Sounds Like Radio Episode 13
Thursday had arrived. Gerry could hardly believe that Cesca was letting her run the mental health phone-in.
She had suggested it on impulse and Cesca had laughed gently and said no, it was far too much to dump on a learner.
“It’s a syndicated phone-in,” Cesca had said, and she’d groaned down the phone to Gerry.
“A major new booking and it just had to be in the middle of a stomach bug!
“Maybe Kevin will be back in time.”
“That is not going to happen,” Gerry had said. “Monica updated me on his condition and there’s no chance.”
“Could you call the producer, Daisy Grahame, and explain that we have to cancel?
“Oh, dear, what will she say? Maybe recommend Bailey Motte Studios in Coventry.
“It pains me to suggest them, but they might be able to cover.” There was a silence. “I feel like death.”
“Lie down, hydrate,” Gerry had said, “and let me do the phone-in. There’s no mixing, no actors.”
Gerry had marvelled at her own courage.
After a pause, Cesca had decided.
“Oh, why not?”
And now the day had come. Gerry knew she had to do the job right or risk being assigned to cleaning duties for ever.
Only Daisy Grahame’s PA was in the building so far, checking out the kitchen facilities, but already Gerry was scared.
Suddenly the sound desk, which had become familiar, looked vast – a sea of faders and gain knobs and level meters, all blinking at her threateningly.
Gerry had not contracted the bug that had blazed a trail through Sounds Like Radio Studios, which didn’t surprise her.
She was the oldest person there by twenty years but her health had always been robust; it had got her through decades of stress at the council.
She was unlikely to catch anything outside work because, except for the supermarket and walks, she didn’t see a soul.
That was fine – her working life had been crowded with people, most of them tedious or difficult to get on with.
Cesca had called from her sick bed with fretful technical advice.
“I’m fine,” Gerry had told her.
“Just make sure everyone has a clean feed.”
“I’ve practised with my nephew in Northern Ireland,” Gerry reassured her. “He got a bit of a shock being called by an aunt he’s not seen for a year!”
“Good. That’s good. Then it’s all about making the producer think you’ve done this a million times.
“Good luck, Gerry. I want a full report.”
The control-room door was propped open and she heard the PA on the floor above letting Daisy in. So it begins, Gerry thought.
She had double-checked the clean feed: callers would hear the show, but with their own voice removed from the mix.
Into the control room walked Daisy, with Rav, her PA.
“Shall we go through the schedule?” Daisy said. “This will be good, I think.
“Danny, our presenter, has just gone out to buy litres of horrible fizzy drink. He’ll be here in a bit.”
Danny was an ex-clinical psychologist turned TV health presenter. He had already made a well-received series on youth mental health.
Ten minutes later he strolled in, and Gerry knew that this was it . . .
Once the first call was over she felt her body relax and realised how hyped up she had been.
Daisy and Rav were so calm, chatting with callers before and after the on-air exchanges and making gentle jokes about Danny, who couldn’t hear them unless they pressed a key.
“Yes, it is all about talking as well as formal treatment,” Danny said, his voice lilting and warm. “Now . . .”
He looked up at the glass, checking with Daisy if he could take the next call.
In front of him sat a monitor, hired for the day, to which Rav sent the callers’ details and queries.