The Locked Studio

On Tuesday, Tessa asked Walt for the key to Studio B. He said that he had lost it years ago. That night she made a plan with Callum. He would stay at the mixing desk and keep the show running, while she waited in the dark corridor with a torch. “If I’m wrong,” she whispered, “I’ll look very silly.” “You’re never wrong,” said Callum. “You’re only sometimes early.”

At twenty-five past eleven, she heard slow footsteps on the back stairs. A tall man in a long grey coat came along the corridor, leaning on a stick. He did not see her behind the broken chairs. He took a key from his pocket, opened the door of Studio B and went inside. It was Walt. But Walt’s speaking voice was quiet and gentle, and the caller’s was low and rough. It could not be the same man.

She crept to the door and listened. She heard the click of a switch and the old telephone being lifted. Then the rough voice said, very softly, “Fourth page. The girl repaired the lamp, but she had no oil, so she sat beside it all night and waited for the morning.” Tessa did not wait any longer. She pushed the door open.

Studio B was small and full of dust. There was an old microphone, a yellow notebook and a telephone with a long curly wire. Walt was sitting on a wooden chair with the notebook on his knees. His face was wet with tears. “Close the door,” he said. It was the caller’s voice. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

He explained slowly, stopping after every sentence. “Two years ago, Maggie died. Last spring I had an operation on my throat. I can talk a little, but when I read aloud my voice breaks, unless I make it low and rough like this.” He touched the notebook. “The story was my present to her. Before she died, she asked me to finish it for the town. But how can a man with a broken voice read to a whole town?”

“So you decided to be a stranger on the telephone,” Tessa said. Walt nodded. “It was easier.” Then he took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her. It was from the council. Harbour Radio would close on the thirtieth of November. “There are only three weeks left,” he said. “And I still have one page to write.”