Men of Good Value by Christopher Priest

I STOOD near the edge of the cliff, adopting what I hoped would appear to a casual onlooker to be a literary posture. I had one foot braced against a low rock protruding from the turf, and the other leg straight behind me. My arms were folded and I frowned down intensely, watching the sea breaking white against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. There was, as far as I knew, no one around, but in solitude one often imagines an unseen watcher and hopes to project an image of oneself for that person. I was intending by my stance to surround myself with an aura of profundity and creativity, dreaming unimaginable dreams while communing with nature. In fact, my feet were damp and I was feeling cold, and I was about to return to the village for a beer or two before lunch.

The coastline at this point was not spectacular in its beauty, but it had for me the merits of wildness and ruggedness. The only sign of habitation, provided I did not look back towards the village, was the coastguard's look-out post, still flying its warning flag for the storm of the day before.

The loneliness suited me; I had come on an impulse to this village for a week's winter holiday, responding to an overwhelming desire to get away from London long enough to remind myself that there were still parts of England that weren't overcrowded. The summer tourist season was still several weeks away, and as far as I knew I was the only visitor at the moment.

The village was one I had discovered the previous summer. It was situated at the southernmost end of a rea--one of those uniquely Cornish river-mouths that are half-way between inlet and estuary--and was sheltered from the south-westerly winds by the bulk of cliff that lay between it and the sea.

On the opposite bank of the river was a small town; both communities were supported by a china-clay port a mile or two up-river. In London we would have referred to the village as a dormitory suburb of the town, for there was virtually nothing there apart from the houses, two pubs and a tiny hotel. All the usual services--banks, shops, post-office, a cinema--were in the town across the water. The only means of transport between the two was a small passenger-ferry which, weather permitting, crossed at twenty-minute intervals all through the day. Further up the river, near the china-clay depot, there was a car-ferry, but to reach it from the village entailed, because of the many inlets and hills around, a drive across-country of some four or five miles.

I enjoyed living in the village, if only temporarily. It was genuinely isolated, and although it was in no way picturesque or Cornish-cute, it had a distinctly amenable atmosphere. Furthermore, unlike other parts of the West Country it was a thriving community in its own right; the port was always busy, and people lived and worked here.

Done with my literary posturing for the day, I walked back over the crest of the hill, and went down through the narrow streets towards the pub by the quay.

As I reached the bottom of the hill, where there is a steep, curving approach to the quayside, a man of about my own age came down the hill from the opposite direction. I guessed immediately that he was not a local man; his clothes and his hair were as out of place as mine. As he walked towards me our glances met briefly, and for a moment there was that indefinable sense of recognition that occasionally passes between strangers. We both turned towards the quay, and I surmized that we had seen in each other's appearance the ineradicable mark of London living, and only that.

However, after a few more seconds he came over to me.

'I know you,' he said. 'We've met before.'

I stared at him for a moment. His face was not unfamiliar.

'You're... in television, aren't you?' I said.

'That's it. Frank. Frank Mattinson.' He extended his hand, and we shook warmly. His name still meant nothing to me, and clearly he did not know mine. 'You're ... let me see. Don't tell me. Science fiction ... something to do with that?'

That's right. I'm a writer.'

'Clive! Clive ...'

'Chris Priest,' I said.

'Chris! Of course. What the hell are you doing here?'

'Just a holiday,' I said.

'Perfect!'

We walked on down towards the quay.

As we spoke, my memory had placed him. About three years before, Frank Mattinson had telephoned me. He had obtained my phone number from my publishers, and was trying to put together an item about SF for one of the late-night current-affairs programmes. As I was the only person he could locate, he wanted me to ring round to everyone I could think of and muster support and provide him with a studioful of SF-writers debating something or other. This I'd done--there'd been a small research-fee offered--and eventually an interview had been taped. It was never broadcast as far as I know, and that had been an end to it. I'd met Frank just once at that time, and the only thing I could now remember about him was that he had bought me a salad in the studio canteen at Hammersmith.

'I was just going for a drink,' I said, nodding towards The Lugger.

'Let me get you one.'

Inside it was warm and stuffy. I found an empty table near the fire, and in a moment Frank came over with two pints of bitter and two pasties.

