The Dead Side of the Mike

by Simon Brett

  ‘I think he’s had the occasional ticking-off for that. Then a few years ago he was reprimanded for illicit tape-copying.’

  ‘Translate that for the layman, please.’

  ‘It’s something that happens quite often – at least Andrea said it did. Particularly on music sessions. The MD or one of the other musicians wants a tape for his private collection or for demonstration purposes or something, and if he knows the SM, he slips him a quid to do an extra copy.’

  ‘On BBC tape?’

  ‘Usually, yes.’

  ‘So that’s the sort of thing Ronnie Barron was talking about – or rather that Helmut Winkler was talking about and Ronnie Barron was denying.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how much of it goes on now. Only very few people were ever involved and, since there’s obviously been some kind of clamp-down and indeed nowadays everyone’s got their own cassette players to record off the air, maybe it doesn’t happen anymore.’

  ‘But it did with Keith . . .?’ Charles prompted.

  ‘Oh yes. Sorry, I’d forgotten where we started. Yes, a couple of years ago Keith was found to have been doing it on a fairly regular basis and was duly hauled over the coals for it. I shouldn’t think he does it anymore, now he’s reached the dizzy heights of producer. Mind you, he was always on the lookout for some scheme to make a fast buck. Used to keep trying to invent formats for panel games and things. He’s got quite a good sort of crossword brain.’

  ‘Hmm. Of course, the producer’s thing was only an attachment. And it’s over now. He might be hard up again.’

  ‘You’re more up to date on his movements than I am. I haven’t seen him for months.’ A thought struck her. ‘Why, are you suspicious of Keith?’

  Charles shrugged. ‘I’m suspicious of everyone.’

  ‘Even me?’ For the first time in their relationship, there was something girlish, almost coquettish, in her demeanour.

  It was an obvious cue for him to make some verbal advance, but he didn’t take it. The change of manner was still ambiguous and he didn’t want to risk their growing empathy by moving too quickly. He liked her rather too much for that and he hadn’t forgotten her remarks about Mark and men who can’t be shaken in their conviction of their own attractiveness.

  So he just replied, ‘Yes, even you,’ and rose slowly to his feet.

  She didn’t demur and accompanied him to the door. ‘So you’re continuing the investigation?’

  ‘Oh, very definitely. It’s rather handy that I’m meant to be seeing Nita tomorrow. She’d know more about Keith’s behaviour at work than most people. And I wonder . . . How are your contacts in the SMs’ world?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘Would you be able to check out Keith’s movements on the night Andrea died?’

  ‘I should think I could manage that.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’ He kissed her gently on the forehead, which was at an appropriate height for such a gesture. It seemed an appropriate gesture too. As he walked home, he felt as close to her as if they had slept together. Time, it only needed time.

  The phone rang the next morning, just as he was about to leave for an appointment with Nita Lawson to talk about the Dave Sheridan feature. It was Frances.

  ‘Sorry, Charles, I just had to ring someone and tell them. I’ve done something very rash.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m still shell-shocked from it.’

  ‘Come on, tell me what it was.’

  ‘I’ve bought a car.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Brand new. I’ve never written a cheque for so much money. I’m trembling.’

  ‘You shouldn’t. It sounds a good idea. Get what you can out of it before all the oil wells dry up. You’ve got less than twenty years.’

  ‘But, Charles, I do feel awful about it. Awful and excited.’ Her voice was very young; it was the Frances whom he had married. He warmed to her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Renault 5. And I’m having a radio put in. With cassette.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I do really need it. Bus is awfully unreliable for getting to school. And since term’s just ended and I was feeling low after Mummy’s death.

  And I know there’ll be some money coming there, so I got out all my savings from the Building Society and . . .’

  ‘Stop justifying yourself. I think it’s a very good idea.’

