The Wireless Ham

Sogmarsh Wireless Presents — being thirty minutes of contact with the wider world, less the actual message.

A back room. A waxed string runs in through the chimney, across the ceiling, and down to a dented tin cup on the table. A pigeon shifts in a basket. Rain, and under it, far off, a bell counting.

ANNOUNCER. Sogmarsh Wireless presents The Wireless Ham; in which Mr Horace P. Dudgeon, President for Life of No. 4½ Sump Lane, makes contact with the whole of the realm, down a length of string, and will not, for one moment of it, put the cup to his ear.

Interior. The back room. HORACE at the tin, transmitting grandly. BILLY watches, holding a second cup on a slack line.

HORACE. (booming into the cup) Sump Lane calling the realm. Sump Lane calling the realm. This is Station Dudgeon, sole and superior Wireless authority of No. 4½, come in. (waits, then, into the cup again) ...I say, come in!

BILLY. Mr Dudgeon, you have to listen down it after. You keep talking into it. You've not once put it to your ear.

HORACE. (loftily) Billy. A broadcasting station broadcasts. One does not receive. Reception is for the — for the plentiful operator. I transmit. The realm hears. (into cup) Now. Let me tell you all a little about my work here at Station Dudgeon —

SFX: the string thrums. Faintly, from BILLY's cup, a tinny voice.

BILLY. (cup to ear) ...There's someone actually on it. Murkminster. He says —

DISTANT VOICE. (tinny, down the line, bored) — Murkminster night-cup. You're the ninth time tonight, Sump Lane. Clear the line. There's weather on the coast and the string's wanted.

HORACE. (who has not heard a word of it, still talking into his own cup) — a nerve-centre, you understand, in communion with the entire kingdom —

BILLY. He wants the line clear, Mr Dudgeon. He says there's weather on the coast.

HORACE. (waving him off) Interference, Billy. The ether is thick with lesser stations. (into cup) — as I was saying, the entire kingdom, as far as the Cold Coast —

SFX: the basket. The pigeon. And under it, the string thrumming hard now, urgent.

BILLY. (cup pressed to ear, alarmed) Mr Dudgeon — it's the coast — there's a boat — the Tuesday's Child, standing off in the fog — she's waiting on the bell-count to come in — they're asking, down the string, how many bells did the tower ring — they keep asking — nobody's answering because you won't clear the —

HORACE. (straight over him, into his own cup) — the Cold Coast, yes, wild country, I've often thought I should civilise it by Wireless —

BILLY. (desperate) — there's a pigeon come in and all, look, there's a paper on its leg —

HORACE. Billy, please. A man is describing my importance to Murkminster and I will not have it stepped upon by a bird. (into cup) Now, where was I. My work —

SFX: BILLY, giving up on Horace, takes his own cup to the window, where the tower bell can be heard direct.

BILLY. (calling back) I'll count 'em off the tower meself and send it down my line.

HORACE. (grandly, oblivious) An excellent notion, Billy, count something, keep busy. (into cup) As I say, a nerve-centre —

SFX: through the window, the bell. BILLY counts under his breath — "...five... six... seven." The tower stops.

BILLY. (clear and plain, into his cup, cup then pressed to ear for the reply) Coast. Coast. Seven bells. It rang seven. Tell the Tuesday's Child — seven's too many — don't sail — hold off till morning. Seven. Don't come in.

DISTANT VOICE. (flooding with relief, down the string) — seven — received — passing it on — holding her off — bless you, whoever's on that cup —

HORACE. (finally noticing, affronted) Billy! You've transmitted! On your own line! Without a call-sign! You didn't even say who you were!

BILLY. (simply) Didn't need to. He didn't want to know who I was. He wanted to know how many bells.

Interior. The kitchen, later. MERCY, arms folded. HORACE, magnificent, telling it.

HORACE. — and so, Mercy, Station Dudgeon this night preserved a vessel and all her souls. I shall want a plaque. "Here Broadcast Horace P. Dudgeon, Voice of the Realm —"

MERCY. (flat) You didn't broadcast anything, Horace. You talked into a tin cup on a string for two hours and never once put it to your ear. There was a boat in the fog begging for seven bells the whole time, and it came in down the very string you were shouting on, and you never heard it, because you were on it. Billy heard it. Billy, at the window, with the bells and a bit of string.

HORACE. (deflating) ...I was maintaining contact with the wider —

MERCY. You were maintaining contact with the inside of a cup. There's a difference, Horace, and it's about a boatful of men wide. (beat, gentler) The Wireless isn't a length of string, and it isn't a call-sign, and it certainly isn't you. It's whether anybody's listening at the other end. Billy listened. That's the whole of the equipment. The rest is tin.

A long pause. The rain. Faintly, the bell, once, settling.

HORACE. (quietly, setting down his cup) ...Seven bells, was it.

BILLY. (from the doorway) Seven. Good count, seven. Round.

HORACE. (after a moment, and for once not performing) ...You did well, Billy. (hangs his cup on the nail) I find I have been transmitting a great deal, and receiving nothing whatsoever, for some years, and not only on the string. (beat) Leave the line be a while. I should like to listen to something.

ANNOUNCER. Sogmarsh Wireless has presented The Wireless Ham. The Tuesday's Child came in safe by morning light on a count of two. Station Dudgeon is off the air and, for the first time in its history, has the cup to its ear. Its finest transmission was made by a boy at a window with a bit of string, who said only what was needed, to someone who needed it.

The bell, far off. A pigeon, settling. Then quiet.

— end —