by Mark McCrum
Francis stayed cool. ‘That’s a call only you can make,’ he said. He got to his feet and walked over to the window, looked out at the perambulating festival goers in the sunshine. Just below him, a young man in a white Australian-style hat was laughing at two female companions as he dodged theatrically out of the way of a slowly passing car. ‘Hey,’ he said, turning to her with a smile. ‘Shall we go up the road and grab a sandwich from the pub? I’m starving.’
At The Rising Sun, Mutton Chops was back behind the bar in person. Faced with two brown-skinned punters, he was on exaggeratedly courteous form.
‘And what can I get you and your, er, friend?’ he asked Francis. In a moment, Francis thought, he’s going to ask us where we originate from.
After a little deliberation, Francis and Priya ordered baguettes, then took their drinks out to an empty table under the apple trees.
‘The Sentinel Review attack on Dan Dickson was just part one,’ said Priya. ‘Of Bryce’s promotional plans …’
‘For The Poisoned Pen?’
‘Exactly. The main event was going to be his talk on Sunday afternoon. It was a full-blown assault on the phenomenon of celebrity publishing. How spineless and cynical editors are commissioning this stuff when privately, so often, they despise it. How tragic that the decision makers are almost all highly educated, yet continue to push out this crap that swamps any decent writing that might occasionally appear. Bryce was passionate about it. He’d been devious too, worming quotes out of leading publishers and agents to back him up. He was going to juxtapose those with extracts from some of the worst of these kinds of books. I think it would have brought the house down.’
‘So he let you see it?’
She nodded. ‘I was sworn to secrecy, though, because I think quite a few of the publishing types would have been seriously upset.’
‘That was the point, presumably. Nothing career destroying, though?’
‘Probably not in that bit. But then he moved on to the celebs themselves. How fraudulent they are in that often they only want one side of their story told, so each of these kinds of books is really just a huge vanity project.’
‘He had examples?’
‘Of course. Then he was going to talk about other aspects of the scam. Celebs who insist on saying they’ve written a book when they hardly even read. Not everyone is as honest as Jamie Oliver …’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He stood up in front of four hundred children’s writers and told them that despite his success as a bestselling author he’d never actually finished a book. Reading one, that is.’
Francis laughed. ‘To be fair, I did read somewhere that he was dyslexic,’ he pointed out.
‘Then the kind of distortions that follow from all that,’ Priya continued. ‘So, like, people start to think that writing is easy. From there he went on to the real hypocrisy. Whereby a personal myth is invented and sustained by a book, when the reality is something completely other.’
‘Such as?’
Priya leaned forward. ‘His star example was someone who’s headlining at this very festival.’
Francis thought hard, his brain spinning through the big names in the programme. Priya looked round conspiratorially, though there was no one within ten yards of them.
‘Jonty,’ she whispered.
‘What, Family …’
‘… Man, yes. The idea of this wholesome guy who lives with his family and his pigs and chickens on a smallholding in Somerset is total bollocks. Apparently he spends most of his time in Soho snorting coke and shagging waitresses. His poor wife looks after the farm and he just turns up to film …’
‘It all sounds a bit libellous, Priya.’
‘Bryce’s argument was that proof of the truth is a defence in libel. He had evidence to back up everything he was going to say. Sworn affidavits from girls Jonty had dumped, one he’d got pregnant.’
‘Spare us, not a love child.’
‘Little Amelie. Aged two and a half. And this is the really shocking bit. Jonty doesn’t want to see either her or her mother and he pays the mother the absolute minimum required by law … Family Man.’
‘Goodness …’ muttered Francis. Here at last was a real motive. ‘So why hasn’t this come out in the press?’
‘Jonty had all that covered, according to Bryce. Point one, he’s a national treasure, so unless the evidence is incontrovertible people won’t believe it. Point two, he’s got an immensely powerful PR who offers up the misdemeanours of lesser celebs in return for hands off Jonty. Point three, just to sew it up nicely, he’s got a super-injunction.’
‘And how was Bryce going to get round that?’
