Текст книги "What a cave up!"

Автор книги: Джонатан Коу

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

i) was she aware that, at the time of purchase, TMT was running up losses of $32 million a year?

ii) was she aware that her weekly flights to Hollywood, the purchase of her flat in Los Angeles, and the running expenses of her three company cars had all been cited as major contributing factors in the assessment, by independent management consultants Webster Hadfield, that the company’s costs were currently 40% too high?

iii) was she aware that her policy of purchasing low-cost drama from TMT, and then insisting that it be re-edited by the addition of previously deleted sequences (in order to expand the running time – often by as much as thirty minutes – and thereby increase the cost-effectiveness of the purchase) had significantly influenced the IBA’s recent judgment that the company was failing to meet acceptable quality thresholds?

iv) was the doubling of her salary to £210,000 p.a., agreed upon by the board in February 1982, a fair and accurate reflection of her increased workload since the acquisition of TMT?

Mr Gardner remarked at this point that he would have thought twice about accepting this job if he had known that he was joining a sinking ship, and asked whose idea it had been to employ this bloody woman in the first place.

Mr Fisher replied that Ms Winshaw had joined the company on the recommendation of Mr Alan Beamish, the distinguished producer, formerly of the BBC.

Mrs Rawson requested, on a point of order, that Ms Winshaw stop playing with the grapes as somebody might want to eat them and there was no longer scope for waste in any area of the company’s activities …

At 4.37 p.m. it was agreed by a vote of 11–1 that Ms Winshaw’s contract should be terminated forthwith, and that she should be compensated with a lump sum which took realistic account of the present state of the company finances.

The meeting adjourned at 4.41 p.m.

∗

From the Guardian, Diary, 26 November 1983

RAISED eyebrows all round at the news of Hilary Winshaw’s recent departure from–Television. It’s not so much the fact that she was ousted (most observers had been predicting that for some time) as the size of the pay-off: a cool £320,000, if rumours are to be believed. Not a bad reward for reducing this once-profitable outfit to a condition of near-bank-ruptcy in a couple of years.

Could such unprecedented generosity have anything to do with her cousin Thomas Winshaw, chairman of Stewards, the merchant bank which has a hefty stake in the company? And could it be true that the multi-talented Ms Winshaw is about to land herself a plum job as columnist on a certain daily newspaper whose proprietor also just happens to be one of Stewards’ most valuable clients? Watch, as they say, this space …

∗

Hilary’s reputation had preceded her, and she found that on her first day she did not receive much of a welcome from her new colleagues. Well, she thought: fuck them. She was only going to be coming in one or two days a week. If that.

She had her own desk with her name on it in a far corner of the open-plan office. All it contained, so far, was a typewriter and a pile of the day’s other newspapers. It had been decided that the title of her column would be PLAIN COMMON SENSE. She had to fill up most of a tabloid page, leading off with a longish opinionated piece and following it with two or three more personal, gossipy items.

It was March 1984. She picked up the first newspaper that came to hand and glanced over the headlines. Then, after a couple of minutes, she put it down and began to type.

Underneath the headline THE POLITICS OF GREED, she wrote:

Most of us, still tightening our belts in the wake of the recession, would agree that this is not the time to start banging on the government’s door and asking for more money.

And most of us, with images of the dreadful ‘Winter of Discontent’ still fresh in our minds, would agree that another wave of strikes is the last thing the country needs.

But we would have reckoned without neo-Marxist Arthur Scargill and his greedy National Union of Mineworkers.

Already Mr Scargill is threatening ‘industrial action’ – which of course meansinaction, in anybody else’s books – if he and his comrades aren’t showered with yet another round of pay rises and perks.

Well I say, Shame on you, Mr Scargill! Just when we are all pulling together to put this country back on its feet again, who are you to take us back into the Dark Ages of industrial unrest?

How dare you put selfish greed before the national interest!

Hilary looked at her watch. Her first piece had taken slightly less than twelve minutes to write: not bad for a beginner. She took it along to the deputy editor, who began by crossing out her headline, then slid the sheet of paper back across his desk after a few moments’ bored scrutiny.

‘They’re not asking for more money,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The miners. That’s not why they’re striking.’

Hilary’s brow puckered. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘But I thought all strikes were about asking for more money.’

‘Well, this one’s about pit closures. The NCB is planning to close twenty pits this year. They’re striking because they don’t want to lose their jobs.’

