1ON THE AIR
“And another thing about all these immigrants,” Arthur from Stockport declares. “You wont want anybody hearing about the factory thats had to change its name.”
“Youre here to enlighten us, Arthur.”
“Dont patronise me, Mr Wilde.”
Ive never had a caller make my name sound so much like an insult, though hes had plenty of competition. Beyond the soundproof window of the studio Christine twirls one finger in the air. “Youve got just a minute, Arthur,” I tell him. “Were nearly at the news.”
“You always put anyone who thinks like me on last, dont you, Mr Wilde? Bob from Blackley, hes another. You havent let us on for weeks and now Ive not got time to say what I came on for.”
“Youre using up your minute, Arthur.”
“It was a muslin factory till the lot who took all the jobs said it sounded too much like Muslim. They didnt fancy the idea you could make those in a factory, so they told the boss theyd get him done for being racist if he didnt call it a fabric manufacturer.”
“Where did you hear about that, Arthur?”
“Its well known, Mr Wilde. Just try talking to a few people that live in the real world. And before you ask, the factorys somewhere in Lancashire. Pakishire, well have to call it if they carry on like this.”
“You mustnt use words like that on here, Arthur.”
“Its all right to call us Brits, but they wont let us call them—”
“Thats all from Wilde Card for another lunchtime,” I say not quite fast enough to blot out his last word, and flick the switch to cut him off. “Heres Sammy Baxter with the news at two oclock.”
I take off my headphones as Christine switches the output to the news studio. Im leaning back in the swivel chair to wriggle my shoulders and stretch when Rick Till blunders in, combing his unruly reddish hair at the same time as dragging his other arm free of his leather jacket. Hes always this harassed when hes due on the air, even though he isnt for five minutes. “All yours, Rick,” I say as he hangs the jacket on the back of my chair.
Samanthas newscast meets me in the control room. “Kylie Goodchilds mum made an emotional appeal…” The fifteen-year-old is still missing, but we dont hear just her mothers voice; its underlaid by the kind of tastefully mournful music that films use to demonstrate theyre serious. Im so offended by the artificiality that I yank the outer door open and demand “Whose idea was that?”
Christine comes after me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Graham…”
Some of the reporters and presenters in the large unpartitioned newsroom glance up from their desks, and Trevor Lofthouse lifts his head. He shakes it to flip back a lock of hair and adjusts his flimsy rectangular spectacles but doesnt otherwise respond. “Do we really think we have to manipulate the listeners like that?” Im determined to establish. “Do we think they wont care otherwise?”
“What are you saying is manipulation?” Lofthouse retorts.
“Calling it an emotional appeal. What other kind is she going to make? Who needs to be told?” As the news editors spectacles twitch with a frown I say “And calling her the girls mum. Whats wrong with mother? Its supposed to be the news, not somebody gossiping over a fence.”
“Youre off the air now, Graham. No need to start more arguments today.” Before I can retort that I never manufacture them he says “Why are you so bothered?”
“Maybe I hate clichés.” I sense that Christine would like me to leave it at that, but I resent the question too much. “Cant we even broadcast an appeal without some music under it? We mustnt think too highly of our audience if we think they need to be told what to feel.”
“Its from Kylie Goodchilds favourite film.”
Lofthouse doesnt tell me so, and Christine doesnt either. Paula Harding has opened her door and is watching me across the length of the newsroom. Even though she needs heels to reach five feet, its disconcerting that I didnt notice her until she spoke—Ive no idea how much she overheard. “Which film?” I suppose I have to ask.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” says Trevor. “Her class are studying the book at school and they were shown the film.”
Id say it was an unusually worthy favourite for a girl of her age, but Paula calls “Can we talk in my office, Graham? Ive just heard from one of your listeners.”
Christine gives my arm more of a squeeze than she ordinarily would at work, and I lay my hand over hers for a moment. As I head for Paulas room everyone grows conspicuously busier at their desks. Theyre embarrassed to watch me, but I suspect theyre also glad Ive been singled out rather than them. Even Christine doesnt know what Im thinking, however. If Paula means to lecture me or worse, that may be all the excuse I need.
Copyright © 2011 by Ramsey Campbell