‘By claiming he wasn’t aware of it. Jonty’s lawyers had served the super-injunction on the newspapers but hadn’t thought of serving it on authors like Bryce.’
‘But would the papers be able to print what he’d said?’
‘They’d find a way. Probably by getting someone to repeat the allegation on Twitter. Once the cat was out of the bag, their lawyers would be able to advise that publication was fair game.’
‘He’d worked it all out, hadn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’
‘I swore to Bryce that I wouldn’t say anything about it to anybody.’
‘While he was alive. But obviously this makes his death so much more suspicious. Quite a few people stood to lose if that talk went ahead. Not just Family Man.’
‘D’you really think Jonty might have had something to do with all this? But he’s such a huge star …’
‘All the more reason,’ said Francis. ‘If his brand goes down in flames there’s one heck of a lot to lose. For him, the publishers, the TV company, the associated merchandising operations, the annual Family Man exhibition at Earl’s Court. It’s an awful lot of dough. Now and in the future. Because his career would never come back from a revelation like that. It’s not as if he’s some Jack-the-lad, like Gordon Ramsay or Boris Johnson, who can just say, “Yeah, I did it, sorry, bit stressed at the time” – and then everyone forgets it. This is central to everything he stands for. The question we need answering now is: had Jonty somehow found out what was in this talk? If he had: how and when? Presumably recently, otherwise he would surely have tried to scupper Bryce earlier. I mean, is this something that someone might have gossiped about at one of the parties? On Saturday night, even?’
‘But that was the night Bryce died.’
‘I know. So maybe earlier on Saturday. Or Friday night?’
‘But how could they have done? I was the only one who knew.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘Not completely certain. I mean, Bryce could be indiscreet.’
‘I should say! At the Sentinel party he nearly spilled the beans about his talk to Grace, right in front of you.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I was there. I’d just been chatting to him.’
‘Were you? I don’t remember that.’
‘You breezed up with some champagne from Laetitia and cut him off just as he was about to say something. He was going on about having a big fish in his sights. He must have been talking about Jonty.’
‘You’re right,’ said Priya thoughtfully. ‘You don’t think he was just teasing her?’
‘It didn’t look like it to me …’
‘Because he swore me to total secrecy. And I didn’t get all this out of him easily.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t. But I’m afraid, from what I saw, that doesn’t mean he didn’t tell someone else what that Sunday session was going to be about. Who then told Jonty. Or one of his people.’
‘If you say so …’
‘We need to get to Jonty somehow,’ Francis said, excited now. ‘And/or the people around him. Discreetly suss them out about all this. So how are we going to do that?’
‘I suppose we could do worse than go and listen to him talk. He’s on in twenty minutes.’
Priya passed over the festival pro
gramme, open at that afternoon’s page:
2 pm. Big Tent. £10
FAMILY MAN
Everyone’s favourite countryman and smallholder, Jonty Smallbone, talks frankly about the ups and downs of life on Peewit Farm, the joys and challenges of bringing up three kids in a rural setting, and the problems he faced as he researched and wrote his latest book, Wild Stuff.
TWENTY-THREE
As they walked down towards the festival centre, Francis couldn’t help but notice the increased media presence. By the gates to the school, where the banners flapped in the strengthening breeze, there were two full TV crews as well as a gaggle of paparazzi, burly, shaven-headed men carrying cameras with enormous lenses, who looked as if they would stop at nothing to get the picture that paid. None of this seemed to have set the festival back, though. Au contraire. The site was packed and Family Man’s event was sold out.
‘Sorry,’ said the plump young woman at the ticket booth. ‘It’s returns only now.’ She pointed at a long queue of hopeful punters: mums and dads with kids, older couples in matching anoraks, even a sprinkling of funky-looking young singles, one with a wicker basket over her bare shoulder containing a fresh cabbage. God help us, thought Francis. The power of the TV image. Realised in devoted followers.
‘I’m going to have to call in a favour,’ he told Priya. He turned to another of the festival elves, a skinny creature with huge teeth that she seemed to be constantly trying to swallow. ‘Excuse me. Could you possibly get Laetitia Humble for me?’