Still looking doubtful, Hilary picked up the piece of paper.

‘I suppose I might have to change one or two things, then.’

‘One or two.’

Back at her desk, she read through several of the newspapers more thoroughly. This took her nearly half an hour. Then, having mastered her brief, she typed out her second draft – this time, in just under seven and a half minutes.

THEY SAY that if there’s one thing the Scots know, it’s how to look after their money. And Ian McGregor, chairman of the National Coal Board, is, if nothing else, a shrewd auld Scot with a lifetime’s business experience behind him.

Mr Arthur Scargill, however, comes from quite a different background: a lifelong union agitator, a known Marxist and an all-round troublemaker with the glint of battle in his beady little eye.

So I put this question to you: which of these two figures would you rather trust with the future of the British mining industry?

For this is the point about the miners’ dispute. For all Mr Scargill’s scaremongering rhetoric about jobs, families and what he likes to call ‘the community’, the argument isn’t really about any of these things. It’s about efficiency. If something isn’t paying its way, you close it down. It’s one of the first – and simplest – lessons that any businessman learns.

Unfortunately Mr Scargill, bless him, doesn’t seem to have learned it yet.

Which is why, when it comes to the industry’s purse-strings, I for one would rather have canny Mr McGregor in control any day – the noo!

The deputy editor read it through twice and then looked up with the ghost of a smile.

He said: ‘I think you may turn out to be rather good at this.’

∗

Hilary’s appointment had been made against the better judgment of the editor, Peter Eaves, who for several weeks ignored her completely. One Monday evening, however, they both happened to be in the office at the same time. Hilary was writing up an interview with an old Cambridge friend, an actress who had just published a book about her collection of teddy bears, while Peter and his deputy were trying out various lay-outs for the next day’s front page. As she walked past on her way to the coffee machine, she stopped to take a critical glance.

‘That wouldn’t make me want to buy the paper,’ she said.

They took no notice.

‘I mean, it’s boring. Who wants to read another union story?’

News had just come in of a surprise verdict from the High Court. Back in March, the Foreign Secretary Geoffrey Howe had ordered civil servants at GCHQ in Cheltenham to give up their union membership, arguing that it presented a conflict with the national interest. The unions had tried to overturn the ban by bringing an action in the High Court, and today, much to everyone’s surprise, the judge had ruled in their favour. He said that the government’s actions had been ‘contrary to natural justice’. The provisional front page juxtaposed pictures of Mrs Thatcher and Mr Justice Glidewell, beneath the banner headline NOT NATURAL, and, in smaller type, ELATED STAFF HAIL LEGAL VICTORY.

‘I think you’ll find,’ said Peter, in measured tones, ‘that this is a major news story. Spare us your thoughts on the subject, will you?’

‘I’m serious,’ said Hilary. ‘Who wants to read about a bunch of civil servants and whether they can join a union or not? I mean, big deal. On top of that, why should we run a story that’s damaging to the government?’

‘I don’t care who we damage,’ said Peter, ‘as long as it sells papers.’

‘Well you’re not going to sell many like that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I can get you a better front page in twenty minutes. Maybe less.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll write it and give you the picture.’

Hilary went back to her desk and dialled the home number of her Cambridge friend. Among the subjects they had discussed after their interview was a mutual acquaintance – another actress – who had just given birth to her third child. Her body was no longer looking its best, but this had not prevented her, apparently, from doing nude scenes for a television film to be broadcast in a few months’ time. Hilary’s friend, who happened to be living with the film’s editor, had mentioned in passing that she had access to some of the footage, which made for interesting viewing.

‘Listen, be a darling, would you, and bike some stills over?’ said Hilary. ‘We’ll have a bit of fun.’

In the meantime she sat down and typed:

IT’S BOOBS AT TEN!

Saucy BBC bosses have got a raunchy treat in store for us this autumn, with a hot new play so sexy that it won’t be screened until well after the nine o’clock watershed.

The torrid drama stars–, whose three young children will certainly be in for a surprise when they see their Mum cavorting in an outrageous three-in-a-bed romp with American heartthrob–

It didn’t take long to make up the rest. Hilary’s story dominated the next day’s front page, with the High Court’s decision relegated to a small paragraph in the bottom corner.

Later that evening, Peter Eaves took her out to dinner.

