The door closed behind him, and I was still staring open-mouthed.
*
That afternoon there was an even bigger shock in store. The news came though on the Telfax system which played constantly on the monitors positioned by the lifts on every floor, and it raced through Centre House like a rip tide. The first I heard was a shriek of horror from down the corridor, so I ran out and joined the growing bunch of people gazing at the news that Basil Richardson was dead. He’d crashed his car into a wall.
Basil was one of the most popular producers in the department. He had been a treasure, a tower of strength over the years. It was like hearing that one of the royal family had died. Everyone stopped work, and stood about in the corridors wiping their eyes. Peter drank openly, and Vera was crying as she tried to persuade him to go home in case he made a fool of himself.
I went to Jonathan’s office to break the news: it was so dreadful, it wiped out everything else. We hugged, which was weird, after everything that had happened. The pair of us sobbed and wept; we looked at each other and then hugged and sobbed and wept some more. It felt comforting and ludicrous and desperately sad.
“So was it an accident or not?” Jon asked eventually.
“Nobody knows. He drove his car off the road at sixty miles an hour. Doesn’t sound like Basil, does it?”
“He could have fallen asleep at the wheel.”
I nodded. “I suppose we’ll never know.”
People remained in the corridors talking about it, needing the reassurance of others, lacking the heart to get on with their work. Lots of them thought it was suicide. Basil had obviously been very depressed, had virtually lost his job, lived alone, probably felt he was on the scrapheap. Others couldn’t believe he would do it. He had had such a distinguished career he should have been looking forward to a happy retirement.
As the afternoon wore on we reluctantly came to believe that it had indeed been deliberate on Basil’s part. His comments at the recent producers’ meeting suggested, in retrospect, a mood of despair and self-disgust at what had happened at the BBC. He probably felt a measure of responsibility, however misplaced that might seem to us. He must have felt that there was little to look forward to except an unsought-for early retirement and years of self-reproach. He wouldn’t even be able to switch the telly on without being reminded of what had been lost. Basil’s work was his life, and the manner of his death was, in a way, typical of him. He went without making an obvious statement, without melodrama, with an ambiguously tragic ending.
Jon and I parted with a kiss when we left work, but it was a friendship kiss on both cheeks. It didn’t need saying that the time and place was not now, not here.
*
For the next couple of weeks things were very quiet at work. We had a meeting with Peter to talk over the Medical Miracle debacle, and he said it had been worth a try – some you win, some you lose. He would be happy to put the show in turnaround and release the option so we could pick it up ourselves. He wished us well.
We kept everything low key, especially our relationship. How could we jump into bed at a time like this, amidst all the wreckage? We spent time together but it was like mourning. It was the strangest start to a romance I’ve ever heard of. We tried to avoid Selina of course, which wasn’t difficult as long as we didn’t go in Television Centre. We each met with Morag and accepted that our contracts would run out in the next couple of months. We met with Roger, which was a lot more cheerful, and talked through setting up our company; that felt great, although I had major reservations about going into business with a new boyfriend. On the other hand, my intuition said it was the right thing to do.
Unfortunately we hit a snag when we tried to buy the option on Medical Miracle. Even though Jim was fully on board, we were unable to buy it. It turned out that the BBC had a ten-year option which they were unwilling to sell. This made no sense at all. If they didn’t want to make it, what was the point of hanging onto it? We were all at Roger’s flat, ready to negotiate the fee, when this bag of manure burst open. I was on the phone to the man in the rights office, who said he was sorry, there was nothing he could do as the project had been specifically frozen by Chris Briggs. He didn’t know why.
“I know why,” said Jonathan dully, head in hands.
“Let’s go and see him,” said Roger. “We can talk him round.”
“Forget it,” said Jon. “God, I’m so sorry everyone. This is Selina’s work. She’s done it to spite me.”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” I murmured, realising the truth of the quotation for the first time.
“It’s my fault,” said Jon. “I should have kept my fucking trap shut. I told her you wanted to do it as a film.”
Roger was incredulous. “Why? Why would you do that? What’s it to her anyway?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight, I had a hangover, it was all a complete nightmare. I had no idea I was telling her something important! Jesus… ”
I went and hugged him. “Never mind,” I said. “You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault.”
“That’s the end of it, then. No film. No work. I’m really, really sorry, both of you.”
Roger threw his cigarettes at the wall. Then he clapped Jon on the shoulder and squeezed it. “I’m going out for a few hours, the flat’s all yours. Stay here if you want. If I were you I’d fuck each other’s brains out.”
I stared catatonically into space as he collected a few things and left, contemplating an abyss of unemployment. As the front door closed behind him, Jon lifted his head. “What did he say?”
*
There was a memorial service two months later in the BBC church in Langham Place. It was attended by hundreds of people; staff, ex-staff, actors, directors, many famous faces. Press photographers waited outside. Officially, his death had been accidental, just another tragic road death statistic. Those who thought otherwise held their peace, there was little point in pursuing it, and it seemed disrespectful to Basil to gossip about him after his death.
