For as long as Tamika could remember, Grandad Winston’s old radio had sat on the shelf in his living room in Kingston, Jamaica. It was the colour of toffee, with a big round dial, but it had been silent for years.

“Why don’t we throw it away and get a new one?” Tamika asked one rainy Saturday. Grandad shook his head. “This radio played music at my wedding,” he said. “It doesn’t need throwing away. It needs fixing.”

So they cleared the table and opened his toolbox. Grandad unscrewed the back panel, and Tamika peered inside at a little city of wires, coils and tiny coloured parts.

“A good fixer is like a detective,” said Grandad. “We look for clues.” They checked the plug: fine. They checked the switch: fine. Then Tamika shone the torch inside and spotted it: a thin wire that had snapped and was dangling loose.

Grandad’s hands were a little shaky these days, so Tamika held the wire steady while he joined it carefully, and together they wrapped the join with tape. Then Tamika turned the dial.

First there was a crackle. Then a hiss. Then, suddenly, music filled the room: drums, guitars and a singer with a voice like warm honey. Grandad closed his eyes and swayed. Tamika grabbed his hands, and they danced around the table.

The next weekend the whole street had a party, and the toffee-coloured radio sat in a place of honour on the front step, playing all afternoon. “Fixed things have the best stories,” said Grandad, and Tamika agreed.

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