Source A: The first bulletin

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

I had rehearsed the bulletin until the weather for the coast seemed to belong to me. In the empty studio, I could deliver the figures without looking down: wind from the south-west, rain expected after six, visibility falling by the evening. The red light above the desk was still dark. I sat straight, one hand beside the script, and imagined the people listening in kitchens and vans. They would hear a calm voice. That, I thought, was the important thing.

Before the programme, Mr Shah had shown me the small green bar that moved when I spoke. Keep it between the two marks, he said. I watched it rise and fall as I read the opening lines. It stayed where it should. The microphone seemed less like a machine than a witness: quiet, attentive, ready to agree.

At seven, the light came on. I began. My voice sounded lower through the headphones, more certain than it had in rehearsal. I read the first report, then the second. The figures arrived in their proper order. I did not look at the clock until the final paragraph, when I saw I had nearly a minute left. There was time for the harbour notice. I turned the page.

The green bar did not move.

I kept speaking. The words were familiar, but the headphones gave back nothing, not even the soft scrape of paper under my hand. I leaned closer to the microphone. Still nothing. On the other side of the glass, Mr Shah had lifted one finger. Wait. I stopped, although the silence seemed to carry on speaking for me.

The clock’s red seconds crossed the face. I could see the next line on the page: “A reminder that the west pier will close at dusk.” I had practised that sentence most of all, giving it a small pause before “at dusk”. Now the pause was everywhere. The green bar stayed flat. Mr Shah pointed towards the switch beneath the desk. I pressed it once, then again, too quickly to tell whether anything had changed.

“Good evening,” I said, and heard my own voice return in a thin, broken thread. I wanted to explain the delay, but the explanation would take longer than the delay. My hand was damp against the paper. The carefully numbered reports had become a stack of unrelated pages; I could not remember which one came next.

Mr Shah held up two fingers. Breathe. I did, though not in the slow way he had shown me. Then the bar jumped. I found the harbour notice and read it, leaving out the pause I had planned. The sentence came out level enough. When the light went dark, I looked again at my notes. Every figure was still in its place. I had mistaken that for a guarantee.