Die Happy (3 page)

But Mrs Dooks was an intelligent woman; she saw the need for new techniques in this new situation. You couldn't simply dragoon volunteers as you could professionals. These people were giving many hours of their time to help you to implement your grand design. Sometimes you had to persuade and convince your troops before you led them into battle.

Today she was chairing a meeting of the Oldford Literary Festival committee, and here her incisive mind and brisk approach were generally welcomed. Most of the people assembled with her in the room behind the library had endured meetings that dragged on for three hours and achieved no more than could have been decided in one. Marjorie's efficient dispatch of the agenda items was collectively welcomed. Two people had already been arrested in full flow, but each time that had been a relief to the other people in the small, overheated room.

‘Item four. Speakers. Mrs Lambert, please.'

Christine cleared her throat a little nervously. ‘Good progress, I think. This year's theme of “Law and Order through the Centuries” has left us a wide range of possibilities, which was our intention when we chose it. Dr Grainger, the Secretary of the Trollope Society, has suggested the topic of “Trollope and Urban Crime in the Nineteenth Century”. Jack Straw, the former Home Secretary, has agreed to speak about his recent book on people who have held the office since its inception. He plans to speak principally about six of the most influential holders of that office. The title of his talk is still to be finalized, but his attendance is guaranteed.'

Christine Lambert looked round the table. ‘These two talks we may take as definite. I think there is progress on other fronts also, but there are people here who can give us the most up-to-date information on that.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Lambert.' Mrs Dooks completed a note on the pad in front of her and looked imperiously round the table. In truth, this was the section of the meeting where she felt least at ease. This was where she had to deal directly with ‘creative' people, who were notoriously temperamental and unpredictable. She tended to use the word ‘arty' herself, in private at least. It had a greater ring of scepticism about it, and implied that such people weren't to be relied upon in practical matters.

No one seemed about to help her out by speaking. Marjorie looked round the ring of expectant faces and said firmly, ‘Now, who would like to begin?'

A confident, almost bored voice said after a second, ‘I suppose that had better be me.' Peter Preston nodded his distinguished head a couple of times as if to endorse this decision, since it seemed no one else was going to do so. He had a broad, lightly lined face and large brown eyes, which the rimless glasses he had lately adopted seemed to accentuate and make even more impressive. He was a well-known local figure, though there were conflicting reports about his achievements. His opinions were frequently quoted in the local press and occasionally on Radio Gloucester; he was invariably described there as ‘a freelance BBC producer and director', though no one was able to say confidently what was the last thing he had produced or directed.

Nevertheless, he spoke with authority on drama, poetry and opera, and was invariably ready with an opinion on anything ‘cultural' – in the older and proper sense of that word, as he was wont to assure anyone who would listen. Preston could be tiresome, but he had contacts, and a little judicious flattery would easily persuade him to use them. Flattery wasn't a weapon Marjorie Dooks cared to employ, but she recognized that Peter Preston might well have his uses when you were trying to set up a worthwhile literary festival with little know-how and very limited funds.

He paused, looked round the table, apparently satisfied himself that he had everyone's attention, and announced, ‘Denzil Carter thinks he can fit us into his schedule. In the light of the derisory fees we are able to offer even the most eminent of our speakers, I had to call in a personal favour to get him, but I think he will come. I should be able to confirm this after further contacts in the coming week.'

‘Thank you, Mr Preston. As I am sure you will remember from the minutes of our meeting on February fourth, our fees are no longer a matter for discussion. We all understand that we are working to a tight budget, but the acceptances we already have are beginning to shape into a promising programme. Ms Charles?'

Whilst Preston bristled in silence, the woman on his left nodded and looked at her notes. ‘Please call me Sue. I'm not used to the formality of meetings, but I think we'll make more rapid progress if we speak frankly and informally.' She glanced round the table and found two or three heads nodding agreement and support.

Sue Charles was sixty-eight now, and unconsciously asserting the deference due to age and seniority in a gathering like this. She had written twenty crime novels, lived in the town for thirty years, and was a respected local figure. She carried her celebrity lightly and wasn't ostentatious with her money, her neighbours said approvingly. Not many of them realized how modest the returns from writing were for all but the fortunate few. Sue had helped to found the literary festival, recognizing correctly that many authors would attend for modest fees. Some of them had an evangelical streak and were eager to spread the word about their particular kind of literature; others were natural mixers and speakers who welcomed an audience as a variant to the lonely process of writing. All were anxious to publicize and talk about their latest masterworks.

Sue Charles was more conscious of the realities of the literary life than anyone else in the room. She had spoken at the first Oldford Literary Festival herself and been well received. Now she was using her acquaintance – she modestly declined the word friendship – with one of the most eminent and well-known crime writers to persuade him to speak at this year's event. ‘David Knight has agreed to come in May. My only reservation is that I know he is not in good health. But I will pick him up from the station and he will stay with me. He can now be included in our programme. I should be delighted to chair that session and to introduce him myself.'

Marjorie Dooks nodded. ‘That is good news indeed, Sue. Thank you for your continuing efforts on our behalf.'

From the other side of the table Peter Preston offered his most patronizing smile. ‘Whilst in no way wishing to denigrate the efforts of Ms Charles – or indeed her own literary productions – I think I should query once again whether we wish to include detective fiction and its practitioners within our programme. I don't wish to appear a snob, but are we not affecting the prestige of our little cultural celebration by including the whodunit among more serious novels?'

‘What would you call yourself, if not a snob, then?'

The question burst abruptly and shockingly from the youngest person in the room, twenty-two-year-old Sam Hilton. Preston allowed himself a shake of the head and a supercilious smile. ‘Dear boy, I am an unashamed elitist, not a snob. I have standards. As one who has suffered the delights of modern state education, you would perhaps not understand the difference between snobbishness and elitism, but I assure you there is one.'

