Script Editor in Chief. I chair all script conferences.’
‘Oh, I know, Melvin, but we’re in agreement on all the main subjects so I can easily chair this one in your absence.’
‘I shan’t be absent, Reggie. The matter of this new curate and whether the part should be developed is coming up. It’s a tricky business. A vicar is all very well in Emmerdale , and long ago they had a wet young curate in EastEnders , but a lot of people feel that a curate would fit in illwith a North Country soap, even if we manage to make him into a real character.’ He turned to Charlie. ‘The meeting won’t last longer than an hour. Can you amuse yourself for that long?’
Charlie nodded, but they were not looking, and were already ushering him out – pushing would better describe it – and locking the door to Reggie’s office, where Charlie had been shown when he had first arrived. As the pair bustled off down the corridor Charlie looked at his watch: eleven twenty. He felt condescended to by that phrase ‘amuse yourself’ but nevertheless felt he could wander round and see how a soap was made. Alternatively he could leave the studio and look for the nearest pub. Or did they serve real beer in the Duke of York’s? He knew there were regular visits to the studio by the public and fans, chaperoned and kept on the rails by employees of Northern Television.
He decided to opt for the fantasy world, and hope that the alcohol would not turn out to be cold tea. He felt he could do with a chaperone himself, but decided instead to wander on spec and to home in on any area that noise was coming from. His initial explorations produced little but corridors, sometimes containing offices with what he suspected were outrageously over-hyped job descriptions on the door. Eventually he landed up on the outskirts of a set where filmingwas taking place. The setting was a room with a view (on to red-brick houses forming a terrace) and a bed – not a marital or an extra-marital bed, but a sick one. Charlie slipped inside the door of the studio and registered that on the other side, sitting straight-backed on an upright chair, was an elderly lady.
‘Oh no!’ came a voice from the bed. ‘You’ve marched bang between me and the camera. It’s amateur night all over again. Did you train with the Oswaldtwistle Players? The focus here is on me. I’m dying slowly. It isn’t on my spiritual mentor, or would-be mentor. Get it? You’ll be lucky if the great unwashed audience ever sees your face.’
‘I decide where the focus is,’ came from a man in jeans and trainers by a camera.
‘Jim Carrington,’ said the elderly lady in a whisper. ‘Reggie Friedman’s second in command. Does episodes Reggie doesn’t want to do.’
‘I’m sure you had to learn the tricks of the trade when you started in television,’ said the youthful figure in a dog collar and flannels. ‘I’m learning as quickly as I can. Try to exercise a bit of charity.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ said Hamish Fawley, obviously suspecting a tongue in cheek, and rightly. ‘He’ll be sending in his application for the Archbishopric of Canterbury next.’
The edge of humour in the ‘curate’s’ intervention pleased Charlie, though he was not sure if the young actor’s ‘taking the piss’ was aimed at Hamish or at his own role as wet-behind -the-ears curate.
‘He’s new,’ came the woman’s voice from the other side of the doorway. Charlie looked down at her and liked what he saw.
‘I think I’ve seen you in the show,’ he said. ‘With a different voice.’
‘Oh, the different voice goes without saying,’ she said. ‘My father was manager of the City Varieties for three years back in the Forties, so of course we lived in Leeds. Yorkshire comes quite naturally to me, and I’ve never lost it. It’s been useful over the years, and luckily Gladys Porter is not meant to be broad.’
‘Ah yes, Gladys Porter,’ said Charlie, who had perhaps seen Jubilee
‘Oh, I know, Melvin, but we’re in agreement on all the main subjects so I can easily chair this one in your absence.’
‘I shan’t be absent, Reggie. The matter of this new curate and whether the part should be developed is coming up. It’s a tricky business. A vicar is all very well in Emmerdale , and long ago they had a wet young curate in EastEnders , but a lot of people feel that a curate would fit in illwith a North Country soap, even if we manage to make him into a real character.’ He turned to Charlie. ‘The meeting won’t last longer than an hour. Can you amuse yourself for that long?’
Charlie nodded, but they were not looking, and were already ushering him out – pushing would better describe it – and locking the door to Reggie’s office, where Charlie had been shown when he had first arrived. As the pair bustled off down the corridor Charlie looked at his watch: eleven twenty. He felt condescended to by that phrase ‘amuse yourself’ but nevertheless felt he could wander round and see how a soap was made. Alternatively he could leave the studio and look for the nearest pub. Or did they serve real beer in the Duke of York’s? He knew there were regular visits to the studio by the public and fans, chaperoned and kept on the rails by employees of Northern Television.
He decided to opt for the fantasy world, and hope that the alcohol would not turn out to be cold tea. He felt he could do with a chaperone himself, but decided instead to wander on spec and to home in on any area that noise was coming from. His initial explorations produced little but corridors, sometimes containing offices with what he suspected were outrageously over-hyped job descriptions on the door. Eventually he landed up on the outskirts of a set where filmingwas taking place. The setting was a room with a view (on to red-brick houses forming a terrace) and a bed – not a marital or an extra-marital bed, but a sick one. Charlie slipped inside the door of the studio and registered that on the other side, sitting straight-backed on an upright chair, was an elderly lady.
‘Oh no!’ came a voice from the bed. ‘You’ve marched bang between me and the camera. It’s amateur night all over again. Did you train with the Oswaldtwistle Players? The focus here is on me. I’m dying slowly. It isn’t on my spiritual mentor, or would-be mentor. Get it? You’ll be lucky if the great unwashed audience ever sees your face.’
‘I decide where the focus is,’ came from a man in jeans and trainers by a camera.
‘Jim Carrington,’ said the elderly lady in a whisper. ‘Reggie Friedman’s second in command. Does episodes Reggie doesn’t want to do.’
‘I’m sure you had to learn the tricks of the trade when you started in television,’ said the youthful figure in a dog collar and flannels. ‘I’m learning as quickly as I can. Try to exercise a bit of charity.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ said Hamish Fawley, obviously suspecting a tongue in cheek, and rightly. ‘He’ll be sending in his application for the Archbishopric of Canterbury next.’
The edge of humour in the ‘curate’s’ intervention pleased Charlie, though he was not sure if the young actor’s ‘taking the piss’ was aimed at Hamish or at his own role as wet-behind -the-ears curate.
‘He’s new,’ came the woman’s voice from the other side of the doorway. Charlie looked down at her and liked what he saw.
‘I think I’ve seen you in the show,’ he said. ‘With a different voice.’
‘Oh, the different voice goes without saying,’ she said. ‘My father was manager of the City Varieties for three years back in the Forties, so of course we lived in Leeds. Yorkshire comes quite naturally to me, and I’ve never lost it. It’s been useful over the years, and luckily Gladys Porter is not meant to be broad.’
‘Ah yes, Gladys Porter,’ said Charlie, who had perhaps seen Jubilee
Similar Books
