All to Play For (12 page)

“Hmm, I think they’ve noticed
me
now. There must be something we can do. Let’s start a plot!” said Maggie ruefully.

“An old girls’ network!”

“That would be great, but there aren’t enough of us. What about a grammar school network?”

“Yes, but wouldn’t the men try to run it?”

“It’s all a distraction from what we’re really here for. I shan’t care once I’ve won my BAFTA.”

“Imagine beating Jonathan to a BAFTA!” A thrill of anticipated
schadenfreude
swept through me.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be satisfying?”

“There’s only one way to do it.”

“Make better shows.”

“Exactly. Beat them at their own game. Prove we’re as good as – we’re better than them.”

We discussed the kind of programmes we most wanted to make: Maggie was full of original ideas but they didn’t necessarily have mass appeal for a television audience. I’d never given serious thought to new projects, but I knew all about the practical needs of a production. We shared a deep admiration for programmes that mattered, that changed attitudes and became central to the national culture.

“Wouldn’t you like to make the definitive Welsh drama?” asked Maggie.

I shuddered. “I don’t want to be stuck away in a corner. I want to be part of the mainstream, accepted on the same terms as everyone else – not be the token Welshwoman.”

“You sound like Anthea now.”

“Yes, well we’ve got something in common, haven’t we?” I saw Maggie recoil as if she’d inadvertently stepped on my corn. I tried to hurry on, ashamed of reacting so chippily. “It’s a bit obvious, that’s all – I’m proud of being Welsh but it’s a bit parochial for me, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course.” Maggie smiled and said nothing more on the subject. She was beginning to learn the art of tact.

*

The meeting proved to be a turning point for Maggie. Once back at her desk she felt much clearer. She understood that she would probably never get a proper meeting with her boss, and she would have to find herself a new contract some other way. She had plenty of confidence in herself and her abilities, but very little where the institution of the BBC was concerned, and she wasn’t at all sure that she would remain there. Never mind. If they couldn’t see her finer qualities, they could get stuffed. The BBC wasn’t the only television company in the world, even if it was the best –
that
reputation wouldn’t necessarily last for ever, Maggie told herself, although she couldn’t really imagine a change momentous enough to shake the BBC from its towering position of superiority.

She rallied herself for an all-out assault. She planned out her remaining six weeks such that she could continue reading scripts and writing reports for Fenella at the same fast rate she had already established – she was determined not to give her boss an excuse for giving her a bad reference – and she also gave a lot of thought to projects she would like to develop, and writers she wanted to work with. She called the writer whose unsolicited script she had thought most promising and invited him in for a chat, and two other writers she had worked with in theatre, asking them if they had ideas they would like to develop with her. They all promised to think about it and meet her within a week.

Then she called various producers’ secretaries and succeeded in obtaining appointments to meet five producers for a brief chat, including to her amazement Stewart Walker, who called her back and spoke to her personally. He remembered her and was charming; he obviously bore no grudge, and wasn’t the kind of man who took criticism to heart. He raised her hopes by mentioning that he was looking for an editor for his next project, and Maggie resolved that, come what may, she would get that contract.

Finally, just in case, she wrote a letter to the executive producer of
EastEnders
, saying how she loved the show and her main ambition was to work on it, and obtained a huge number of video tapes of old and recent episodes from the film and video library so that she could catch up on the storylines and characters and discuss them intelligently if asked to do so.

The act of phoning a writer from the BBC forced Maggie to behave as if she were a real member of staff, whether or not she felt like one. Paul McEntee, who had received his rejected script from Fenella only four days beforehand, was very surprised when Maggie called, and couldn’t reconcile the two events. Maggie wondered if she was doing the right thing. She tried to explain that she had found his writing full of energy and truth, and that she would like to meet him to find out what he was interested in so that she could bear him in mind for future projects. As she talked she felt a fraud: it was quite possible that she would soon be out of a job. He agreed to come and meet her for a chat.

