All to Play For

by Heather Peace

  It took Nicky an hour and a half to break away from his youth. He simply sat and thought, looked at the situation from all the angles he could think of, and came back to the same conclusion. He was finished with his dad, with the police force, with his whole life as he had believed it to be. It was all built on lies. He would start again. He would bury the hurt and the bitterness he felt, he couldn’t possibly enter the police force knowing what he now knew. He would find a job, anything, keep looking around until something turned up that interested him. He would keep his own counsel, do as he thought fit, be completely independent. He was his own man now. He wouldn’t leave home just yet, he would keep up the charade for his mother’s sake, but inside he would be different.

  He left the café and bought a copy of the Evening Standard, took it to a bench in the middle of Leicester Square and sat down to read the Situations Vacant.

  He circled a number of possible jobs, and since one company was based in Soho, he went to look for their office. It was nearly six o’clock when he found it, but all the lights were on in the building – it was in a scruffy, narrow street in which every doorway carried an assortment of bells and nameplates. He pushed the bell marked Magenta Television Productions Ltd and walked in when he heard a buzzer. Magenta was based in two tiny offices on the second floor, up a steep, lino-covered staircase. He found it atmospheric and not at all intimidating.

  An Asian man of indeterminate age greeted him and shook Nicky’s hand when he said he had come about the advert for a runner, congratulating him on being the first applicant.

  “We like people who show initiative. I’m Haris Maqbool, Finance Director. My partner’s on the phone in the other office, but if you’d like to wait we could interview you right away.”

  “Sure,” said Nicky, trying to create a good impression. Not wanting to let on that he didn’t know what a runner was, he set about asking questions which might elicit the information without betraying his ignorance.

  “Can you tell me a bit about the company, and the post?” he asked boldly, sitting himself on an old wooden chair.

  “Of course. We’re a newish outfit, very small as yet, but we’ve just won a commission to make a daytime quiz show for a regional ITV station. We’re very excited. It’s a terrifically good project, and has a wonderful star. Our company is going to do extremely well. As our runner you will be an assistant in all matters, from top to bottom. You will make the tea but you will also learn the business, if you wish. You will earn very little to start with but a very great deal in the long run. This is a truly wonderful opportunity.”

  Growing up in the East End had not made Nicky naïve, and he knew Haris was embroidering the truth. He also knew that embroidery was a key skill when you had something to sell, and thought Haris was probably rather good at his job.

  “Sounds just what I’m looking for,” said Nicky.

  “Let me fetch my partner,” said Haris, and disappeared into the next room. Nicky looked around the walls, seeing little to attract his interest apart from a poster featuring Marilyn Monroe. If Magenta Productions had made any shows so far, they had little in the way of publicity to show for it.

  “Alright, me old son?” rasped a cockney smoker’s voice, as a wiry man with a boxer’s physique and greying wavy hair entered the room, followed by Haris. He wore a creased shirt with purple braces and a loosened tie, blue suit trousers, yellow socks and no shoes. He shook Nick’s hand very hard, and scrutinised him.

  “Rex Barclay. So you’re the new runner, are you?”

  Nicky was taken aback. “If you think I’m suitable.”

  “Haris thinks so. He’s a great judge of character. Tell us about yourself, then.”

  Nicky talked about his experience in school and in the youth theatre, omitting any reference to the police, and said he was interested in a career in television but didn’t know much about it so far.

  “Of course you don’t, how could you at your age?” said Rex. “The point is, are you keen to learn?”

  “Yes, definitely,” said Nicky, so convincingly that he even believed himself.

  “Then the job’s yours. On a month’s probation. If it don’t work out we’ll part company. If it does, great.”

  They shook hands on it, and Rex winked at him. “You seem a likely lad. Handsome too. Matter of fact, you remind me of myself at your age. Now if I’d had a Rex Barclay to work for when I was seventeen, I’d be running the BBC by now. As it is, it’s going to take me a few years yet. There we are, that’s life. Alright Nicky, start on Monday, ten o’clock.”

  “Great. Thanks a lot. I’ll see you then.”

  Nicky felt extremely proud of himself, although he had no idea what he was in for. He liked television as much as anybody, so it might turn out to be interesting. He travelled home feeling at least three inches taller, and entered the house to find his parents eating fish and chips at the kitchen table. His mother jumped up solicitously.

  “Oh Nicky, are you alright? I didn’t make you dinner in case you was having something out.”

  “It’s okay Mum, I’m fine. Listen, I’ve got a job. I’m going to be in television.”

  They stared open-mouthed as he announced coolly that he would be cancelling his interview at Hendon: he had decided on a different career.

  “Oh, well done!” said his mother at last, nonplussed. “It’s a bit sudden though, ain’t it?”

  Nicky smiled tightly. “Yeah, well. It’s been a funny old day. I think I’ll nip out and get myself a burger. See you later.”

  “Bye dear,” said Doreen, and looked anxiously at Les, whose pale face had remained mute. He watched as his son left with only the briefest glance in his direction, and sank even lower into his chair. Doreen, oblivious to their unspoken tension, continued her campaign of jollification.

