The Dead Side of the Mike Read online

  ‘Well, like all good things, the department declined and, some time – in the early Sixties it was – it was disbanded. Since then, whenever anyone feels frustrated about the sort of work they are doing or about the general quality of radio programmes, they say, “Why don’t we start up the Features Department again?” As if the clock could be turned back, the invention of television could be ignored, and England could once again become a nation of nice middle-class families sipping mugs of Ovaltine round the beaming bakelite of their wirelesses.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The latest in the long line of people to use this rallying-cry is that gentleman over there –’ She indicated a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in pin-striped suit, bright silk tie and complacent smile. ‘His name’s John Christie. He’s a BBC career politician.’

  ‘I don’t really know what you mean by that.’

  ‘He is destined for some sort of greatness in the misty upper reaches of Management. His career has been textbook. Out of Oxbridge straight into the African service – I believe he speaks fluent Swahili, though I’m not quite sure when he gets an opportunity to use it. Then he went to Belfast and worked over there in some administrative capacity . . .’

  ‘And that’s good, is it?’

  ‘Oh yes, lots of Brownie points for going to Belfast. The BBC doesn’t forget its loyal servants who risk getting blown up in the cause of regional broadcasting. His reward was a post created in Drama Department. Co-ordinator, I think he’s called. Co-ordinator, Drama Department. CDD. The BBC loves initials. But from there he’s destined for greatness. Great greatness.’

  ‘What, you mean he’ll become editor of some programme or –’

  ‘Good Lord, no. You are naive. The top jobs in the BBC don’t have anything to do with the making of programmes. No, he’ll end up as Chief Sales Inhibitor for BBC Publications or in some strange and powerful department like Secretariat.’

  ‘What do they do there?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘You sound pretty cynical about the whole thing; I take it you are not involved in the meeting.’

  ‘By no means. I’ll be there.’ The huge brown eyes looked levelly into his. Even if he could have broken the stare, he didn’t think he would have wanted to.

  The interruption came from a third party. A blonde girl came up and threw her arms around Steve. She was only a little over average height, but looked huge beside the other. ‘Steve, look at me – still standing up.’

  She carried a fairly empty wine glass and seemed in a state of high excitement. ‘Have you managed to get any sleep, love?’ asked Steve, with a trace of anxiety.

  ‘No, I’m held together by alcohol and willpower and sheer animal high spirits.’ The way she spoke suggested alcohol might be the dominant partner in the combination.

  ‘Can’t you get out of tonight?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

  Steve remembered Charles. ‘I’m so sorry. This is Charles Paris. Andrea Gower. She shares a flat with me. Just come back from a week’s holiday in New York.’

  Andrea giggled. ‘Just back in time for the Wimbledon finals. And I’m still somewhere up on a cloud over the Atlantic.’

  ‘Didn’t you sleep on the flight?’

  ‘Not a wink. I had a drink and another drink and then the movie and then another drink.’

  ‘You should have got out of today’s work,’ said Steve, ‘caught up on some sleep.’

  ‘No, I’ll do that tomorrow. It’s my own fault. I stayed the extra day.’

  Steve explained. ‘She was due back yesterday to start work today. But she decided to stay on.’

  ‘Ah, it was very important. I was finding out some very interesting things. I had to stay. It was necessary to the cause of investigative journalism.’ She stumbled over the last two words. ‘I have found something eminently worthy of investigation.’

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ asked Charles.

  ‘No, just a humble SM. Today an SM – tomorrow ruler of the world or dead in the attempt.’ She dropped into an accent for the last phrase. Charles revised his earlier opinion that she was drunk. She had had a few drinks, but her excitement was more emotional.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak BBC. What’s an SM?’

  ‘Studio Manager. Knob-twiddler, teacup-rattler, editor, tape-machine starter and what you will.’

  ‘Ah. So what does that mean in practical terms? I mean, what have you done today?’

