“Bri, our camera man, is good. He is a professional and has an eye for the detail. It’ll be your job, Matt, to ask questions and prompt discussion and to write the commentary.” Jed reached into his briefcase and gave Matt a pack of DVDs in order for him to see other programmes and get a better idea of the format. “Now, this will account for just a few minutes and will take probably a day to shoot, all being well. Bri will then either give them, or that John bloke if they are not able, an idiot’s guide to using a video camera and the idea is that they do a video diary of themselves deciding what to spend the cash on and the work happening. This usually takes one hell of a lot of editing as people tend to get carried away and record every brick being put in, but we’ll do that later.
“We usually arrange the builders etc, but considering the distances involved, and our current staffing problems, it’s probably best to get local ones in, as long as they are registered etc. Then, we go back at the end with a bunch of flowers for Mrs Pryce and film the finished work and them sat happy and warm by the kitchen table listing the differences it has made to their lives, expenditure etc, and all is well!”
Matt nodded approvingly. “Sounds good.”
“Ok,” said Jed, clearing some of the dining detritus out of the way and putting his electronic notebook on the table. “Because it’s the Christmas Special, I have given this programme forty thousand, maximum.” Matt whistled softly and raised his eyebrows.
“They could make quite a dent in the place for that,” he murmured.
“Exactly,” said Jed, “and that is what we want.”
Chapter 60
The Starched White Linen Over the School Woodwork Project
Matt rang John Haskins. It was John’s turn to whistle softly and raise his eyebrows. They arranged to meet up the following day and in the meanwhile, John would speak to the Pryces.
Matt was welcomed back to Tyn-y-Cwm Fach by both Mr and Mrs Pryce waiting anxiously for him at the gate. For the occasion, Mr Pryce had moved from the fireside chair to the kitchen table and he sat, side by side, with his wife as they listened to what the man from the city had to say. John looked on thoughtfully; he felt some responsibility for the Pryces and didn’t want them to be exploited in any way. However, he also knew that for all their slowness and personification of stereotypical rurality, they were no fools and their minds worked quicker and sharper than their facades gave them credit for.
“So,” said Mr Pryce slowly, taking a good slurp of his fresh tea. “Let me make sure we have this straight. You give us forty thousand pounds to spend, as long as we spend it on that there list of things.”
“Yes – builders, plumbers, planning fees, painters and decorators, interior designers…” Matt said, ignoring Mr Pryce’s slight shake of his head to Mrs Pryce at this one, “…cleaners and also any materials that go with the above. Because we usually do the organising ourselves but won’t be able to in this instance, we are also willing to pay for an agent – maybe someone professional, or perhaps someone like John here who you can trust and can organise things for you.”
“And would that be extra to our forty thousand or included within?” asked Mrs Pryce innocently. Matt laughed and John breathed a sigh of relief – no, there were no flies on these folks.
“That’s additional to – up to seven percent.”
“And we can do whatever we want?” said Mr Pryce seriously, “anything?”
“If you think a swimming pool on your roof is your top priority, yes, you go ahead and do it,” laughed Matt. “The point is, you identify the problems with your living here, and then you have the money to put them right in whatever way you see fit. However, we will only pay on receipts for the above work, so no heading off to the sun for six months!” Mr and Mrs Pryce laughed obligingly and Matt felt pleased as he saw the cogs turning; yes, they were going to run with this one.
Turning once more to John, Matt explained the terms and conditions, the filming and video diaries and the relatively tight schedule. He went through the simple contract with John and then stood to take his leave and shake the Pryces’ hands. He was shown to the door by Mr Pryce who stopped him and said once more, “And we can do whatever we want, as long as it is within them lists?”
“Anything,” assured Matt and disappeared, in what would have been a cloud of dust, had he not had to perform a six point turn and then drive his low-slung sports car with extreme care down the long and rutted track, watched by three thoughtful faces, chased by four sheepdogs, and having his tyres nipped by a Jack Russell.
“I think I hear the kettle boiling,” said one of the faces. “Come on: let’s go inside.”
Chapter 61
Putting out the Best China
The official filming took place with relative ease. Bri and Matt were taken on a guided tour of the house, outhouses and land as the Pryces’ life was exposed in detail; their hardships and irregularities shown to the voyeuristic viewers. Mr and Mrs Pryce played well to the camera; their seriousness and shyness as they described what their lives consisted of, was broken up by regular jokes and chuckles between them. ‘Perfect, absolutely perfect’, thought Bri, who was more than a little bored of whingeing old ladies who expected someone else to mend their leaky taps, when they had a great lummox of a son lying on the sofa eating fish and chips (because they “couldn’t afford meat”).
The interview ended, as most things did in the Pryce household, with a cuppa and fresh Welsh cakes that Bri had filmed Mrs Pryce cooking on the old griddle on the stove, and Mr Pryce trying to steal a currant from. “We’ve lived like this for, oh, must be forty years?” said Mr Pryce, looking at Mrs Pryce for acknowledgement. “We’ve been very happy here, but have never really had the spare money to do the things we would like to do. Have we, Mother?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yes, yes, we’ve had lots of plans, and now,” and he looked straight into the camera like a true professional, “this money has given us the chance of doing these things. And,” and he put his hand over his wife’s to show their solidarity on this one, “we would like to take the opportunity to thank London Television…”
“North London Independent Television,” whispered Matt sharply.