Jonathan and I sat with Maggie a few rows behind Vera and the drama producers. We watched Peter Maxwell nervously as he stumbled on his way up to the front where he was to address the congregation.
“Welcome, friends,” began Peter, loud and clear. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate the life of our dear friend and colleague, Basil Richardson.” To our relief he didn’t sound too pissed. “Basil worked in BBC Drama for thirty eight years. Even longer than I have. Even longer than my esteemed PA, Vera Ainsley.” He smiled in tribute to Vera, who was flattered.
“In those early years, which commentators like to call the golden years of television drama, an extraordinary revolution took place in the culture of our country. Basil’s contribution was to make wonderful programmes, broadcast live remember, to staggeringly large audiences – there were of course only two channels to choose between in those days. In the years that followed Basil carried on making drama that showed what was really going on in ordinary people’s lives, work that mattered, work that made you want to change the world and throw out all its injustices.
“I’ve made a list of some of the shows I consider to have been the best during his time. Basil didn’t work on all of them by any means, but he was part of the department which made them, and as we all know, making top class drama isn’t like buying a potted plant off a shelf; you need a well-run nursery, you have to sow many, many seeds, prick out the strongest seedlings, and nurture them in fine, cultivated soil. Here they are, then. This roll call is a tribute not just to Basil, but to all those of his ilk: Cathy Come Home. Z Cars. The Price of Coal. Dr Who. The Forsyte Saga. I, Claudius. The History Man. Threads. The Singing Detective. Auf Wiedersehen Pet. Edge of Darkness. Boys From the Black Stuff. The Monocled Mutineer. A Very British Coup. A Very Peculiar Practice. The Firm. Our Friends in the North. In my humble opinion, these programmes are peerless. They were all groundbreaking in their time. They and many more have inspired countless writers and produce
rs, and enriched the lives of millions of viewers. Forgive me for leaving other worthy programmes out.”
The congregation, expecting a standard eulogy, found itself fully engaged by Peter’s sentiments as he unconsciously patted his bald patch and stared at the arched ceiling.
“My only regret is that, today, I see precious few shows on our books to match them.” He paused and cast his gaze around the church. His expression was solemn. “No disrespect to all of you still working in the department, but we all know why, and should perhaps have said so before: the conditions no longer exist at the BBC for truly groundbreaking drama to be developed, produced, or broadcast. Our highly-decorated Director General has given us a new culture of competition. We must be correctly positioned in the new electronic marketplace, apparently, or we’ll lose our audience. He seems to forget that it was the BBC’s reputation for making the best programmes which made it the brand leader around the world. Instead of concentrating the corporation’s efforts on making sure the best programmes continue to come from the BBC, and making commercial companies compete with us, he has sold our inheritance and instead competes with them on their terms. He talks of giving viewers more choice, but his idea of choice turns out to be more opportunities to watch the same repeats, and the same kind of derivative, generic drama we see on other channels. Perhaps the time has come for Channel Four to take the baton? I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t carry it any longer. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby tender my resignation. I think Basil would have approved.”
Many of us gasped at Peter’s announcement; a handful of journalists were already scribbling furiously. Jonathan and I gripped hands as tears rolled down my face. Maggie was sniffing. My heart pounded; we felt absurdly proud of our old boss as he left the dais and walked down the aisle, looking shell-shocked. A light patter of inhibited but heartfelt applause spread across the church, gathering intensity as he left. The organ began the introduction to To Be A Pilgrim, and choir began to sing. By the end, the whole congregation was belting it out with gusto.
There’s definitely an important catharsis about a church service, regardless of your religious beliefs. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
“What do you think of the name Basil?” Jon muttered in my ear as we left.
“For a baby, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Perhaps it’ll grow on me.”
We dived into the nearest pub, and not surprisingly, we found Peter at the bar. He noticed that we were holding hands.
“At last,” he said. “I always thought you’d make the ideal couple. You fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw.” His judgement was spot on, as ever.
Chapter Twenty-one
By the time Bus! was in the can Penny had lost over two stone. Normally she would have been thrilled by this, but since she’d also developed high blood pressure it didn’t seem so great. In fact she was already nostalgic for the days when she’d been cheerful and relaxed enough to sit back and put away a decent bottle of wine and a plate of French cheeses. She had also developed the kind of smoking habit which is harder on the bank balance than the lungs, getting through two packs of lowest-tar cigarettes a day, but only smoking half before stubbing them out, and hardly inhaling at all – hoping that this would mitigate against their harmful influence. It was a nervous habit, she acknowledged that, and planned to stop when the show was finished.
Although accustomed to long hours at the BBC, she’d found Nik’s expectations almost impossible to meet: sixteen hour days, seven days a week. He’d pointed out that she could rest as much as she liked at the end of her contract. Even her journey to work seemed a self-indulgent luxury. In fact as time went on, she looked forward to it as a brief period twice a day which was hers alone; being uncontactable for an hour became a joy to cherish. It was all down to reducing costs, of course; her professional standards wouldn’t allow her to cut the cloth according to the budget. She was producing a high quality show through sheer willpower. Her reputation was such that expert production staff agreed to work on the show for half their normal rate just because they liked and respected her – and their jobs at the BBC had vanished. They loved their work enough to sacrifice themselves. Penny being Penny, she felt guilty and responsible with every reduction of their working conditions, which worsened as the schedule rolled on. They knew it was out of her control and appreciated her care, but the strain took its toll on her nonetheless.