'Stroke of luck meeting you here,' he said. 'You're just the man we want.'

'How's that?'I said.

'Never forgotten that science fiction programme. Good value. One of the best we ever did. Like to do some more of that. Listen, I read one of your books recently.'

'Oh yes?' I said, having followed the cause-and-effect of his words with considerable interest. Dramatization offer coming up?

'Always have been a sci-fi fan myself. Can't get enough of it. You say you're on holiday down here?'

'Just a short break,' I said, disappointed with the way the conversation had suddenly changed direction again. 'I needed some fresh air.'

'You wouldn't give us a few minutes of your time, and let us film you?'

'Doing what?' I said.

'Just answering a few questions. We're filming in the town. Stroke of luck meeting you.'

'I've never been on television,' I said uncertainly. 'I'm not sure I'd have anything to say. Is the programme about SF?'

'About what?'

'Science fiction.'

'Oh ... of course not. It's a documentary about tourism.'

I said: 'I can't honestly think I'd have anything to say about that...'

'You'll think of something. You've got opinions, haven't you?'

'Yes, but-'

'You're ideal. Lots of personality, a solid reputation, local figure.'

'Frank, I don't live here.'

'Never mind. You're here and we can use you. Good value, sci-fi. All bloody locals down here, don't speak a word of English. Drink up. We're shooting this afternoon.'

My pasty was going cold, so I diverted my attention to this instead. Meanwhile, Frank continued with his appraisal of my abilities.

'We need someone articulate,' he said. 'Can't do much with the locals. Anyway, they all live here. We want the opinion of someone who can see the place objectively. A typical tourist, if you like. We were planning to stop one of the grockle cars coming off the car-ferry, but you're much better. Famous sci-fi writer, and all that.'

'I've had a couple of books published. That doesn't make me famous.'

'Yes it does. Look, come on over and meet the others. Then you can make your mind up.'

Frank took a large mouthful of pasty, and washed it down with beer.

'By the way,' I said. 'What's a grockle?'

'Local word for a tourist.'

'So you have spoken to local people?'

'One or two.'

* * * *

Much as I dislike boats--especially small ones in rough water--I had grown very fond of the ferry. Its tireless chugging from one side of the river to the other was a prosaic journey, and yet each trip I took seemed different from all the others. Perhaps to the locals it was as humdrum as London Transport was to me; I enjoyed, though, the mild sensation of adventure. After all, Underground trains rarely seem in much danger of capsizing in a hundred feet of cold water.

As Frank and I boarded the tiny cabin-cruiser, his flow of chatter ceased for a moment. Then, when the boat was in mid-river, he said: 'By the way, how do you feel about sex on television?'

'Not much room for it,' I said. 'Not for two, anyway.'

He laughed uproariously at my feeble joke, and I concluded that a few days in the West Country must have softened his wit.

'Very good. But seriously CI... I mean, Chris, do you find sex on television offensive?'

'I don't watch much television,' I admitted. 'I sent the set back last year when the government prohibited colour transmissions.'

'Yes, we lost a lot of viewers then. But you must see it occasionally. Suppose there's a play on, and someone appears in the nude ... would you feel like ringing up to complain?'

'Not at all,' I said. 'I'm against any form of censorship.'

'Yes, yes. Of course. But wouldn't you agree that excessive sex is offensive?'

'Almost anything taken to excess is offensive,' I said, painfully aware of the fact that the other passengers on the ferry must have been overhearing our conversation.

'That's fine. I'm glad we agree. How about politics? Never mind about television ... do you think the government is doing a good job?'

'I suppose so,' I said. 'I didn't vote for them.'

He looked at me with renewed interest. 'Then you would describe yourself as being against the government?'

I said: 'At the last election I didn't know what to do, so I voted Liberal. Or at least I think I did. I got the names mixed up.'

'But that book of yours I read was politically committed. The one advocating racialism.'

I winced, and hoped no one on the boat had heard that.

'If it's the one I think you mean, it didn't exactly advocate it,' I said, but not confidently.

'Yes it did. It was a fine call to arms for all right-thinking men. At least,' and he lowered his voice unexpectedly, 'it would be as well, when you meet Patrick, to bear that in mind.'

'Who's Patrick?'

'The producer of the documentary.'

