Rivals

‘No,’ said James impatiently, ‘who’s Chair?’

‘I’ve just told you.’

‘I’m asking you, who is chairing the meeting?’

‘Oh.’ Comprehension dawned on Charles’s round red face. ‘Might be Old Mother Goose —’ which was everyone’s nickname for Lady Gosling — ‘but I wouldn’t have thought she’d have bothered to come this far.’

Cameron grabbed a seat at the end of the row by the window, as far away from Tony as possible. All she could see was one of his beautifully polished black shoes, rotating as if he were doing an ankle-slimming exercise — a sign that he was nervous. The company in situ always got more flak at public meetings than those seeking to oust it. Tony, frightened of ridicule, knew he was in for a bumpy evening. The entire Corinium contingent studiously ignored Venturer — the committed from distaste, the moles from embarrassment. Henry Hampshire, however, who’d been to a drinks party, had no such reservations.

‘Hello everyone,’ he beamed as he came through the door. ‘Hullo, Taggie darling, you’re looking beautiful. Hullo, Rupert.’ Then, turning to the cringing Corinium contingent, boomed, ‘Oh look, there’s Charles, Georgie and Cameron. Must go and say hello.’

‘Hen-ree,’ hissed Rupert, grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear. ‘You’re not supposed to know they’re on our side.’

‘What?’ said Henry loudly. ‘What’s that? How d’yer mean, not on our side? ’Course they are.’

Fortunately Tony was talking to the Archdeacon and didn’t hear. As Rupert tried to explain, Henry looked as deflated as an English setter who’s been told he’s not going on a walk, then cheered up when he saw Daysee Butler.

‘Who’s she? She on our side?’

‘No, she’s with Corinium.’

‘Damn shame, pretty girl like that, and that’s Sarah Stratton next to her, isn’t it? She’s a damn pretty girl too. Why isn’t she on our side? Met her shooting at Tony’s.’

And next moment Henry had broken away from Rupert’s restraining hand and marched across the room to talk to Sarah, who introduced him to Daysee.

‘Just saying to Rupert, pretty girls like you should be on our side.’

Sarah giggled: ‘I don’t think Tony’d like that very much. How’s your Springer spaniel?’

‘How incredible you remembering that,’ said Henry, now beaming down on the two girls like an English setter waving his plumy tail at two bitches. ‘What are you both doing afterwards?’

‘Bugger off, Henry,’ snarled Tony.

‘Hen-ree,’ Rupert dragged him off.

Fortunately at that moment a diversion was provided by Basil returning with Marti, quite soberly dressed now, and Janey Lloyd-Foxe in a pink flying-suit.

‘Hullo, Rupert darling.’ Janey kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Rupert tugged up her zip to the bounds of decency, saying, ‘For Christ’s sake go and distract Henry.’

Basil took Rupert aside. ‘I’ve filled up the hip flask for Wesley.’ Then, dropping his voice, he whispered, ‘Those lovely lips just puckered up to meet yours were round my dick at eight o’clock this morning.’

‘What?’ exploded Rupert. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Basil, grinning.

‘How dare you,’ thundered Rupert. ‘She’s married to my best friend.’

‘’Course she is, and very happily. I’m just making sure she doesn’t suffer from post-natal depression when Billy’s away.’

Rupert might well have hit Bas across the room if the IBA — three members of the Board and various members of their staff — hadn’t trooped in and taken up their places on the platform.

‘We are honoured,’ Charles whispered to James. ‘Old Mother Goose is in the chair. The IBA must regard the outcome as by no means certain then, if she’s come all this way to have a look.’

‘I can’t think why you’re looking so cheerful,’ said James fretfully. ‘Venturer’s bound to offer me a job if they get the franchise. I mean I am “Cotswold Round-Up”, but, as they’ve got the Bishop to handle religious programmes, I can’t see them wanting you.’

‘Who are those deadbeats over there?’ Janey asked Bas.