‘She’s, like, reelly busy at the moment.’
‘I appreciate that. Could you tell her that Francis Meadowes is extremely keen to see the Family Man talk as he wants to write about it for a national newspaper. I spoke yesterday,’ he added, as the young woman stood looking at him and Priya open-mouthed. ‘In the Big Tent. Sold out.’
‘OK.’ She scurried off.
‘Sorry,’ said Francis. ‘I don’t usually pull rank, but …’
‘Don’t worry. I’d do the same if I could.’
A minute later Laetitia appeared, today in a magnificent William Morris style floral skirt, all greens and oranges and pale blues.
‘Francis, darling. You’re still here. How wonderful.’ She dropped her voice and pushed him and Priya away from the returns queue. ‘Of course we can get you in to see Jonty. And you must come to the Green Room afterwards. It would be good for you two to meet. He’ll doubtless have a few books to sign in the bookshop, but we’ll all be there straight after.’
‘I’d like that. Is there any chance you could squeeze in my good friend Priya Kaur as well?’
Laetitia’s eyes were on stalks. You could almost hear her whirring through her mental Rolodex trying to place this possibly significant Asian female.
‘Priya was Bryce Peabody’s partner.’
‘Of course! I knew I knew the name.’ Laetitia’s grin switched to an appropriate mask of tragedy. ‘I’m so sorry about Bryce. I was one of his greatest fans. Such a huge talent.’
‘Thank you,’ said Priya.
Laetitia shook her head. ‘This weekend has been ghastly. First Bryce, and then this poor girl out at Wyveridge. I don’t know what’s going on. And now we’ve got totally the wrong kind of press crawling all over the place.’ She glanced imperiously at the waiting elf. ‘Two for the VIP row, please, Victoria. D’you mind taking them in?’
So Francis and Priya were ushered into the packed tent and shown to seats five rows from the front. On the big screen above the stage was projected the jacket cover of Wild Stuff: nettles, sorrel, seaweed, samphire, with a fine array of mushrooms and berries Francis would have struggled to put a name to.
‘If we do get to talk to Jonty afterwards, will you do me a favour?’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to bring up the subject of Bryce’s talk and ask you, in front of him, if you had any idea what was in it. Will you please deny all knowledge?’
‘Why?’
‘Partly because I want to gauge his reaction; and partly to protect … you,’ he said, dropping his voice because the tent had now hushed. Up on stage, Laetitia had come out from behind the entrance screen, bringing with her the genial, grinning, always slightly shambling presence that was Family Man. Jonty was casually but fashionably dressed, in a green and white checked shirt, faded blue jeans and brand new Converse trainers. His long, trademark blond hair covered what his public knew all too well were his rather large ears. To either side of that famous beak his eyes sat perhaps a fraction too close together. Francis had of course been aware of him; how could he not be, straddled as he was across all media in a way that only the biggest celebs are. Home Cooking, the show that had made his name, was still a weekly fixture on BBC One. More recently, there had been spinoffs. Family Man’s Big Adventure, for example, in which our hero had left the comfort zone of Peewit Farm and gone off round the world examining ‘family values’ while doing a bit of cheffing on the side. Francis had caught half of a programme in which Jonty had been learning how to make a yak curry in Nepal. ‘We have so much to learn from simple Asian families like this,’ he’d said, as he sat in the dirt with some toothless matriarch, now his new best friend.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Laetitia, casting admiring looks in her guest’s direction. ‘Jonty Smallbone is one of those wonderful people who’s so famous he barely needs an introduction. Certainly not to you lot. But what we love about him, in addition to his cooking and his farming and his writing and everything else he does so well, is how reassuringly down to earth and unpretentious he remains. He really is, always has been, so refreshingly himself. So now, without further ado …’
You had to hand it to him, Francis thought, watching Jonty swing into action. His thank you to Laetitia was charming and sincere, yet somehow managed to convey that her gushing welcome was a bit on the ridiculous side. Then he moved on to his audience, thanking them for coming, making them feel special, to the point where you almost started to feel it was just you and him in here; and his family, of course, whom he introduced from the front row: wife Amber, sons Ethan and Milo, and baby daughter Jasmine, a bouncy-looking creature in a shiny pink frock, with red-spotted bows in her pigtails. No sign of little Amelie, though.