  ‘Oh, do you? Good.’ She sounded pathetically relieved. It was at such moments that Charles felt worst about having left Frances, when she needed someone to discuss things with, someone to be a sounding-board for ideas. ‘Trouble is,’ she continued, ‘I am terrified at the idea of driving it. It’s so long since I’ve driven anything, and the thought of having something whose bodywork I actually care about . . .’

  It was true. The cars they had had as a married couple had not been noted for their elegance.

  ‘You’ll soon get back into it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. What I’d better do is go for a couple of long drives with someone else in the car and then I’ll feel all right.’

  Frances never begged, she was too proud for that, but Charles could hear the appeal in her voice and volunteered to go for a drive with her. She was probably taking delivery of the car the next day, she would phone him when it arrived and they’d make arrangements.

  He lingered by the phone after their conversation, confused again by his ability to feel such strong affection for Frances, while dreamily contemplating an affair with another woman. Quickly deciding that such speculation was without purpose, he set off for the BBC.

  Nita Lawson’s office was in Ariel House, a tall, modern building in Charlotte Street, which was the home of Radio Two. In the foyer, disc jockeys’ photographs beamed and everything proclaimed the belief that ‘Two’s Company’. The furniture in the office was neat and modern, but with that recoil from the edge of luxury which characterised all BBC decor. Nita’s status as Executive Producer of the Dave Sheridan Late Night Show did not quite qualify her for a two-part office with secretary in the ante-room, so, throughout their conversation a girl called Brenda, a trendily dressed blonde teenager of thirty-seven, reacted nasally to revelations from the other end of the telephone.

  Nita smiled brightly. Behind a desk, she readily prompted the image that had been eluding Charles since he first saw her. A village postmistress behind her counter. A pile of letters in front of her reinforced the impression and the unlikely colour of her long red hair did nothing to remove it.

  She indicated the letters. ‘That’s just today’s lot for Dave. He seems to get more popular by the minute. The public really dig him.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles. ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, it’s partly because more and more people are getting into his musical bag, but also of course it’s Personality with a capital P.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘But don’t you think the idea of doing a feature on Dave is just too much?’

  Charles said he thought it probably was.

  ‘Triff. I think we could really be on to a biggie. And it’s gotta be put out on R3. Show ’em what popular culture really is. I don’t think there should be this big divide between classical and pop . . . It’s all music, so far as I’m concerned. I mean, some of the sounds that are being made on the heavy metal scene are just . . . wow, well, mind-blowing. Not of course that that’s Dave’s scene. But, I mean, take Country. Are you into Country?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Fortunately Nita continued before Charles could say that actually he lived in Bayswater.

  ‘You see, I think Dave could be big anywhere along the cultural scene. He’s so together. I think a feature on him for R3 could really turn on a whole new audience.’

  Charles was rescued from further reaction by the arrival of their conversation’s subject. Brenda looked up from her telephone conversation and said, ‘Hi, Dave.’

  ‘Hello, beautiful.’ The tall disc jockey gave her a peck on the cheek. Nita
rose, blushing, to be similarly rewarded.

  ‘And this is Charles Paris.’

  To his relief, Charles didn’t get a kiss. Sheridan shook him firmly by the hand, ‘Yes, of course, I saw you at the first Features Action Group Meeting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it last night, Nita love. Simon wanted to rehearse.’

  ‘Is that going all right?’ asked Nita anxiously.

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Sheridan sounded relaxed. ‘You know, new producer, new ways of working. It’ll level out. He’ll start to trust me soon.’ He grinned boyishly.

  ‘Dave, do say if he’s fussing you. Simon hasn’t done your sort of show before and I know he’s slow, so if you’re not getting on . . .’

  ‘We’re getting on fine. It’s just he doesn’t know I’ve been disc jockeying for years all over the world and he wants to produce me. Natural enough, and indeed very good for me – makes me think about what I’m doing, which doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘So long as he’s not bugging you . . .’

  ‘No way. Nice lad. I’m very happy to listen to his ideas. Mind you,’ he added, ‘I’ve a feeling that it’ll be my style that will win through.’