∗

From ‘Jennifer’s Diary’, Harpers & Queen, December 1984

PRETTY WEDDING

On Saturday afternoon I went to St Paul’s, Knights-bridge, for the marriage of Peter Eaves, the well-known newspaper editor, to Hilary Winshaw, daughter of Mr and Mrs Mortimer Winshaw. The bride looked most attractive in a lovely parchment colour silk dress, with a pearl and diamond tiara holding her tulle veil in place. Her attendants wore very pretty peach silk dresses …

The reception was held at the Savoy hotel, and came to a most spectacular conclusion. The guests were all led out on to the riverside terrace, where the groom surprised his bride with a lovely present: her own private seaplane, a four-seater, tied up in an enormous pink ribbon. The happy couple stepped inside and took off along the Thames to start their honeymoon in tremendous style.

∗

So the government has published its White Paper on the future of television, and already those moaning minnies in the broadcasting establishment are up in arms!

They would have us believe that deregulation would bring us American-style television (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But the plain fact is that there’s one word which terrifies this posse of Hampstead liberals more than any other.

That word is ‘choice’.

And the reason they don’t like it? Because they know that, given the opportunity, very few of us would ‘choose’ to watch the dreary round of highbrow drama and leftwing agitprop that they would like to inflict on us.

When will these self-appointed nannies of the broadcasting mafia realize that what the British people want, at the end of the day, is a bit of relaxation and a bit of fun: not to be ‘educated’ by some bearded prig of a critic introducing three hours of one-legged mime from Bulgaria.

Roll on, deregulation, I say, if it means more power to the viewer’s elbow and more of our favourite shows with the likes of Brucie, Noel and Tarby.∗ (∗NB subs please check these names)

Meanwhile, next time you find that the only things on the telly are one of those boring documentaries about Peruvian peasants, or some incomprehensibly ‘arty’ film (with subtitles, of course), remember that there’s always one ‘choice’ they can’t take away from us.

The choice to reach for that ‘off’ button and head down to the nearest video store!

– ‘Plain Common Sense’, November 1988

∗

‘What the hell are you watching now?’

‘Bit late, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve been working, actually.’

‘Oh, spare me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are so fucking transparent, darling.’

‘What is this rubbish, anyway?’

‘I don’t know, some game show. One of those hearty, down-to-earth pieces of entertainment you’ve been extolling in your column lately.’

‘I don’t know how you can watch this crap. No wonder you’re so in tune with the brain-dead morons who read your paper. You’re not much better yourself.’

‘Do I detect a little post-coital tetchiness, by any chance?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘I don’t know why you keep shagging Nigel if it just puts you in a bad mood.’

‘It gives you a thrill to think that, does it?’

‘It gives everyone on the paper a thrill, I should imagine, since you’re not exactly discreet about it.’

‘Well, that’s just marvellous, coming from you. I suppose getting blow-jobs from a temp, in your own office – with the bloody door open – I suppose that counts as discretion, does it?’

‘Look, do me a favour, will you? Just fuck off and die.’

∗

From Hello! magazine, March 1990

HILARY WINSHAW AND SIR PETER EAVES

Husband-and-wife team are so happy with baby Josephine but ‘our love for each other didn’t need strengthening’

Maternal love shines out of Hilary Winshaw’s eyes as she lifts her giggling, one-month-old daughter Josephine high in the air in the conservatory of the happy couple’s lovely South Kensington home. They’ve waited a long time for their first child – Hilary and Sir Peter were married almost six years ago, when they met on the newspaper which he continues to edit and for which she still writes a popular weekly column – but, as Hilary told Hello! in this exclusive interview, Josephine was well worth waiting for!

Tell us, Hilary, how did you feel when you first saw your baby daughter?

Well, exhausted, for one thing! I suppose by most people’s standards it was an easy labour but I certainly don’t intend to go through it again in a hurry! But one glimpse of Josephine and it all seemed worthwhile. It was an amazing feeling.

Had you begun to despair of ever having a child?

One never quite gives up hope, I suppose. We’d never been to see doctors or anything, which was perhaps silly of us. But when you’re with someone who feels so right for you, when two people are as happy together as Peter and I have been, then you can’t help believing that your dream will come true in the end, no matter what. We’re both a bit starry-eyed that way.

And has Josephine brought you even closer together?

She has, yes, inevitably. I only hesitate to say this because to be honest with you I find it hard to see how we could have been closer. Our love for each other really didn’t need strengthening.