  ‘Today? God, what day is it? Today started about forty hours ago with pancakes and bacon in a coffee shop on a very hot Lexington Avenue . . . But, coming up to date, having been met at Heathrow by my good friend, Miss Stephanie Kennett, I rushed to Maida Vale to record a music session for the famous Dave Sheridan.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘What, you mean you don’t know the famous disc jockey? Him, over there – with Nita Lawson – she’s his Executive Producer.’ She pointed to the tall man who had deferred to Charles at the bar. ‘The session was the usual Radio Two treacle – I say . . .’ A new thought struck her. ‘If you haven’t heard of Dave Sheridan, can it be that you are a lover of real music? Real classical music?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very musical at all.’

  ‘Oh, never mind. It’s just that in these degenerate days, lovers of real music have got to stick together. And fight the barbarian hordes who play Simon and Pumpernickel into the wee small hours of the morning.’ She grimaced at Steve, who said ‘Simon and Garfunkel’ with automatic amusement. It was evidently an old joke between them.

  ‘Anyway, where was I?’ Andrea was so wound up that nothing could stop her flow. ‘Yes, right, that was the music session, at which would you believe the great man Dave Sheridan actually put in an appearance. So we exchanged badinage. Then, after the session, I hopped into a taxi – which I can claim because I was carrying tapes and they can be wiped by travelling on the Underground – took them up to the Library and here I am. This evening I have to record – would you believe – a European Cup soccer match. It’s not even my group. Someone’s sick in the other lot and I’m on standby. The match is broadcast live from Munich at nine o’clock and I have to sit in a channel and record it. How long do soccer matches last?’

  ‘I don’t know. An hour and a half maybe.’

  ‘Ugh. So, if I don’t drop dead beforehand, half-past ten will see me staggering into a cab, telling the driver to take me to Paddington, taking a Mogadon and falling into bed for about a fortnight.’

  ‘I’m sure you could get someone else to record this match for you,’ Steve remonstrated. ‘You look dead on your feet. Alick’d do it, I’m sure, if he’s free.’

  ‘I am booked for it,’ said Andrea stubbornly, ‘and I’ll do it. I can do anything at the moment. I’m on an incredible high.’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Charles.

  ‘Just try not to be around when the low comes.’

  Andrea’s ebullience was momentarily curbed by the appearance of Mark with the drinks.

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long. I was talking to John Christie and . . . Oh, hello.’

  Neither Mark nor Andrea seemed to be exactly pleased to see each other. ‘How was your trip?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘Fine. Smashing.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Very good. Made me completely rethink my life, what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I am going to unearth the truth. I think the truth’s very important. Everyone should know the truth.’ There was a pause. She swayed slightly with exhaustion. Then she grabbed Steve’s hand and said, ‘Come on, Roger and Prue are over there.’

  Steve muttered an apologetic ‘Goodbye’ to Charles as the two girls disappeared into the crowd.

  Mark studiously didn’t comment on their departure. ‘Look, I’ve just been talking with John Christie and he wants you to join this committee.’

  ‘What committee?’

  ‘This Features Action
thing.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You see, the thing about it is, John doesn’t want it to be just BBC staff. Thinks we’re in danger of getting too insular. Says we should involve creative people from outside too. Well, Helmut Winkler had got Reggie Morris set up – do you know him? – he did that big feature on Nietzche which was nominated for the Italia Prize.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was called Zarathustra Meets Übermensch . . .’

  ‘Still no. In fact, even more no.’

  ‘Anyway, Reggie’s suddenly rung through to say he can’t make it – pissed, I imagine – so we haven’t got anyone representing the writing end of Drama features. So I told John about the smashing job you’d done on Swinburne and he said, Great, you’d be ideal.’

  One decision Charles had taken very early in life, in fact while still at school when he had been elected on to the committee of the Drama Society, was that he would never again be on any committee for anything. Committees he knew to be time-wasting, long-winded, inconclusive and mind-blowingly boring. One of few advantages of his footloose life as an actor was that he did not have to take part in regimentation of that sort. Committees should be left to that unaccountable group of people who actually enjoyed them.