As the ferry bumped against the town jetty, I said: 'Are you sure this film's about tourism, Frank?'

'Of course ... what else goes on in this Godforsaken hole?'

'You've made me wonder,' I said.

* * * *

Tourism, I reflected as we walked along the street from the jetty, was not a subject I had given much thought to. I wondered if, when put to the test in front of Frank's camera, I'd have anything at all to say.

I suddenly remembered a notion I had once had for a short story. It concerned an observation I had made that, almost without exception, foreign tourists were exceedingly ugly. I had never written the story, mainly because having made that observation--one which, incidentally, can be borne out by random sampling--I couldn't see a plot developing from it. And I didn't think Frank would be much interested in this either.

'Down here,' Frank said, leading the way along a narrow alley which went back down the hill in the direction of the river.

It opened out after a few yards into a small and pleasant square, against one side of which was the back of a building I recognized as the town hall, and on the opposite side of which was a pub. The far side of the square abutted on to the waterfront; here there was a narrow road, and beyond this a concrete pedestrian promenade, stretching in one direction towards the jetty, and in the other towards the pier where in the summer months, motor-boats could be hired.

Several tall arc-lamps had been erected in the square, and a young man stood by the opened rear doors of a van, connecting up a complicated piece of switching gear. Inside the van I could see several pieces of equipment, and a diesel generator.

Frank led me towards the door to the saloon-bar, on which someone had pinned a printed notice saying: Television Personnel Only.

A girl was sitting by herself at a table near the door. While Frank spoke to her, I appraised her quickly. She looked nice.

'Is Pat here?' said Frank.

'Round the corner in the other bar.' She glanced briefly at me. 'Who's this?'

'This is...'

'Chris,' I said.

'Chris. He's a famous author. He wants to take part in the film. Chris... meet Tina.'

We shook hands, and she gave me a pleasant smile; indeed, it was the sunniest part of the day so far. Before I could say anything to her, Frank moved off. I let go of Tina's hand and followed him with a reluctance tempered by curiosity.

'Pat,' said Frank, when we reached the other bar. 'Look who I've found. Chris Priest. He writes sci-fi.'

Patrick was a balding, red-faced man in his middle years. He sat awkwardly on a bar-stool, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, but with his feet resting on one of the rungs of the stool so that his large buttocks bulged over the back edge of the seat. He had a glass of scotch on the counter in front of him, and as we arrived he had been talking to a man sitting beside him. As Frank spoke to him, he looked up in my direction, and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He was clearly rather drunk.

'Hi, Chris,' he said. 'What are you drinking?'

'I'll have a small scotch, please.'

'Double scotch for my guest,' Patrick said to the barmaid, then turned back to me. 'Frank's briefed you, I suppose. We want good, hard-hitting stuff. Don't pull any punches ... go over the top if you like. We can always take it out later if it's too strong.'

'Chris has written a book about racialism,' said Frank.

'Pro or anti?'

I opened my mouth. Frank said quickly: 'Pro.'

'Good man. Just the stuff. Don't overdo it, just keep hinting at it. You can play up the anti-promiscuity message for all you're worth, though.'

'Promiscuity?'

'Yeah ... you know. Girl tourists sleeping around, nude swimming. That kind of disgusting behaviour.'

I found mention of the word 'tourists' reassuring; I was by now convinced that I had, after all, misheard Frank in the first place.

'You want me to talk about promiscuous tourists?' I said.

'I want you to attack promiscuous tourists!' said Patrick. He swallowed the dregs of his drink, and banged the glass on the counter to attract the barmaid's attention. 'No ... correct that. I'm not supposed to tell you what to say. Free speech, and all that. I'll leave it to you.'

'We could let Chris see the transcripts of yesterday's interviews,' said Frank.

There was a pile of notes on the bar, somewhat sodden with spilt drink, and Patrick riffled clumsily through them.

'They're here somewhere,' he said. 'Never mind. We had the woman who runs the local watch-committee. Good value. She came down heavily on drug-pushers, how they infest the West Country during the summer. Said how she formed a local vigilante squad to keep them out of the town. That tied in nicely with some library footage we've got, of hippies on the beach at Torquay. A few years back, mind, but no one will ever know. Then we asked her about her views on unmarried couples who take holidays together. Might have to cut some of her answer, but we've got enough. Good strong stuff about pre-marital sex causing VD. Tell you what, Chris ... how do you feel about foreigners invading our native shores?'

