He did his best, whispering for ten minutes about why he loved the radio and why he loved RTR-92. ‘I am inspired by the sea,’ he said. He remembered to use Aspinall’s line: ‘We are playing great music with presenters young and old.’ Then, out of ammunition, he asked for questions. A line of four people jumped to their feet in the back row.
It was an odd movement – four of them, sitting next to each other, all jumping up at once.
Without asking to be called, the tallest one, a beak-nosed man with a long neck who wore a bright red golfing jumper, said: ‘We respect you so much, Mr Temmis. But we need to know what is happening in the matter of our compensation.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward, ‘for what?’
But he already knew.
‘My wife and I lost fifteen arsing grand in that scam no one talks about,’ said the beaky man aggressively. ‘I personally think we should bloody go public. It’s time.’ Beside him were three women. The middle one wore an anorak of such violent orange it seemed to be acting as a light.
The three women started speaking all at once. Numbers tumbled out, stories of pain and humiliation.The Case.He desperately wanted to make it better, to heal the pain of those who had been scammed. Although the perpetrator was now behind bars and the victims had got some money back, the rest of the money was gone; unrecoverable. The victims held the station in part responsible. And the station simply did not have that kind of cash.
Edward tried to say, ‘I can’t comment, I’m not allowed to.’ He was helped by a man at the front – younger than the others, possibly in his late forties, maybe escorting his mother – snappingover his shoulder at the red jumper, ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’ Someone else shouted: ‘No publicity!’ But still the four stood there at the back, with the long-necked man in red saying, again and again: ‘Fifteen arsing grand.’
He was so focused on the four that he failed to see Barbara Sinker had climbed onto the stage. He towered over his lover’s mother. ‘How did you get up here?’ he tried to ask, but his voice had gone completely now.
Barbara raised her voice, almost theatrically. ‘Can I say, Edward, how much we appreciate you being here?’
Applause, at last.
‘And how much we understand the care you give us, the oldies?’
Warmer applause.
‘Now …’ she raised her voice a little and pointed. ‘You four, don’t just go on and on. I was a victim too. I don’t blame this man.’
There was now even warmer applause, interrupting Barbara’s next sentence.
‘Perhaps, given … perhaps given the vocal difficulties Mr Temmis is having, I could help relay a message of some kind?’
Edward smiled apologetically. Ideally he did not want Barbara on the stage with him, but her support was probably what he needed. He wore a genial frown. He bowed his head and mouthed, ‘Okay.’
‘Great,’ said Barbara. ‘What can you tell the four at the back to help deal with it all, at least for this afternoon?’ She laughed. ‘So they can pipe down.’
‘I promise we care,’ Edward said in a whisper, pushing his voice. He adjusted his hearing aid, more from habit than anything. ‘I really do promise.’
‘May I have the microphone?’ Barbara asked. ‘You’re not infectious, are you?’
He detached it from the stand and handed it to her. ‘He says, “I promise we care,”’ Barbara repeated. ‘“I really do promise”, he said.’
‘It’s just that … in the radio station’s vault, there isn’t any money to refund you with,’ Edward went on, looking from the audience to Barbara. ‘They just have tomorrow sorted and that’s it. But … we will have your back.’
What was he saying? It was a terrible word salad, bits of phrases, sticky-taped together, which basically meant the radio station would not compensate its listeners. He was only telling the audience what Douglas Aspinall wanted him to say. Yet it sounded hollow, and Edward suddenly knew what politicians felt like.
His hearing aid whistled as Barbara repeated the words. Strangely, they were greeted by a whoop from the four at the rear of the room, and soon the whole hall was cheering loudly.
Barbara looked delighted at the response and joined in, clapping and waving as if she had won a prize. The long-necked man and his three companions gave each other hugs and thumbs-ups and sat down. Edward blinked in amazement at how receptive the audience were. Perhaps The Case could rest at last.
But then the door at the back of the stage sprang open. Douglas Aspinall strode in, like a man trying to catch a bus without breaking into a run. His arm was outstretched – was he going to shake Barbara’s hand? No, he wanted the microphone. The older man caught Barbara’s elbow and ushered her off the stage. He turned to Edward, putting his back to the audience, face like thunder.
As the applause died down, Aspinall hissed at the presenter. ‘Well, that was a total fucking disaster. Satan would have been better. Please get off the stagenow, Edward, and I’ll pick up the pieces, you absolute walloper.’
Edward felt his knees turn to jelly. A silence descended on the room. The audience had detected something was very wrong. Edward backed away towards the door at the rear of the stage, but Barbara must have heard Aspinall’s words, or at least his tone. She had now climbed back up the steps at the side of the stage. As the station controller turned to the audience, she was in his face. The two were almost the same height and squaring up.
‘If the words came out wrong, then that’s on me.’
‘Wrong? You two characters have probably just bankrupted my station!’ hissed Aspinall.
