All to Play For (37 page)

Jonathan and Roger were close and Selina respected that; she had nothing against Roger, in fact she quite liked him, but he made her feel uncomfortable. He seemed to go out of his way to be awkward sometimes. He was never openly rude, but he would take an alternative point of view to virtually anything his father said. Jonathan said it was a compulsion, and had something to do with being punished a lot as a small boy. Selina didn’t want to know any of the details. Not at all. She found herself emulating their mother, keeping the peace and minding her own business. She didn’t care for unruly behaviour either.

Selina was very pleased with her promotion at work, although she was finding it quite hard going. It was Chris who had suggested she apply to join the new Policy and Planning Department, and at first she worried that he wanted to get rid of her, but he was just thinking of her career, he said; plus he knew he could rely on her to be loyal and committed in the role. He wanted his own people in there, and who could blame him? He said she would need to be quick on her feet, responding promptly to issues as they arose. She worked directly to him for the first few months, while the new department established itself.

The whole of the BBC had been split into two sections named Broadcast and Production, which meant that the commissioners and schedulers were now completely separate from the programme makers. The latter were now at arm’s length from the centre, on much the same footing as the independent production companies. Selina’s role was to monitor all in-house drama production, anticipate discrepancies with policy, and head them off before they became a problem. This role had formerly been undertaken by Heads of Department, and all producers. It was still their responsibility to adhere to BBC policy, and they felt a level of suspicion concerning the real purpose of the new department.

Selina was nothing if not professional, and her conscientious nature meant she spent weeks diligently soaking up all the BBC policy documents she could lay hands on. It wasn’t as much fun as being Chris’ PA, although she was pleased to take on more responsibility. Much of her work would entail conferring with the Legal Department to ensure all drama programmes were safe in terms of the law. It was a huge undertaking. At least she could trust Jon not to drop any clangers where policy was concerned. For now she was concentrating on the producers who were likely to be controversial, such as Stewart Walker, who was proving to be infuriatingly slippery. He wouldn’t let her see any of the projects he was working on, he promised to send her synopses but they never arrived. She was beginning to feel she was in a game of cat and mouse, where Stewart was Jerry and she the unfortunate Tom. She wasn’t even sure how many projects Stewart had.

Jon was relieved that he was at the bottom of Selina’s list of drama producers and that she hadn’t asked him for details of
The Medical Miracle
so far, especially since Peter Maxwell had sent him that mysterious note. He and I had diligently revised all the paperwork as requested, replacing ‘cannabis’ with ‘herbs’, and shifting the emphasis from the medical issue to the economics. I spoke to Jim on the phone, and he said he could speed up the writing if we gave him a new deadline –when it comes to a situation demanding speed, being the kind of writer who only produces at the last minute is a great advantage.

Since Jonathan was the most discreet man in the northern hemisphere it wasn’t difficult for him to keep quiet about it whilst in Selina’s company. She understood the significance of his first full production, but for her it was about doing the job rather than the project itself, so she wasn’t curious about the content. To Selina, being a producer was the important thing, regardless of what you produced – within reason, obviously.
Brideshead
was infinitely preferable to
Crossroads
, but she didn’t really see the appeal of these gritty working class dramas that Jonathan was so fond of. She was assuming that
The Medical Miracle
would be another one of them.

It took a few days before Jon and I were able to meet with Peter and find out what it was all about. He was suddenly hard to get to. Vera said there were a great many meetings he had to attend because of all the re-structuring. Finally he called us to his office late one afternoon. We arrived to find a new notice blu-tacked to his door:
SMOKING COMPULSORY
. We were amused, it was obviously Peter’s response to the new edict against smoking anywhere in the BBC. He was clearly not in a compliant mood as far as the senior management were concerned.

We each accepted a glass of wine for his sake. There was something sad about Peter lately. He hadn’t changed, exactly, he’d just faded a little. The pillar of the department was weakening. Maybe the load bearing down on him was increasing. Maybe a steel girder was needed.

Jonathan asked whether he’d read our re-vamped documents, and he told us yes, and they were fine.

