All to Play For (39 page)

An ironic smile lurked behind her interviewer’s stern frown, but he conquered it. Watching together in Crouch End, Jill and Carmen chortled and cheered. “You tell him, Anthea. Bite the dog!”

“Three white men and one black woman: that’s 25% black, a rather better proportion than you’d find in the population as a whole, I suspect.”

“I’m Jewish, as a matter of fact, so you could say we’re 50% ethnic minority,” offered Barry Goodman smugly.

“You could hardly assemble an all-male, all-white panel to discuss this particular issue, could you Jeremy? The entire media would come down on you faster than a ton of bricks.”

Anthea won the bout with this skilful blow, and Jeremy acknowledged it gracefully for a nanosecond before moving in with a fresh question. “You didn’t like working at the BBC, then. Why not?”

“I found it very hard to move up the career ladder here, so eventually I gave up and left.”

“That simple?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Chris Briggs. Do we block our ethnic minority staff from promotion?”

“Well Jeremy, I have to say that we value all our staff very highly indeed.”

“Hmm,” said Jeremy, “I’ve certainly noticed that there are posters all over reception saying exactly that. Which seems odd at a time when so many staff are being laid off.”

Chris let this pass with a pained expression. At home, Catherine sighed and put her feet up. Come on Chris, she urged mentally. Don’t be a weed. It seemed to work.

“Modernisation and progress entail difficult decisions. Very many excellent scribes were put out of work when the printing press was invented, I think you’ll find!”

“Let’s get back to the point. Why are all the top jobs held by middle class white men?”

“It’s historical, basically. I don’t like it any more than you do, or Anthea does, but it takes time for these things to change. We
have
changed our attitudes, and given time, I have every confidence – ”

“How long do you
want
?”

“No-one can put a time limit on a thing like this – ”

“Ten years?”

“You know I can’t put a figure on it, Jeremy.”

“Alright,” said Jeremy, unhooking him and allowing him to flop back in his chair.

Over in Wapping, Nik Mason arrived home, bolted the entrance to his loft, hurried to the television and switched on just in time to see Barry Goodman set off at his usual eighty words per minute.

“Thank you Jeremy,” he smiled. “At Channel 5 we pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of the market. We’re bang on the button with dynamic, desirable entertainment. Our staff reflect this. Watch Channel 5 and you’ll see we’re way ahead of the other channels in terms of representing Britain in 1997.”

“Are you referring to your attractive blonde newscaster or the explicit sexual material you broadcast?” asked Jeremy peremptorily.

“Ha!” Jill and Carmen clapped. Catherine smiled. Nik sneered, and poured himself a Jack Daniels as Barry attempted to weasel his way out of that one. Jeremy’s attention was already on his next question.

“What do you propose then, Anthea? How is the BBC supposed to represent everyone, equally, all the time? Aren’t you asking for the impossible?”

“No-one expects an overnight transformation, but I do believe you need to speed up the rate of change.” Anthea looked Chris in the eye. “The BBC’s lagging behind. The unions have been making this argument for years, decades even. Equal opportunities have been standard in some fields for ages, in theatre companies, for example. Why not here? There’s no excuse. The BBC’s not just white and male-dominated, it’s Oxbridge and home counties-dominated. Outrageously so. Look at you guys!” Jeremy and Chris were both silenced by this, which their viewers all enjoyed. Even Nik agreed with Anthea on this one. Barry nodded enthusiastically but was ignored. Anthea continued, “The BBC’s like the NHS, state schools, even the Scouts – it’s free, it’s marvellous, it’s for everyone – but it’s also pompous and patronising. A bit like you, Jeremy. I’m sorry.” Everybody watching held their breath at Anthea’s nerve. “There’s no equivalent anywhere abroad, it’s really important, especially the World Service, which is being cut back as we speak.” She paused, hoping Jeremy wasn’t offended. She hadn’t really intended to be so personal. She needn’t have worried, he took it on the chin, and allowed her to carry on, “If we’re not careful we’ll lose everything worth watching, all the new, experimental shows, our television will be exactly the same as in the US: unwatchable rubbish, wall-to-wall mindless nonsense sponsored by corrupt Bible-bashers, with a five-minute advertising break every five minutes.”

Jeremy leaned back and turned to Chris. “Is that what we’re going to get?”

