the same. It really is the most disgusting business. And it screams all the time. Honestly, if I’m ever 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 a thing 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
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
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