  So he started to make his excuses, but was interrupted by the arrival of the pin-striped suit which had been identified as John Christie. ‘Charles Paris, I’m delighted you’re going to be with us,’ he said with the unctuous charm of a Tory MP opening a garden fête.

  ‘Yes, well you see, the thing is . . .’

  ‘John, shall I get a couple of bottles to take over? I mean we can have a drink at this job, can’t we?’

  ‘Of course, Mark, of course. I do want this to be totally informal. Not BBC at all. In fact I’ve organised a few bottles of the old Sans Fil over there.’

  ‘Oh great. If we run out, I can come back for more. Come along, Charles. The meeting’s over in BH. In John’s office on the Sixth Floor.’

  So Charles went along. As he caught up with Mark, he asked, ‘What’s the old Sans Fil?’

  ‘BBC Club wine. It’s French for “wireless”.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘SO WHAT WE are saying is, okay, stuff Management. Let’s forget all the old prescribed answers and see what we can come up with by just gathering a few of the real creators together. Let’s think laterally. Are we going to do better by sticking with the current ad hoc way of making occasional features or by starting a department formed just for that purpose?’

  As John Christie concluded his opening address, Charles was again struck by the political image. The candidate was still opening the fête, smiling at everyone, on everyone’s side, concerned about everyone’s minor ailments, defending everyone against Them and obscuring in a welter of solicitude his own identity with Them.

  An earnest thin-faced young man picked up the gauntlet. ‘The point is that in the current climate, none of us has any time to make features – certainly not in News. We’re too busy producing the day-to-day programmes. If we ever got any thinking time, I’m sure we could come up with the goods.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said John Christie, though Charles felt he would have said that whatever opinion had been expressed. ‘That is why we have here a representative selection of creative programme-makers to find out how that sort of time can be made.’

  ‘Huh,’ objected a girl with a grubby T-shirt and Shredded Wheat hair, ‘you call it representative, but I notice there are only four women here.’

  John Christie opened his hands in what was meant to be a disarming shrug. ‘Sorry, love. When I said “representative”, I didn’t mean representative of society as a whole; I just meant representative of creative programme-makers within the BBC.’

  That didn’t go down any better. ‘I see, you are saying that men are more creative than women.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Come to that,’ objected a young man with wild eyes, beard and teeth, ‘I don’t see many black people here. Or gays.’

  ‘Who’s counting?’ came a limp voice from down the table.

  ‘No, but there should be some blacks. I mean, we live in a multi-racial society.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark Lear, ‘but we work in the BBC, where, as we all know, our concession to a multi-racial Britain is one coloured newsreader, a doorman and half the canteen staff.’

  The line came out rather crudely. Obviously it had been meant as a joke, and Charles wondered whether Mark was drunk. He had a vague memory from their previous acquaintance that Mark didn’t hold his liquor well.

  John Christie dispensed unction on to the ruffling waters of the meeting. ‘Now come on, we’re only at the stage of preliminary discussion. I’m sure when we get into more detailed work, we can decide what is the optimum composition of our work-force. This is just an exploratory meeting.’

  The objectors shrugged back into their chairs with Well-don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you expressions and the chairman continued, ‘Let’s try as far as possible to keep the discussion to features and how they are best made. Don’t let’s get side-tracked. Any thoughts?’

  ‘I think we’re doing features already. We always have been on Woman’s Hour; just don’t give them fancy titles.’ This was from a lady of a certain age and a less certain shape. ‘I mean the programme we did recently on hysterectomy was a feature by anyone’s definition.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure. But the point at issue is whether that sort of programme would be improved by having more time and resources available for its production.’

  ‘I suppose it might be a bit better, but on the whole things that just have to happen come out best. At least that’s what we find on Woman’s Hour. All that’s needed to create good features is creative writers and producers. This moaning about lack of resources and time just sounds to me like bad workmen blaming their tools.’

