J. Gregson: Die Happy

‘I am aware that this has been discussed before and also that I seem to be a lone voice for the civilized ethic. Perhaps I shall have to consider my position.’

There was a sudden profound silence, in which tiny sounds such as breathing and the rustling of paper seemed miraculously enlarged. Then Mrs Dooks said evenly, ‘Perhaps if you hold this view so strongly you should do just that, Peter. Your resignation would be regrettable, but I’m sure we should all understand.’

Preston had not expected to have his bluff called like this. He had no real wish to resign. Indeed, his continued involvement in the success of the festival was necessary to his pose as a leading cultural presence in the area. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed elaborately, and said, ‘I have said my piece. I appreciate mine is not the popular stance, but minority views need voicing, unless we are to proceed along the lines of the fascist suppressions of the thirties.’ Having voiced this outrageous parallel, he nodded sternly and studied his agenda.

Sam Hilton was on the point of renewing his attack, but the chair took decisive action. ‘Sam, could we have the latest news on your own efforts, please?’

Young Hilton felt his protest cut off at source, almost as if he had been physically checked. He dragged his thoughts back to why he was here and contented himself with a last glare of molten hatred at Preston. ‘Yes. I’ve been in contact with three poets. I’m happy to say that Bob Crompton has agreed to come. He will read some of his verse and try to explain how he goes about achieving his effects.’

Peter Preston had snorted when he mentioned the name. Hilton glared at him as if daring him to voice a challenge, but the older man contented himself with a renewal of his patronizing smile. Sam Hilton was not used to committees and the more formal language appropriate to them, but he strove to discipline his feelings and speak as moderately as he could. He found himself breathing unevenly as he did so. ‘Bob comes from a very different background from that of most people in Oldford. He is from a one-parent family in a great northern city. Manchester is producing a group of young poets who may well rival the influence of the Mersey poets in a previous generation. He writes about love and sex and politics with a raw edge, which many of his listeners here will find very challenging. I am sure the experience will benefit them greatly.’

He stared round the table as if inviting a challenge, but Marjorie Dooks said swiftly and smoothly, ‘I am sure it will be a mutually beneficial exchange. Many of the speakers at our last literary festival said how important it was to them to have an audience and to hear the feedback on whatever form of writing they were producing. Thank you, Sam. I’m sure that without your personal contact we should not have been able to secure the attendance of so well-known and eminent a contemporary poet as Bob Crompton. She glanced automatically at Peter Preston, but that pillar of tradition was nursing his previous wounds and had more sense than to speak again. ‘Ros, could we have your report, please?’

Ros Barker was only thirty herself, but she felt an almost maternal need to support and protect the man beside her. ‘May I just endorse how well I think Sam’s done to get Bob Crompton for us? I know Bob does a lot of poetry readings, but to get him (a) to venture south and (b) to talk about his craft are achievements indeed. My own efforts have not secured so definite a conclusion as yet. The committee will recall that I agreed to try to get Arthur Jackson to talk to us about the history of art. As you will no doubt understand, he has many demands upon his time, as most television personalities have, and it is possible that he might be abroad during the week of our festival. But he has assured me that he wants to come and that if it is humanly possible for him he will do so.’

‘That is good news indeed. Once again, thank you for your efforts on behalf of the festival, Ros. I know that Mr Jackson has a high regard for you.’

Ros Barker felt that she was blushing, a sensation she had not endured for years. She spoke hastily in an attempt to divert attention from herself and back to her visitor. ‘I owe him a lot. I was about to go to art school when he saw some of my work and advised me not to go. As you may know, Arthur Jackson has a low regard for the teaching in art schools at the moment. I went and served a sort of apprenticeship with Bernard Goldberg. I think I learned a lot there. I would never have got my own exhibition so early without Mr Jackson and his advice.’ She paused, looking round the table, flicking a strand of her long, straight black hair away from her eye. She was talking about herself, when she had never meant to do that. ‘I should mention that the other day someone questioned whether a painter should be speaking at a literary festival. I pointed out that Mr Jackson has written several books on the history of art and would no doubt be addressing the issues he raises in them.’

Mrs Dooks nodded emphatically. ‘I’m sure you were right to do so. As you say, Mr Jackson has written extensively about art. We have already agreed that a literary festival should include all forms of writing. I am sure he will prove a popular as well as a stimulating visitor.’ She glanced again towards Peter Preston, but met only a disdainful smile from a man nursing his wounds. ‘I should report briefly on my own efforts. Davina Cooper’s new novel is due out a fortnight before our festival. Her publisher has lined up a series of radio interviews and signing sessions for her. But she is keeping the Tuesday evening of our festival week clear and is determined to honour her promise to be with us in Oldford on that day.’

Preston saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the chair and reassert his standing with the committee. ‘I think you in turn should be congratulated on your efforts, Madam Chairman. You are the obvious person to chair that meeting and introduce your protege.’

Marjorie smiled, well aware of what he was about but anxious to avoid an open rift in her committee. ‘Hardly my protege, Peter.’ She glanced round the table and saw mystification on a couple of faces. ‘Perhaps not everyone is aware that Davina Cooper was once a member of my staff in the Civil Service. In fact, she came to me some ten years ago to tender her resignation, after the modest success of her first novel. I told her to think very hard before giving up a promising career and a safe salary in the public service. Fortunately she did not heed me, or I might have aborted a promising literary career at the outset. I suspect she may take some pleasure in recalling my advice to her when she visits us.’

There was amusement around the table and a relaxing of tension, as Marjorie had intended. She closed the meeting quickly and gathered her papers whilst the members departed. ‘Christine, could I have a quick word with you, please?’

Mrs Lambert liked Marjorie Dooks, but she stopped now reluctantly, because she knew what was coming. The person who had chaired the meeting waited a moment until they were alone in the room. ‘Did you broach the matter of an appearance at the festival with your husband?’

‘I did. He wasn’t enthusiastic. Unlike some policemen, he doesn’t enjoy the publicity he already receives.’

Marjorie smiled. ‘Fact of life, Christine. John Lambert is a local celebrity, as we all know. Something of a local hero, indeed. A popular policeman is a rare phenomenon nowadays. We should like to exploit that.’

‘But didn’t Sue Charles say that she’d be happy to introduce her crime writer?’

‘Indeed. And so she should. But I had an idea last night. I thought it would be good to have John on the platform with them, so that we could explore the real situation in serious crime against that depicted in fiction. It would make the question and answer session after David Knight’s talk much livelier.’