How It All Began (11 page)

H
enry Peters, too, was reading.

“Scandal, gossip and innuendo received majestic treatment in the Augustan Age. Some of the most elegant art of the eighteenth century addresses itself to the perceived weaknesses and transgressions of aristocrats, royalty and politicians. Think of the style, the wit, the delighted savagery of Gillray, of Hogarth, of Rowlandson. Cartoons, broadsheets and flyers enabled the public of the day to savor the goings-on of the great and the good by way of raucous humor . . .”

Henry had always enjoyed reading his own work—appreciating a turn of phrase, an appropriate word. He sat at his desk with the handwritten sheets spread out in front of him; the first draft was just about done, ready for Rose to type up, and then he would get down to the final tweaking and polishing before sending it off to one of the Sundays.

He read on. More about eighteenth-century circulars and broadsheets, with quotes. A Gillray would be nice as illustration—note to the features editor on that, and a suggested choice. References to some scandals of the day. Move on to a comparison with contemporary style—the crude sledge-hammer operation of the gutter press, the dogged nature of investigative journalism, its sobriety, the absence of any élan. And then the tidbit to make the point that even in the day
of investigative journalism things slip through the net—potential political dramas. For herein lies the crux of the whole piece—the nugget of information, in what is almost a throw-away aside, that will be the whole reason that the features editor will light upon this otherwise unprovocative article: “A letter in my possession serves up a nice instance of a choice item thus undetected . . .”

“This should set the cat among the pigeons, Rose. To the Features Editor of
The Sunday Times
, please, with the covering letter from me—handwritten, I don’t know the man, but a personal note always looks well.”

But
The
Sunday Times
was not receptive. Nor was the rejection letter in any way personal. Henry was annoyed—offended, indeed. “One does wonder if it landed on the right desk. Well,
The
Sunday Telegraph
may well have been a better choice in any case.”

The
Telegraph
was equally swift to make clear its lack of interest, as was
The Observer
. Henry was now tight-lipped, wounded rather than outraged. “The fact of the matter is, Rose, that these people don’t know one’s name—one’s reputation. I’ve mentioned the forthcoming memoirs each time, so you would think . . . Or are they so young that they’ve never heard of Harold Wilson’s government?” A mirthless laugh.

Rose had come to dread the sight of those long white envelopes. She shook her head and tutted.

Henry picked up the sheets of paper and put them into a drawer in his desk. “Thank you for your efforts, Rose. We shall have to put this down to experience. One will need to think very carefully when settling on a publisher for the memoirs—some firm with senior, knowledgeable editors. Coffee, Rose, could you?”

She went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Oh dear. Poor old boy. She felt a frisson of pity, and was surprised at herself.

Henry reviewed the situation. Evidently a thirty-year-old political scandal that got away was of no concern—at least not in the eyes of the sort of Johnny-come-lately who ran newspapers today. Time was, journalists were more astute. All right, so that was not the way to attract a bit of attention, restore one’s name.

He thought again about a scholarly article. Something not necessarily of generous length, but shrewd, succinct, throwing new light on a neglected part of the eighteenth century.

On what aspect?

He thought. He did some desultory reading. He got out old notes. And, somewhere far away and untouchable, the eighteenth century sneered at him.

No. One’s best work in that area is over and done with—better to face up to that. Archival work is for younger men.

That evening Henry switched on the television. Apart from the news, there were hardly any programs that he watched, except for a furtive interest in costume drama, but he had become mildly addicted to the current series on medieval monarchs. A personable young historian addressed the camera with fiery enthusiasm, scrambled up castle ramparts, strode over the sites of battlefields. Henry could have done without the interludes of enacted coronations, feasts and jousts, and retained a slightly patrician disdain about the whole thing—he had never been able to see the attraction of medieval studies, merely a warm-up to the time when history really gets off the ground—but nevertheless he found himself watching with interest. This young chap was quite compelling, if somewhat unscholarly in appearance (though the credits listed him as Fellow of a prestigious Cambridge college).

