All to Play For (10 page)

The taxi pulled away, and Nicky turned, resigned to his fate. Rex and Geordie were staring, intrigued.

“Looks like wor Nicky’s a bit of a dark horse, Rex,” remarked Geordie, a humorous glint in his eye. Nicky looked coolly at Rex, trying not to betray his anxiety.

Rex studied him through narrowed eyes, then hugged him. “That’s right, Geordie. He’s just like I was at his age. The spitting image.” Then he turned and led them both into the casino. A top-hatted doorman welcomed them, and a receptionist offered them a large leather-bound book to sign themselves in. Nicky was last. After Rex Barclay, Geordie Boy, he wrote: Nik Mason. It looked good. He decided to keep it.

Chapter Six

Having worked on
Grange Hill
for a few years I felt at home in the television industry, and I was ready for a change. I wanted to move into adult drama, and I managed to get offered the job of Series Script Editor on a period drama series about frocks, which was based in Shepherds Bush. It was a big promotion, although the show itself was gentle and undemanding. (It was later parodied mercilessly by French and Saunders, and I’ve been embarrassed about it ever since. I’m not telling you the title, you’ll just have to work that out for yourself. Beware of satirists, that’s all I can say.) Being on the spot enabled me to get the feel of how the corporation operated in a way that was impossible when I was continuously in production miles away. The main hive of the BBC contained an army of development producers, script editors and readers, all working on a wide variety of new and potential drama projects; they were assailed on a daily basis by all the agents and writers in the country, or so it seemed. Let’s just say it looked rather competitive. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with it.

After a few months I received the memo about the new Drama Discussion Group, so I went along to see the action. It was much better supported than I expected. I was too late to get a seat, so I had to stand at the side and lean on a window sill. It was worth the effort though, as it proved very entertaining – mainly because of a new girl with a Yorkshire accent who had some refreshing opinions and no inhibitions in expressing them. The Bridge Lounge was a large plain room decorated in institution beige with straight-backed chairs arranged in a huge oval. Behind them were a few plastic-covered comfy chairs, so as Maggie was one of the first to arrive, she chose one mainly to avoid being in the front row. Anthea was there, behind a table, pouring wine into dozens of glasses. Maggie didn’t like to take one until a few more people had come in. She looked over the notes she had made on the programmes they were to discuss, and watched as people flooded in. She was amazed at the turnout, having expected twenty at the most, and felt a sense of occasion. This seemed to be a major gathering of the whole department. She recognised Sally of course, who was chatting up Jonathan quite successfully by the look of it, as they sat down cosily together in the front row. She prepared to wave if they looked in her direction, but they didn’t. There was no sign of Fenella. Morag Fishman, manager of the department and finder of offices for new recruits, rolled in looking harassed and made straight for the wine, complaining to anyone in earshot about the appalling noise caused by workmen on the seventh floor who were re-modelling a suite of offices for the Director General’s new cohorts without the slightest consideration for the poor bastards actually trying to make programmes. Distinguished-looking middle-aged men filled up the top end of the oval of chairs, and Maggie guessed they were producers: a few women infiltrated them, but most of the other women were of Maggie’s generation and chose the opposite end of the oval. Friendly insults and jokes flew across the room as they all relaxed, and Maggie felt exhilarated. At last she was enjoying herself. She sighed with pleasure, and surreptitiously studied the men, trying to guess which ones might be Stewart Walker and Basil Richardson.

The room quietened as a grey-haired man, tall and craggily handsome, stood up and surveyed the room thoughtfully, apparently unaware that one of his hands was surreptitiously patting his balding patch. Maggie suspected he was also trying to stand up straight so that his stomach didn’t hang too far over his belt, and found this endearing.

“Thanks for coming everyone. I must say, it’s an excellent turnout. Out of all our producers and script editors, development executives and readers, I think we have virtually half here this evening. Did anyone make it down from
EastEnders
?” Silence fell as everybody looked round. “Evidently not. I’m sure they’re all preoccupied with more important matters up at Elstree: I hear the chicken pox has broken out in Albert Square.” A murmur of laughter spread round the room. Maggie wasn’t sure, but she guessed this bloke must be the Head of Drama, Peter Maxwell. He certainly commanded everyone’s respectful attention.