The baby seems to have your eyes, and I think I can even make out a bit of the Winshaw nose, there! Can you see much of Sir Peter in her?

Not yet, really, no. I think babies often grow into a resemblance with the parent. I’m sure that’s what will happen.

Does this mean you’ll have to take a break from your column for a while?

I don’t think so. Obviously I want to spend as much time with Josephine as possible – and, of course, Peter was able to offer me pretty good terms for maternity leave. It does help if your husband is also your boss! But I’d be loath to let my readers down. They’re so loyal, and they’ve all been so kind, sending cards and so on. It really restores your faith in people.

I must say, as an avid reader of the column, that it’s something of a surprise not to find the builders here!

I know – I do tend to go on about it, don’t I? But we’ve had to have such a lot done recently. This conservatory’s new, for instance, and so is the whole of the extension with the swimming-pool. It took even longer than expected because the neighbours were so beastly about it. They even took us to court over the noise, would you believe. Anyway they’ve moved now, so that’s all been amicably resolved.

And now I believe we’re about to discover yet another side to your talents.

Yes, I’m currently working on my first novel. Several publishers have been bidding for it and I’m pleased to say it’s coming out next spring.

Can you tell us about the subject?

Well actually I haven’t started writing it yet, but I know it’s going to be very exciting, with plenty of glamour and romance I hope. Of course the nicest thing is that I can write at home – we’ve put in this dear little study overlooking the garden – so I don’t have to be away from Josephine. Which is just as well, because right now I don’t think I could bear to be parted from her for a moment!

Hilary stared malevolently at her daughter, watching her face crumple as she gathered breath for another scream.

‘Now what’s the matter with it?’ she said.

‘Just wind, I think,’ said the nanny.

Hilary fanned herself with the menu.

‘Well can’t you take it outside for a while? It’s showing us up in front of everybody.’

Once they’d gone, she turned to her companion.

‘I’m sorry, Simon, you were saying?’

‘I was saying we must think of a title. A single word, preferably. Lust, or Revenge, or Desire, or something.’

‘Well, can’t we leave that to their marketing people? I’m going to have enough trouble writing the bloody thing.’

Simon nodded. He was a tall and handsome man whose slightly vague exterior masked a sharp business sense. He had come highly recommended: Hilary had chosen him to be her agent from a shortlist of seven or eight.

‘Look, I’m sorry the auction was a bit disappointing,’ he said. ‘But publishers are really playing safe at the moment. A few years ago six figures would have been no problem at all. Anyway, you didn’t do too badly. I read recently that the same people paid some new writer seven hundred and fifty quid for his first novel.’

‘Couldn’t you have pushed a little bit harder, though?’

‘There was no point. Once they’d gone up to eighty-five thousand they weren’t going to budge. I could tell.’

‘Oh well. I’m sure you did your best.’

They ordered oysters followed by fresh lobster. Just as the waitress was leaving, Simon said: ‘Shouldn’t we order something for – what’s her name – Maria?’

‘Who?’

‘Your nanny.’

‘Oh, yes. I suppose we should.’

Hilary called the waitress back and ordered a hamburger.

‘What does Josephine eat?’ asked Simon.

‘Oh, some vile muck you have to get in little bottles from the supermarket. It goes in one end and comes out of the other about ten minutes later looking exactly the same. It really is the most disgusting business. And it screams all the time. Honestly, if I’mever going to get this book started, I’m going to have to go away for a few weeks. I don’t mind where – maybe Bali again, or one of the Barrier Reef islands – any old dump, really. But I can’t get athing done with that blasted baby around. Honestly, I just can’t.’

Simon laid a sympathetic hand on her arm.

Over coffee, he said: ‘Once you’ve got this novel under your belt, why not do a book about motherhood? Terribly popular these days.’

∗

Hilary disliked most women, regarding them as competitors rather than allies, and so she always felt at home in the Heartland Club, the stodgy, calcified and male-dominated establishment where her cousin Henry liked to conduct most of his informal business.

Henry had broken with the Labour Party shortly before the second general election of 1974, and although he had never officially joined the Conservatives, he had, throughout the 1980s, been among their most loyal and outspoken supporters. During this period he became a familiar public figure, his bushy white hair and bulldog features (always rendered a little rakish by a trademark spotted bow-tie) forever cropping up on television discussion programmes, where he would take full advantage of his freedom from party loyalties by slavishly toeing the line of whichever cynical new shift in policy the present administration happened to be trying out at the time. It was partly for these appearances, but also – and more importantly – for the decade of legwork he had put in on a succession of policy-making committees, that he was rewarded with a peerage in the 1990 honours’ list. The notepaper upon which Hilary had been summoned to her latest audience was proudly headed with his new title: Lord Winshaw of Micklethorpe.

