Chapter Seventeen
I liked Jim’s scripts for The Medical Miracle very much. I’d never seen anything quite like them before. They had an immediacy and relevance to life as people really live it, with all its inconsistencies and absurdities. They were a bit messy, the spelling was idiosyncratic (to put it kindly), and the structure of the story was rather irregular, but the characters and scenes had real verve, and his dialogue had tremendous energy. The scripts had an improvised flavour to them that told me that Jim was one of those writers who don’t plan beforehand. This is a hit-and-miss approach which can produce top quality writing, but on other days it produces nothing worthwhile. Writers like him are usually unsuitable for a returning series, unless they happen to know it inside out – for instance you’ll find a few great cockney writers on EastEnders who won’t be much use on Monarch of the Glen. People like Jill Watkins can turn their hand to a range of shows, but Jim Johnson was definitely a one-off.
There was certainly a role for me, he’d re-invented Wales to save himself the trouble of research, as far as I could see. I could put that right easily enough. He’d used a lot of names that needed negative checks to make sure they were fictitious, and the plot needed attention. The characters and dialogue were terrific, I didn’t want to interfere with those in any way except to tweak a few lines to give them an authentic Welsh feel. I timed the scripts as running ten and twelve minutes short, so we needed some new scenes.
I talked through my thoughts with Jonathan and he was very happy as we saw eye to eye on all the important points. I was relieved to find that he was quite easy to work with, after all; he didn’t stand on ceremony, he was simply professional and pleasant. I did my best to be the same. His office was just like him, somehow: extremely tidy, with matching furniture, which was fully functioning, even the blind. I wondered how he’d achieved this and put it down to administrative talent – until I realised that the girls in the admin block would be a lot more susceptible to Jonathan’s charms than they were to mine.
Jonathan called Jim in for a script meeting, and we met in his office one Friday morning. Jim knew me already from the writers’ party so the formalities were brief, and Jonathan even went out to fetch the coffees himself instead of asking me to get them. I appreciated the gesture. While we waited Jim pottered nosily round the office, and lit upon a framed photo of Selina.
“Who’s the tart?” he asked cheerfully, picking it up. I responded with a reproving smile which I hoped would warn him to be more careful in front of Jonathan, and told him she was his fiancée. Jim responded with an expression of appalled disgust which made me laugh out loud.
“She’s very beautiful,” I said, loyally. I’d never spoken to Selina and knew little about her.
Jim waggled his head as if to say he disagreed. “Debutante. They’re all over the city like cockroaches.” I was on tenterhooks in case Jon came back and heard him, but Jim didn’t seem to care. Seconds later Jon did appear, so the cheeky sod smirked admiringly as he replaced the photo. “What a lovely girl!”
Jonathan smiled modestly, “Thanks, that’s my fiancée Selina.”
“She’s PA to Chris Briggs,” I added.
“Actually she’s just been promoted. She’s going to be part of the new Department for Policy and Planning.”
“Not just Miss Kensington and Chelsea, then,” said Jim. He grimaced at me while Jon’s back was turned, and it was all I could do to keep a straight face. He was so outrageous, he didn’t seem to have any sense of decorum. I kept chatting to cover for him.
“I don’t know much about Policy and Planning, do you Jonathan?”
“Not a lot. They’re going to have an overview of all programme making, make sure it’s in line with policy, keep the staff informed with new directions, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds a bit of a yawn,” I said, and Jon shrugged.
“That’s a bit cheeky,” said Jim.
“Why?” I asked, starting to blush.
“Fancy describing the future Mrs Proulx’s work as a yawn, how rude!”
I fixed Jim with a warning look of exasperation: he was clearly trying to wind me up like a clockwork toy.
“Take no notice, Rhiannon,” advised Jonathan. “He’s incorrigible.” I realised that he already had the measure of Jim, and I needn’t worry.
