Station Love

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXV, Issue 12306, 21 April 1937, Page 4

Station Love

By CRAIG CARRODL I ® ®ll

NEW SERIAL, STORY

INSTALMENT NO 17. “Something new, Dick?” He grinned. “Can’t tell you a thing, Judy. Only half of the pro-gramme-writers in the business are ex-saxophone players or ex-announc-ers. Never wrote a thing in their lives till radio came along. And it they can do it, maybe I can, too. Anwhow, I’m trying something.” “You’re writing?” “The jury’s still out, Judy.” "Won't you let me see?” “No. Can’t.” “But-—” He nodded past her. Friend of ours coming,” he said softly. Judy saw Elton Day, smooth, polished, begging somebody’s pardon, dodging somebody else who caught at his coat lapels, tapping a nervous rhythm on the wall with his fingers as he walked along the corridor toward them. “Morning,” he said brightly. “Hello,” said Dick.

store with her to have a sandwich, to talk for the scant halt-hour he had to spare before his next time on the air. But Judy had learned things, in her few days on the air. Learned that clients must not be told to wait. Learned that plans or engagements mean nothing at all, when the client speaks. “Yes. Of course, Mr Flavin. Just a moment, Inough, I’ve got to leave a note.” He grinned. “For Dick, eh?” “Why—” “Don’t worry, Miss Allison. Everybody knows. Can’t keep secrets around a radio station, you know.” . Everybody knows? Knows what? That Dick Mason looks at you, through the glass, while you’re watching a show from the gallery* That he has lunch with you each day in the drug store downstairs? That he

waits to see you before going in to set the programme each morning? Judy's cheeks burned. Suddenly, she put the pencil back in her bag. “Tell Mr Mason I bad to go over and see the client,” she said to a page boy, who grinned knowingly as he nodded. Then she said, “I’m ready, Mr Flavin. Shall we go?” She said little, as they rode across •town to the big building on Michigan Avenue. The advertising man talked, about programmes, about people. Nantes that Would have thrilled Judy Allison a week ago. Names that meant nothing at all now, but people you saw and listened to, people who were not at all Olympian, people with problems and worries like her own. She answered “Yes” sometimes; then “No”; then, “I hadn’t heard.” And the advertising man, sensing her aloofness, nodded a little, remembering how she had flushed when he mentioned Dick. At last he said with elaborate disinterest, “Dick Mason’s a good announcer, isn’t he, Miss Allison?” “I think he’s the best I’ve ever heard,” Judy said quickly. Then flushed again at the amused look on Flavin’s face. “Too bad he doesn’t get out of the studio side,” he said. “Why—” "Simple enough. He gets a a salary. Works a half-dazen shows a day. Sometimes more. All for one salary. But if he were.a freelance, he could sell himself direct to the same clients. Maybe for a lot more money. You see?” “Yes. But doesn’t that take | money ?” "No. Takes being forced to do it, that’s all.”

Judy said nothing at all. “Good show,” Elton went on. “Very good. Heard it up in my ollice. Client heard it, too. Just phoned me. Says its fine. If the mail comes — if no mail— Repetition of that phrase made Judy wonder, “Is the mail so important?” she asked. “Tell her, Dick,” Elton suggested suavely. “Tell her about the mail.” Dick said only. “Well, mail is the way the client tests n programme.” But Elton added: "You see, we all know mall for any kind of tree sample. All right. Never tell a client that. He believes if he gets a lot of mail it’s a riot, and it the mail isn’t big it never occurs to him his sample is no good. He just decides the programme is to blame. So the mail boy’s

a big shot around here. So, Dick?” “Yes,” Dick said curtly. “Going, Judy?” “Yes, Dick.” Day smiled casually. "I have some points in the programme to talk about, Dick,” he said. “Better wait a couple of minutes, Judy. Unless I’m interrupting something.” “Of course not,” Judy said quickly. “Dick I’ll see you at th'e house this evening?” “Yes.” he said, not looking at her.

