The Making of Minty Malone by Isabel Wolff Page A

Melinda’s arrival, life remained remarkably unchanged. There was gossip about us in Broadcast , of course, and there were also dark mutterings about Jack. Some claimed he had lost his authority and should have fallen on his sword. But he was forty, a dangerous age in an industry driven by youth. I was very relieved that he stayed. It was Jack who’d given me my first break. I didn’t know anything about radio – I’d been teaching for five years – but all of a sudden I got the broadcasting bug, and so I pestered Jack. I wrote to him, and got a rejection letter. I wrote again, and got another. Then I went round to London FM, just behind the Angel, and asked his assistant, Monica, if he’d see me. She told me he was too busy. So I went back again the next day, and this time, he agreed. Monica showed me into his office. Jack was sitting staring at his computer. He was in his late thirties, and he was very attractive.
    ‘Look, I don’t mind seeing you,’ he said, after a minute. ‘But, as I told you, I don’t have any vacancies. In any case, I only employ trained people.’
    ‘Can’t you train me?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t have the money.’
    ‘Well, how much does it cost?’
    ‘That’s not the point,’ he said, slightly irritably. ‘It’s not even as though you’ve been a journalist.’ This was true. I wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect. ‘Whenever I appoint someone,’ he explained, ‘I have to justify that choice to Management. And I’m afraid I just don’t have the budget to run a kindergarten for beginners.’ He handed me back my CV. ‘I’m very sorry. I admire your persistence, but I’m afraid I really can’t help.’
    ‘But I want to be a radio journalist,’ I said, as if that were all the explanation that was required. ‘I really think I’d be good.’
    ‘You haven’t got any experience,’ he countered wearily. ‘So I simply can’t agree.’
    But I’d stayed in there, trying to make him change his mind. Looking back, I’m astonished at my boldness. In the end, he’d nearly lost his temper. He had shown me the Himalayan pile of CVs lying on his desk. He’d made me listen to the show-reels of three of his top reporters. He’d told me to try my luck making coffee at the Beeb. But, like Velcro, I had stuck.
    ‘I’ll work for nothing,’ I said.
    ‘We’re not allowed to do that,’ he replied. He leaned towards me across his huge, paper-strewn desk, hands clasped together as if in prayer. When he spoke again, he was almost whispering. ‘You can’t edit tape; you’ve never interviewed anyone; you’ve no idea how to make a feature, and you wouldn’t know a microphone from a baseball bat. I need competent, talented, experienced people, Minty, and I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.’
    ‘OK, I know I’m not experienced, but I am very enthusiastic and I’d learn very quickly if you’d just give me a chance, and you see, I’ve been reading this book about radio production, so I already know quite a lot.’
    ‘A book?’ he said, wryly. ‘Very impressive. Right,’ he said, with a penetrating stare, ‘what are “cans”?
    ‘Headphones.’
    ‘What does “dubbing” mean?’
    ‘Copying.’
    ‘“De-umming”?’
    ‘Taking out all the glitches – the ums and ah’s.’
    ‘What about “wild-track”?’ He had picked up a piece of yellow leader tape and was twisting it in his hands.
    ‘Er …background noise, like birdsong, or traffic.’
    ‘More or less. What’s “popping”?’
    ‘Distortion on the microphone.’
    ‘OK. What are “bands”?’ He had swivelled round in his chair and was tapping something out on his computer keyboard.
    ‘Edited speech inserts,’ I said.
    ‘What’s a “pot-cut”?’ He went over to the printer, which started up with a high-pitched whine.
    ‘An early coming-out point on an insert, when a live programme is running short of time.’
    This quiz was starting to get me down. He tapped