Death of a Scriptwriter

Patricia gave a patronising little laugh. “I often found Miss Sayers’s plots a trifle loose.” And Dorothy Sayers is long dead and I am alive and my books are going to be on television, she thought with a sudden rush of elation.

She said goodbye to Sheila at the station, thinking that it was a pity such a pretty girl should wear such odd and dreary clothes.

Sheila walked thoughtfully away down the platform after having seen her charge ensconced in a corner seat. She scratched her short blond crop. Did Harry realise just how vain Patricia Martyn-Broyd was? But then he had endured fights with writers before. Writers were considered the scum of the earth.

¦

At a conference a week later, Harry announced, “I’m waiting for Jamie Gallagher. He’ll be main scriptwriter. I gave him the book. He’ll be coming along to let us know what he can do with it.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he was at all suitable,” suggested Sheila. “Not for a detective series.”

“BBC Scotland likes his work, and if we want them to put up any money for this, we’d better give ‘em what they want,” said Harry.

The door opened and Jamie Gallagher came in. He was a tall man wearing a donkey jacket and a Greek fisherman’s hat. He had a few days of stubble on his chin. He had greasy brown hair which he wore combed forward to hide his receding hairline. He was a heavy drinker, and his face was crisscrossed with broken veins. It looked like an ordnance survey map.

He threw a tattered copy of Patricia’s book down on the table and demanded truculently, “What is this shite?”

“Well, shite, actually,” said Harry cheerfully, “but we need you to bring all that genius of yours to it.”

Jamie sat down and scowled all around. He was battling between the joys of exercising his monumental ego on the one hand and remembering that he was currently unemployed on the other.

“What you need to do is take the framework of the plot, all those tides and things,” said Fiona, “and then add some spice.”

After a long harangue about the English in general and Patricia’s writing in particular, Jamie said, “But I could do it this way. You say we’ll get Penelope Gates? Right. You want the sixties feel. Lots of sixties songs. In the books, Lady Harriet is middle-aged. I say, let’s make her young and hip. I know, runs a commune in that castle of hers. Bit of pot. Love interest.”

“In the book,” said Sheila, “it’s Major Derwent.”

“Let’s see,” said Jamie, ignoring her, “we’ll have a Highland police inspector, real chauvinist pig. And our Harriet seduces him and gets information about the case out of him. Lots of shagging in the heather.”

“We won’t get the family slot on Sunday night,” said Fiona cautiously.

Jamie snorted. “We’ll get it, all right. Who the hell is going to object to pot smoking these days? No full frontal, either, just a flash of thigh and a bit of boob.”

Sheila let her mind drift off. Poor Patricia up in the Highlands, dreaming of glory. What on earth would she think when she saw the result? The air about Sheila was blue with four-letter words, but she had become accustomed to bleeping them out. Someone had once said that you could always tell what people were afraid of by the swear words they used.

¦

After six months Patricia began to become anxious. What if nothing happened? Pheasant Books had not phoned her, and she was too proud and at the same time too afraid of rejection to phone them. She had not heard from her old publisher, either.

The Highlands were in the grip of deep midwinter. There was hardly any daylight, and she seemed to be living in a long tunnel of perpetual night.

She began to regret that she had not furthered her friendship with that policeman over in Lochdubh. It would have been someone to talk to. She had diligently tried to write again, but somehow the words would not come.

At last she phoned the police station in Lochdubh. When Hamish answered, she said, “This is Patricia Martyn-Broyd. Do you remember me?”

“Oh, yes, you stood me up,” said Hamish cheerfully.

“I am sorry, but you see…” She told Hamish all about the television deal, ending with a cautious, “Perhaps you might be free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish. “That Italian restaurant?”

“I will see you there at eight,” said Patricia.

¦

But on the following day, the outside world burst in on Patricia’s seclusion. Harry Frame phoned to tell her he had gotten funding for the series.

“From the BBC?” asked Patricia eagerly.

“Yes,” said Harry, “BBC Scotland.”

“Not national?”

“Oh, it will go national all right,” Harry gave his beefy laugh. “The fact that we’re going to dramatise your books has already been in some of the papers. Haven’t you seen anything?”

Patricia took The Times, but she only read the obituaries and did the crossword. She wondered, however, why no reporter had contacted her.

“We’re sending you the contracts,” said Harry. “You should get them tomorrow.”

Then Pheasant Books phoned to say they would like to publish The Case of the Rising Tides to coincide with the start of the television series. They offered a dismal amount of money, but Patricia was too happy to care. She took a deep breath and said she would travel down to London immediately to sign the contract.

She packed quickly and drove down to Inverness to catch the London train.

Hamish Macbeth sat alone in the restaurant that evening. Crazy old bat, he thought.

? Death of a Scriptwriter ?

2

Oh! how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding-ring!

—Colley Gibber

Penelope Gates stood for a moment at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the flat she shared with her husband. She wondered for the umpteenth time why she had been stupid enough to get married. No one got married these days. Her husband, Josh, was an out-of-work actor and bitter with it. To justify his existence, he had lately taken to acting as a sort of business manager, criticising her scripts and performance. They had first met when both were students at the Royal College of Dramatic Art in Glasgow. It had been a heady three-week romance followed by a wedding.

The first rows had begun when Penelope had acted in a television series as a rape victim. Josh, when he got drunk, which was frequently, accused her of being a slut. Only the fact that he liked the money she earned from subsequent and similar roles had stopped him from outright violence, had stopped him from ‘damaging the goods.’ But the last time, he had extracted a promise from her that she would never take her clothes off on screen again, and, anything for a quiet life, thought Penelope bleakly, she had promised. Maybe she could get away with it this time. She nervously thumbed the script of The Case of the Rising Tides. She was not totally naked in any scene.

Penelope went upstairs and opened the door. “Josh!” she called. “I’ve got a great part.”

His voice sounded from the kitchen, slightly slurred. “What filth are you going to act in now?”

“Not filth,” said Penelope. “Sunday night viewing. Detective series.” She had thrust the script into her briefcase on the road to the kitchen. She took out a battered copy of The Case of the Rising Tides and handed it to him. “It’s based on this.”

He took it and scowled down at it. After this, I’ll have enough money to run away, thought Penelope. What did I ever see in him?