“Yes, and them, for allowing us to make our dreams come true.”
“OK, cut,” said Bri, “that’s great – a bit cheesy, but great. Okay?” he said to Matt who nodded, his notebook bulging with information and phrases.
And so the Pryces of Tyn-y-Cwm Fach were left in peace to get on with the job in hand. John had the video camera and seven per cent of forty thousand pounds to coordinate the work. The Pryces had a signed and scrutinised contract in their callused hands, telling them how they could spend their forty thousand pounds.
As Matt and Bri sped off into the distance – or rather left as fast as the rutted track would allow, the three remaining folk stood for a few moments looking at one another. Then, as one, they burst into whoops of delight and two pairs of wellington boots – one rolled down, one ladies’ galoshes style – and a pair of leather-soled loafers danced around the yard, yelps of mirth reverberating around the crumbling buildings.
Chapter 62
Half Rice / Half Chips
In the days of Moll Flanders it was enough that your potential life partner had enough cash to keep you out of the gutter. Today, now that the consumer is king, a little more is expected. It is possible to buy a semi-mature garden from a garden centre in a single afternoon, to distress your furniture into an immediate family heirloom and hire the services of a lifestyle coach to allegedly turn you from a pizza-eating, TV worshipping slob with no mates, and a dead end job with a lecherous boss, into a fantastically successful individual with an in-use juicer in just ten weeks.
Romantic novels and women’s magazines inspire our search for the elusive soulmate. The one who shares, nay, enhances, our hopes and dreams, makes us laugh and loves us for just being us. There are, of course, couples who seem to have found this treas
ure – but whether it is real, whether their expectations are lower, or whether they just don’t advertise the cracks, it is impossible to know. Whatever the realities, Lettie and Doug were soon regarded amongst their friends as having achieved this modern miracle.
For two relatively self-contained people, they chattered endlessly. They giggled helplessly at things that other people would look at in puzzlement and the attraction of Lettie’s hair for Doug’s hands and of Doug’s back for Lettie’s made people see them in a different light. Just why had Doug been as good as single for so many years? And why had Lettie settled for such a string of losers?
They were soon on very close terms; long phone calls were gossiped and sniggered through, coinciding days off were automatically spent together and birthday cards were signed from them both (well, from Lettie’s pen, Dougie being a bloke never troubled with such things). Little gifts were popped in the post and clothes and toothbrushes were left at each other’s houses.
Most of their friends and acquaintances were happy for the pair. Alex delighted in seeing Lettie’s beaming face and Rich felt his protective shield softening as Doug was assessed and deemed not to be a future threat to his sister-in-law’s personal safety. Rob and Mandy doted on Lettie and foursomes became a regular occurrence when Lettie spent more than a night in Glan Llanfair. A few people felt a pang of jealousy – in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man had indeed been king, but here came a two-eyed man and suddenly comparisons were made.
Lettie couldn’t believe her luck. Nor could she believe that she would drive for three hours after her shift to get to Doug’s house for nine thirty, spend the next day pottering round whilst he worked, and then drive three hours home the following morning in time for her three p.m. shift. Neither Dougie, nor his mates, could believe that he would drive three hours after an exhausting day on those hills to spend the evening babysitting his girlfriend’s niece and nephew….
Chapter 63
Separating the Yolk from the White
The Rizzo that sat dejectedly on a train late one Saturday afternoon was a rather pitiful one. He was squashed into a corner seat watching as a pool of cold coffee seeped its way slowly from the other end of the table towards him, probably being the only liquid that the surface would see that day. All around him sat teenage girls, the aisles brimming with the plastic bag-fulls of cheap fashions that would see them through the next few weeks.
The trio sharing Rizzo’s table had their purchases spread out in front of them, carefully avoiding the coffee that one of them had knocked over, much to the delight of her giggling companions. A party pack of nail varnishes had been cracked open and Russian Red was being applied to the fingernails of two and the toenails of the third. No, of course he didn’t mind, he’d reluctantly indicated, as she had humped her great hoof, red and swollen from a day in shoes completely inappropriate for shopping, on the table across from him. Well, at least he could glimpse her knickers occasionally.
He sat and suffered in silence, cringing yet intrigued by their helpless laughter, endless text messaging and carefree debate about who was going to wear what combination to that night’s planned entertainment. Suddenly the pack of three sensible tee shirts in the carrier bag at his feet seemed rather square and extremely unlikely to attract any attention whatsoever as he listened in male awe to the outfits being described. He wanted to interject and say that actually it didn’t matter what they wore, if only they would dance with him. But, he didn’t and miserably dragged his attention back to his own past couple of days.
They had been days that had drained his energy and purpose to the extent that he felt his last few years had been a complete waste of his, and everyone else he had come into contact with’s, time. He wished he could be constructive and pull the books entitled “So you have lost your way?” and “Reassess and find your purpose!” from their carrier bag. But he felt that this would be unbearable titter fodder for his neighbours and therefore had to satisfy himself with miserably watching the Devon countryside rattle by.