‘I suppose,’ Jonty said, ‘you’d like to hear about the new book. Since this is a literary festival.’ It was called Wild Stuff, he went on, when the laughter had died down, because that’s what it was about. ‘And the great thing about wild stuff, particularly in these straitened times, is that most of it is also free stuff. Nettle soup, for example, costs nothing and is absolutely delicious. If you try and buy samphire in Primrose Hill it’ll cost you five pounds a bunch. Go up to the marshes of North Norfolk and, as my sons here will tell you, at this time of year it’s literally sprawling across the mud.’
The book was about all the natural nourishment you could find, he continued, in the hedgerows, the woods, the fields, the rivers, the sea. There was even a chapter on road kill. ‘If you get to it quick enough, there’s really no reason to throw it away. I remember once, driving home to Peewit, knocking down a pheasant on a back lane. We scooped it up, plucked it, cleaned it, and had it roast for lunch the next day …’
When the session was over Francis and Priya walked through to the bookshop. Francis didn’t join the long queue waiting for the precious signature; instead, like Priya, he picked up a copy of the lavishly illustrated hardback from the big stack on the central table and glanced through it, starting with the blurb on the inside front flap:
When Jonty Smallbone left the Navy to start his own smallholding in the 1990s, little did he realise he was on the way to becoming a national treasure …
After a cursory look at the chapter on road kill (Badger Casserole with Wild Garlic and Field Blewit mushrooms looked surprisingly tasty), Francis looked over and caught Priya’s eye. Her dark eyebrows flicked upwards as her forefinger tapped the title of a chapter called ‘Wild Highs’. This was certainly intriguing,
going in some depth into the properties of wild (lettuce) opium, magic mushrooms (fly agaric and liberty cap), salvia, betel nut, jimson weed, qat, peyote and yerba, amongst others.
PSILOCYBE SEMILANCEATA, or liberty cap as it’s more often known, is the classic ‘magic mushroom’ or ‘shroom’. It’s a tiny, bell-shaped fungus, typically with a pointed umbo (see photograph), like the French ‘liberty cap’. It grows abundantly in grassland: on lawns, in parks, on playing fields and in wilder pastures too. The fungus fruits in late summer and autumn, and is common after heavy rain. Once offering a legal high, the liberty cap is, since the Misuse of Drugs Act 2005, a Class A drug, which means that any preparation involving it is illegal.
Dried shrooms are more powerful than fresh ones and are often made into tea. Some people experience nausea when taking shrooms; sensory changes kick in after about forty minutes and can last for several hours. These range from a general feeling of wellbeing to hallucinations, very similar to those experienced by takers of LSD …
Having glanced through the rest of this section, Francis went on to a chapter entitled ‘The Dangerous Wild: Poisonous Plants in Our Hedgerows and Gardens’. This had similar informative paragraphs alongside colourful photos:
People generally know about things like deadly nightshade, ivy and yew, but less often about azaleas, delphiniums, foxgloves and lilies. The list goes on, not all of them easy to recognise. The toxic red berries of black bryony and bittersweet are awfully similar to rosehip or rowan, which you might make wine or jelly from …
At the back of the book, Francis found the Acknowledgments, which was mostly a list of Jonty’s famous and influential friends. Right at the end, however, was a telltale sentence: With special thanks to Anna Copeland, without whom – or is that without who, Anna? – words don’t come easy.
As he turned to Priya, he was smiling.
‘Interesting?’ she asked.
‘Certainly is. Shall we see what’s going in the Green Room?’
Forty-five minutes later Jonty finally came through, his family and Laetitia in tow. They took a seat on a sofa complex in the corner while Laetitia bustled around, organising refreshments. Francis kept glancing in her direction; but after five minutes, it didn’t look as if her promised introduction was going to materialise.