We settled down to go through the scripts, giving Jim notes to take away and work into the second draft. It was very enjoyable, as Jim observed afterwards naming us the toff, the chav and the sheep-shagger. I told him he’d regret saying that.
Jonathan then announced that he’d booked a table for lunch in a Notting Hill restaurant, which he’d cover the cost of somehow, so we were duly appreciative. We set off with a sense of excitement and pleasure, feeling we were going to make a great team, and the show would be something very special.
One One Three was busy as usual, and hummed with media folk networking. We sat in a panelled booth which allowed a measure of privacy, and ordered spritzers. The restaurant had a good balance of comfy relaxation and delicious-but-not-too-fancy food and service. It was both friendly and discreet, and at the same time it was a fashionable place to see and be seen. I was easily impressed, places like this made me feel very provincial.
Over lunch we got know each other better, and our working relationship really began to gel. You might think it extravagant to spend even a fraction of a production budget on restaurant bills, but that underestimates the significance of the creative spark and how it travels round a team. The difference between a standard drama and an exceptional one can be down to these small but vital events, where interaction goes deeper than it does in normal working patterns. Creative leadership is about nurturing the right assemblage of people in the right atmosphere, so that they feed one another and enter a new place together; in this way the individuals act like ingredients in a cake, and combine to produce a magnificent confection. I saw that Jonathan already understood this and knew how to achieve it. I was impressed. I asked Jim if he’d always wanted to write.
“Not till I had kids,” he said. “Never crossed my mind till then. It makes you think about the future, and how much time you spend in the office. I thought, these scribblers have got it made. I fancied writing a bestseller and living off the royalties.”
“So you did.”
“Yeah, well it wasn’t as easy as all that, but yeah, basically. I’m a lucky bleeder, gift of the gab like my dad.”
“Does he write too?”
“No! He can hardly write at all, only in capital letters, bless him. He’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey though. He can tell a story, he can. Generations of market traders in my family. Blag anything you like.”
“Proper cockneys.”
“You could say that. I’ve had to clean up me act since I met my missus though, married into the Old Bill, ain’t I!” Jim didn’t seem to have got over this fact yet.
“You have to mind your P’s and Q’s now?”
He sucked in his breath with a comically serious expression. “It’s murder. Both in-laws are coppers. You can’t get away with nothing. I bought a new kitchen table. They come round, eye it up: ‘So where d’you get this, then?’ –‘Heals, actually’ – ‘Oh yes? How much d’you pay for it then?’” Jim reproduced the suspicious gaze of a 1950s police constable. “I’m constantly expecting to get my collar felt and a quick march down the nick!” It was a lovely image; we laughed.
“What about you, Rhiannon?” asked Jonathan. “Do you write?”
“No, too busy,” I said, “but I’d like to write a novel one day. Everyone says that though, don’t they? How about you?”
“It’s not for me. I can’t imagine it anyway. Maybe I’m too reserved. I like telling other peoples’ stories.”
“You don’t want to expose yourself,” suggested Jim.
“Maybe that’s it,” agreed Jon shyly. I wondered what he wanted to hide, but didn’t like to ask. Jim, quick as a kestrel, read my face.
“She t
hinks you’ve got a skeleton in the closet,” he put in.
Luckily Jon wasn’t offended. He smiled charmingly at me, “In my family nothing’s ever revealed publicly. It just isn’t done. Not that there’s anything dreadful to conceal, as far as I know! It’s about showing a public face of respectable happiness.”
“Good manners.”
“Exactly. You pretend everything’s absolutely perfect, regardless of whether it is or not. You sail through life confidently. You’re very successful, that goes without saying. And you don’t reveal your feelings, that would be a kind of betrayal.”
“Wow,” I said, incautiously. “I don’t think I could live like that. So – if you wanted to be a writer, you couldn’t?”
Jon pursed his lips. “Risky. It would depend on what you wrote. Biography, academic work would be perfectly fine. Spilling the emotions: all rather embarrassing.”