‘The Mid-West consortium,’ said Bas. ‘Can’t think they’ll bother us much.’

Rupert, having at last persuaded Henry to stop chatting up Daysee and sit down, collapsed into a seat between Taggie and Declan.

‘How the hell am I going to keep this lot under control until December?’ he said.

Taggie giggled: ‘Henry’s certainly fallen for Daysee.’

‘Let me not to the marriage of true mindlessness admit impediments,’ said Declan.

The audience were now occupying every seat in the body of the hall, with Corinium spread out along the front row and Cameron at the far end by the window. Next to her, at right-angles, on a single row of chairs, sat the Mid-West consortium, who looked a pretty moth-eaten bunch. Facing them, also on a single row of chairs, forming a square with the platform, sat Venturer.

Lady Gosling, decided Cameron, looked more like a hedgehog than a goose, a Mrs Tiggywinkle, with small twinkling intelligent eyes, a long thin nose, a pointed chin and rather wild grey hair, held down on either side by tortoise-shell slides. She wore no make-up and, despite the warmth of the evening, was smothered in several shawls over her olive-green wool dress. The cosy exterior, however, was deceptive and hid a rapier mind. As Head of an Oxford college, Gwendolyn Gosling had taught Russian. Her fellow dons were not altogether joking when they nicknamed her ‘Khruschev’. There was shrewdness beneath the amiability, and the twinkling eyes, like the stars, gave off little warmth.

For a hideous moment at the beginning of the meeting it looked as though no one was going to ask any questions. Then a man in spectacles got up and grumbled about the reception in Gloucester. Corinium’s Chief Engineer got up to answer him, and the stupor produced by engineers at public meetings allowed everyone time to collect their thoughts.

More straightforward complaints then followed from local councillors who had not yet been interviewed by James on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ that coverage in their area was pitiful.

Mrs Makepiece, James’s daily, then rose to her feet, and, disclaiming any connection with Corinium, said ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ was the best programme on telly, and why couldn’t it be on seven days a week. This was greeted by bellows of ‘Rubbish’ and ‘Offside’ from Taggie’s rugger players.

One of the Corinium shop stewards, who’d just screwed a two-thousand-pound rise out of Tony for all his members, as well as a fat bribe for himself, shouted from the back that he wouldn’t trust Declan O’Hara’s mob further than he could throw them. His claim that industrial relations at Corinium were second to none, however, were greeted by cries of ‘si-down’ from all over the hall.

‘As Corinium fork out immediately whatever the unions demand and most of the technicians earn more than the Prime Minister, I should think industrial relations are second to none,’ yelled Bas, to loud cheers from the Venturer supporters.

The Chairman of Chipping Sodbury’s WI then rose to her feet and said in a ringing voice that her institute was sick to the teeth of news about Cotchester and nothing about Chipping Sodbury.

Remembering ‘Miss Corinium Television’, Rupert caught Declan’s eye. ‘She’s forgotten Miss Chipping Sodbury’s tits,’ he whispered across Taggie.

Both men started to shake with laughter, until quelled by a cold look from Lady Gosling.

Tony rose to reply. ‘I can assure you, madam,’ he said smoothly, ‘that, by an extraordinary coincidence, “Cotswold Round-Up” is due to visit Chipping Sodbury later this week.’

‘Are we?’ said James to Sarah, looking startled.

‘In fact,’ Tony went on warmly, ‘we have super plans for the entire Cotswold area.’

‘You’ve been here eight years. Why haven’t we seen any of them?’ bellowed Taggie’s headmaster.

More cheers all round were counterpointed by snores from Mrs Makepiece.

‘I’ve studied both Venturer’s and Corinium’s applications at the public library,’ went on Taggie’s headmaster, ‘and Venturer’s programme plans seem infinitely more imaginative. What I would like to ask Lord Baddingham is how much have his grandiose new plans for a multi-million-pound studio, for slots for every possible minority group, for cultural improvement and for spectacular entertainment been spawned by editorial inspiration or desire to hang