The Last Page

Tessa read the council letter three times. “Three weeks,” she said. “That’s enough time to do something.” Walt shook his head. “Nobody listens to a small station any more.” “You’re wrong,” said Tessa. “Forty people wrote to me after the third page. If we ask, the town will answer.”

The next morning she told Callum and Ruth the baker everything. Ruth wiped the flour from her hands and said that she would put posters in her window. Callum offered to build a small stage in Harbour Square. By Wednesday, every shop in Seacombe had a poster: “The last page of The Lamp on the Pier. Live, Saturday, 8 p.m. Come and listen.”

Walt refused to read it himself. “I can’t,” he said. “If my voice breaks in front of everyone, I’ll feel ashamed.” Tessa sat beside him. “Maggie asked you to finish it for the town,” she said gently. “She never said that it had to be perfect. Maybe the town doesn’t need a perfect voice. Maybe it only needs yours.”

On Saturday evening, more than three hundred people stood in Harbour Square, holding umbrellas against the drizzle. Mr Harper, the council officer who had written the letter, stood at the back with his collar up. Walt climbed the steps of the little stage with his stick. His hands were shaking. Then Tessa put the microphone in front of him and nodded.

Walt began to read. His voice was low and rough, but it carried across the whole square. “The girl waited all night beside the broken lamp. In the morning the fishermen came back from the sea and saw a small light on the pier. Nobody knew who had lit it. But from that night the lamp never went out again, because everyone in the town brought a little oil.” He closed the notebook. “That’s the end,” he said. “Thank you, Seacombe.” For several seconds nobody moved. Then the whole square began to clap.

Mr Harper pushed through the crowd. “Mr Pearce,” he said, “I think we made a mistake. A station that can fill a square in the rain is worth keeping.” By Monday the council had cancelled the closure, and the money from Ruth’s bakery had paid for a new heater. That night, at twenty to midnight, the studio phone rang. Tessa smiled and answered. “Harbour Radio, you’re on air. Who’s calling?” “It’s Walt,” said a warm voice. “I’d like to read you a new story.”