“You’ll be wanting to know what all this is about,” Peter said. “It’s Policy and Planning.” We’d guessed as much. “The DG is centralising everything –
everything
– and he’s paranoid about giving the tabloids any opportunity to go for us. The BBC has never been so insecure, apparently, and we must be squeaky clean. I’ll re-phrase that. We must
appear
squeaky-clean.”

“Is it mainly about bad publicity, or the license fee?” asked Jonathan.

“Politics,” replied Peter succinctly. “The government would happily privatise the BBC.” We contemplated this in silence for a moment.

“Not if Labour win the election, though,” I said; it was expected that the country would go to the polls soon. “The Tories are a joke now, aren’t they – the Sleaze Party. Surely they won’t win a fifth term.”

“Well, who knows, we have to survive the current storm first,” sighed Peter. “And what’s happening now is that we’re being pruned and modernised ready for the global marketplace. Like it or not.”

“And
The Medical Miracle
is liable to scare the lawyers?” Jon asked. Peter nodded thoughtfully.

“Why?” I asked. “Am I being thick here? Whatever’s wrong with it?”

Jon looked as if he thought me naïve. “The tabloids will say we’re promoting a Class B drug.”

“But we aren’t! We’re raising the debate, showing both sides.”

“To the Murdoch press, showing the benefits of cannabis is the same thing as pushing it.”

“We’re neutral, though. What’s wrong with debating the issues?”

“All the politicians are terrified of talking about drugs, any drugs,” said Peter. “If a party gets tagged as pro-drugs, they’ve had it. It’s too hot to touch.”

“They all want to sweep it under the carpet, pretend it’s not an issue,” said Jon.

“What a dreadful way to run a country! It’s not about doing what’s best for the people, it’s about protecting the politicians!” This came out with more indignation than I intended, so I tailed off with, “Yours faithfully, Disgusted of Builth Wells.”

Peter chuckled. “Okay, what we do is carry on, moving swiftly and silently, close to the wire. If we can get the show through the net and in the can while the election’s keeping the press busy, we could be looking at transmission next autumn.” I stared at him. It sounded like guerrilla action. “Discretion is the better part of valour, Rhiannon,” he said. “This is the only drama we have left which has even the faintest whiff of originality and controversy about it, and without that there isn’t much point in drama at all. In my view.” He drained his glass and banged it down on the table. “Alright, leave it with me, I’ll put it to the Controller at the next opportunity. I’ll let you know when we get the green light. You can start drafting a schedule and budget.”

I came out of Peter’s office with yet another new perspective, I realised how many levels of engagement there are in making drama. The more you know the more complicated it gets. I was reminded of Shakespeare and the Elizabethans: the plotting at court, the spies, the royal patronage of the theatres, the secret Catholic priests, the coded messages, the stabbings in Deptford. At least we didn’t fear for our lives these days, we could be grateful for that. There would be no execution on Tower Hill for the Director General of the BBC, only a seat in the House of Lords.

Jonathan met Selina for lunch a couple of days later; he booked a table in ‘waitress service’, a mezzanine area in the main canteen which operated like a normal restaurant – except that they served canteen food. You got a small table of your own, instead of sharing a larger one with all and sundry. Jon and Selina chatted about this and that, he asked how the pursuit of Stewart was going, and she shrugged.

“I don’t understand the Drama Department, Jonathan,” she said. “What are you all up to?”

He was flummoxed by her directness, she had pitched him onto a high fence. He teetered. Which side did his loyalties lie? Would he share the truth with his fiancée? Who else would find out, if he did? What might the consequences be? He blinked at her for a few seconds, which made her frown. Then he laughed it off. “Stabbing each other in the back, of course! You know what a lot of prima donnas we all are.”

This relaxed her. “Don’t I just.”

“With ever-diminishing funds it’s like a fight to the death,” he continued. “It’s like the last days of Rome over in Centre House.”

“It’s inevitable, I suppose, but it’s all for the best. The BBC will be much healthier afterwards.”