“Of course not,” smiled Chris. “It’s a wild exaggeration, and it could never happen while we have the license fee.”

“Which happens to be under threat.”

“The license fee’s a complete anachronism!” Barry leaped in. “The future of television is more choice: many many channels, offering a wide, wide range – ”

“Of crap, crap shows?” Anthea’s interjection raised another laugh from her scattered audience. Barry’s composure began to crack. She was working for him, wasn’t she?

“People are always saying the golden age of television is over,” he said crossly, “I say it’s just beginning. In the twenty-first century we’ll see interactive television become established. It’ll be democratic in the truest sense, digital technology will mean ordinary people take ownership of the medium. It won’t be the property of the elite any more. The market will itself create a level playing field, where every minority interest will find its own space, have its own cable channels. There’ll be 24-hour news channels, sports channels, shopping channels – and yes, sex channels, for those who want them. Why not? It’s their choice. Ordinary people will have their own shows, they’ll become stars in their own right. Access for all.”

“To each their fifteen minutes of fame,” commented Jeremy. “Is this the death knell for the BBC?” he asked Chris.

“We’re a very long way from the end of public service broadcasting. This is, purely and simply, cynical doom-mongering. I don’t blame Barry for talking up his new channel of course, that’s his job, but let’s not forget – his viewers are very few so far, and he’s obliged to use, er,
tabloid
strategies to pull them in.”

“The BBC will never use the equivalent of page three girls to attract an audience?”

“The Reithian principles of education, information and entertainment are still sacrosanct, Jeremy.”

“What do
you
make of Reithian principles?” Jeremy put Anthea on the spot.

She didn’t pause. “I don’t have a problem with them at all, it would be like criticising the ten commandments. I just think we should move with the times, acknowledge progress – but not by abandoning everything we believe in and jumping on the bandwagon with the barrow boys – sorry Barry, just a figure of speech – ”

“Careful babe,” muttered Carmen, “don’t forget who’s commissioned us.” Jill murmured her agreement. Nik exclaimed irritably, but he expected little else from the woman who had successfully defended Sisters in Synch from Magenta’s hostile takeover bid. Her company was poised to become a major player in the next decade. He poured another drink. Catherine leaned her head back and began to doze.

“What I really care about is creativity,” said Anthea firmly. “That’s what gets lost in the scramble for profits. The difficult subjects tend to get ignored, along with the interesting people. It’s just as damaging as favouritism towards the Oxbridge, home counties types.”

“So instead of a new David Hockney we get a man who stuffs sharks.”

“Exactly, Jeremy. Not that I’ve anything against Damien Hirst, not at all – but we need diversity. If we don’t safeguard it, it’ll vanish.”

“But Anthea, you’re contradicting yourself,” said Chris. “You say on the one hand that you had to leave the BBC to move on with your career, and on the other that the free market militates against creativity – yet that’s where you found your opportunity.” Barry Goodman wished he’d said that.

“I think it’s very sad that I had to leave the BBC. I’d much rather have stayed. And to be fair, it’s not just my colour that’s the problem here. Everyone’s struggling, absolutely everyone. Morale in the Drama Department’s at an all-time low. No-one can get anything remotely challenging commissioned these days.” She looked straight at Chris, whose eyes widened slightly. Jeremy turned to him.

“Why aren’t you commissioning challenging drama?”

“Aside from the fact that I’m no longer a channel controller, the BBC very definitely does commission exciting original work, and Anthea is more than welcome to bring us her ideas,” smiled Chris smoothly. Jill and Carmen grimaced at each other sceptically. Catherine was now asleep with her mouth open. Nik switched his television off and put on a CD.

Jeremy turned to Anthea and asked a question with genuine interest, “If you were Director General of the BBC, what would you do?”