  The girl in the T-shirt wasn’t standing for that. ‘Even the most brilliant workperson in the world needs some sort of tools to play with.’

  ‘I didn’t know workpersons had tools; I know workmen do,’ came a facetious murmur from Charles’s right. They had been introduced before the meeting started. Nick Monckton, Light Entertainment. It seemed that everyone present felt obliged to slip into his or her departmental stereotype. Nick felt it his duty to supply the jokes.

  The girl either didn’t hear or chose not to hear the interpolation. ‘And by tools, I mean not only time and money, but also co-operation and encouragement from above. I mean, I came up with this great idea for three one-hour features on force-feeding the suffragettes, and HSP(R) had the nerve to say he didn’t think it fitted into a course on Parliamentary Democracy.’

  Charles appealed silently to Mark and received the whispered gloss, ‘Head of Schools Programmes (Radio).’

  ‘I got the same reaction to my Buddhism in the London suburbs idea,’ objected someone. ‘H. CAMP turned it down.’

  ‘Same thing with my radiophonic Crucifixion in Space. Both CR4 and CR3 were frightened of it.’

  ‘Well, the Gogol musical idea got up as far as DPR. HDR just didn’t understand it, basically. I think at one stage DPR was going to refer it to MDR, but AHDR reckoned that would be publicly questioning HDR’s decision, so sweet F.A. happened.’

  Charles was beginning to feel he had somehow drifted into a game of Etruscan Scrabble and was relieved when John Christie once again chaired them into silence. ‘Look, I know we’ve all got lots to say, but let’s try and keep it one at a time, shall we? And I do think it important that we keep the discussion as general as possible. I mean, I’m sure you’ve all got pet projects which would fall into the features category – indeed, I hope you all have, because that means that I’ve invited the right people – but let’s try to keep off individual and departmental hobbyhorses for the time being. Let’s just try to think how it would all work out in an ideal world.’

  ‘In an ideal world we wouldn’t work for the BBC,’ said Mark
Lear with surprising savagery. But the rest of the meeting took it as a joke.

  A small man with a large moustache came in over the laughter. ‘I think, I hope, that is, pardon me, but, speaking for a moment with my regional hat on, I think there is a danger that we are all going to forget the important creative resources we have in the regions. I don’t know that we’ve all met, but I am, to those of you to whom I am unknown, not to put too fine a point on it, Harry Bassett from Leeds, and I do, er, hope that, when the chips are down, we won’t ignore the veritable mines of talent which we have been, as it were, mining for some time in Leeds and the other regional centres, that is, in any discussion we are having to which what I’m saying might be of relevance, if you take my point. And I’m not just harking back to the days of E. A. Harding and Geoffrey Bridson in Manchester or Cecil McGivern from Newcastle. I’m talking about the, as it were, here and now.

  ‘I mean, no one’s denigrating the fine work done in London, but I think, in a sense, it always seems to me, speaking off the record, that London is only one of many centres of creative radio and there’s an all-too-ready tendency to dismiss the regional contribution as something that is not, in any real sense, as it were, of great importance. I mean, we may be, in a manner of speaking, out of town, but we’re by no means and not in any sense, out of ideas, if you take my point.’

  It was apparent from the impatient expressions of the rest of the meeting that they did all regard the regional contribution as completely irrelevant, but John Christie, salting away votes for some future election, smiled charmingly and said, ‘Yes, of course, Harry. I’m very glad you brought that point up. But perhaps we ought to start, before we get too deeply embroiled in production details, with the artists involved in the creation of feature programmes. I thought it very important, for this meeting, that we should spread our net wider than just BBC staff. There’s a dangerous tendency for us to regard what happens here as something on its own, totally divorced from the general world of the arts. So I’m very pleased to have with us some writers and performers whose opinion on the true creative issues will, I think, be invaluable to all of us. We are lucky to have with us the composer – dare I say avant garde composer? – Seth Hurt and –’