“D’you think so?” Jon asked casually, his heart sinking.

“Absolutely. The sooner we get rid of these mavericks the better. Nothing but trouble. We should be emulating the US, look at the quality of their shows.”

“Look at the quantity of their investment,” cut in Jon, a bit too quickly. “I know what you mean,” he apologised. “It’s painful while it’s happening though. We all feel insecure.”

Selina smiled knowingly. “You’ll be fine, Jon, trust me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she exclaimed disingenuously. “Just something I heard. Play your cards right and you could be en route for a big promotion, that’s all. My lips are sealed. Now. Shall we order coffee?”

Jon experienced an alteration in his world view in that moment. He’d always been the senior partner in their relationship, and now the seesaw had plunged him to the ground. Selina was better informed than he. It was an alarming transition and it took all his powers of dissemblance to conceal his anxiety. There was something Orwellian about her. She saw the situation in simple terms; for her there was no grey area, and no discussion. Whatever came down from top management was right, and she would put it into practice. Suddenly he saw that she viewed everything in life this way, and he felt scared for his own future. He realised he was standing on quicksand and should keep very still, in case he sank deeper into a mire he wouldn’t be able to get out of. He needed to think this through. The Selina he saw across the table wasn’t quite the person he’d fallen in love with.

“Actually I should be getting back, sorry,” he said, checking his watch. “Sorry about that. I’ll pick up the tab.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my expenses. Go on, if you’re in a hurry. See you Friday.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Jon, kissing her. “Sorry to rush off. I should have kept an eye on the time.”

“No problem darling,” she beamed. “Don’t be late.”

Jon was relieved to escape, and walked across Wood Lane in a cloud, annoying some drivers by stepping out onto the zebra crossing without looking properly, ignoring their horns and striding up the road to Centre House lost in thought.

Back at the table, Selina was signing the bill when another figure slipped into Jonathan’s empty chair: it was Chris Briggs, recently promoted again to Managing Director.

“Hello, stranger!” he said.

“Not exactly,” she pointed out. “We met yesterday.”

“I miss having you in my outer office,” he explained, and caught himself – did that sound like innuendo? Selina didn’t pick up on it. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, fine. Morale in the Drama Department seems to be very low.”

Chris nodded. “Bound to happen. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

“No. I wish I could help though. Jonathan’s suffering, anyone can see that.”

“He’ll be alright, don’t worry,” Chris reassured her. He had come to terms with what he called his ‘crush’ on Selina, and now saw her as a protégée. He would see to it that she survived and prospered through whatever seismic events the BBC was to encounter, and since she was planning to marry Jonathan he intended to do right by him too, as he had told her. If the boy played his cards right he could be a useful Head of Drama at some point. Chris was working on building a team of loyal, like-minded individuals.

“I know. It’s not the long term that’s the problem, it’s dealing with the short term.”

Chris nodded, “You’re spot on, Selina, as usual.”

“I was reading about someone who runs workshops to help people come to terms with change. I forget his name, but it sounded rather good. Maybe we could introduce something along those lines?”

“Workshops to boost morale. Good idea. I like that.” Chris remembered a module he had taken at the Harvard Business School, and made a mental note to look it up.

Jonathan was wondering what Basil would make of his dilemma as he entered Block D of Centre House, so he wandered by his new office on the ground floor. Stewart Walker was in with Basil, so he loitered outside to find out whether it was a brief chat or a long one. He caught a snatch of conversation; Stewart seemed to be annoyed about something.

“It’s perfectly obvious Peter’s feathering his own nest, Basil.”

“If he fights everything they’ll find a way to get rid of him.”

“It’s a matter of principle!”

“I know, I know. But we have to be pragmatic.”

“We need a campaign. He’s going to sell us down the river.”

“He’s doing his best to keep as much of the department open as he can.”

“There’s something else going on, Basil. Help me find out what it is.”

Jonathan didn’t hear Basil’s reply, but the door suddenly opened and Stewart strode out, scowling. Jon waited a minute and tapped at the door.