  It was said without arrogance, but there was an underlying firmness. Charles got the feeling that the new producer, Simon, would have to change his style of working with Sheridan or suddenly find himself on another show. But he admired the skill and charm with which the disc jockey registered his complaint.

  ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ said Nita, writing a note on her pad. ‘Actually, Dave, you missed a knockout idea that came up at the meeting last night. I suggested we ought to do a feature on you, you know, about being a jock, the kind of cultural mix you’re into. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Interesting idea, certainly.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, it won’t be any hassle for you. That’s why Charles is here, really. Thought he might be the man to get it together.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ said Sheridan.

  Charles detected a note of uncertainty in the voice and said, ‘I’m not a great expert on pop music, but I’m always interested in something new.’

  ‘Thought it might be groovy getting in someone out of a different scene,’ interposed Nita.

  ‘Terrific idea,’ said Sheridan. He wasn’t dismissive, but he didn’t sound that interested. The feature would be a novelty and might be quite amusing, but it wasn’t an advance in the mainstream of his career. Sheridan would co-operate out of goodwill, but it wasn’t important to him.

  ‘We must all three get together and talk about it soon,’ suggested Nita.

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ Sheridan agreed. And then, sliding gracefully off the hook, ‘I’d say now, but I just came in to collect the letters. I’ve got to dash over to Telly Centre. Meeting about the next series of Owzat?’

  ‘We’ll get it together another time then. Glad there’s a new series coming.’

  ‘Yes, last lot did quite well in the ratings.’

  ‘I always knew you’d be a great chairman of a quiz. Do you know, Charles, when they were setting up the first series of The Showbiz Quiz here on radio and were looking for a chairman, I said you gotta use Dave. They didn’t of course, then telly picks him up, and, wow, it’s a monster!’

  Sheridan smiled in self-depreciation. ‘Better take the letters. What’ve we got today?’

  ‘Usual mix. Daily adoration from Mrs Moxon – do you know, Charles, there’s this woman who writes to Dave every day, she’s quite besotted with him, records every single show off the air, sends him birthday presents.’

  ‘Gets slightly embarrassing,’ said Sheridan with his engaging grin. ‘What else?’

  ‘A lot asking about that Jack Buchanan number you played on Monday.’

  ‘I thought that would get the nostalgia buffs going.’

  ‘Oh, and one letter of complaint.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Some guy in Hemel Hempstead’s very uptight. Says why do you keep playing the same music all the time. He says he thinks The Londonderry Air is very inappropriate when we’ve got all these hassles in Northern Ireland. He’s some kind of crank, obviously.’

  Sheridan was mystified. ‘The Londonderry Air? I’ve never heard of it, let alone played it.’

  ‘Oh, you have, Dave, except you probably don’t know it by that name.’

  ‘Well, what’s its other name?’

  ‘Danny Boy.’

  Charles felt a little surge of excitement.

  ‘Oh, Danny Boy,’ said Sheridan. ‘Yes, we did play it a couple of times recently. Producer’s favourite, I think. As you know,’ he put on a voice as if reciting, ‘in the BBC, so as to avoid any charges that the disc jockeys have undue influence over the choice of music, the running orders are worked out by consultation between the producer and the jock. And, if the producer has a favourite song,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s rather difficult for the disc jockey to disagree.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Nita. ‘Well, I’ll have a word with Simon about it.’

  ‘I think this was a few weeks ago,’ said Sheridan. ‘Before Simon took over.’

  ‘Oh, while Kelly was producing?’

  Nita had to leave for an early lunch date, but said that Brenda would sort out a pink visitor’s security pass for Charles and answer any queries he might have about the organisation of the Dave Sheridan Late Night Show.

  To Brenda’s delight, he professed himself very interested in how all the paperwork of music programmes was organised, and she seized with both hands the opportunity of initiating him into the mysteries of the P as B. This was something she did quite often, but usually to trainee production secretaries on Staff Training courses in the Langham, rather than to fifty-one-year-old actors.

