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Authors: Geoffrey Archer
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written the item but forgotten to save it.
Down at the Wickleigh Hospital, linked by satellite, political reporter Angus Addy was waiting to do his live-spot before interviewing nurses. Her script was the intro for the studio presenter.
Inside the narrow control gallery packed with monitors, Marples sat beside the technical director. Charlotte squeezed in behind them.
‘No probs?’ Marples checked.
‘Not yet,’ replied the director. ‘The Wickleigh bird’s up.’ He pointed to the monitor for Line 6 – Angus’s face in close-up, mouthing silently as he rehearsed his words.
Tom keyed the talkback override.
‘Hi, Angus. Hearing us OK?’
‘Hi, Tom. Yup. No worries.’ He pushed his earpiece in deeper. ‘I’ve got three interviewees beside me.’ The camera pulled out to show two middle-aged women and a young Asian man.
‘Great. We open on tape, then come to you live at about five minutes in.’
‘Fine.’
‘Thirty seconds!’ The director’s hands hovered over the start buttons for the tape machines.
Charlie found live-spots terrifying, whether out there as the reporter or here in the gallery. Always the risk of the link failing or a mind going blank.
‘Back on air!’
The title music rolled with the animated graphic of the station logo.
‘
Good Morning. Welcome to Breakfast News …!
’
In the studio two presenters, one male one female, chosen for their sexual chemistry, perched on stools at a fake breakfast bar.
‘
First the main news stories
…’
Little change from the last newsbelt half an hour before, except for a longer package on the health cuts.
‘Coming to you next, Angus,’ Marples warned.
‘
And now for more on the health service cuts
.’ The male presenter back in vision. ‘
Our reporter Angus Addy is live at the Wickleigh Hospital in south London
.’
‘
Good morning
…’
Addy was safely on air. Relief. Charlie watched his lips move, heard his soft lowlands drone, but didn’t take in his words. Angus was married with two young kids, but it didn’t stop her fancying him. Most men she fancied turned out to be married.
The director tapped her arm and she checked the interview captions on a preview monitor. She was impatient for the item to be over. Her stomach needed food and she wanted to start badgering the Foreign Office about their wandering minister.
Addy’s interview droned on. None of the nurses was strong.
‘Wind them up, Angus,’ said Tom Marples eventually.
Back to the breakfast bar. A suggestive line from the presenters linked into a long recorded item on swim-suits.
On the satfeed monitor Addy could be seen puffing his cheeks, relieved it was over. Charlie tried to guess from his face whether he’d had sex last night, a schoolgirl habit she’d never quite shaken off. Then the picture flickered and turned to ‘snow’. The circuit was cut.
Marples stood up and stretched.
‘Tit and bum time for our dear viewers,’ he announced. ‘
Coffee
time for me. Thanks Charlie.’
He squeezed past her into the corridor.
‘If it was men in Y-fronts he’d still be watching,’ quipped the director when Marples was gone.
‘Bitch,’ said Charlotte. She was about to follow Marples out when the line six satellite monitor began to flicker. The ‘snow’ had gone. Instead, colour-bars and a caption.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the director snapped.
Words on the screen. Flashing.
URGENT TO NEWS CHANNEL – ROLL TO RECORD .
‘We’re not expecting another feed, are we?’
‘No … no we’re not,’ Charlie answered, puzzled. Then she shivered. A weird feeling that something was about to happen. ‘Get a tape across it, quick!’
‘Must be a mistake …’
‘Or not. Get a tape running. Record the bloody thing!’ she yelled, angry at his inaction.
‘Tech Centre!’
‘Seen it. We’re recording line six.’
‘Good man.’
For thirty seconds the caption continued to flash, then the screen went to black. Two seconds later it was filled by
Down at the Wickleigh Hospital, linked by satellite, political reporter Angus Addy was waiting to do his live-spot before interviewing nurses. Her script was the intro for the studio presenter.
Inside the narrow control gallery packed with monitors, Marples sat beside the technical director. Charlotte squeezed in behind them.
‘No probs?’ Marples checked.
‘Not yet,’ replied the director. ‘The Wickleigh bird’s up.’ He pointed to the monitor for Line 6 – Angus’s face in close-up, mouthing silently as he rehearsed his words.
Tom keyed the talkback override.
‘Hi, Angus. Hearing us OK?’
‘Hi, Tom. Yup. No worries.’ He pushed his earpiece in deeper. ‘I’ve got three interviewees beside me.’ The camera pulled out to show two middle-aged women and a young Asian man.
‘Great. We open on tape, then come to you live at about five minutes in.’
‘Fine.’
‘Thirty seconds!’ The director’s hands hovered over the start buttons for the tape machines.
Charlie found live-spots terrifying, whether out there as the reporter or here in the gallery. Always the risk of the link failing or a mind going blank.
‘Back on air!’
The title music rolled with the animated graphic of the station logo.
‘
Good Morning. Welcome to Breakfast News …!
’
In the studio two presenters, one male one female, chosen for their sexual chemistry, perched on stools at a fake breakfast bar.
‘
First the main news stories
…’
Little change from the last newsbelt half an hour before, except for a longer package on the health cuts.
‘Coming to you next, Angus,’ Marples warned.
‘
And now for more on the health service cuts
.’ The male presenter back in vision. ‘
Our reporter Angus Addy is live at the Wickleigh Hospital in south London
.’
‘
Good morning
…’
Addy was safely on air. Relief. Charlie watched his lips move, heard his soft lowlands drone, but didn’t take in his words. Angus was married with two young kids, but it didn’t stop her fancying him. Most men she fancied turned out to be married.
The director tapped her arm and she checked the interview captions on a preview monitor. She was impatient for the item to be over. Her stomach needed food and she wanted to start badgering the Foreign Office about their wandering minister.
Addy’s interview droned on. None of the nurses was strong.
‘Wind them up, Angus,’ said Tom Marples eventually.
Back to the breakfast bar. A suggestive line from the presenters linked into a long recorded item on swim-suits.
On the satfeed monitor Addy could be seen puffing his cheeks, relieved it was over. Charlie tried to guess from his face whether he’d had sex last night, a schoolgirl habit she’d never quite shaken off. Then the picture flickered and turned to ‘snow’. The circuit was cut.
Marples stood up and stretched.
‘Tit and bum time for our dear viewers,’ he announced. ‘
Coffee
time for me. Thanks Charlie.’
He squeezed past her into the corridor.
‘If it was men in Y-fronts he’d still be watching,’ quipped the director when Marples was gone.
‘Bitch,’ said Charlotte. She was about to follow Marples out when the line six satellite monitor began to flicker. The ‘snow’ had gone. Instead, colour-bars and a caption.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the director snapped.
Words on the screen. Flashing.
URGENT TO NEWS CHANNEL – ROLL TO RECORD .
‘We’re not expecting another feed, are we?’
‘No … no we’re not,’ Charlie answered, puzzled. Then she shivered. A weird feeling that something was about to happen. ‘Get a tape across it, quick!’
‘Must be a mistake …’
‘Or not. Get a tape running. Record the bloody thing!’ she yelled, angry at his inaction.
‘Tech Centre!’
‘Seen it. We’re recording line six.’
‘Good man.’
For thirty seconds the caption continued to flash, then the screen went to black. Two seconds later it was filled by
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