‘Ever think of going back into television?’ he asked her, pouring two brandies from a crystal decanter.

‘Of course, I’d love to,’ said Hilary. ‘I was bloody good at it, apart from anything else.’

‘Well, I hear there’s a vacancy coming up soon at one of the ITV companies. I’ll look into it for you, if you like.’

‘In return for which …?’ said Hilary archly, as they sat down on opposite sides of the empty fireplace. It was a hot evening in late July.

‘Oh, nothing much. We just wondered if you and your fellow scribes could start putting a bit more heat on the BBC. There’s a general feeling that they’ve gone way out of control.’

‘What did you have in mind: features? Or just the column?’

‘A bit of both, I would have thought. I really think that something pretty urgent has to be done, because as you know the situation now is completely unacceptable. The place is overrun with Marxists. They’re making absolutely no secret of it. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Nine O’clock News recently, but there’s no longer even a pretence of impartiality. Particularly on the Health Service: the way they’ve reported our reforms has been deplorable. Quite deplorable. There are homes up and down the country which are being invaded – quite literally invaded every night – by a torrent of anti-government lies and propaganda. It’s intolerable.’ He raised a brandy glass to his bilious face and took a lengthy gulp, which seemed to cheer him up. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘the PM loved your front page on Tuesday.’

‘What, LOONY LABOUR LESBIANS BAN KIDS’ CLASSICS?’

‘That’s the one. Laughed like a drain, she did. God knows, we all need a bit of light relief these days.’ His face clouded over again. ‘There’s talk of another leadership challenge, you know. Heseltine might make his move. Madness. Utter madness.’

‘This vacancy you were talking about …’ Hilary prompted.

‘Oh, that.’ Henry mentioned the name of one of the larger independent companies. ‘You know there’s been a reshuffle there and they’ve got a new MD. Luckily we were able to get one of our own men in. Comes from a financial background, so not only is he good with figures but best of all he knows absolutely sweet FA about the business. One of his first jobs is going to be to get rid of that clapped-out old pinko Beamish.’

‘So they’ll be looking for a new head of current affairs.’

‘Absolutely.’

Hilary digested this news.

‘He gave me my first break, you know. Back in the mid seventies.’

‘Quite.’ Henry drained his glass and reached for the decanter. ‘But then not even your worst enemies,’ he said drily, ‘could accuse you of being the sentimental type.’

∗

When Hilary turned up for her meeting with Alan Beamish she was shown – as arranged – not into his office but into an impersonal interview room with a view over the main entrance.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘It’s a blasted nuisance. They’re repainting my ceiling, or something. I wouldn’t mind but I was only told about it this morning. Can I get you a coffee?’

He hadn’t changed much. His hair may have been greyer, his movements slower, and his resemblance to an elderly parish priest even more pronounced: but otherwise, it seemed to Hilary that the dreadful evening he had inflicted on her during that long school holiday might have been yesterday rather than twenty years ago.

‘I was more than a little surprised to get your call,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I don’t really see that you and I have got very much to discuss.’

‘Well, for instance: I might have come to ask you to apologize for calling me a barbarian in your little diatribe for theIndependent.’

Alan had recently published an article about the decline of public service broadcasting called ‘The Barbarians at the Gate’, in which Hilary had been held up (rather to her delight, it must be said) as an example of everything he hated about the present cultural climate.

‘I meant every word,’ he said. ‘And you know very well that you give as good as you get. You’ve devoted plenty of column inches to attacking me over the years – as a type, if not by name.’

‘Do you ever regret giving me so much help,’ Hilary asked, ‘when you see what a Fury you unleashed upon the world?’

‘You would have got there sooner or later.’

Hilary took her coffee cup and sat on the window-sill. The sun was shining brightly.

‘Your new boss can’t have been too delighted with that piece,’ she said.

‘He hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘How have things been since he took over?’

‘Difficult, if you must know,’ said Alan. ‘Bloody awful, in fact.’