'Foreign tourists?' I said.

'That's it. They come swarming over here in the summer. The locals don't like them ... all the French kids getting drunk on wine and smoking those strong cigarettes. Not British... you with me?'

'I rather like the French,' I said.

'OK ... say what you like. We can always add emphasis with a few cut-aways while you're talking.'

Abruptly, he seemed to lose interest, and turned back to the man sitting beside him.

'Another drink?' Frank said to me.

'No thanks. I haven't finished this one yet.'

Frank said in a confidential voice: 'If I were you, Chris, I'd stick to what I know best. You're good on racialism, talk about that.'

'I think I'd rather not.' I finished my scotch, and put the glass down on the counter. 'Let's face it, Frank, I can't offer you much. I'm not sure I'd say what you want to hear. Thanks for the drink.'

I edged towards the door, but Frank followed quickly.

'Hey, you can't run out on us. You're the very man we want for this.'

'It's not my thing,' I said. 'I don't want to be seen on television talking about pre-marital sex with French drug-peddlers. I thought the film was about tourism.'

Behind us I heard Patrick banging his glass again for attention.

Frank looked at me thoughtfully. 'It's a bit strong for you, is it? OK, I understand. Sometimes we find people who aren't too happy with the way we work. But listen ... I've got one more idea. Have you heard that there's a scheme here to build an entertainments complex? Bingo, ten-pin bowling, cabaret, discotheque... all that kind of thing under one vast roof.'

'The programme's going to be about that?' I said.

'Only in part. Can't dwell on it too much. Quite a few local people are against it.'

'So the film is going to debate the issue?'

'Debate's the wrong word ... that implies two points of view. No, we're all for it... we want to portray this resort as a clean, family place. No drugs, no hippies, no foreign tourists... just good old Anglo-Saxon John Bull and his wife and kids.'

'I thought television was supposed to be impartial,' I said.

'You're living in the past, Chris.'

* * * *

Just then the barmaid called Frank to the bar, and told him he was wanted on the telephone. Patrick and the other man were still talking, laughing and nudging each other. The only other person in the bar was Tina, so I went over to her.

'Are you really famous?' she said.

'Only for not paying my bills. What about you... are you with this lot?'

'I suppose so. It's unofficial because I'm not in the union, but Patrick got me the job of continuity. It's hell getting jobs in television these days.'

I sat down next to her.

'What's going on here?' I said. 'Frank told me this was a film about tourism, but all Pat wants me to talk about is fascism.'

She grinned at me. 'He's good at that. It's how he made his reputation. When Pat's drunk enough he can make a right-wing film about any subject under the sun.'

I said: 'Are you a... friend of Patrick's?'

She looked away from me. 'Not really. He thinks he's a friend of mine. I just wanted a job. I keep him at arm's length.'

'Glad to hear it. Like another drink?'

'No thanks. We'll be shooting soon. Are you going to do an interview?'

'I'm not sure. I was just about to leave. Frank was trying to make me stay.'

'Why don't you?' she said. 'You wouldn't have to do much. If it goes against the grain don't answer the questions the way they want you to. Just say whatever you believe in, and if it's no good they won't use it. If they do decide to use the interview, anything you say will be distorted by the film-editor anyway to fit the message.'

'How's that?'

'Have you read Pudovkin?'

'No, but I've heard of him. The film-maker.'

'Right. He's one of Pat's heroes. I had to read one of his books before Pat got me the job. Pudovkin was the first man to discover that a film can have its meaning changed by showing the same shots in a different order. If it's done subtly enough, film can be used as a medium to support any political viewpoint.'

I said: 'So whatever I say on the film, with a bit of careful editing Patrick can make me sound fascist.'

'Right.'

'So in effect I can say whatever I like?'

'Yes. Will you do it?'

'Is it worth it?' I said.

'You won't get a fee.'

'I didn't mean that,' I said.

She nodded then, and it was worth it.