  “Come on Les, eat your chips before they go cold, you know you don’t like them soggy.” He did as he was told.

  Chapter Three

  Now I’m going to jump forward a few years to the dawn of the nineties. After I’d been a teacher for a few years I knew that directing the annual school play wasn’t going to satisfy my ambitions, and I looked to the wider world. I managed to get a researcher’s contract on Grange Hill, the BBC1 school drama series, which happened to be set exactly where I’d been working. I was thrilled silly to get this lucky break, which allowed me to work my way up to script editor in the space of two series. I was able to contribute my experience whilst learning everything about television production from the bottom up. I worked at least sixty hours a week and I loved every minute – I was young enough not to suffer physically. I couldn’t do it now! Grange Hill was a first rate show, and many of the creative staff went on to become famous names, even Oscar winners. I think they’d all agree that we learned our craft there, honing our skills on the strop of the relentless weekly schedule… our young audience demanded that we reflect their lives truthfully, and we spared no effort to achieve that.

  Around the same time Maggie, whom I was soon to meet and befriend, was growing weary of touring feminist socialist plays and had begun to see the appeal of a mortgage and a home to call her own.

  Maggie didn’t see television as a sell-out, as some of her comrades insisted. She saw it as an opportunity to reach a much wider audience. A six-month tour with a successful new play was likely to attract a total audience of six thousand people at the most, whereas a single episode of EastEnders could reach up to twenty million.

  She approached her career change with typical thoroughness, studying as much television drama as she could whilst working most evenings (few people possessed a video recorder then) and keeping a scrapbook of cuttings from the Radio Times in order to learn who were the producers and directors she most admired. She was looking for a guru, someone she could admire unreservedly. She would be happy to take a lowly post at the BBC provided she had access to a brilliant producer who would teach her how to make world-shattering, award-winning contemporary drama. Anything less wasn’t wor
th bothering with. She was confident that she had the talent to succeed, she was willing to give her all in the cause of art, and knew she could climb to the top of the meritocracy.

  She had narrowed her list of potential gurus down to two, but had yet to meet either of them. They were Basil Richardson and Stewart Walker, both of whom had been at the BBC for years, and who had between them produced nearly all Maggie’s favourite dramas: work which had caught the spirit of the age, given voice to the underdog, and pushed back the boundaries of television. She felt they saw the world from her own point of view, despite being men at least twenty years older than her, because she recognised in their work her own sense of outrage against exploitation and oppression.

  She wrote to each man asking if they needed a script editor or reader, but received politely negative responses. Undaunted, she continued to assault the drama department until she was eventually offered a three-month contract as a trainee script editor. She would have to read unsolicited scripts every day, but there was the potential to work her way up to producing. It wasn’t exactly the start she had hoped for, but it was a foot in the door, and she intended to make the most of it.

  As her letter of employment had given a starting date but not a time, she had thought it wise to arrive at Television Centre at nine o’clock. Finding nothing but locked doors on the fifth floor, she had wandered aimlessly round the circular corridor, reading the names on the doors and the deeply uninteresting health and safety notice boards. At nine thirty she found the Head of Drama’s outer office open and a stern but maternal-looking middle-aged woman sitting behind a pile of the day’s papers, looking through a huge appointments diary.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Fenella Proctor-Ball. I’m the new trainee.”

  “Isn’t she in her office? Better come in and sit down then. She’s usually here about ten o’clock. I’m Vera, Peter’s PA. The tea bar will open soon if you want to get a coffee. I’ll keep trying Fenella’s office for you.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  Maggie sat on a saggy, grubby sofa by a coffee table laden with broadcasting periodicals for most of the morning, listening to the distant battering of pneumatic tools. She tried not to feel annoyed as she sat pretending to read the magazines, but couldn’t relax and began to feel a complete idiot as the morning unrolled. Busy people came in and out of the office, glancing in her direction, so she tried to wear a pleasant, unconcerned expression. She had arrived well-prepared and raring to go, imagining that she would be quickly absorbed into the organisation and given a desk piled high with scripts to read and reports to write.

  A grammar-school girl from Huddersfield, Maggie had (not unlike myself) grown up regarding the BBC as a magical Olympian paradise which existed somewhere in the ether that was London. It was peopled by urbane, charming men and glamorous women, all of whom spoke like royalty, knew about everything, and conversed articulately with astounding insight and hilarious wit. It never crossed her mind to aspire to work there herself. Instead she worked hard to get into Bristol University, where she read just enough English literature to scrape an average degree, and fell in love with the theatre, which had satisfied her desire to change the world for ten years.

  On hearing that she wanted to go into television a friend of a friend had invited her to spend a day on the set of Casualty, a recently-established cutting-edge medical series which had already fallen foul of the government, which was extremely unhappy to see the consequences of their NHS cuts represented to the public in their full glory by the BBC. A day trip to the location in Bristol had turned out to be a fascinating and inspiring experience. The set was a permanent, purpose-built maze in a huge warehouse, teeming with technicians. The actors were friendly, and good-natured banter enlivened the otherwise tedious recording process. Maggie was hugely impressed at their professionalism as scene after scene was taped in a matter of minutes – there was never time for re-takes merely to improve the acting. She observed as the script editor monitored each scene to ensure that no serious errors were made, and checked the running time in case cuts or new material would be required at a moment’s notice.

