All to Play For by Heather Peace Read Free Book Online

sat pretending to read the magazines, but couldn’t relax and began to feel a complete idiot as the morning unrolled. Busy people came in and out of the office, glancing in her direction, so she tried to wear a pleasant, unconcerned expression. She had arrived well-prepared and raring to go, imagining that she would be quickly absorbed into the organisation and given a desk piled high with scripts to read and reports to write.
    A grammar-school girl from Huddersfield, Maggie had (not unlike myself) grown up regarding the BBC as a magical Olympian paradise which existed somewhere in the ether that was London. It was peopled by urbane, charming men and glamorous women, all of whom spoke like royalty, knew about everything, and conversed articulately with astounding insight and hilarious wit. It never crossed her mind to aspire to work there herself. Instead she worked hard to get into Bristol University, where she read just enough English literature to scrape an average degree, and fell in love with the theatre, which had satisfied her desire to change the world for ten years.
    On hearing that she wanted to go into television a friend of a friend had invited her to spend a day on the set of Casualty , a recently-established cutting-edge medical series which had already fallen foul of the government, which was extremely unhappy to see the consequences of their NHS cuts represented to the public in their full glory by the BBC. A day trip to the location in Bristol had turned out to be a fascinating and inspiring experience. The set was a permanent, purpose-built maze in a huge warehouse, teeming with technicians. The actors were friendly, and good-natured banter enlivened the otherwise tedious recording process. Maggie was hugely impressed at their professionalism as scene after scene was taped in a matter of minutes – there was never time for re-takes merely to improve the acting. She observed as the script editor monitored each scene to ensure that no serious errors were made, and checked the running time in case cuts or new material would be required at a moment’s notice.
    Maggie loved it. She knew she could do the job – including the rest of it, which consisted of working with the writer of each episode to help them achieve the highest possible standard of writing whilst satisfying the technical, medical and serial story needs of the show. She was a good team player and would slot in well here, or on another series perhaps, all her theatre experience was directly relevant. The script team clearly felt a strong sense of achievement and job satisfaction, and had the added reward of VHS tapes of every show they worked on, whereas theatre plays were as ephemeral as conversation: Maggie’s only record of her life’s work so far lay in a box full of tatty scripts, cheap production photos and programmes.
    Perhaps it was the sustained two-year effort she had invested into breaching the walls of the BBC that was responsible for the paralysing wave of boredom and anti-climax which overwhelmed her as she sat waiting for Fenella to turn up. It was nearly half past twelve when Vera finally called over, “Fenella’s in her office, if you’d like to pop in.”
    Fenella’s door was open but she was on the phone. Nonetheless she beckoned Maggie in, indicating a chair piled up with scripts and books, which Maggie tried to remove carefully before sitting down. She pretended she couldn’t follow Fenella’s conversation – evidently an argument with her husband about their nanny – and studied the walls of the little office, which were entirely obscured by enormous shelves labelled at intervals and stacked high with scripts. Novels were heaped around the floor, and Fenella’s huge old-fashioned briefcase poured papers onto the carpet. She herself was about forty, Maggie reckoned. She was dressed in a homely but expensive way reminiscent of a senior academic. She wore glasses on a silver chain and a permanent expression of ironic