Maggie took Paul to a lively tea-bar she had discovered on the ground floor next to one of the recording studios. The fact that it was frequented by people actually making programmes gave it a much better atmosphere than the one on the fifth floor which was always full of people deep in thought. He was mixed race, still in his twenties, worked in a DHSS office and wrote in his spare time. Becoming a full-time writer was still a dream, but he was serious about it, and listened avidly to Maggie’s thoughts on his script. She was encouraging but frank about the odds against his getting an original idea commissioned; he might do better to try and get taken on by one of the soaps. Paul was quiet, and listened to Maggie as if she were a mentor, which made her feel uncomfortable, she was hardly in a position to be that. She decided to come clean.

“To be absolutely honest, Paul, I’m rather new here myself, and I’m not sure they’ll keep me on. I can’t give you any guarantees at all. I can only offer to put your ideas forward.”

“That’s okay. At least you’re being honest with me. And you’re the first person who’s ever given me any encouragement apart from my mum.” Maggie was charmed. She asked what subjects he would choose to write about given a clean slate, and he began talking about his complex family, which was split between Peckham, St Lucia, and Norfolk. His black mother’s family came from St Lucia and his white father had left him and his brother with her in Peckham in order to go off with a Scottish potter and live in the country. His step-mother had another two children, older than him, and now a new baby. His mother had subsequently had two more children herself, with a Rastafarian from Jamaica who had three more children back home. His full brother, Steve, was in prison doing twenty years for armed robbery, which Paul didn’t believe he was guilty of, although he had done smaller robberies. Because Steve had refused to take his punishment lying down, he had been in solitary five times in his first two years. He often had bruises when Paul visited him, and lived in fear of villains who thought he might grass them up.

Maggie was fascinated by this colourful story, and convinced there was great material here for a drama of some kind.

“I know they say you should write about what you know,” said Paul, “and I know a lot about culture clashes. But it’s very hard to use your own family for raw material. It doesn’t seem right. That’s why I haven’t done it before.”

“Unless you can use it to right a wrong, or to bring something unfair to the attention of the public,” Maggie suggested. “What about your brother?”

Paul smiled and shook his head. “I couldn’t risk putting him in an even worse situation.”

“It wouldn’t have to be his actual story, you could make it a parallel story and change all the details. No-one needs to know it’s based on him.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Maggie said she would look forward to hearing from him soon, and took him back to Reception. He was genuinely grateful for the meeting, and she felt undeserved satisfaction. Maybe nothing would come of it, or maybe this writer would have the perseverance and talent to make it.

JoJo was completely different. Maggie had directed one of her plays four years previously, and had been vastly amused to discover JoJo’s background in street theatre had included a summer of anarchist stunts on the Edinburgh Fringe. She had been the punk girl reading
The SCUM Manifesto
who had caused Maggie and the rest of the audience to get arrested, and JoJo was delighted to meet one of her victims. She swore she had never meant for the police to come along, and was relieved they had come to no harm. The
Manifesto
was only meant to be a way of engaging people in debate; she had never taken it seriously. Regrettably, she said she had given up street theatre and was now trying to develop her creativity in directions which earned money, since it was no longer possible to live on the dole. Maggie and JoJo had become good friends.

As well as writing feminist plays JoJo was now a lesbian stand-up comedian. In her act she claimed that her aim was to make men laugh themselves to death, and if she couldn’t do that she would make women laugh themselves to murder. Completely fearless, she was game to try anything. Sitting in the club with her was a tonic in itself as far as Maggie was concerned, and this time her feelings of fraudulence were towards the BBC: fancy their paying her to get pissed with a mate and have a laugh. JoJo had a talent for getting people to like her. A combination of a cheeky grin, diminutive physique, huge brown eyes and bright orange hair helped, but her ready wit was warm, and far less aggressive than she pretended in her act. Maggie felt she would come across well in an interview, if she could get a producer interested in meeting her, they might be in with a chance.

“I suppose there’s money for this masterpiece you want me to write?” asked JoJo, sipping a Becks.

“Ah. The money. Umm… ”

“I knew it. You don’t seriously expect me to do a whole script on spec?”

