Nell: Public Speaking and Other Natural Disasters

Henry's radio training began with the instruction not to tap the microphone.

I tapped it immediately.

He closed his eyes. “A promising start.”

“Sorry. Reflex.”

“Develop a different one.”

We were in the small studio at the community centre, recording a short segment about the guide for the festival programme. Kit sat beside me wearing headphones slightly too large for her. She looked comfortable in a way I found both attractive and unfair.

Henry explained the levels, the hand signal for wrapping up and the fact that a pause was not automatically a technical failure. I needed the last part more than the others.

“We'll do one practice run,” he said. “Then a clean version.”

“What if the practice is brilliant?”

“Then we'll be grateful I recorded it.”

He asked how the guide had started. I answered with my complaint, then turned to Kit before the story could become a straight line with me at the front.

“I'd sent a different complaint about the photographs and route descriptions,” she said. “Jo realised we were asking related questions.”

Her voice was lower on the headphones, closer to my ear than the room justified. I concentrated on the interview rather than the alarming discovery that I could be distracted by my own girlfriend describing pavement widths.

Henry asked what we'd changed after testing. Kit talked about the harbour route. I talked about the rainy-day plan and the readers who had pointed out that cheap wasn't the same as free.

“What's your favourite outing?” he asked.

I nearly said the picnic. Kit looked at me with a warning smile.

“The reader-chosen one,” I said. “Your turn, my turn. It's simple, and it made us pay attention.”

“Mine's the sound activity,” Kit said. “You can make something strange with ordinary objects.”

We finished within the allotted time. Henry played it back. I heard one sentence where I had spoken too quickly and another where I'd said basically three times. He let us rerecord the answer, then chose the version that sounded less like I'd swallowed a style guide.

While Kit checked the audio file, Henry and I carried the spare chairs back to the cupboard.

“You two seem good,” he said.

“We're working on it.”

“That's a less alarming answer than perfect.”

I looked at him. “Was I awful on our date?”

“No.”

“You can say.”

“You were nice. You were also somewhere else for bits of it.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shrugged, not dismissively. “You told me before there was a second one. That's allowed.”

I had been preparing a more elaborate apology. I put it away.

“Thank you for doing this,” I said, meaning the interview and perhaps the conversation.

“It's my job. Well, my unpaid hobby with a rota.”

We went back into the studio. Kit had finished checking the file, and Henry promised to send the final edit for factual approval before broadcast. The phrase no longer felt like a minor courtesy. It felt like a door with a handle on both sides.

At the festival office, Celia showed us the launch schedule. The original plan had been a table in the arts-centre courtyard, a short introduction and copies for people to take. The forecast was becoming less friendly. A band had already asked about moving its equipment indoors. A children's craft session wanted the same fallback room we had been considering.

“We need a weather plan that exists before the weather,” Jo said.

I tried not to look at Kit. The museum route had taught us something, apparently.

The library event room was available for part of the afternoon. It held fewer people than the courtyard, and access had to be managed through the appropriate entrance rather than sending everyone round the building to discover a step. Jo would organise the room, the safe capacity and the staffing. We would keep the launch short enough that people could visit the table in smaller groups.

“What about the sound activity?” Kit asked.

“We can run one demonstration, not an open equipment workshop,” Jo said. “There won't be enough supervision or space for the original plan.”

Kit nodded. She looked disappointed but didn't argue with the physical size of a room.

I had imagined a launch where the guide would look impressive. The new plan involved a sign, a table, a practical explanation and tea from paper cups. It was less likely to produce a flattering photograph and more likely to let people actually use the thing.

On the way out, Celia stopped me.

“Your radio interview was good, Henry says.”

“Both of us, yes.”

She smiled. “Both of you.”

I didn't feel triumphant correcting it. I just wanted the sentence to be right.

At home, I practised the launch introduction in front of Ollie. He ate cereal through the first version and raised his hand halfway through the second.

“This isn't school,” I said.

“You said questions.”

“At the end.”

“Then make the end sooner.”

I cut forty words.

He listened again, spoon suspended.

“Better,” he said.

“Your rates are becoming unreasonable.”

“I accept biscuits.”

For the final practice, I stopped reading from the page and imagined the people who would be in the room: the readers who had changed our minds, the adults who had helped, Kit beside me, somebody who had only come in to get out of the rain.

I could speak to those people. I did not have to become a different, shinier person first.