The trip had started badly and he had quickly regretted suggesting having a meeting over lunch with his tutor when he had tried to sound important in the Sea View over that long ago cup of decaff. The café that the tutor had suggested had been far too quiet to discuss such ideas and goals as Rizzo’s. Instead of the expected vibrant exchange of views and excitement as his tutor, bit by bit, gleaned the quality and verdancy of his aspirations, with interjections such as “By God, Charles, I think we have got something new here!” and “phew – well, its a bit close to the knuckle – are you sure you can pull it off?”, the cardiganned man said, even before the soup was over, “Charles, it has to go to the Board you know, before any work should start”.
This progressed to raised eyebrows and smoothing down the too-long hair as the hypothesis and content to date was flicked through and discussed. Rizzo felt both foolish and sheepish as he had to bellow as quietly as he could to the somewhat hard-of-hearing man the suddenly crass-seeming nature of his experiments. He could see the couple on the next table enjoying the dressing-down that the cheeky young upstart seemed to be getting.
“Self Isteem?” What the bloody hell nonesense was that? In our time, people didn’t bother with that kind of claptrap! No, they just braced themselves and got on with it. Pride in themselves, that’s what those folks had – not like the young ’uns today. Self Isteem indeed!”
Rizzo’s jam roly-poly and custard was ordered purely for comfort value and he had pushed the stodge around the chipped white bowl with a bent spoon as he listened to the remainder of his months of work being put firmly back into its file and the lid clipped shut.
“It’s not just the principle of your not having had the Board debate and authorise your topic, it’s also the fact that, well, what you are proposing has ethical implications.” Professor George removed his glasses and watched as the spoiled little twat opposite him stirred jam into his custard and sulkily refused to meet his eye. Come on, you little bastard – argue with me! Make me agree with you; your dad’s not going to fight your corner for you this time. “Do you see what I mean, Charles?”
No, said Rizzo’s shrug.
“What I mean is, Charles, is that you cannot mess with people’s minds at will. That’s not psychology, that’s unfair. This girl – Subject A, or whatever, does she have a name?”
“Lisa,” Rizzo muttered quietly and then louder as his tutor leaned forward cupping his ear.
“Well, Lucy, poor girl – is she really happy with how you propose to toy with her emotions? No, I didn’t think she would have been really, do you? So, the signed declaration on page er…” and the Professor flicked through the loose leaf file in front of him “… seven, is actually false?” He didn’t even ask Rizzo to repeat the quiet little mutter.
“I thought so. I think the benchmark of such ‘experiments’ is something that you wouldn’t mind your daughter, sister, girlfriend, whatever, partaking in. So, Charles, would you want your girlfriend being toyed with in the same way as Lucy?” At the mention of girlfriend and (sort of) Lisa in one sentence, Rizzo looked up quickly.
“Again, I thought not,” said the Professor, putting his glasses down on the table.
He rested his chin on his interlocked fingers and gazed at Rizzo, trying to hide his dislike for this…boy…who had wasted his time and insulted his enthusiasm and love for his subject for the last two and a half years. Why was it that the students with a family and three jobs found time for background reading and made use of their tutor for ideas and debate, yet the kid whose dad paid his way and who had bugger all else to do with his time, to the Professor’s knowledge at least, produced nothing but crap to the lowest possible standard to allow a scrape through?
This was the same idiot who had monopolised the initial course gathering, asking loudly if there were a fast track for the more committed and able students like himself, who had ordered the whole reading list, but probably still hadn’t read any of it. And, now what? He come
s out with a half-baked crock of shit, having disregarded the most obvious guidelines to embark on a study of his girlfriend, or some poor cow that he fancies, and expects it to be welcomed as an intellectual work of science.
The Professor scratched his head, giving himself a few more seconds to work out how to deal with this pillock. Softly, or straight to the point? Gently, or with a twist of the rusty knife? Ah, sod it, he thought and metaphorically unclipped the sheath from his belt.
“Charles,” he said deliberately, “I am going to say something to you that I have only had to say to a couple of students in all my forty years of teaching. I really feel that you need to go away and spend a few days thinking about this degree and you and whether you are actually making the best use of your time by studying for it.
“For two years now, everything I have received from you has been an apology. Work that is late, hasn’t understood the question or is just a selection of quotes directly from the course books. That’s not study or research; it’s just going through the motions. Wasting your time, your time, Charles. Of course, you’ll have noticed that all your essays have passed – they always do. We, as a distance learning operation, are paid by you, the student. It is not in our interest to fail or dissuade you. Poor for figures – targets, you know. Twenty years ago, you wouldn’t have made it past the first term, but things are different now. But I am of the old school. I find it hard to sit and watch someone who clearly hasn’t understood the issues eventually walk away with what resembles a qualification in my subject.
“It tends to be a problem with subjects like psychology and sociology; those who are interested in people and life in general think that they want to study it, but it is the idea of it they like, not the reality. Psychology is a science; it’s bloody hard work.”
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 29