Don Knowler

Eager cub-reporter Don Bentley was determined to get his first scoop, even though there had been some false starts and a little humiliation along the way. His colleagues might have exposed his youthful naiveté, playing tricks on him by giving him false leads, but he had learned to grin and bear his predicament. It was, after all, only a form of  initiation ceremony to prepare him for the future, if only be could survive the present. Along with the tricks that had left-him … [Read more...] about On a wing and a prayer

TANGLED up in blue, Don Bentley was angry because he could not get the time off from work to go to a Bob Dylan concert in Melbourne. Bentley had already booked holiday before he realised Dylan was coming to Australia and once the holiday roster was posted on the notice board in the newsroom it was virtually set in concrete and dates couldn’t be changed. Bentley had heard Dylan described as the patron saint of journalists and he could understand why. Dylan, besides being a … [Read more...] about Deadline Dylan

Don Bentley rode a taxi home after his night shift on the Chronicle and was surprised to find the cab driver listening to the BBC World Service on the car radio. Usually it was a country and western tape or talk-back radio or, worse, a radio quiz show. The latter particularly annoyed Bentley because he was expected to join in with the same enthusiasm as the taxi driver who invariably came up with more correct answers than he did. An item on jazz and then the news from the … [Read more...] about Dancing cheek to cheek

It was a hot and sultry night as Don Bentley walked the streets of Hobart during his break from the sub-editors’ desk at the Chronicle. The scent of flowers hung in the air but Bentley’s thoughts were far from the summer blooms in Franklin Square. They were eight thousand miles away, in central Africa. Bentley had spent a decade of his career reporting from Africa and his thoughts often strayed there, especially on nights like this when Hobart’s rare hot and humid weather … [Read more...] about A rumpus on the night shift

SHE came one morning, like a star from the films the reporters liked to watch at the Gaumont, the Ritz and the Odeon. She had long, shiny blond hair and ruby-red lips. Her name was Marion Simpson but she could have been Veronica Lake from the golden age of Hollywood. She had finally brought sophistication, erudition and designer fashion to the office of the Woking New and Mail. Or, as ace reporter John Gerard put, it: she had a touch of class. Not that she would wear … [Read more...] about A Touch of Class