“Okay that’s enough from me. I now declare the first Drama Discussion Group open! Over to you, Fenella.” He looked round the room. “She is here, isn’t she?” A few people giggled and the door opened, so all eyes turned as a well-dressed man entered in a hurry, his schoolboy hair flopping over his lined face. “Well I’m
so sorry
I’m late. I’d just like you to know that I’ve been in my office since eight o’clock this morning.” He took a glass of wine and sat down with a mock flourish as everyone chuckled.

“We believe you, Donald,” said Peter. “You didn’t have Fenella with you, I suppose?”

“Rumour and calumny!” exclaimed Donald. “I’ve never touched her.” A few people laughed sycophantically.

“Right, well let’s start anyway,” said Peter, and then Fenella burst in. “I was in a meeting with Salman, I
am
sorry,” she said as she bustled past the standing crowd at the back of the room. Maggie was impressed and realised that she had no right to expect Fenella to spare time for an insignificant yob like herself. Fenella sank into a chair near Peter, depositing her briefcase on the floor in front of her so that it spilled open in its usual way, and rummaged in it for a few seconds before producing an agenda. She looked up and addressed the group in her normal tone which suggested that she had seen it all a million times and nothing would shock or surprise her; she would simply carry on flogging herself to death doing a superb job in the face of countless difficulties.

“Now I don’t want anyone to feel they’re at Programme Review, this is just an idea for bringing the department together to talk about our work in a completely honest way. Hopefully we’ll have a stimulating discussion and get to know each other a bit better. Good.

“Now the first drama on the list to talk about is
EastEnders
. Who’d like to start?” Silence. “Well did anyone see it last week?” Everyone looked around, but no-one was prepared to break the ice. “Has anyone
ever
seen it?” Further amusement as no-one raised a hand. “For God’s sake,
someone
must have watched the bloody show! From a sense of duty if nothing else!” Peter looked wryly amused and threatened the assembly with detention. Maggie had been watching the twice-weekly soap religiously, of course, but was much too shy to say anything yet; her heart pumped hard at the thought of it.

Eventually someone said they thought the issue of HIV had been introduced very effectively through Mark Fowler, and that public reaction had been favourable, which was an important achievement. Another was enjoying Grant Mitchell’s storyline – a real East End thug with a real East End tart on his arm. They hoped Grant and Sharon would marry, making a great replacement for Den and Ange. Someone else said they didn’t feel it was their place to criticise, but wasn’t the vocabulary somewhat limited – ‘Allo Dot, fancy a cuppa? Ave yer seen my little Willy?’ being the staple diet of social contact. It looked as though
EastEnders
was held in low esteem here. Maggie was amazed, it was far and away the most successful show the drama department made.

Anthea, standing behind her table of wine, seemed unafraid to contribute to the discussion. She said she thought the Taverniers were sidelined as the black family; a script editor responded that she thought they were too politically correct, and a producer said he found them stereotyped. Anthea said it just wouldn’t do to have one token family from each ethnic minority – they would always be peripheral to the central drama between the whites. Most of the assembled group looked a little browbeaten at this point. Anthea hadn’t raised her voice but they behaved as though she had. Maggie was quietly relieved to see that other people found Anthea intimidating too. She would have liked to support her point of view but didn’t have anything new to add, so she kept quiet. Anthea, the only non-white person in the room, remained motionless, her face inscrutable.

Fenella tactfully drew the subject to a close, by acknowledging that Anthea had made a very important point, and it was a shame no-one from
EastEnders
had managed to find the time to come this evening.

Next on the list was Stewart Walker’s
Death of a Baby
, a hard-hitting portrayal of life on a Bradford council estate in which a young mother’s circumstances forced her into prostitution, and then into the hands of a very nasty pimp who ultimately hurled her baby to its death from a fifteenth floor balcony.

Maggie had found it disappointing. It lacked the wicked humour of other films by Stewart which Maggie had admired so much, and she had found it dull and depressing. However, she had some ideas about why it didn’t work. She waited for others to begin the criticism, but instead there was praise for its uncompromising truthfulness and a superb performance from the first-time actress playing the teenage mother. Admiration of the photography drew a general murmur of assent, and Donald Mountjoy quipped that the props store must have used up all its stocks of stage blood and vomit.