“Makes me realise how lucky I am,” I said. “My parents always encouraged me to do whatever I want. Both my grandfathers were miners, and my dad managed to become a school teacher. Our family’s really keen on education and bettering yourself, and they don’t worry about anything I do impacting on them. They’re really proud of me. They never care about gossip.”
Jon looked kind of wistful, and I felt sorry for him, for the first time.
Jim, of course, couldn’t resist a comment, “Poor little rich boy. It’s no wonder he’s got a lobster up his arse.”
“Nobody else could get away with the things you say.” He just grinned, and Jonathan looked tolerant and signalled for the bill. I realised he quite enjoyed being treated like this, perhaps it made him feel one of us. I supposed teasing wasn’t done in his family either, and he enjoyed the warmth and acceptance that it implies. I’d learned a lot about him over lunch. I’d had a glimpse of his vulnerable side, and had seen him in another context – it had taken Jim’s scathing wit to show me what I could have found out on my own, if I hadn’t had a crab up my own arse since I’d been at Television Centre.
The bill arrived, Jonathan paid, and as we got up to go I noticed a familiar figure at the door. “There’s no escaping the Drama Department,” I remarked. “Here’s Penny Cruickshank – ooh – who’s that?” Jon glanced over and saw our generously proportioned senior colleague with two fashionably-gelled young men half her age, being shown to a table.
“She’s on a date,” offered Jim.
I ignored him and surreptitiously watched the waiter seat them in an alcove and give the wine list to one of the men. “I know that bloke’s face from somewhere.”
Jonathan sneaked a peek, “I think he runs Magenta.”
“D’you think she’s leaving? I can’t believe it. She’s been at the Beeb forever.” We left, discreetly ignoring Penny, though normally we’d have had a chat. There was evidently something afoot and we didn’t want to put a spoke in her wheel, Penny was one of the few people everyone liked.
Penny had noticed us immediately, and was now taking care not to look around, being keen to avoid catching anyone’s eye on this occasion. She preferred to keep negotiations private until the deal was signed and sealed. Her companions’ eyes, in contrast, swept the room periodically like lighthouse beams.
Nik watched as the champagne was poured by the sommelier, and proposed a toast, “Bus Stops Here!”
“Bus Stops Here!” echoed his new executive assistant.
“To the bus, and all who sail in her!” exclaimed Penny jovially. They drank, smiled, and looked at Nik. He looked back at them and wondered whether they would get through the show without falling out.
He had been happy to accept Chris’ suggestion of Penny to produce the show. She was an old-school BBC type, full of cheery common sense and completely reliable. She was a safe pair of hands where the budget was concerned, knew everyone in the BBC and all its arcane systems, and would be invaluable as a go-between, a champion, and a general workhorse. He only worried that she might imprint her personality on the show, and give it a Blue Peter flavour. To counterbalance this he had found an energetic assistant with contemporary taste: Jack Smith. He was very young but had a degree in Media Studies, and had also won a competition with a ten-minute screenplay, although it hadn’t been filmed. Nik thought he saw something of himself in Jack, and was quietly flattered when he began spelling his name Jak.
That morning the threesome had wrestled over the still-to-be-named drama series. It hadn’t been easy. Penny had been quite clear about the low budget and what they could realistically expect to achieve on it. She had identified major loopholes in the dramatic logic of the series concept, and asked questions they couldn’t answer. Jak had tried to dismiss her objections as fussiness, which had riled Penny to the verge of walking away from the show altogether. Nik had understood the wisdom of her points, however, and had backed her. He realised that she knew what she was talking about, and Jak didn’t, so he said as much. He laid down the law: what Penny said, went. If she said it wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t work. Jak’s function was to connect with the kids, and make sure the series was cool. Penny was to accommodate as much of his input as she could, but she was in charge.