* * * *

I was wandering around the square, looking at a clipboard of notes Tina had lent me, when Patrick came out of the bar. He stood at the door for a few moments, swaying slightly and blinking in the comparative brightness of daylight. The glare was indeed comparative, for in the last few minutes a heavy bank of cloud had swept in from the sea and a downpour of rain seemed unavoidable.

One of the crew had been sitting in the driver's cab of the van, keeping warm by running the engine with the heater on. As he saw Patrick, though, he climbed out and went round to him.

'The generator's gone on the blink, Pat,' he said.

'Completely?' Pat turned unsteadily towards him.

'Yes... and we can't use the mains either.'

'We'll use available light. Only a shot or two to do. Tina!'

Tina appeared from inside the pub, pulling the hood of her duffel-coat over her head. The wind had stiffened, and was gusting around the square.

'Are there any available-light shots we can do from here?'

She took the clipboard from me. 'Only a few establishing shots of the river.'

'Too dark for that,' Patrick said immediately.

'What about me?' I said, moving forward. Patrick stared at me for a moment, and I gained the distinct impression that he had forgotten who I was.

'Not today,' he said, eventually. 'We need Ted for that.' He turned away and walked slowly over to where the camera-operator was pulling a large polythene cover over his camera.

'Who's Ted?' I said to Tina.

'Ted Lumley. He's the reporter, the man the viewers see on the film actually asking the questions. He's had to go back to the Plymouth studios today because they're re-dubbing the last film.'

'And changing the order of the shots?' I said.

She winked at me. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Frank Mattinson gave me the impression he wanted me to be interviewed now.'

'That's typical of him,' Tina said.

'Then there's no point me hanging around.'

'I wouldn't say that,' she said.

This seemed to be a further promising development, but just at that moment Patrick came back and placed his arm expansively around Tina's shoulders.

'Too dark for shooting today. We'll start first thing in the morning.' He glanced at me. 'Sorry, can't fit you in. Frank says you want to talk about the entertainments complex. Great stuff. You know what to say ... we don't want the viewers to think there's any dissenting voice.'

They headed back into the bar, and at last I decided there really was no further point in hanging around.

* * * *

I stayed over in the town. I went first to a restaurant and had a meal, then caught the first house at the cinema. The film was one of those low-budget Westerns made in Spain or Italy, and I was totally unable to enjoy it; not because it was uninteresting, but because I couldn't get out of my head the image of a film-editor snipping away at the shots before the film reached the projector.

I left the cinema, and walked through the dark and deserted streets of the town. The wind was now blustery and cold, with rain stinging my face. I was quietly dreading the ferry across the river. The day before I had been confined in the village, as the gale had suspended all services; now the weather was rough enough to scare me stiff, but not so rough that the service would stop.

As I came to the top of the slope leading down to the jetty, I saw the boat heading away from the shore towards the village. Even there, in the lee of the bank, it seemed to me to be going up and down unpleasantly. I hunched my shoulders and thrust my hands deep into my pockets, resigned to a twenty-minute wait.

I walked slowly down the slope, and went into the concrete shelter. Tina was there, huddled inside her duffel-coat.

She said: 'You've missed the last boat. I heard them say it was getting too rough.'

'I've seen it rougher than this,' I said.

'It isn't coming back, Chris.'

I decided to believe her.

'I won't be able to get back to my hotel,' I said.

'I think I know a place you can stay.'

She slipped her hand into mine inside my pocket, and we walked back up into the town.

* * * *

For the sake of her job, Tina went down to breakfast five minutes before me, and when I joined her she was sitting at a table with Patrick and Frank. They seemed quite unsurprised to see me.

I was just finishing my kippers when a tall young man, smartly dressed in a dark suit, came over to the table, drew up a chair and sat down between Frank and myself.

Tina said quickly: 'Ted ... this is Chris Priest. He's going to take part in the film.'

'Got something to say about the new complex, haven't you?' said Frank.

'I--yes.'

'Wonderful development, don't you think?' said Ted.

'Absolutely,' I said. Tina was drinking her coffee, but she caught my eye over the edge of the cup and I knew she was smiling.

'I'm glad you're with us on this, Chris,' said Ted, his face beaming. 'We need a good strong opinion. Er ... you've no financial interest in the complex, I suppose?'

'Of course not,' I said.