Nik’s earnings were far beyond anyone else’s on the team. He piled on the pressure, but Penny didn’t complain. She didn’t pass it on down the line either, seeing herself as a buffer protecting the creative team as much as she could. She suffered enormous guilt for exploiting her old colleagues, even though they knew exactly what they had signed up for. Somehow the struggle for good working conditions didn’t apply at Magenta, it wasn’t relevant. It was difficult to say how this had happened, given that a Labour government was finally in power again. There were no unions, no proper rights for employees; there was health and safety, and insurance, but everyone was on a short-term freelance contract which they either signed or turned down. Very few in the industry could afford to say no. It felt like a new world, a new way of life, to the old guard. The comforts of life were over and gone, even the glorious camaraderie continued to exist only as personal relationships between those who had worked together for many years. There was no longer a sense of playing your part in something so big and strong that it was greater than the sum of its constituents, and which would repay your loyalty. Now it was everyone for themselves, the life of the freelance, which was not a million miles away from the old world of the day-labourer who turned up at the dock gates at dawn each day, hoping for a few hours’ work.
Penny’s consolation was a great satisfaction derived from the show itself, since she knew perfectly well that the sow’s ear Nik had given her had been transformed into a beautiful silk purse by her skilful needlework. She had quietly brought in a hugely experienced series writer to knock the scripts into shape, without embarrassing Jak and his team. The lighting cameraman had dozens of films to his credit, and was able to achieve magnificent visual quality with cheap video technology. The director had forty years’ experience. An ideal location was obtained for peanuts through another old contact; the list went on.
Penny was truly proud of the show. Its rather silly premise was handled in such a way that it felt perfectly normal. The old adage concerning the audience’s ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ applied. It was fun, a family show, not very demanding, heartwarming without sentimentality – the key was that it didn’t take itself too seriously. Even the guest stars were slotted into the storylines without too much contrivance.
Nik recognised the show’s quality, but he had no concept of how exceptional the achievement was. He assumed it was all normal, that any producer could do the same, that the crew were standard and their experience average. He treated them all the same as any other Magenta employee and saw no reason to bestow praise on someone simply for doing their job. He expected everyone to work willingly and cheerfully. He interpreted tiredness as weakness, and irritability as resistance. Consequently, as Penny’s tolerance and generosity wore thin under the pressure of constant effort and exhaustion, she began to wear a strained expression and a fixed smile which Nik found intensely aggravating. He decided she had an ‘attitude problem’ and imagined she thought herself superior, too good for Magenta and for him. Naturally, he never mentioned it to her. Just to everyone else.
Ever the professional, Penny put all she had into the show, but as the scheduled days were ticked off she felt something draining out of her, as if a plug had been pulled on her reservoir of enthusiasm. By the time the end of the project was in sight she was longing to escape, and was quietly planning a new life in Cornwall: semi-retirement, or ‘downshifting’as it was known in the Sunday papers she had no time to read. There was a lot of regret, but having tasted the new world of broadcasting she knew she had no appetite for
it. Best to go before her heart packed up altogether.
With the series safely signed off, Nik found his welcome at the BBC a good deal warmer. In fact he began to believe he was now accepted. Then a head-hunting firm called, and met with him to discuss a possible post at the BBC. They told him that there was a vacancy for Head of Drama, and that the management were very impressed with his work at Magenta, in particular Bus! They thought it had the same high production values of an in-house show, but somehow Nik had achieved it for half the price. This was precisely the skill they needed in the Drama Department. Could he do the same from inside the corporation? Of course he could. Could he halt the decline of the department? Of course he could. Would he leave Magenta and pass up his share options? Of course he wouldn’t. Did they think he was mad? After a few weeks of secret meetings and interviews, Nik accepted the job on condition that his position at Magenta was suspended only for the duration of his tenure at the BBC, and that his income as a director of the company would be uninterrupted.
Nik was enormously flattered, although he understood that his role was to be the hatchet-man. They needed him to sweep out the old crap that remained, and re-establish the corporation in the modern marketplace. The old values were dead or dying. Time for a new approach, ready for the new millennium, which was almost upon them.
Magenta was in any case undergoing a major shake-up. Rex, who had been sent on a year-long sabbatical by the chairman of the board, had cleaned up his act, cut down his boozing and gambling, and had spent a month in a California clinic having his body re-moulded. He returned with toned muscles, tanned skin, white teeth, and a flat stomach which he was quick to admit he owed to liposuction. In fact he proudly lifted up his shirt for anyone brave enough to take a closer look. He was in good enough shape to take over his old post at the head of the company, and had made several valuable new contacts in LA. He was setting up a Magenta office over there so that he could expand into the American market, and had already sold two quiz show formats to US networks.
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