When the program was over, Henry poured himself another glass of claret, and reflected. Television programs are watched by millions of people—even programs about history. Books about history are read by thousands—or not even that, in many cases. Television is of course for the masses, but a program of this kind is for the more discerning elements of the masses. Henry has seen other such programs, in which other loquacious younger academics held forth; he had watched with a certain detachment—populist stuff, not to be taken seriously.

On the other hand . . . Could one be wrong about this? Long ago, Henry had himself appeared on television. But that was back when it was acceptable for an academic simply to address the camera, at length. A kind of filmed lecture. He seemed to remember that portraits of
Walpole and George II had been shown at some point, but there had been no nonsense about striding around the landscape, or people in fancy dress. Once that kind of program was defunct, Henry had dismissed the medium, insofar as serious discussion of history was concerned. Now, he found himself reconsidering. Is it not an obligation on the scholar to transmit to the widest possible audience? To enlighten as many as possible, to invite even the uninformed to consider the past, to listen to history? The more Henry thought, the more he revised his former contempt for this medium. Books and articles can address the few; a privileged number have access to the lecture and the seminar. But in a democratic society something further is required, and television has supplied this need; one had been misguided not to have realized this before, not to have made oneself available.

Well, it was not too late. By no means. Indeed, thought Henry, the fact that he was
not
some young sprog in jeans and a sweater could be a positive asset. Age would lend gravitas, authority. He would not be doing the scrambling around hillsides and sprinting up ramparts, but ramparts were a dead duck by the eighteenth century, anyway; no—a wander round Blenheim, maybe, and a stroll through the grounds of Rousham, talking about the picturesque. And then of course a session in the Soane Museum, discussing the Hogarths. One would have to try to veto those dramatized sequences that were apparently de rigueur—all too easy to imagine the kind of vulgarities that would be dreamed up when it came to dramatizing a bit of Hogarth or Gillray. No, the style would be elegant, restrained, purposeful—the object, to inform and entertain. Back to Reithian principles, in fact, which seemed so often forgotten in the present climate of broadcasting. One had of course known Reith quite well, way back.

When Rose arrived the next morning Henry was busy making notes. “Ah, Rose. Something for you to type up later—some memoranda about a new project. I’m planning to make a television series—half a dozen one-hour programs, I envisage, on aspects of the eighteenth century. One has vastly underestimated television, I’ve come to realize. Time to put that right, eh?”

She hadn’t seen him in such a good mood for a while. She tried to assume an expression of polite enthusiasm. He hasn’t got a clue, she thought. Well, nor have I, but I’ve a pretty good idea that you don’t just decide to make a TV series and bingo! you’re off. Even if you’re his lordship.

“I must admit that this is not a world in which I have many contacts,” said Henry. “None, indeed. One has not paid much attention to broadcasting lately. But it’s presumably just a question of having a word with some key people. Oh—and Rose, I’ve been trying to get hold of my niece but there’s always that maddening voice saying she’s not available. Could you persist, and ask her if she’ll come to lunch on Saturday?”

Marion was finding the Harrington project a shot in the arm. The agreed budget was generous, she had a free hand, on the whole, within a general brief of “traditional, nothing too recherché but a few interesting surprises would not go amiss.” In other words, do what you like, but don’t frighten the horses. The flat was spacious, flooded with light from high windows, plenty of room for a dining-room as well as a lavish kitchen, two en suite bedrooms, huge sitting-room. The ultimate place for a picky foreign financier or diplomat.

She wandered around amid the dust and rubble—the plumbing and electrics were going in, to her specification, and some supervision was needed. She was having to spend quite a lot of time here. Clipboard in hand, she made notes about possible color combinations, thumbed through sheafs of Farrow & Ball, broke off to have a word with the electrician. Her mobile rang and she glanced at the screen: Uncle Henry, yet again—he would have to wait.