  Basically, reading through the information about production numbers (and how much worse it had been since they introduced the computer), the circulation list and the details of music reporting, Charles understood that a P as B stood for ‘Programme as Broadcast’. It contained all of the relevant information of the ingredients of the programme, lists of artists, writers and anyone else who might need paying. It was typed up by the production secretary as soon as possible after transmission and it was one of the most time-consuming parts of a secretary’s job. (Charles found a sympathetic nod was appreciated at this point.) In the case of a music show, or any show containing the use of gramophone records (Brenda stressed this point fiercely, as if Charles was about to go off and type up a P as B of his own with improper music reporting), all details of titles, writers, publishers and durations must be put down, so that the various payments due through the Performing Rights Society and other bodies could be made.

  Restraining his impatience, Charles listened meekly through this lecture and then asked, with the casualness learnt of a lifetime as an actor, if he might see an example of one. And, even more casually, since they had been talking about the letter from a man in Hemel Hempstead, why not one of the ones with Danny Boy in it?

  This suited Brenda well, because it gave her the opportunity to demonstrate the efficiency of her filing system. ‘Oh yes, I can show you that one easily,’ she said, removing a large ring file from the shelf. ‘I remember it because I had to do an amendment.’

  ‘Oh really? Why was that?’ asked Charles sympathetically.

  ‘Because they changed one of the numbers.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, you see . . .’ Brenda warmed to her task. It was wonderful having such a meek listener to her wisdom. Some of those trainee production secretaries could get a bit pert. ‘What I usually do, to save time, is I get on with the P as B of the previous night’s show first thing in the morning, before Nita comes in. And I just work from the running order. Quite often, by the time the programme boxes come back from the studio, I’ve already finished the P as B.’

  ‘Oh well done,’ murmured Charles.

  Brenda took it quite straight and positively preened herself. ‘Then, when the script com
es back from the studio, I just check through to see there haven’t been any changes, and get my P as B down to Duplicating.’

  ‘I see. But on this particular occasion there had been a change?’

  ‘Yes, and I had to Snopake over the item and retype it. I don’t like doing that. I know I’m the only one who sees it, because it’s only on the original, but I don’t like things to look messy.’

  ‘No. I wish more girls today had that sort of pride in their work,’ said Charles. It was a line he had once had in a radio play where he played the part of an office manager (‘About as exciting as a cold cup of tea.’ – The Observer).

  Again it was the right thing to say. Brenda glowed. ‘Here we are.’ She held the file open. ‘Look, it was the opening number they changed. You can see the Snopake. Yes, they changed it to Danny Boy.’ Charles looked at the date. It was the P as B for the programme which went out on the night of Andrea Gower’s death. The producer’s name was Kelly Nicholls. The same Kelly Nicholls who, according to Fat Otto, had ‘talked a lot’ with Danny Klinger. The Danny Klinger who used to receive messages over the air prefaced by the playing of Danny Boy.

  ‘That’s extremely interesting. I say, it wouldn’t be possible for me to have a copy of this, would it? But no, I suppose you don’t keep spare copies.’

  The tone was absolutely right. Silently, even smugly, Brenda reached into a filing cabinet and produced a spare copy of the P as B. ‘There’s always someone who loses one. I keep some spares.’

  ‘You’re very efficient.’ He winked.

  She beamed.

  Charles looked down the list of titles. After the opener, none of them had any special significance for him. His mind was searching for a musical code like that described by Fat Otto, but the P as B didn’t immediately offer anything. ‘Brenda, is the programme just records?’

  ‘Well, records and tapes. And the telephone competition, Ten for a Tune. And the Dave Sheridan Bouquet.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a listener’s choice of ten records. They get sent a bouquet of roses if their lot’s selected.’

  ‘Ah. And that’s all the programme’s ingredients?’

  ‘Well, that and Dave’s chat. Dedications, and so on.’