'Pity ... It would make your case stronger if you had. Never mind, it's only a small part of the film.' He turned to Frank. 'I had another idea on the drive down here this morning. I gather some of the local fishermen are against this complex because they say the sewage from it is going to be pumped straight into the sea. They think it's going to harm the lobster beds.'

'That's right,' said Frank. 'There's an item in the local paper this week.'

'Good. Then why don't we work some kind of insinuation into the commentary? Something to the effect that the traditional Cornish pastime of smuggling is getting under way again? And that this would be more difficult with a huge increase of visitors to the town? Then if we get one of the fishermen to speak up against the complex we'll know his motives, won't we?'

Throughout all this Patrick had been silent. I didn't care for the thoughtful way in which he was staring at me, then glancing at Tina. There had, after all, been that tapping at Tina's bedroom door at about one in the morning, and she'd whispered that it was Patrick's nightly attempt ... but I wondered now how much he was beginning to connect in his mind.

Ted was saying: 'And I was thinking about the old biddy from the watch-committee. I thought perhaps while she's talking we could do a cut-away to someone prowling along a hotel corridor. Hint of promiscuous goings-on, don't you think?'

'Don't let's overdo it, Ted,' said Frank.

'We could always leave it out later if we don't like it. We could shoot it here, in this hotel. And look, couldn't Tina and this chap here' (me) 'do something that would-'

'Drop it, Ted,' Patrick said, sharply.

I poured myself some more coffee with considerable haste, spilling most of it into the saucer in the process.

'We don't want to overdo the visuals,' said Frank, carefully. 'After all, it wouldn't be right to give the impression that this is a fun town. I think Pat's right... we should play it straight. Let the words speak for themselves. Only if something needs underlining should we try to find a visual to fit it. That's how we've always worked.'

'OK,' said Ted, a little sulkily.

* * * *

I followed the others down to the square to pick up the van and the two cars. It had been decided that I would be interviewed on the site of the proposed entertainments complex: high on a rocky promontory overlooking the mouth of the river.

On the drive up (without any kind of stage-management, I found myself in the back of a car with Tina) I was trying to adjust my own understanding of this place to the distorted quasi-reality the television crew was trying to project.

I saw the town as a rather graceful pastoral community, mildly conservative, very insular. As a tourist resort, it was the sort of place people passed through as they came off the ferry; not the kind of seaside town where a married couple with kids would stay for a fortnight. I wondered how firm a proposal it was for this complex, and how much money was behind it, and whose. Would the National Trust--on whose land the complex was to be sited--stand for this kind of proposal for even one minute?

There was a long delay while the cameraman and his assistant set up the tripod and loaded the film-magazine on to the camera. The sound-recordist took a reading from my voice and set the level, and he and his assistant cursed at the amount of wind drumming against the microphone. In the background, Ted was going through the continuity-sheets with Tina, while Frank and Patrick sat together, sheltering from the wind in the back of the equipment van.

Finally, all was declared to be ready.

Ted came over and stood a disconcertingly short distance away from me, well inside my personal buffer zone. He took the microphone from the assistant sound-recordist, and held it out at chest-level between us.

'When you're ready, Chris,' he said, and I was reassured to see that he was sufficiently professional to realize I was quaking in my boots. 'Nothing to worry about. Just say what you feel, and if you muff it we can always edit it out later.'

I was too nervous even to ascribe an ulterior motive to his words.

Someone stepped in front of the camera and clacked a clapperboard (I hadn't realized that those things were actually used) and then-

'As a typical tourist,' said Ted in his television voice, 'how would you describe your reaction to an entertainments complex of the sort proposed?'

* * * *

Never mind what I said. That's between me and the film-editor. Suffice to say I ducked the issue.

* * * *

We drove back to the town, and parked the cars and the van in the square. As I climbed out of the car, the barmaid came out of the door of the pub.

'Mr. Mattinson!' she called. 'Mr. Mattinson, there's a call for you. Gentleman in London, he says he is.'

Beside me, Frank swore under his breath, then followed her into the saloon. Patrick climbed out of the other car, stretched his arms and yawned loudly, then ambled off towards the Gents. I went with Tina over to the riverside walk.

'I don't think I was very good,' I said.

