Palmer’s company thought highly of instruction and information, but they saw themselves as the heirs, not of Lord Shaftesbury, not of Disraeli, but of Place and Lovett, of William Cobbett, the heirs of that great movement of self- education in the nineteenth century that found its final flower in
Tit-Bits
. Hence the search for genuine originals. Hence those great pieces of television polemic, the
Time-Exposure
series of documentaries on the Public Schools, the Church of England, Oxford and Cambridge, Cricket and the Foreign Office. Hence (and here we return to Norah Palmer and Mr. Laverick’s play)
The Fore-Runners
, a series of television revivals of plays of social protest, some of which had had a success of sorts on the stage, some of which had failed, but all of which had passed and perished in the ruck of “Establishment” theatre until the great dawn of what the company’s prestige advertising in the literary weeklies and quality Sundays called “the theatre of conscience” in the nineteen fifties. It seemed to Norah Palmer that Edward Laverick’s
The Forgotten Men
, played on the stage for a single Tuesday afternoon in 1904, noticed by Shaw, but remembered by nobody, might be a real fore-runner, a real find, and a scoop for her Department.
First they must find the play, and read it. Well … plays did not disappear; it must be somewhere. “The Avenue Theatre,” Norah Palmer said. “There isn’t an Avenue Theatre any more. What happens to theatres nowadays. You can’t turn your back on one without somebody’s pulling it down.”
“Ask Richard Findlater. He’s bound to know.”
Norah Palmer said, “Even then we’ll have to find the author. That’ll be a rare piece of detection after fifty-seven years.” She wrote, “Ask R. Findl abt Avenue Th” on her memo pad. Squad said, “Dear Richard Findlater! Thank God for
him
. But wasn’t I clever to find that notice?”
“Yes, you are clever, Squad. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Keep paying me enough, and you’ll never have to find out. Now let’s go and have lunch. I’ve decided I’d rather eat something Spanish than boring old lettuce, so you can take me on expenses, and we can look at the flat afterwards.”
“All right. Let me go and wash.”
“And I’ll tell you
what
, my dear,” Squad said wickedly as they waited for the lift. “If you
are
going to have a
crise
with that gentleman of yours, you need a bit of detective work to take your mind off thing.”
*
Mrs. Halliday knew a man with a van. Well,
he
didn’t have the van; a friend of his had the van, but the man Mrs. Halliday knew had the use of the van, and would drive it. As for the man with the van himself, he would come along with the driver, and would bring a couple of West Indians for the heavy work. It wasn’t worth getting the movers in, Mrs. Halliday said, not with the few sticks Miss Palmer had to move. Movers—the only advantage of movers was that you
was
insured in the matter of breakables, she said, but being as Miss Palmer wasn’t taking the breakables, being as the breakables was to be left with Mr. Ash, Miss Palmer would do better, in a manner of speaking, to save the expense of movers, leaving the actual what you might call moving to be done by the man with the van.
So Norah Palmer agreed to employ the man with the van, and the man Mrs. Halliday knew who knew the manwith the van, and the two West Indians, both on vacation from Nottingham University, where one was studying medicine, the other agriculture.
“This sofa going, is it?” said the man with the van. “You’re taking the sofa, then?” asked Mrs. Halliday. “Or was you intending to leave it?” Norah Palmer was taking the sofa. Agriculture grasped one end of it, Medicine the other. They lifted. They moved forward, bearing the sofa. They stopped. The sofa was too wide for the door. “I suppose it come
in
,” the man with the van said. “I suppose it done
that
, eh? Come
Tit-Bits
. Hence the search for genuine originals. Hence those great pieces of television polemic, the
Time-Exposure
series of documentaries on the Public Schools, the Church of England, Oxford and Cambridge, Cricket and the Foreign Office. Hence (and here we return to Norah Palmer and Mr. Laverick’s play)
The Fore-Runners
, a series of television revivals of plays of social protest, some of which had had a success of sorts on the stage, some of which had failed, but all of which had passed and perished in the ruck of “Establishment” theatre until the great dawn of what the company’s prestige advertising in the literary weeklies and quality Sundays called “the theatre of conscience” in the nineteen fifties. It seemed to Norah Palmer that Edward Laverick’s
The Forgotten Men
, played on the stage for a single Tuesday afternoon in 1904, noticed by Shaw, but remembered by nobody, might be a real fore-runner, a real find, and a scoop for her Department.
First they must find the play, and read it. Well … plays did not disappear; it must be somewhere. “The Avenue Theatre,” Norah Palmer said. “There isn’t an Avenue Theatre any more. What happens to theatres nowadays. You can’t turn your back on one without somebody’s pulling it down.”
“Ask Richard Findlater. He’s bound to know.”
Norah Palmer said, “Even then we’ll have to find the author. That’ll be a rare piece of detection after fifty-seven years.” She wrote, “Ask R. Findl abt Avenue Th” on her memo pad. Squad said, “Dear Richard Findlater! Thank God for
him
. But wasn’t I clever to find that notice?”
“Yes, you are clever, Squad. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Keep paying me enough, and you’ll never have to find out. Now let’s go and have lunch. I’ve decided I’d rather eat something Spanish than boring old lettuce, so you can take me on expenses, and we can look at the flat afterwards.”
“All right. Let me go and wash.”
“And I’ll tell you
what
, my dear,” Squad said wickedly as they waited for the lift. “If you
are
going to have a
crise
with that gentleman of yours, you need a bit of detective work to take your mind off thing.”
*
Mrs. Halliday knew a man with a van. Well,
he
didn’t have the van; a friend of his had the van, but the man Mrs. Halliday knew had the use of the van, and would drive it. As for the man with the van himself, he would come along with the driver, and would bring a couple of West Indians for the heavy work. It wasn’t worth getting the movers in, Mrs. Halliday said, not with the few sticks Miss Palmer had to move. Movers—the only advantage of movers was that you
was
insured in the matter of breakables, she said, but being as Miss Palmer wasn’t taking the breakables, being as the breakables was to be left with Mr. Ash, Miss Palmer would do better, in a manner of speaking, to save the expense of movers, leaving the actual what you might call moving to be done by the man with the van.
So Norah Palmer agreed to employ the man with the van, and the man Mrs. Halliday knew who knew the manwith the van, and the two West Indians, both on vacation from Nottingham University, where one was studying medicine, the other agriculture.
“This sofa going, is it?” said the man with the van. “You’re taking the sofa, then?” asked Mrs. Halliday. “Or was you intending to leave it?” Norah Palmer was taking the sofa. Agriculture grasped one end of it, Medicine the other. They lifted. They moved forward, bearing the sofa. They stopped. The sofa was too wide for the door. “I suppose it come
in
,” the man with the van said. “I suppose it done
that
, eh? Come
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