As would Jeremy. A missed call from him also. The Jeremy situation was a problem—though in many ways a self-inflicted one, as Marion realized. Did she want to carry on with this affair, or not? No sooner had she decided that no, she really must pull out, she must explain that honestly things weren’t going anywhere, and didn’t he
agree, than she would find herself susceptible once more to that charm, that absence of guile, that rather touching vulnerability. And they would be back in the little French bistro they so liked, and back in bed.

Marion knew that she was pretty self-sufficient, and was proud of this. Her marriage had been troubled, and eventually a burden; it was a relief to have laid it to rest, a while ago now. She had never been looking for a repeat performance. Occasional passing relationships were quite fun, and she had never wanted children. Sooner or later, she would have to make the position clear to Jeremy, but sooner kept becoming later, and after all there was no harm in coasting along like this for a while, and the man was in such a stew about the tedious Stella and his money worries.

Her own, she felt, were on hold for the moment, thanks to George Harrington, and the flat. He had made a payment up front for the first few weeks which would tide her over nicely, and he would be topping up on a regular basis. No other client of any significance had turned up—recession still biting away, it would seem—but she need not feel too bothered about this just yet.

The electrician was offering a mug of tea. He and the plumber had established squatters’ rights, where essentials were concerned. Both were Poles—brothers—and had come into Marion’s life when she realized that their quotes far undercut the firm with which she had previously worked. Both were amazingly quick to latch on to the latest requirements by way of uplighters and wet rooms. Their English was minimal, and consisted mainly of trade terms: polyfilla, halogen light, power shower, double socket. Their seventeen-year-old nephew, raised and schooled in Ealing, acted as interpreter. “If you have any trouble with them,” he told Marion during the briefing visit, “just call me—here’s my mobile number.” She had asked him if he planned to go into the building trade himself. He had smiled; no, the idea was a career in the City, finance of some kind.

She sat on a box of tiles in a shaft of sunlight, drinking the tea and enjoying a moment of relaxation. One scuttled too much, had been scuttling for years, catering for the whims of rich people. For Marion’s
mother, who had never worked, a busy day meant a trip to the hairdresser and lunch with a friend. And Marion would not have wanted to live like
that
, but even so, a bit more pure leisure would not come amiss. That was the trouble with running your own business—there were no office hours, you never really knocked off. You found yourself going over accounts after supper; you spent weekends sourcing stuff. Oh, you did it because it was what you enjoyed doing, but you were seldom able to shed the whole thing, forget about it. A business has to be driven, serviced, and if you are the sole driver and server it has you in a stranglehold. And no business, no income; no home, no food on the table.

So a moment in the sun with a mug of tea was to be relished. She would make no phone calls, no further notes, simply sit for a while and consider whether she could splurge on a new spring outfit, given this bit of money in the bank.

And then her mobile rang. Uncle Henry’s Rose this time. Damn. She’d have to take the call. “Yes, Rose?”

“Half a dozen programs, I think,” said Henry. “The overall title probably
The Augustan Age
—quite simple. But each of them homing in on a different aspect.”

Marion took another—small—mouthful of Corrie’s cottage pie. “Yes, I see.” Except that I don’t. Uncle Henry as Simon Schama? I don’t think so.

“One will use all the prime sites, of course. Or locations—isn’t that the term? Blenheim, Chatsworth, Dr. Johnson’s house. A fascinating prospect. I will allow you to take me to a good tailor for a new suit—one must dress the part.” He laughed indulgently.

“The thing is,” said Marion, “I just wonder if . . .”

“I see it as thematic rather than chronological. Though one will of course try to get across the momentum of the century. An entire program on industrial developments—much as one rather dislikes the north of this country. But the canals would make a nice setting—one could be filmed talking from a narrow boat.”

“I’m just a bit doubtful as to how . . .”

“So where you come in, my dear, is to sort out some key person I should be getting in touch with. I’m not particularly
au fait
with that world, and you have so many contacts all over the place, don’t you? You are always telling me about your prominent clients.”