Jealous. But why should he be, Judy wondered? He ought to know how she felt. Ought to know what she thought of Elton Day. But men forget. And Dick walked away quickly, leaving. Judy with Day. Leaving her to hoar him say very softly; “Too bad our lady listeners can’t see you, Judy. They’d never get over it it they could.” “Thank you.” “Oh, don’t thank me. Don’t thank anybody. Just be glad about it.” “You wanter to tell me something about the programme?”

“Oh.” She was silent, thinking If Dick weren’t working at the studio, if he had to go and see people—the thing he hated to do—he might overcome his shyness, he might suddenly reach the earning power he needed if his worry was to end. “Here we are. Miss Allison. Thirtyninth floor.” They shot upward breathlessly, the door snapped open, they emerged into a lobby elaborately done in black and silver, with modern desks of metal and glass, with deep-cushioned metal chairs. “Mr Jenks,” Flavin told the girl at the desk, ”Mr Flavin and Miss Allison calling,” “Oh, Miss Allison|” The girl stared unaffectedly, Then, “I heard you yesterday, Miss Allison, You were swell! ” “Thank you,” Judy murmured, trying to be casual, trying not to feel suddenly important. This was the first time anyone on the outside had said “I heard you.” This was the first of all the people “Yes, Ad, Judy and I’ve been talking about the expense she has. She needs to make more money. She can too, easily. Well, never mind now. - ” He clapped Jenks on the shoulder. “Let’s eat first and talk afterward. Business after pleasure always, eh, Ad?” who heard her whom Judy Allison had met. A girl as old as herself, or older; a gild probably better-trained, cleverer than Judy Allison of Hiawatha; but because Judy Allison was talking on the air she was somebody of importance to this girl Funny! Like mother, writing from home, “I hear you every morning. Mrs Thornburgh always comes over, and Mrs Delancey, and twice now your father has stayed home from the store. He doesn’t say a word, but I know how he feels. He’s got everybody in town listening for you. We’re so proud of you, Judy, knowing

“No.” “But you said—” He waved a deprecatory hand- " Never can tell what a day will say. Old family custom. Say what pops into the mind. If it doesn't pop, say it anyhow. Get the old words going and people go away and then everything’s simple.” She nodded. “Yes. You’ve said so before, haven't you?” “Many times,” he agreed calmly. "Always say something like that to get the conversation started. And then when the lady is angry—” “But the lady isn’t angry.” “That’s a comfort. So —” “The lady isn’t” angry,” Judy repeated as she "walked past Elton Day. “She’s merely bored. Good-day, Mr Day.” She left him. And did not look back to see on Elton Day’s face an expression that was not unusual for him. A look of sorrow, almost. As if Elton Day wished, for the moment only, that Elton Day were not what he always had been. The mail came. Letters in pink envelopes, and letters in square, yvhite envelopes, and letters scrawled with pencil on brown wrapping paper stuck into envelopes painfully made at home. Letters asking the Beauty Builder for help. Letters telling strange, pitiful stories with naive abandonment of reticence, with complete confidence in the Beauty Builder that made Judy suddenly ashamed and a little afraid. “My husband is going to leave me, because he says I’m getting old and ugly. I’ve tried. But there’s so much work to do and I’ve no money, and I spend what I have on the children instead of buying things for myself. And . . . Please tell me what to do. Pipage.” Letters like that. Letters that Elton Day displayed amusedly, holding them in a basket, shuffling them with his thin hand. “Minneapolis,” he announced. “South Bend, Joplin, Kansas City, Sioux City, Milwaukee, St. Paul. All points west,” “Who answers them?” Judy asked. "Some correspondent.” “But shouldn’t —” “You shouldn’t do anything but talk. That’s where your job begins and ends,” he said. “Let somebody else worry about the rest of it.” "But they’re supposed to get personal answers.” “They will.” “From a correspondent?” “From me, Judy. Don’t I know the answers to all the little problems of life? Of coiirpe I do, Judy. All the answers. All the questions, tqo.” With that he went on his way. A man Judy had never seen before came looking for her, following a page. “Miss Allison?” “Yes,” Judy said. “I’m John Flavin. The Beauty Builder account is one of mine. And Mr Jenks, the client, wants to meet you. Wants you to come over to his office. I’ll go along. He’s so tickled about the show he’s got a new idea of some kind. Can you get away now?” “I —” Dick would be through, in a moment, with the noon programme. Then he was going down to the drug

