All to Play For (43 page)

I was bewildered. “Are you alright, Jonathan? You’ve had a big shock.”

He laughed. “It’s okay, I’m not having a nervous breakdown. I stayed with Roger last night, and he’s got a great idea. If we pick up the option we can go independent and make it as a film, it could work even better that way, and we can try and get a distribution deal. He’s talking Hollywood, but I can’t see it selling over there myself. I don’t see why we shouldn’t make it here though, and quite soon: we just walk quietly away from the BBC and start our film careers with this project. Imagine the freedom, Rhiannon! It’ll be great. You will join us, won’t you? We’ll set up an independent production company with Roger… ”

“Hang on a minute.” He was getting carried away, big time. “One thing at a time.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve been thinking about it all non-stop since yesterday. It makes sense. You’ll see it too. It’s all going to work out for the best.” He beamed at me, and I just gawped at him while I tried to get my head round it.

“Well, I suppose… as long as you’re happy.”

He sat up, and leaned forward. “There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Selina’s made up her mind that we’re an item.”

“Oh well. It’s all in her head, isn’t it? Doesn’t really matter.”

“It’s made me realise something though.”

“Yeah?”

“I wish we were.”

The moment crystallised as I replayed the conversation in my head, staring stupidly at him. I suppose that’s what they mean when they say the world stops turning. It was all too much, I couldn’t take it in.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I had no right. Why should you feel the same way?” He got up and made for the door. “I’m so sorry, Rhiannon. I – I’ll see you later.”

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 producers, 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.