The Dead Side of the Mike (28 page)

Others were equally incensed by what was described as the expurgation of the minutes. There was dark talk of censorship, threats to free speech and gagging the voice of the individual on a scale unequalled even in Nazi Germany.

Charles Paris found it difficult to get that excited. All he noticed about the minutes was that once again John Christie moved through them like a cross between Napoleon and Florence Nightingale, redressing a grievance here, giving a masterly summing-up there, expressing always superb judgment and supreme intellect.

Charles was only really there to maintain contact with the BBC, to find out if there were any more details known about the Dave Sheridan scandal, to check on Keith Nicholls's progress . . . and to see Steve Kennett.

It was with huge disappointment that he saw she wasn't at the meeting.

A sub-committee was appointed to check through the minutes and produce an impartial version of events at the previous meeting. Then the business of the current meeting started.

Harry Bassett again took the floor. His problem concerned the very nature of the assembly. It was an unofficial body, as it were, and so, in a sense, secret. Until its deliberations had taken what you might call concrete form, it had, if his recollection served, been agreed that the group's existence should be kept from the powers that be, as it were. This, however, placed him on the horns of a dilemma. Coming, as he did, from the regional centre of Leeds, he was involved in what could only be described as considerable capital outlay in fares and overnight accommodation, which he regarded as legitimate expenses on BBC business. His Head of Department, however, had refused to authorise his expense claims, unless he were informed, as it were, of the nature of the business on which Harry had travelled to London. Which, not to put too fine a point on it, put him in a bit of a jam.

Helmut Winkler, looking more like a mad professor than ever, was appalled by this. ‘Vot hope haff ye got off producing anysing of artistic merit in zis country vile zat sort off petty-minded mercenary attitude obtainz? Vun must suffer for art. Vot does a few poundz matter compared to ze creation off a true york off art?'

‘Well now, that's all very well, Helmut,' reasoned Harry Bassett, ‘but I do have a mortgage and a family and, in a sense, considerable responsibilities of a, as it were, financial nature. And while I sympathise with your, er, sense of priorities, I do feel –'

‘Ass long ass zis attitude exiztz in ze BBC . . .' Helmut Winkler (who was a bachelor and whose income was well subsidised by the incomprehensible articles he wrote for
The Listener
and various higher-paying American periodicals) shrugged in despair. ‘Novun seemz to be sinking about ze philosophy off audio anymore. Ven vill people learn zat radio iz not just a matter of communication? Not efen a matter of communication. Radio has nuzzing to do viz communication.'

‘Bloody nonsense,' said the woman from
Woman's Hour
. ‘Radio is communication, talking directly to the audience. That's what worked so well in our feature on hysterectomy.'

They were in the bar within half an hour. The discussion had not progressed and Ronnie Barron had closed the meeting with the intention of reassembling sometime very soon, when everyone had had a bit more time to work out their own views on the direction in which the group should be going. Everyone had agreed to this idea, but none had got out their diaries. Ronnie Barron had said that his secretary would ring round in a few days to fix a date and a venue.

It was about half-past seven on a Friday night. The crowd in the Ariel Bar was thinning. There were a few people Charles recognised. The Drama Rep. actress from the
Dad's the Word
recording perched on a tall stool in the middle of other Drama Rep. members. In a corner Mark Lear was talking intensely to a pretty young girl. And standing on her own in the middle of the room was Steve Kennett.

He went across to her. She looked better than ever. Her huge eyes sparkled animatedly. ‘Hello, Charles, how are you?'

‘Fine. Didn't see you at the meeting.'

‘No. I didn't think it was going anywhere.'

‘It didn't go anywhere.'

‘Surprise, surprise.'

‘Have you heard any news of Keith?'

‘Yes, making good progress. Out of hospital next week, if all goes well. Apparently the bullet went straight through and didn't hit any vital organs.'

‘Good.'

‘And another thing's happened to Keith actually. A producer's job has come up in Radio Two, and, because he did so well on his attachment, he's been appointed to it without a board.'

‘That's terrific. So no recrimination about the illicit tape-copying?'

‘The BBC is unwilling to admit it ever took place. They made a mistake over Dave Sheridan, but this is the only crime they will recognise.'

‘That sounds in character. I bet Keith's pleased.'

‘Yes.' She smiled. ‘It's funny, the Beeb can sometimes be very humane. Just now and then, you know, the right gesture at the right time.'

‘Yes. The benevolent Auntie.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Look, you haven't got a drink. Let me –'

‘I'm getting one got.'

At that moment a tall young man in a denim jacket came across to them with two glasses of white wine. ‘This is Robin Davey. Robin–Charles Paris.'

‘Oh, hi.' Robin didn't really take in the middle-aged actor. ‘We'd better gulp these, Steve. I booked the table for eight-fifteen.'

‘Sure.'

‘I'll . . . see you,' said Charles, and started for the bar.

Steve caught his arm. He looked back and got the full benefit of the huge brown eyes. ‘He rang after all,' she whispered helplessly.

His route to the bar led him past Mark Lear. The producer was saying, ‘Sometimes I get the feeling there's no one out there, that we just make programmes for our own amusement and nobody hears them. It's a kind of masturbation, really.'

The girl nodded intently.

‘I feel we're on the dead side of the mike and real life is going on somewhere out there without our knowledge.'

‘Hello,' said Charles.

‘Oh, hi. This is Charles Paris, an actor friend of mine. Charles–Lyn Frewer. She's just joined as a trainee SM.'

‘Just going to the bar. Can I get you . . .'

‘No thanks, we're fine.'

‘Okay. See you soon.'

Charles moved on towards the bar. As he did, he heard Mark saying, ‘Of course I'm not going to stay with the BBC. I'm just marking time really at the moment. But I won't stay . . .'

Charles eventually managed to get a barman's attention and ordered two large Bell's. He drained one, and with the other in his hand, started towards the knot of Drama Rep. He waved to the actress he knew vaguely. She waved fulsomely back. There's always someone to drink with in the BBC Club.