Jonathan asked whether Billy Trowell, the writer, had drawn on his own experience, and Maggie was at last able to discover Stewart. He was a dark, tousled man who had chosen to sit in the back row. He sat up and drew on his cigarette, ignoring the ash flaking off it. “Of course. I wouldn’t like to say which character he might have been closest to, though.”

Jonathan nodded and half smiled as if to say he knew exactly what Stewart was saying. “What would you say was the hardest part of working with a writer who is determined to show the underbelly of life in its worst light? Was it fighting to prevent the language being censored?”

Stewart paused for thought. “I’d say the
worst
thing was wondering what he’d do to me if he didn’t like the film!”

Everyone laughed. There was a general frisson as the group acknowledged the dangerous forces that had to be negotiated in order to achieve a drama of this calibre. Stewart re-filled his glass from a bottle by his foot. Modesty forbade basking in glory.

Maggie now felt brave enough to join in, so she put her hand up firmly, gaining Fenella’s attention as the laughter subsided.

“Yes – ah, Maggie,” said Fenella.

“I just wondered why it presented such a negative image of women.” Her nerves amplified her voice. There was a shocked silence, which she misinterpreted as interest in what she had to say, so she elaborated, “Every one of the women was a victim. None of them really tried to fight back, apart from the one who got acid thrown in her face.”

Maggie’s face grew hot as people looked round at her, wondering who the hell she was with her daft opinions. The silence was horrendous. She hadn’t meant to launch an attack on Stewart, she merely spoke as she found. She wanted desperately to explain that actually she was a great fan of Stewart’s work and that he should receive her criticism in that context… but, fearing it would sound like she was trying to retract her opinion, she said nothing.

Fenella appeared to feel sorry for her: “You found it offensive.” Maggie tried to deny it, but Fenella didn’t stop. “Well that’s a point of view, anyone agree or disagree?”

Sally put up her hand, “
I
didn’t think it was offensive at all. The whole purpose of it is to show the endemic violence against women on inner city estates. The women
are
the victims so how else do you want them portrayed?”

Maggie was surprised that Sally seemed so antagonistic towards her, she thought they had established some sort of loose friendship over lunch. She felt the majority mentally gathering behind Sally. She glanced at Stewart and saw him smirking into his wine glass. She knew she was right – maybe she hadn’t made herself clear; she decided to try again.

“But it doesn’t leave any room for hope. It’s all so bleak and nihilistic.”

“That’s because Bradford
is
bleak!” Sally’s tone verged on the superior. “Have you ever been there?” This raised another laugh. Maggie felt furious with this wretched woman who knew nothing at all about Bradford, and didn’t realise that it was Maggie’s home ground; nevertheless it was Sally who was hitting the right note with the crowd. Maggie wouldn’t be walked over.

“I know, but supposing you lived there and you watched the film, how would you feel about it? Wouldn’t you want to think that maybe it
wasn’t
hopeless and you might be able to overcome the situation somehow?”

Sally had no answer to this so she shrugged as if it were irrelevant, then looked at Jonathan and raised her eyes at him. He politely failed to respond, but his raised eyebrows and downcast eyes indicated solidarity with Sally. Maggie felt angry. This wasn’t going at all the way she had intended. She had hoped to impress Stewart with her insight and her political analysis, but Sally had got to her, and once she was involved in an argument Maggie always felt compelled to see it through.

“I’d be very interested to know how it was received in Bradford,” she said. Fenella, wearing an amused expression, looked over her half-moon glasses at Maggie and then turned to Stewart, inviting him to answer. He dropped his cigarette into a half-empty wine glass and glanced shrewdly at Maggie, who held his gaze.

“Unfortunately neither the ratings nor the audience appreciation figures are broken down by regions as small as that. Of course we do know that inner city viewers are inclined to select ITV or BBC1 as a matter of choice, so given that
Death
went out on 2 on a Saturday night, I rather doubt whether we succeeded in diverting very many council estate inhabitants from more urgent affairs down the pub.” The audience smiled. “To be perfectly frank, my dear, Screen Two is really for a few million viewers from South East England and the chattering classes in North West London! If we can bring the plight of the inner city working class woman to the attention of those in a position to do something about it, then surely it’s our duty! I’m sorry if you found it voyeuristic.”