“Not a whole script, of course not. Just a treatment. A two-page proposal will do, then I can try and get it commissioned.”

“Fair enough. Actually I have got a story I want to write, but I don’t know whether they’ll like it here. It’s about a lesbian.” Maggie smiled. “Good.”

Jill Watkins was Maggie’s third hope. Ten or more years older than Maggie, Jill was no political firebrand but she had many years’ experience of writing plays for a wide variety of theatre companies and audiences, and had recently made her television debut writing for the ill-fated new soap,
Eldorado
. She was divorced and had a little boy aged six; yes, you’re right, Jill was the pregnant woman in the Edinburgh fiasco. She and Maggie had run into each other many times after that; it’s what happens in theatre.

“Wouldn’t it be brilliant to make a community film with the BBC?” Maggie said.

Jill promised to start work on the treatment right away.

With two weeks left on her contract Maggie’s cheerful determination started to falter. Two of the five producers’ secretaries had called back to say they couldn’t meet her after all due to busy schedules, although she was welcome to try again in a few months; however, at least she was going to meet both Stewart and Basil.
EastEnders
had failed to respond to her letter. Fenella still hadn’t asked her in, and enquiries through Anthea revealed that there wouldn’t automatically be any kind of assessment of Maggie’s progress. Maggie tried not to feel disappointed at this crushing lack of interest in her. She ran into Sally in the canteen, and learned that she had a new contract to work on a major Dickens dramatisation. Donald Mountjoy would be producing it. Maggie realised with a shiver that the discussion group had been the arena in which Sally had auditioned. Still, she drew guilty satisfaction from knowing that at least Sally hadn’t got any of her own ideas off the ground. Perhaps Maggie would succeed.

Each of her writers had come up trumps, and she had three strong ideas on paper. All were what they called ‘left of field’ in the drama department. All Maggie needed now was the support of a producer or development executive. She thought it pointless to ask Fenella, and it might be bad politics to go to one of Fenella’s peers: producers, however, were not only senior, they were mostly able to commission independently.

The first one she met was Sonia Longbow, a pale woman in her thirties with wispy fair hair and anxious blue eyes. Her office was a mess, and she explained to Maggie that she had just moved into it. She added that she would more than likely be moving out again shortly; it was well known that the last office before the lift was given to people about to get the sack. Maggie was disconcerted by this intimate revelation and clumsily tried to sympathise, at which Sonia suddenly looked embarrassed and brushed it aside as if it was all a bit of a joke, and said she was up for two or three series and might accept a line producer’s contract, in which case she wouldn’t have much time for development.

Sonia had produced one film. Before that she had been an Associate Producer, which meant looking after the budget. Maggie hadn’t seen Sonia’s film as it had yet to be broadcast, although it had been completed eight months earlier. She asked when it would go out, but Sonia said the Controller hadn’t scheduled it yet. Maggie asked what it was about and who had written it, and Sonia told her in detail; the concept was Sonia’s own but it seemed she hadn’t been able to get the writer she really wanted. As a result the script, which centred on a Surrey banker’s wife, hadn’t quite brought out the very real tragedy inherent in the dysfunctional family riddled with communication problems. The Controller feared adverse public reaction to the scene where the banker took his son’s pistol and shot seven horses, and the mother and daughter’s joint suicide was considered to be in slightly dubious taste, apparently.

Eventually Sonia asked Maggie about her own interests and whether she had any projects she wanted to develop. Maggie handed her the three documents she had prepared, and Sonia said she’d love to read them and would get back to her as soon as she was able.

Maggie had slightly mixed feelings about Sonia, but had enjoyed her openness and interest in Maggie’s own ideas: maybe this was someone she could work with. She felt encouraged.

She didn’t hear anything in the next three days. She did, however, receive a letter from a personnel officer brusquely reminding her to hand in her ID card and office key and clear her personal belongings when her contract ended in ten days’ time; it also pointed out that she was not entitled to reveal BBC matters to anyone outside the organisation. This struck Maggie as ironic, given that she had discovered next to nothing anyway.