Photography by Eliot Humphreys
It had been a very strange Christmas Day. Gareth had been sent by the local radio station where he worked to the hospital to talk to the patients and nursing staff about their ‘White Christmas’ and their remarkable enthusiasm away from home on this festive morning. However, despite the tinsel and carols there were also tears. On the wards Gareth came across Welsh-speakers isolated in an alien environment, decorations in their hair, yearning to go home. In one corner, a woman asked him to write a note to her bank manager in the village. Her daughter had not shown up to see her.
‘I’m tired and I want to get home to sleep in my own bed.’
‘Oh look, she’s crying,’ observed a cruel voice in English from the other side of the ward where two women were busy opening their Christmas presents.
‘Still, Our Saviour’s with us, and I’ll keep praying. But I am tired…’
Her words stayed with the radio presenter as he hurried back to the studio.
It was six o’ clock on Christmas Day evening when Gareth finally ventured on air at the end of what had been a quiet day, complete with microwaved Christmas dinner in the studio. There was hardly anyone around. Only himself and his edit tape and another presenter in the main studio. The news team had departed in a flurry of farewells around two in the afternoon.
Who was going to turn the radio on at this time with everyone busy drowsing off the effects of the seasonal blow-out? Would there be anyone out there, ensconced in their bastions of plenty, who would welcome the Christmas message? He wondered whether the carols and other talk items would touch the hearts of anyone in the catchment area today. To Gareth in the seclusion of the studio, it was difficult to believe that anyone was actually listening.
As he played the first record of his programme, Gareth was reminded of that lonely presenter who had sobbed on air simply because he would be continually giving out without receiving anything in return. Christmas evening was such a time for a lonesome broadcaster and Gareth could easily empathise with the unhappy presenter in question.
Is there anyone out there listening – anyone at all? Do you like me? If I were to knock at your door tonight, would I get a welcome? Would you take me into your embrace at this joyous time? If I asked you to phone me during the programme, would you respond?
For weeks the station’s staff had been promulgating the jamboree that is Christmas to their local audience with talk of fine seasonal foods and wines on air. Santa chatting with the little ones, and Boney M moidering on about the Baby Jesus with as much conviction as a deflating balloon. By now, the creators of this Christmas carnival had retreated into their private lives in search of some sense of the true festive spirit, leaving Gareth broadcasting alone …
Was there anyone listening?
As the tape played on in the studio, Gareth went to check if there was anyone around. Not a soul. Only his voice spewing out of the speaker rattling on about Christmas and the Faithful in these adverse times.
A silent blanket of snow, which had appeared stealthily while he was busy preparing out the back, now lay over the panoramic view from the studio window. It would be tricky getting home tonight. The snow was something of a surprise. The road had been clear that morning and none of the forecasts had predicted it would be like this. There were no technicians around on Christmas Day and Gareth knew it would be better to go back to the studio. Silence on the airwaves would be an embarrassment requiring a credible explanation to the station director after the holidays.
He opened the heavy studio door. Limp strands of tinsel hung from the sound boxes along the wall as if it had long since grown tired of its rather pathetic function. Another record on the turntable. A cuppa – the ultimate panacea. He rushed out to the little kitchen, but the kettle was stone cold and the remains of the midday microwave banquet lay submerged in the treacly waters of the sink. A swig of the insipid dregs of lunchtime wine seemed hardly worth the trouble. His only link with the outside world since that morning, had been Ray, the landlord of the local pub, bringing him his Christmas dinner to heat up – stuffing and all the trimmings, it being Christmas.
It was time for the final record – a ballad about a telephone operator trying to get Jesus on the hotline to heaven. As he listened, Gareth stared at the row of lifeless phone lights linked to the studio.
‘Well, this song longing for Jesus to be at the other end of the line brings our programme to a close this evening. It’s just been me here for most of the day, but on behalf of the company may I wish you all a very good night and a very Happy Christmas.’
Following the final chime of the station’s Christmas jingle, he set about putting the studio to bed, turning off the required switches. Gareth then started off the pre-recorded tape which would run leisurely through the night and set about clearing away the records and tapes from the studio. He was worried about starting the car in the snow. The song Jesus on the Line stuck leechlike in his mind, and he found himself whistling the melody as he was leaving the studio.
In his haste, he failed to notice that one of the numerous phone lights was winking away, obscured from the door by the tinsel. It was the emergency line to the studio flashing wildly – someone wanted to make direct contact.
<h3> – Aled Lewis Evans
