Completely confused, Edward checked his movement, not wanting to leave the stage as directed. ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,’ he said. His voice was so weak he barely heard it himself.
Douglas made a diagonal move and came closer to Edward, like a chess piece in the hands of a player trying to avoid checkmate. ‘She promised to pay them back! With what? And the stuff about us having to borrow – who, what, how? You are on borrowed time, matey, you and that soft-scoop show of yours.’
The words were hissed like darts from a blowpipe, each syllable arriving in an aerosol of spittle. Thrown, Edward did nothing but stand, arms at his sides, feeling like a schoolboy on detention. Leaning forward keenly, the audience could still not hear the conversation. Douglas turned to face them all and raised his voice.
‘I don’t want to cause any confusion. What my presenter has just promised didn’t … it wasn’t sanctioned.’
The man in the red jumper was on his feet again, yelling now. ‘I LOST FIFTEEN ARSING GRAND!’
Barbara moved to the front of the stage, snatching the microphone from Aspinall. When she spoke into it, her voice had strength and clarity.
‘Let’s not spoil the afternoon. We are here because we love the station and we love Edward!’
The audience were too discombobulated to clap. But there was a murmur of approval.
‘I don’t think we need this now,’ said Aspinall, but as he reached to take the microphone back from Barbara, she started a hymn. ‘“Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee—”’
‘“How great Thou art, how great Thou art,”’ the rest of the audience joined in.
As Edward quietly made for the door at the back of the stage, the singing continued. Douglas Aspinall was shouting. Barbara was physically holding him off, shielding the microphone. The beaked-nose man was belting out the song louder than anyone. Beside him, the three women had linked hands. It was chaos.
Touching his throat, feeling the soreness behind the skin, Edward caught a final glimpse of the controller as he left. He had the strangest thought – there was no such thing as a radio station controller, especially not here in Sidmouth. His place of work was constantly, completely, delightfully out of control. And that was why he loved it.
Chapter Three
In the car park Edward used a vape, a new habit. Aniseed. Standing there alone, he drew the flavoured steam down tentatively. It stung his throat, but he kept drawing on it. He reached for his hearing aid and found he had accidentally turned it off while he was on the stage. He could not work out what had happened in the hall just then, why Aspinall had been so enraged. The nicotine calmed him, but he also felt a little strength return to his voice and began trying to stretch it by humming. Might he even make his show tonight?
The presenter would always push to be on, would always be …present.That was the whole point of presenters. The microphone light went on, and they were there. A presenter would literally need to lose both legs to miss an appointment in the studio. A loss of voice was almost worse than a loss of legs.
He allowed himself a hoarse chuckle, then saw a woman approaching with a purposeful bustle that made him resentful. She was going to invade his space.
‘Mr Temmis?’
‘It’s me,’ he offered. ‘I still don’t know what went on in there.’
‘Save that voice of yours. I’m new to the area,’ said the lady.She was immaculately dressed, with smooth skin and manicured nails. ‘I’m a bit lost myself.’
His throat hurt, so he replied with a nod.
‘Don’t you answer. You’re not on the radio tonight with that croaky voice?’
That was a useful prompt. He held up his index finger, as if to say ‘Wait’, and sent the text to his producer.
Sore throat but I think I can make it.
The reply came straight back.
Aspinall already told us no chnce. Don’t worry. Hope you’re well enugh to enjoy the weekend. Esther Thmpson already on way in. Melody
To save him using his voice, Edward showed the phone screen to the woman.
‘Sweet, their concern,’ she said kindly. ‘Does vaping help the throat?’
Was the stranger lecturing him? ‘I think I’m on the mend.’
‘You’ll get there. I do think there are a lot of chemicals in the modern world that exacerbate things. Personally, I stay away from lipsticks and mascaras. Blusher only. I always think—’
A screech of tyres at the other end of the car park interrupted her. It was Aspinall’s car, wheels spinning, which had lurched out of its place and roared into the small gateway that emerged onto the road.