you’ve really got an important job and knowing you’re helping so many peoplo. Do you write those things yourself? I guess you do, because it sounds just exactly like you talking, every word you say. The way you talked about reducing. I declare I laughed for an hour. And I’m trying that exercise you gave, and I guess maybe I don’t do it quite right, because it doesn’t seem to help. Wish you’d write and tell me about it with all the secrets, so I'll lose some weight. Maybe that Paul Whiteman diet you said he told you about. I’ve been worrying about being so heavy. And—” “Hello,” a small man said, “Miss Allison?” “Yes.” He shook hands vigorously. "I’m the man who pays the bills. Nobody at all. Name’s Jenks. Adalbert A. Jenks.” He chuckled selfconsciously. “Flavin, let’s get some lunch. Miss Allison, you’re free for lunch?” Flavin nodded. "Yes,” Judy said. “That’s fine. I’ve been wanting to have a good long talk with you. And Mr Day’s coming along, too. Oh. Elton!” Elton Day appeared from the inner officer “Yes, Ad?” “You know Miss Allison? Oh, of course. You’re the one that insisted on having her on the programme, even when everybody else thought. .” “And wasn’t I right?” Day interrupted hurriedly. “Sure were. That Burdette girl.”

“Judy,” said Day doggedly, a little too loudly, "is tile best voice in the business. Going to put her on some more programmes, Ad.” “Yon are not,” the little man said quickly. “Got to. Judy and I have been talking about it—” Judy shook her head, started to speak, but again Day warded her off danger with quick staccato words. “Yes, Elton, You bet. Yes. Miss Otis, I’ll be'out about two hours.” “You’ve an appointment at 1.30,” the girl reminded him. “Let it wait. It’s that Burdette girl. Miss Otis, when she comes in tell her I’ve got no time to see her. Tell her anything you want. See she stays out of here after this. Understand?” “Yes, Mr Jenks.” “And let’s go, Miss Allison. Coming Elton?” “Of course,” Day said, taking Judy’s arm, squeezing her elbow ever so slightly. Saying, "We have a secret, you and I.” Saying. “Didn’t Ido that neatly?” Saying other things.

Lunch went slowly. A tomato juice cocktail which she did nqt taste, jellied consopune which she hated, some sort of fish, a gorgeous and tasteless | salad, coffee in a small cup. Then, suddenly Elton dropped from his pose to the real-self Judy remembered so well. His eyes were sharp, his lips had tightened, there was nothing casual or detached about him now. “Ad.” “Yes, Elton.” Jenks put down his cigar, squared Ills shoulders, narrowed his eyes. Prepared for battle, Judy knew. Prepared for Day’s cold business tones. “Ad. You heard what I said a while ago about Judy. She’s getting forty a week from you. That’s all ” “That’s a good salary for a girl, isn’t it?” Judy wanted to say “Yes,” to shout suddenly, “I’m satisfied. I didn’t want whatever it is Elton Day is trying to get. I won’t take anything he gets for me.” But there was no chance, for Elton had answered curtly, coldly, “No. That’s fair enough for a stenographer, but stenographers are a dime a dozen in this man’s town. But a voice*—” His hands spread eloquently. “You’re getting more mail than you ever got before on any programme you pu,t . on. Right?” “Well—” the man hedged. “Never mind, I know.” Day said. “I’ve checked up. You’re a thousand letters ahead of last week Don’t you want to protect your interests?” (To be continued)