Marjorie Dooks spoke decisively from the chair. ‘This question has been debated in this committee several times previously, and I think each time at your insistence, Peter. With the possible exception of romantic fiction, the detective novel is more widely read than any other form of literature. At its best, it stands up beside the serious novel and certainly warrants a place in our programme.'

‘I am aware that this has been discussed before and also that I seem to be a lone voice for the civilized ethic. Perhaps I shall have to consider my position.'

There was a sudden profound silence, in which tiny sounds such as breathing and the rustling of paper seemed miraculously enlarged. Then Mrs Dooks said evenly, ‘Perhaps if you hold this view so strongly you should do just that, Peter. Your resignation would be regrettable, but I'm sure we should all understand.'

Preston had not expected to have his bluff called like this. He had no real wish to resign. Indeed, his continued involvement in the success of the festival was necessary to his pose as a leading cultural presence in the area. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed elaborately, and said, ‘I have said my piece. I appreciate mine is not the popular stance, but minority views need voicing, unless we are to proceed along the lines of the fascist suppressions of the thirties.' Having voiced this outrageous parallel, he nodded sternly and studied his agenda.

Sam Hilton was on the point of renewing his attack, but the chair took decisive action. ‘Sam, could we have the latest news on your own efforts, please?'

Young Hilton felt his protest cut off at source, almost as if he had been physically checked. He dragged his thoughts back to why he was here and contented himself with a last glare of molten hatred at Preston. ‘Yes. I've been in contact with three poets. I'm happy to say that Bob Crompton has agreed to come. He will read some of his verse and try to explain how he goes about achieving his effects.'

Peter Preston had snorted when he mentioned the name. Hilton glared at him as if daring him to voice a challenge, but the older man contented himself with a renewal of his patronizing smile. Sam Hilton was not used to committees and the more formal language appropriate to them, but he strove to discipline his feelings and speak as moderately as he could. He found himself breathing unevenly as he did so. ‘Bob comes from a very different background from that of most people in Oldford. He is from a one-parent family in a great northern city. Manchester is producing a group of young poets who may well rival the influence of the Mersey poets in a previous generation. He writes about love and sex and politics with a raw edge, which many of his listeners here will find very challenging. I am sure the experience will benefit them greatly.'

He stared round the table as if inviting a challenge, but Marjorie Dooks said swiftly and smoothly, ‘I am sure it will be a mutually beneficial exchange. Many of the speakers at our last literary festival said how important it was to them to have an audience and to hear the feedback on whatever form of writing they were producing. Thank you, Sam. I'm sure that without your personal contact we should not have been able to secure the attendance of so well-known and eminent a contemporary poet as Bob Crompton. She glanced automatically at Peter Preston, but that pillar of tradition was nursing his previous wounds and had more sense than to speak again. ‘Ros, could we have your report, please?'

Ros Barker was only thirty herself, but she felt an almost maternal need to support and protect the man beside her. ‘May I just endorse how well I think Sam's done to get Bob Crompton for us? I know Bob does a lot of poetry readings, but to get him (a) to venture south and (b) to talk about his craft are achievements indeed. My own efforts have not secured so definite a conclusion as yet. The committee will recall that I agreed to try to get Arthur Jackson to talk to us about the history of art. As you will no doubt understand, he has many demands upon his time, as most television personalities have, and it is possible that he might be abroad during the week of our festival. But he has assured me that he wants to come and that if it is humanly possible for him he will do so.'

‘That is good news indeed. Once again, thank you for your efforts on behalf of the festival, Ros. I know that Mr Jackson has a high regard for you.'

Ros Barker felt that she was blushing, a sensation she had not endured for years. She spoke hastily in an attempt to divert attention from herself and back to her visitor. ‘I owe him a lot. I was about to go to art school when he saw some of my work and advised me not to go. As you may know, Arthur Jackson has a low regard for the teaching in art schools at the moment. I went and served a sort of apprenticeship with Bernard Goldberg. I think I learned a lot there. I would never have got my own exhibition so early without Mr Jackson and his advice.' She paused, looking round the table, flicking a strand of her long, straight black hair away from her eye. She was talking about herself, when she had never meant to do that. ‘I should mention that the other day someone questioned whether a painter should be speaking at a literary festival. I pointed out that Mr Jackson has written several books on the history of art and would no doubt be addressing the issues he raises in them.'

Mrs Dooks nodded emphatically. ‘I'm sure you were right to do so. As you say, Mr Jackson has written extensively about art. We have already agreed that a literary festival should include all forms of writing. I am sure he will prove a popular as well as a stimulating visitor.' She glanced again towards Peter Preston, but met only a disdainful smile from a man nursing his wounds. ‘I should report briefly on my own efforts. Davina Cooper's new novel is due out a fortnight before our festival. Her publisher has lined up a series of radio interviews and signing sessions for her. But she is keeping the Tuesday evening of our festival week clear and is determined to honour her promise to be with us in Oldford on that day.'

Preston saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the chair and reassert his standing with the committee. ‘I think you in turn should be congratulated on your efforts, Madam Chairman. You are the obvious person to chair that meeting and introduce your protégé.'

Marjorie smiled, well aware of what he was about but anxious to avoid an open rift in her committee. ‘Hardly my protégé, Peter.' She glanced round the table and saw mystification on a couple of faces. ‘Perhaps not everyone is aware that Davina Cooper was once a member of my staff in the Civil Service. In fact, she came to me some ten years ago to tender her resignation, after the modest success of her first novel. I told her to think very hard before giving up a promising career and a safe salary in the public service. Fortunately she did not heed me, or I might have aborted a promising literary career at the outset. I suspect she may take some pleasure in recalling my advice to her when she visits us.'