This resolution satisfied Penny enough to commit to the series despite her reservations. She knew there would be a terrific scramble for work within the Drama Department from now on, so this was probably a good opportunity. She reluctantly agreed to resign from the BBC in favour of this one-year contract with Magenta. The budget was ridiculous, but given her extensive contacts and the favours she could pull in, she felt sure she could give this series the best production values without overspending. She was an old pro, and she would dedicate herself to making it work. The scheduled slot was early evening, Saturday; this kind of family viewing was her speciality.
They had agreed to develop a 26-part episode breakdown, with Penny checking costs and practicalities, and Jak checking its street cred. Nik had decided that there was no reason why these two angles should be mutually exclusive, although Penny had her doubts. Jak was keen to assemble a wish list of guest stars. How they would appear for one episode only was a problem the storyliner would have to solve, somehow. Penny had failed to persuade them that the sci-fi genre was not a carte-blanche excuse for illogical plotting. She also insisted on a story arc which would lead to an ultimate resolution, although Nik wanted to keep the show open-ended so that it could grow with each new series and potentially run for decades. Penny’s views on narrative integrity were dismissed by Jak as utterly irrelevant in the post-modern, de-constructionist, fin-de-siecle world. Penny had no answer to this except flat denial, but Nik had managed to pull them together with the inspired reminder that since he needed both ends of the audience to enjoy the show, they must find a way to be all-inclusive, and ‘Give ’em all what they want.’ In this way a truce was reached, and he had brought them out to seal it over a good lunch.
“Tell me about yourself, Dik – I mean Jak,” said Penny, while Nik went to the gents. “Which university were you at?”
“Sussex,” replied Jak. “It was crap.”
“Oh! I thought it had a good reputation. My niece – ”
“Depends what you do there.”
“A pretty cool place to spend three years, I should think?”
“Boring, really. Brighton’s all hippies, gays and nutters.”
Penny wished Jak would at least make the effort to meet her halfway – her son’s sixth-form friends had much better social skills – but perhaps he lacked confidence, and felt overwhelmed in this media restaurant. She tried again. “Nik tells me you won a writing competition?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still writing?”
“Well I’m doing this now.”
She was glad when Nik returned and the oysters arrived. Working with Jak was going to be a hard slog, that much was clear. She’d thought the BBC had already presented her with every challenge under the sun, but this was a new one, she observed ruefully. At the moment it was impossible to see what contribution Jak
would make to the show; he seemed nothing but trouble, but she foresaw that if she were to lose Nik’s backing she’d be off the show faster than Linford Christie.
When Jon and I got back to Centre House the weekend was approaching, and the building was quiet. There was a comfortable feeling between us which I hadn’t expected and I could tell he was aware of it too. We returned to our respective offices, and ten minutes later Jonathan appeared at my door with a letter in his hand.
“Have you got a moment?”
“Of course,” I said. He came in and sat on my historic sofa.
“Peter’s left me this note, he’s gone away for the weekend. It’s a bit unusual. It’s very confidential.”
“You don’t have to tell me – ”
“I think I do.” He held it out to me, so I took it. It was handwritten, but crystal clear:
‘Jonathan, destroy this message when you’ve read it. You must revise all official docs and remove any references to cannabis in The M M. Finish scripts ASAP. Peter.’
“How weird,” I said. “Was it on your desk?”
“Vera brought it to me just now. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it?”
“Bloody hell. Perhaps he was pissed when he wrote it?” Everyone had noticed Peter’s alcohol intake was rising. “What are you going to do?”
“What he says, I suppose. Vera seemed to think it was important.”
“Vera always knows.”
“I hope it doesn’t backfire on me, what if he’s forgotten all about it when he gets back?”
“I’ll stick up for you.”
“Thanks. Intriguing, isn’t it?”
“Not half. I suppose we better get cracking, then.”
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” I really didn’t. “I can work late tonight, if you like.”
All to Play For Page 28