'It doesn't matter. I didn't really want you involved with this anyway. Next week when we're cutting the film, I'll see if I can somehow lose the footage of you.'

'Make sure it's burnt, won't you?'

We watched an ore-carrier moving up the river towards the china-clay depot. It blew its siren three times, and we could hear the sound echoing off the low hills on either side of the river.

'Are you going to stay on here?' Tina said.

'I'll be in the village until the end of the week. What about you?'

'We've a couple more days yet.'

'Feel like a trip over on the ferry this evening?' I said, and she nodded.

Just then, Frank came hurrying out of the saloon.

'Pat? Where's Pat?'

'In the bog,' Ted said.

Patrick appeared, and at once Frank went over to him. 'They've re-scheduled us, Pat!'

'What?'

'The programme's been put back a week.'

'They can't do that!' Patrick said loudly. 'It's been fixed for months.'

'They've unfixed it,' said Frank. 'There's nothing we can do about it.'

'You're putting me on,' said Patrick.

Frank shook his head. 'I wouldn't joke about this, Pat.'

'Jesus Christ! I need a drink.'

He turned and walked into the bar, and Frank followed.

Beside me, Tina said: 'One week. That's awful.'

'So you've got a bit longer in which to shuffle your shots about,' I said.

'Don't you understand? It's the worst thing that could happen!'

'The best thing that could happen is that they postpone the thing indefinitely,' I said.

She smiled wanly. 'OK, you don't agree with the way Pat makes his films, but putting it back a week is a terrible thing to happen at this stage. We've almost finished shooting.'

'But it's only a week,' I said. 'The subject won't go cold.'

'Don't say you haven't heard of the Partiality Agreement?'

I stared at her blankly.

'It's the way television is programmed now,' she said. 'In the old days, everyone in television had to work to an unwritten code of impartiality. Well, they've dispensed with that now, because it was too much of a constraint. Everyone's got his own opinion, and it made the programmes very artificial if the man behind it had to bend over backwards to be fair. And people like politicians never believed that anyone could be unbiased anyway. So the television companies drew up the Partiality Agreement. Now everything that's broadcast is very right-wing and conservative one week; the following week, to maintain the balance, all the programmes are left-wing and radical. So you see-'

'So Pat's got to start from scratch!' I said.

'The whole film, all over again. He can't just give it a different emphasis ... it'll mean interviewing a whole new batch of people.'

I smiled at her. 'I can't wait to see what he makes of it.'

'I'd better go and talk to him,' Tina said. 'He'll be taking it very badly. He doesn't like having to be radical.'

'I'll buy you a drink,' I said.

Inside the pub, Pat was sitting morosely at the bar drinking what appeared to be a tumblerful of whisky. He ignored us.

I ordered a couple of drinks for Tina and myself, and we waited to see what was going to happen.

At the far end of the bar, Frank was on the telephone. Under the circumstances he looked remarkably optimistic.

'...Is Jeff there? he was saying. '...Jeff, Frank here. Listen, we've got a problem.... Oh, you've heard. I think we can handle it.... Yes, but we've got to start all over. Look, I want you to fix a few things for me ... Yes, by tomorrow. Have you got some paper there? I want you to make a list. ... Right. I want a full breakdown on who is behind this entertainments complex, and what the vested interests are. The angle on that's going to be exploitation by labour, spread of capitalism, and that stuff. And see if you can get a spokesman from the National Trust to talk to us.... Fine. And the usual statistics on pollution-levels. ... Yes, and a few more things. We'll be playing up the permissive stuff as usual, so get on to a model-agency and see if you can get half a dozen girls down here. Standard contract: nude bathing and orgy. OK? ... And we've found a sci-fi writer. Good value. See if you can turn something up on sci-fi. No one here knows what the hell he's talking about.... Yes, and another thing ...'

I swallowed the rest of my drink.

'Count me out,' I said to Tina. 'I've done my bit for partiality.'

'Frank will be terribly disappointed,' she said.

'But I don't think Pat will mind. You'll be on the ferry tonight?'

At least she knew what the hell I was talking about.

'If Pat gets as drunk as I think he will,' she said, 'I'll be on it this afternoon.'

'Good.'

I hurried from the bar before Frank could finish his phone-call.