So was a large crowd of gawpers. This was inevitable. The paraphernalia always attract an audience, and the clemency of the weather increased their numbers. Many had been standing outside local pubs and followed the film transport with interest. It was not an area where a great deal happened.
There was some raucous shouting from the crowd, but they seemed fairly good-humoured. Robin Laughton, the Floor Manager, walking round with his walkie-talkie, was of the opinion that they would soon disperse once the novelty had worn off and it got later.
The Location Manager, looking a little anxious, said he hoped that was the case. ‘There seem to be a lot more people round here than I expected. I thought all the houses were empty. Most of them are boarded up.’
‘Squatters, I should think,’ said Robin Laughton. ‘What time of day did you do your recce?’
‘Afternoon. Hardly anyone around then. Just the old couple who live in that house right in the middle. I fixed a fee with them all right.’
‘If you get trouble, maybe you’ll have to pay some of this lot off.’
The Location Manager nodded uncertainly. It was part of his job to carry round pockets full of flyers to buy off anyone who objected to the filming. ‘There are a lot of them, though.’
‘They’ll soon clear off once they see how boring it is. Don’t you worry, my son.’
‘Is Bob ready to start filming?’
Robin Laughton shook his head. ‘Dob’s not here yet.’
‘Wasn’t she coming in the coach?’
‘No, special dispensation, she was to come and get made up here.’
‘What, that old looney coming here in the Bentley? He’s probably driven her to the wrong place.’
‘No, no, we’ve sent a hire car for her. Old Barton’ll be safely tucked up in bed by now.’
George Birkitt, standing by Charles, had overheard the end of this conversation. ‘Oh no, it’s the bloody limit!’
‘What is?’
‘Bloody Dob. Coming straight here. Not getting made up at W.E.T. like the rest of us.’
‘Oh, come on. She’s tired. Needs as much rest as she can get.’
‘Don’t you think I’m bloody tired?’
‘I’m sure you are, but you’re not seventy-five.’
‘Huh. It’s all very well, everyone kow-towing to her all the time, but who’s carrying this bloody show, that’s what I want to know. I mean, really, I’m the one who has to keep the thing going. I carry the story-line every bloody week, while she just twitters around charmingly. And yet who gets the top billing? Huh. You know I’m not the sort of person to fuss over details, but I think that billing’ll have to be looked at on the next series.’
Aurelia arrived soon, clutching Cocky’s basket, full of apologies for being late. The minicab driver, like all minicab drivers, hadn’t known the way and had got lost. But she wouldn’t be a minute honestly, darling. And she hurried into the make-up caravan.
Charles strolled over to the lit area and leant against one of the tall light-stands. ‘’Ere, keep off that. Not stable,’ said the voice of one of the men in lumberjack checked shirts.
Charles moved away and looked at the stand. It was perfectly stable, in fact, mounted on a wheeled tripod. Metal locks were fixed down on the wheels to prevent it from slipping down the incline of the street. Still, television is full of people telling you not to touch this or that. Charles didn’t want to precipitate a demarcation dispute by arguing.
Rather than getting smaller, the crowd of sightseers had increased. He looked at his watch. Of course, pubs just closed. The thought made him feel in his pocket, where his hand met the reassuring contour of a half-bottle of Bell’s. Essential supplies for a night’s filming.
There was irony in the scene before him. Here was a television crew setting out to film television’s idea of an Alternative Society scene, and being watched by genuine members of the Alternative Society. It wasn’t just their make-up which distinguished the television extras from the people they were meant to represent. Even those who weren’t wearing kaftans looked far too groomed, far too designed. Television, particularly colour television, is a glamorising medium and it is very bad at reproducing authentic shoddiness.
But there was no doubt that the crowd of spectators was authentically shoddy. They were dusty and poor and bored. The interest the filming was arousing suggested that nothing else much happened in their lives.
Probably a lot of them were unemployed. And, as their numbers grew, their good humour seemed to diminish.
Charles heard another whispered consultation between the Floor Manager and the Locations Manager.
‘You have cleared the filming with the police, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I have. First thing I always do.’
‘Oh well, if they don’t disperse once we start filming, we can get the cops to move them on.
‘I thought you were the one, Robin, who said they’d all disperse without any bother.’
‘There weren’t so many of them then.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, I think if you slip the noisiest ones a fiver, you’ll be all right.’
‘I might try it. See how things go.’
Bob Tomlinson bustled up to Robin Laughton. ‘Come on, where are the bloody artists? We don’t want to fart around all night, for God’s sake.’
‘I think Dob’s nearly ready.’
‘Then get her out here. And George. And the others. Come on, if we move, we can knock this lot off in an hour.’
But progress did not prove to be so fast. The artists were assembled and their first set-up, a walk along the road looking at house numbers, was rehearsed. The actors spoke their lines, and the director was satisfied.
‘Okay. Let’s go for a take.’ There was silence. The clapper-board was duly filmed and the item identified verbally by the Floor Manager. ‘And — Action!’
But the cast weren’t the only people who took the cue. As soon as the word was spoken, the crowd behind the camera started up their noise again, shouting and baying, chanting in unison.
Bob Tomlinson tried again. Again there was silence while the shot was set up. Again, as soon as he cued the actors, the crowd started up. ‘Talk to them, Robin,’ he said tersely.
Robin Laughton went across towards the crowd in his most jovial Floor Manager manner. He spread his arms wide for attention. ‘Listen, everyone, could we have a bit of hush while we’re working? We’re in a filming situation for a series called The Strutters, which you’ll be able to see on your telly screens in the autumn. It’s going to be a jolly funny show and I’m sure you’ll all enjoy it. So we’d be really grateful if you could give us a bit of hush while we’re doing our filming. Okay?’
‘Why?’ asked a tall black youth in a Bob Marley T-shirt.
‘Why?’ echoed Robin Laughton.
‘Yes, why? Why should we let you disrupt our lives just for some tatty television show?’
Robin was baffled. It was a question that had never occurred to him so he had never considered the answer to it.
The black youth spoke very fluently. He was obviously well educated and not randomly obstructive. He was making a political point. What was more, the rest of the crowd listened to him. He was their leader and they did what he said. The disruption seemed to be an organised protest.
Robin Laughton, unable to provide any sort of answer to the black youth’s question, wandered back to Bob Tomlinson and beckoned the Location Manager across. They conferred.
Then the Location Manager went across to the crowd. The black youth had his back turned and was talking to a group of other young men. The Location Manager joined the group and appeared to make some suggestion.