Sounds Like Radio Episode 17
Daisy Grahame called the following day. Her production company was already putting out feelers for another show.
Gerry was thrilled to take the call.
“We can fit that in,” she told Daisy, her fingers crossed that the schedule would allow.
“Let me chat to Cesca and firm up. I’ll get back to you.”
“Great, thanks, Gerry,” Daisy said. “Send an invoice whenever, by the way.”
“Daisy, before you go . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Do you keep in contact with contributors?”
“As in callers to phone-ins? Not unless they’re amazing and we grab them for a feature or something.”
“OK. Thanks. Well, I’ll call you back about the next –”
“But we do have to keep their details for a bit, for production reasons,” Daisy interrupted.
“After that confidentiality legislation kicks in and they’re deleted. Why?”
“Just a thought,” Gerry said. “I’m sure an old . . . an ex-colleague was among the callers.”
“And you’d love to meet up with her, or him! Wow, that’s so cool! I wonder if we can make a thing of it, like those long-lost relatives shows –”
“No, this isn’t like that,” Gerry said quickly. “I was only mildly interested –”
“I can e-mail the person. I obviously can’t give you their details but I can give them yours.”
Gerry hesitated.
“As I said, it was a whim.”
“It’s easily done. Who was this?”
“Bronwen King.”
“Leave it with me.”
Gerry felt suddenly doubtful.
Why would Bronwen King want to have anything to do with a ghost from her past?
Why did she even feel an urge to know anything more about Bronwen?
Arya’s son came into Sounds Like Radio a few days later. Because she felt guilty, Cesca pulled out the stops for him and his mum.
She allowed him to record himself and then use the recording to turn himself into a Dalek, an echoing horror voice and a space-age robot voice.
Paavan loved it; he ran his small fingers over every panel of plugs and knobs.
“I’ve got doughnuts in the kitchen,” she told Paavan.
“Will Mum say yes?” the boy asked.
“She’s putting the kettle on. I’m guessing she’ll be fine with it. It’s a special day.”
They walked hand-in-hand along the corridor.
“What’s that?” Paavan asked.
“Oh, I’d forgotten that,” Cesca said.
A small crystal wireless set sat in a glass cabinet in the corridor. The studio had purchased it soon after opening, an appropriate decoration to amuse waiting artistes.
“It was made in 1948,” Cesca said. “Can you see the little plaque?”
His hands gripped the cabinet and he gazed in at the set with its shiny walnut base, copper coil, mysterious levers.
A set of old metal headphones lay alongside, the black cable twisted in the old way, the curve of the headpiece speaking of a former technological age.
“Does it work?” the boy asked.
“I think so,” Cesca said.
“You don’t know?
“Take it home, Paavan,” she said on an impulse. “See what you can get out of it.”
He looked at her as though his life had all been a preparation for this moment.
Paavan carried the crystal set upstairs as though it was an injured baby bird, and Cesca relocked the empty cabinet.
She could see Kevin in the main studio, working on a scene with three actors.
The green light from the panel of bulbs flashed a brief reflection on to the window between them – green to tell the actors to speak.
Cesca noticed that there was still no red bulb in the panel.
While Kevin was off sick she had asked Miriam to place an order instead.