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘No money for programmes. No enthusiasm for programmes, either: at least not the sort I want to make. I mean, you wouldn’tbelieve their attitude over this Kuwaiti thing. I’ve been telling them for months we should be doing a programme on Saddam and his military build-up. We’re in this bloody ridiculous situation whereby we’ve spent the last few years selling him these weapons, and now we’re turning round and calling him the Beast of Babel because he’s actually using them. You’d have thought there’d be something to be said on that subject. I mean, just in the last few weeks I’ve been having talks with an independent film-maker who’s been working on a documentary about all this for years, purely off his own bat. Showed me some superb footage. But the people upstairs won’t commit themselves to it. They don’t want to know.’

‘That’s too bad.’

Alan glanced at his watch.

‘Look, Hilary, I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here just to look at the view of our forecourt, beautiful though it is. Would you mind coming to the point?’

‘That photo that went with your article,’ she said absently. ‘Was it taken in your office?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Was that a Bridget Riley hanging on the wall?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You bought it off my brother, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Lots of green and black rectangles, all on a slant.’

‘That’s the one. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, it’s just that there seem to be two men outside, loading it into the back of a van.’

‘What the –’

Alan leapt to his feet and came to the window. He looked down and saw a removal van parked by the steps, with the contents of his office stacked on the sunbaked tarmac: his books, his swivel chair, his plants, stationery and paintings. Hilary smiled.

‘We thought this would be the kindest way to tell you. It’s best to get these things over with quickly.’

Somehow, he managed to say: ‘We?’

‘Is there anything I should know about the job before you go?’ When no answer was forthcoming, she opened her briefcase and said, ‘Well look, here’s your P45, and I’ve even written down the address of your nearest DSS office. It’s open till three-thirty today, so you’ve got plenty of time.’ She offered him the piece of paper, but he didn’t take it. Laying it down on the window-sill, her smile broadened, and she shook her head. ‘The barbarians aren’t at the gate any more, Alan. Unfortunately, you left the gate swinging wide open. So we wandered right inside, and now we’ve got all the best seats and our feet are up on the table. And we intend to stay here for a long, long time.’

Hilary snapped her briefcase shut and made for the door.

‘Now: how do I get to your office from here?’

September 1990

1

It was purely by chance that I found myself writing a book about the Winshaws. The story of how it all came about is quite complicated and can probably wait. Sufficient to say that if it had not been for an entirely accidental meeting on a railway journey from London to Sheffield in the month of June, 1982, I would never have become their official historian and my life would have taken a very different turn. An amusing vindication, when you think about it, of the theories outlined in my first novel, Accidents Will Happen. But I doubt if many people remember that far back.

The 1980s were not a good time for me, on the whole. Perhaps it had been a mistake to accept the Winshaw commission in the first place; perhaps I should have carried on writing fiction in the hope that one day I would be able to make a living at it. After all, my second novel had attracted a certain amount of attention, and there had at least been a few isolated moments of glory – such as the week when I’d been featured in a regular Sunday newspaper article, usually devoted to vastly more famous writers, entitled ‘The First Story I Ever Wrote’. (You had to supply a sample of something you had written when you were very young, along with a photograph of yourself as a child. The overall effect was rather cute. I’ve still got the cutting somewhere.) But my financial situation remained desperate – the general public persisting in a steely indifference to the products of my imagination – and so I had sound economic reasons for trying my luck with Tabitha Winshaw and her peculiarly generous offer.

The terms of this offer were as follows. It seemed that in the seclusion of her long-term inmate’s quarters at the Hatchjaw-Bassett Institute for the Actively Insane, Miss Winshaw, then aged seventy-six and by all accounts madder than ever, had taken it into her sad, confused head that the time was ripe for the history of her glorious family to be laid before the world. In the face of implacable opposition from her relatives, and drawing only upon her own far from inconsiderable resources, she had set up a trust fund for this purpose and enlisted the services of the Peacock Press, a discreetly operated private concern which specialized in the publication (for a small fee) of military memoirs, family chronicles and the reminiscences of minor public figures. They, for their part, were entrusted with the task of finding a suitable writer, of proven experience and ability, who was to be paid an annual, five-figure salary throughout the entire period of research and composition, conditional upon a progress report – or a ‘significant portion’ of completed manuscript – being presented to the publishers and forwarded for Tabitha’s inspection every year. Otherwise, it seemed that time and money were no object. She wanted the best, the most thorough, the most honest and most up-to-date history that it was possible to compile. There was no deadline for final submission.