‘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
‘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.
Suddenly the black youth leapt in the air, waving a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Hey, look, man — five pounds. You ever see one like that, man? Come on, everybody, this man’s giving away five pound notes. Make sure you all get one.’
‘No, no,’ protested the unfortunate Locations Manager. ‘I haven’t got enough for everyone. I just wanted to persuade everyone that — ’
‘What is it — bribery now?’ The black youth was suddenly very quiet. ‘Oh yes, money buy off everything, eh? Well, listen, man, why should we put up with you coming round here? What you say it is — comedy show? So you think the way we live’s funny, eh?’
‘No, not at all. We just want to get on with our work. Look, you wouldn’t like it if we came along and interfered with your work now, would you?’
This proved an unfortunate thing to say. ‘Our work, is it? Sorry, brother, we don’t have any work. That’s why we live here, you know. That’s why we live in these houses. That’s why we don’t like you making fun of our houses.’
The Location Manager was beginning to lose his temper. ‘But they’re not your houses. You’re only bloody squatters.’
‘And why are we squatters, man? We’re squatters because this lousy government don’t build no houses. We’re squatters because this government don’t care about anything except making the rich richer.’
Hearing the political turn of the conversation, Bob Tomlinson decided to join in with his common touch. ‘Listen, mate, I’m with you. I vote Labour, just like you do. I don’t want this lot in. But they’re here and all we have to do right now is to get the work I got to do done, and get into bed for a good night’s sleep. So what do you say? You give us no bother and we’ll give you no bother.’
He chuckled disarmingly, but didn’t persuade his audience. ‘What do you mean?’ asked the black youth. ‘You don’t give us any bother, huh? You take over the whole bloody street, and half the side streets of it. You fill the whole place with your bloody vans and buses and your big cars — all your bloody BMWs and Rovers and Bentleys and Daimlers and Mercs — and you say you don’t give us no bother. Why should we be put out by you fat cats, eh?’
The Location Manager nodded to Bob Tomlinson and walked away. ‘Now listen, son,’ said the Director in a new, hard voice. ‘He’s gone to phone for the police. We have police permission to be here, you know, and if they come along, I think you’d be wise to be out of sight.’
‘Oh, I see, it’s threats now, is it? What d’you think we care about the bloody pigs. Okay, so you’ve got police