  Maggie loved it. She knew she could do the job – including the rest of it, which consisted of working with the writer of each episode to help them achieve the highest possible standard of writing whilst satisfying the technical, medical and serial story needs of the show. She was a good team player and would slot in well here, or on another series perhaps, all her theatre experience was directly relevant. The script team clearly felt a strong sense of achievement and job satisfaction, and had the added reward of VHS tapes of every show they worked on, whereas theatre plays were as ephemeral as conversation: Maggie’s only record of her life’s work so far lay in a box full of tatty scripts, cheap production photos and programmes.

  Perhaps it was the sustained two-year effort she had invested into breaching the walls of the BBC that was responsible for the paralysing wave of boredom and anti-climax which overwhelmed her as she sat waiting for Fenella to turn up. It was nearly half past twelve when Vera finally called over, “Fenella’s in her office, if you’d like to pop in.”

  Fenella’s door was open but she was on the phone. Nonetheless she beckoned Maggie in, indicating a chair piled up with scripts and books, which Maggie tried to remove carefully before sitting down. She pretended she couldn’t follow Fenella’s conversation – evidently an argument with her husband about their nanny – and studied the walls of the little office, which were entirely obscured by enormous shelves labelled at intervals and stacked high with scripts. Novels were heaped around the floor, and Fenella’s huge old-fashioned briefcase poured papers onto the carpet. She herself was about forty, Maggie reckoned. She was dressed in a homely but expensive way reminiscent of a senior academic. She wore glasses on a silver chain and a permanent expression of ironic exasperation.

  As the minutes passed Maggie felt irritation well up inside her once again, and she forced it back down. She sat in a patient attitude, crossing her chino-covered legs and fiddling with the zip on her ankle boots. She’d bought these GAP casuals thinking they were the kind of smart casual clothes people here would wear, but now she wondered whether she looked dowdy. She was glad she had grown her spiky hair out, and wondered whether she would have to start wearing make-up on a daily basis. She hoped to God that wouldn’t be necessary; she felt over-dressed with earrings on.

  Eventually Fenella put the phone down and sighed, as if she’d already put in ten hours’ work. “Hi. Welcome. How are you settling in?”

  Maggie was stumped for an answer. At the very least she had expected an apology for keeping her waiting. Anxious not to get off on the wrong foot, she hedged her bets with a cautious smile and replied, “So far so good.”

  “Good. Well I’m afraid I’m completely snowed under today, we’ve an offers meeting on Thursday, but take that little lot and come and see me when you’ve read them.”

  Maggie tried to sound relaxed and enthusiastic as she picked up the pile of scripts she had just put on the floor. “Where shall I do it?”

  “Haven’t you got an office yet?”

  “No.”

  “Go and see Morag in 5233.” Fenella picked up the phone again. “Enjoy!” she said with a gleam in her eye, and turned back to her desk with a frown of concentration.

  It was three o’clock by the time Maggie had been found a desk. Well, seven desks, plus three typewriters and a large grey steel cupboard all to herself, because this was an empty production office, and the only available space. Trying to put the frustrating day behind her, she sorted through her scripts and books and made a list of them. Then she organised her desk. She went round all the drawers in the office and acquired a fine selection of BBC pens and pencils, clips and rubbers. Soon her desk was the acme of office furniture, dripping with the tools of her craft, adorned with in-tray, out-tray, anglepoise lamp and phone.

  She wandered round the circular corridor and discovered Stewart Walker
’s and Basil Richardson’s offices, but she didn’t manage to catch sight of either of them, so she went back to her office and picked up a script. She couldn’t concentrate at all. As the window looked onto a roof and a satellite dish she gazed at the walls, enjoying the mystique of the abandoned production charts and schedules which papered them: the last occupants had been making a major costume drama. There was a cast list of thirty names, most of them famous and some of them related. Crates full of box files, drawings and models littered the floor. Wherever she looked she could find no references to ‘offers meetings’ so she was still in the dark on that front; she would have to wait until she met with Fenella again to find out what she was talking about.

  In the last hour, Maggie read a six-page proposal and made copious notes on it. She was interrupted only twice, once by a phone call for someone called Tristram, and once by a hand which knocked gently on the door and opened it displaying a dark sleeve as it extended to put a piece of white paper on a post-tray next to the door. Then it felt blindly round the tray underneath, withdrew and vanished, closing the door quietly. Maggie resigned herself to solitary labour, and went home, taking one of the novels she had to report on.

  After two days of reading alone in her office, Maggie was delighted to receive a phone call that was for her.

  “Hi! I’m Sally, I’m a script editor here too. Are you free for lunch?”

  “Oh, that would be great.”

  “See you on the bridge at one?”

  “Sorry? Where’s that?”

  “Tell you what, come to my office and we’ll go together. It’s two doors on from yours on the way to the lift.”