment for that night’s six o’clock news. We were in the hands of the producers in Sydney because we had no idea where we were going. There wasn’t time to even look at a map. At Melbourne airport, I phoned the producers who decided to send us to Yea where there was a tent city for evacuees. We were picked up from the airport in a flash car that someone had organised and for the entire ninety-minute drive to Yea Pete and I worked frantically, barely glancing up from our mobiles and notes.

As we neared the sporting oval where the evacuees were camped, Pete said to the driver, ‘Mate, can you drop us further back from the oval? I don’t want to show up in this car.’

That, to me, showed Pete’s character. He didn’t want to turn up in a $100,000 car when these people had lost their families and their homes. It made me respect Pete even more.

It was after 4.30 p.m. when we got onto the oval but our camera crew still hadn’t turned up. Then I saw cameraman Greg Martini and his assistant Ben Dalley running towards us, lugging all the gear. Time went superfast, a minute went by in a blink of an eye as the boys frantically set up all their camera equipment. But when the camera was good to go we still didn’t have an autocue screen for Pete, or any scripts printed out. Another crew member ran over to him with piles of paper as Greg desperately tried to mount the autocue screen on his camera. Then Pete said: ‘Thirty seconds to on air, guys!’

‘Ah, fuck!’ Greg threw the autocue screen on the ground. Time had run out.

Pete was, however, amazing. He got the job done faultlessly, without the autocue, which, in the world of television news reading, is as hard as it gets.

I remember Greg saying to me afterwards, ‘Pete really impressed me. It all went to shit but he kept his cool. What a pro!’

It’s true, Pete was outstanding, but I also want to point out that the crew did their part too. Greg Martini is one of the best camera operators I have worked with—in fact the entire camera department at Channel Nine in Sydney is incredible. Not just talented cameramen but also wonderful people.

We had a second crew, Adam Bovino and Mitch Wall, join us for the following days and together it was a great team. Pete was a dream to work with and he was also caring and concerned about our wellbeing. Everything had happened in such a rush that we had all travelled to Victoria without any extra clothes. He suggested we go to a Target store and buy enough to get us through the next few days. I grabbed what I needed and met Pete at the cash register.

‘Now, Trace, you sure you got everything?’

‘Yes, Pete. I’m pretty sure I do.’

‘How about undies? Have you got enough undies?’

Undies? I burst out laughing. Then I thought, well, he was the expert on travelling, after all those years with
60 Minutes
.

‘Yes, Pete, I’m sweet for undies. Thanks for asking.’

‘Well, Trace, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this job, you can never have enough undies.’