Cameron was so insane with rage, she stubbed her cigarette out by mistake on the hand of the vision mixer, who, screaming, pressed the wrong button, which ran in telecine of a lot of very fat schoolgirls doing an eightsome reel.
‘Go back to one, take fucking one,’ screamed Cameron.
The schoolgirls disappeared in mid-dance to be replaced by Maurice Wooton, standing up and shouting at Declan that the whole thing was a trumped-up pack of lies, and he was going home to ring his lawyers. Next moment he’d stormed out, leaving the studio in uproar. Declan sat turned to stone in his chair.
To their great disappointment, Corinium’s viewers were then treated to soothing music and a film showing close-ups of Cotchester’s wild flowers, so they missed Tony roaring into the studio, so angry he could hardly get the words out.
‘I’ve spent five years courting that man,’ he spluttered. ‘He was just about to join the Board and put fifteen million into our satellite project.’
Declan rose to his feet, towering over Tony.
‘You should have given me time to research him properly,’ he said coldly. ‘I might have found something nice to ask him, but I doubt it.’ And with that, he walked out of the studio.
Back at The Priory, Rupert, wiping his eyes, turned to Maud: ‘That was the best television programme I’ve seen for years and free schoolgirls thrown in, too. After Tony Baddingham, Maurice Wooton is without doubt the biggest shit in England, and your husband is the first socialist I’ve ever really admired. The Corinium switchboard must be absolutely jammed, or “preserved”, as dear Valerie would say, with congratulatory calls.’
At that moment the telephone rang. Rupert picked it up.
‘Brilliant programme,’ said a voice. ‘It’s the Western Daily Press. Is Declan in?’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Rupert, handing the receiver to Maud. ‘Don’t look so cross,’ he added to Taggie. ‘I’ll nip home in a minute and get your father another bottle.’
After Rupert had returned with the whisky, and he and Bas had left, Taggie watched her mother go to the hall mirror, fluff up her hair on top and smooth the dress over her hips, before sitting down at the drawing-room piano. She must be very drunk, thought Taggie, judging by the number of wrong notes.
What on earth could she give her father for supper, she wondered wearily, as she started to load the washing-up machine. Perhaps she ought to accept Bas’s offer of a job, and get out and meet people. She couldn’t eat her heart out for Ralphie for ever. She heard the front door bang. Going into the hall, she saw Declan gazing into the drawing-room at Maud playing Schumann in the dress she’d worn when they were first married, living blissfully on no money in Ireland. Her hair almost touched the piano stool.
Putting his hands on her shoulder, he said, ‘Why did you put that on?’
‘Grice and I were tidying away some of my old clothes.’
‘You look beautiful.’
Schumann halted abruptly, as Declan’s hands slid under the pie-frill collar. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
As Maud walked upstairs in front of him, his hands slid up between her bare thighs:
‘Christ, you’re wet.’
Maud smiled sleepily. ‘I’ve been thinking all evening about your coming home.’
14
Tony would have sacked any other member of his staff for savaging Maurice Wooton like that. As it was he spent the weekend poring over Declan’s contract with the lawyers. Unfortunately there was no clause about not presenting his victims with unpalatable truths. So in the end Tony merely wrote Declan a sharp note accusing him of misconduct and warning him that if he stepped out of line a second and third time he’d be out on his ear.
Tony’s guns were further spiked by the Government immediately ordering an investigation into Cotchester Town Hall’s Housing policy, and by the very favourable press coverage of the programme and Corinium in particular.
‘Corinium show their teeth at last,’ wrote the Western Daily Press.
‘Corinium prove they’re no longer a Tory poodle,’ wrote the Guardian.
Hardest for Tony to take was an enthusiastic telephone call from the IBA: ‘Splendid stuff, Tony. No one can accuse you of political bias now.’
The following Wednesday there was a Corinium Board meeting. Tony’s temper was not improved when one of the non-executive directors, old Lady Evesham, Vice Chancellor of the local university, arrived on her bicycle in the pouring rain, just as Tony rolled up in the Rolls. Why did the stupid old bag always arrive an hour early and go nosing round the office, talking to staff and stirring up trouble? Hoping she’d go away, Tony cringed behind the Financial Times. Next minute she was tapping on the window. Grudgingly, Tony lowered it a few inches.
‘Congratulations,’ said Lady Evesham, thrusting her wrinkled, whiskery muzzle towards him. ‘That interview with Maurice Wooton’s the sort of thing we should be doing all the time. Routing out injustice. Man’s a rogue. I shall seek out Declan and tell him so in person.’
Tony, however, had other things on his mind. In the same telephone call praising Declan’s interview, the IBA had complained that Corinium still wasn’t giving sufficient attention to the Southampton end of the area.
‘Charles Fairburn has just finished a programme on Isaac Watts,’ Tony had countered swiftly.
‘Who’s he?’ asked the IBA’s Head of Television.
‘Famous philosopher, poet, teacher.’ Tony hastily consulted the advance programme notes. ‘Watts Square in Southampton is named after him. Wrote “Oh God, our help in ages past”.’
‘That’s not much help in ages present,’ said the IBA. ‘People in Southampton will hardly regard one hour on the Sunday Godslot as good enough. We’re talking about news coverage. There was nothing for example about HMS Princess Michael of Kent catching fire at the docks on Friday. The BBC devoted seven minutes to the story.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Tony.
As a result of this conversation, Tony summoned his two most valuable executive directors, who usually worked in London but who had come down for the board meeting, into his office beforehand. Known as ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Georgie Baines and Ginger Johnson looked after sales and finance respectively.
Gorgeous Georgie, who had big brown eyes and even bigger expenses, was up to every single fiddle and lived in the big advertising agencies’ pockets, which he lined as effectively as his own. He also made vast sums of money for Corinium. Ginger Johnson, the Beast, was a thug, with carroty hair and a beetroot face, like a particularly unappetizing winter salad. As Financial Director, he saw that the vast sums netted by Georgie were administered as remuneratively as possible. All the most important business on the agenda was always done by the three men before the board meeting.
Going into Tony’s office that Wednesday, Georgie and Ginger found him looking at a map of the area.
‘If we’re going to hang on to the franchise,’ said Tony, ‘we’ve got to be properly represented.’
‘So?’ said Georgie, who’d heard this all before.
‘We’re going to build a studio here.’ Tony jabbed the red dot of Southampton with his finger.
‘Cost a fortune,’ said Ginger, aghast. ‘Even a small studio’ll set us back five million. We don’t need a studio there.’
‘Nor do we want to make any more programmes,’ said Georgie. ‘Programmes cost too much money.’