She chuckled at the absurd idea. “I’d try to have a better overview. I’d try to ensure a fair spread of opinions, points of view, a range of voices. I’d try to expunge the idea that ‘we know what’s good for you’, but I wouldn’t let the likes of Rupert Murdoch have it their way – I see them as worse than the old patriarchy in many ways: far more exploitative, and in a much subtler way.” Barry frowned, unsure where he fitted in this scheme. “I don’t know whether I’m cut out to be Director General, even if I had a cat in hell’s chance of being offered it,” admitted Anthea. “But I truly want to see creativity flourish in an atmosphere of equality. I mean
real
creativity, not the advertising industry kind. We need stories that tell us more about ourselves, rather than selling us back to ourselves. As a matter of fact I think there are huge creative opportunities right now. The industry’s expanding like mad, and so are viewers worldwide. In future I think we’ll be getting our funding from all sorts of people: banks, businesses, maybe even private individuals. I think there’s going to be a big resurgence of street theatre and guerrilla art – it’s beginning already; street music and fashions have always led the rest. Maybe Barry’s right, and cable channels for ordinary people will be the norm in the next century. Maybe they’ll start broadcasting their own shows, and amongst them will be the next Spike Lee, or Shakespeare! It’s all good, in the end it doesn’t matter where the new work comes from, as long as creative people can get access to an audience. I think that’s an opportunity the BBC should provide. It’s terribly sad that they’ve stopped caring about it.”

“And on that note, I’m afraid we’ll have to end… ”

“Wow,” said Jill. “Impressive. What are you doing?” Carmen’s eyes were closed and her lips were twitching.

“I’m praying that Anthea will be Director General of the BBC one day.”

I watched it on my own at home, almost moved to tears. Anthea was articulating what half the Drama Department thought but would scarcely admit to each other, never mind to some of the most powerful men in broadcasting and the world at large. Perhaps she’d reached the point where she no longer cared how her opinions were received. Maybe she felt she’d always been there, so it didn’t matter. Part of me longed to join her, but I’d been accepted by them – the Welsh had been considered okay for a century or two so I didn’t feel I had the right to complain, really. I was totally in awe of her.

Sitting soaking in the bath the next morning I wondered what was coming. 1997 felt like a significant year. The election was likely to bring us a new government, which would be a tremendous relief, but uncertain changes lay ahead. I could barely remember when Labour had last been in power. It was tempting to imagine that all our problems would be solved, but I wasn’t
that
naïve, and many people were suspicious of what ‘New Labour’ really meant. There was no guarantee that they would bring in socialist policies. The Tories had insisted for years that the BBC was a hotbed of radicalism, full of subversives who would like to bring down the government; it was nonsense of course. There were certainly left-wing opinions broadcast, but they were more than balanced by the right.

What would a Labour government’s attitude be towards the BBC? Would it change things within the organisation? I really couldn’t tell. I had a feeling that we were coming to the end of something, but I also knew that
I’d
changed recently. At the ripe old age of 32 my outlook was no longer just about following my nose through life; I wasn’t a bright young person any more, wide-eyed and willing. That’s to say – I was, I hope so anyway, but I knew it was time to think more carefully about my future. I’d been avoiding that for a long time already.

I inhaled the lavender bath oil I’d put in, and ran a little more hot water to revive the scent. What did I want the next ten years to bring? Did I still want to stay in London, carry on at the BBC, and devote my life to making drama? Yes, I thought so. But I wasn’t as sure as I used to be. I wanted to make quality drama, and I also wanted to have a family eventually. Quite how that could be achieved when my working hours were so long and variable, I didn’t know. Most women I knew of at the BBC were supported by nannies, au pairs and what have you – I couldn’t see myself employing people to raise my children, it would be too great a leap from my own upbringing. And of course I was still single.

I wondered whether Jonathan and Selina would be starting a family soon. No doubt their domestic arrangements would be very comfortable. Jon was such a nice person, I sometimes wished he would crack a little, let go. I thought he deserved better than Selina. I found her a cold fish. It was hard to tell her real personality under the façade, which Jim said was grander than Selfridge’s; she just seemed boringly bland to me. Jon was wasted on her. He had so much more to offer. And he was so handsome… if he was single, would he be interested in me? Best not to think about that. He liked me though, I was fairly sure. And we got along very well. Anyway, he was taken. Forget it, I told myself.

Maybe I would start looking elsewhere for work. If
The Medical Miracle
didn’t get green-lit soon I might have to, as my contract would be up for renewal in a few weeks. Morag was letting people go every month. The atmosphere in the department was increasingly dire, and it was bringing everyone down. In some ways it would be a relief to leave. I wondered what Jon would do if we lost the show. Would he try to take it to another broadcaster? Might he ask me to join him? Maybe he might start up a new independent production company, and ask me to be head of development? Now that would be really nice. That could really mean the best of both worlds. Maybe we’d have an office in the West End, instead of Shepherd’s Bush – in Covent Garden or Soho. That would be perfect.