by P. D. James
Bagnold quotes a phrase from Gibbon which caught my eye: “In that silent vacancy that precedes our birth.” Is our love for the architecture, art and beauty, which links us to the past, part of our need to know where we come from and, by touching, seeing, loving inanimate objects, to give the illusion that we have been here longer than our brief span? It can only work one way, and perhaps that is part of the terror of death. When that final lid is screwed down on us there will be no more vicarious living. But now we stretch out minds, even hands, into the past and gain a spurious immortality. The silent vacancy comes alive.
Tom Stoppard was among the guests and I found in my room the Faber paperback edition of his broadcast plays. They were first broadcast as long ago as 1966 and I can’t think why the BBC doesn’t let us hear them again. The Corporation must have a wealth of archive. Why is it so neglected? Why do we no longer see on our screens the single play by a distinguished playwright?
Before I began dressing for dinner the telephone rang and the butler said that the Duke wondered whether I would like a glass of champagne. Indeed I would, and he brought it up personally to all his guests. I was thinking how much at home one feels in the private apartments. But how strange to live in a house where every yard walked reveals something fresh of beauty, interest or history, where one glances up to see a Velázquez, a Rubens, a Lawrence, a Frans Hals, a Van Dyck. Some of the Duke’s purchases of modern art were resting against the wall, obviously awaiting their right place. It was interesting to see that even the owners of great houses face the problems of we humbler mortals, not knowing what to do with recent acquisitions. I could never get used to living in a house with 175 rooms, 359 doors, nearly 8,000 panes of glass to be cleaned, 56 lavatories and 3,426 feet of passages. It must sometimes seem far more of a responsibility than a pleasure.
After dinner, sitting on the terrace with the other house guests as darkness fell, with the house floodlit and golden behind us, I wished I was standing on a distant hill looking down at it.
This morning, from my bedroom window, looking out over the formal gardens to the river, I could see coloured tents and a large marquee erected for what was apparently to be some kind of flower show, and in the next field a fun-fair with a children’s carousel. Small figures moved about with that air of unflurried busyness which is always agreeable to watch. I could have been Glencora, Duchess of Omnium, surveying the preparations for her great summer fête. I almost expected to see the archery targets being set up for the beribboned and crinolined ladies to demonstrate their skills while allowing the gentlemen discreetly to help them pull the bow. But instead the fête burst into bloom with the morning and I watched while, like an accelerated film, shrubs and small trees appeared as if by magic. It was one of those moments when a vivid scene from fiction becomes reality.
After breakfast I went to the shop, which is in the Orangery and, unlike some shops of its kind, actually sells things that one is happy to buy. Andy reappeared with the car at half-past nine, but it was nearly an hour later before we left. We called in at the farm shop and then had a comfortable ride home.
I went down to John Lewis with some Baxter prints that wanted re-framing and to look out samples of wallpaper in the hope that work will actually begin on repairing the house sometime in the next month or so. Then home, a quiet evening writing up the scribbled note for this diary and early to bed.
TUESDAY, 30TH JUNE
I arrived home this evening from a visit to Stockton, where today I received the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters of the University of Durham; this is my sixth honorary degree.
I left London for Darlington yesterday afternoon, was met at the station and driven to my hotel in Stockton in time to change for dinner in the Board Room with the Chancellor, Sir Peter Ustinov, and senior officers of the University. My fellow honorary graduands were the novelist Pat Barker and the actor Richard Griffiths. I hadn’t met either of them before, but I admire their work and I greatly enjoyed their company. There was much laughter at the dinner, as one might expect with both Peter Ustinov and Richard Griffiths present, and I thought I detected some competition in wit and a slight professional glint in the eye as they viewed each other across the table.
This morning we got together at the Town Hall to form a procession to the parish church, where the degree ceremony was to take place. It was a long and colourful procession. The English are not given to marching except when in the Forces, and even a formal procession has the air of a leisurely and companionable stroll by people at ease in each other’s company and, however bizarrely costumed, not much interested in the reaction of spectators. Apparently last year one of the local onlookers turned to her companion and asked, “What’s all this about, then?,” to receive the reply, “I think it’s a Gypsy wedding.”
This was my first visit to Stockton (although not to the North East) and I was impressed by how much is being achieved in one of the UK’s poorest regions in terms of deprivation, poverty and unemployment. The Stockton campus, which is an integral part of Durham University, was created in 1992 in purpose-built accommodation on the banks of the River Tees. From the beginning it sought to attract local students, particularly adults and those with no family tradition of higher education. This it is doing with remarkable success: over sixty per cent of entrants to the Stockton campus come from the region, over fifty per cent are mature students coming other than through the traditional A-level route, and the degree results achieved are identical with those of Durham. Even on my brief two-day visit I felt I was being welcomed into a lively community of dedicated and enthusiastic people committed to their vision of what the North East deserves and what it can achieve. For me this has been an educative as well as an enjoyable two days.
*James Hanratty, a small-time London crook, was executed on 4th April 1962 for the murder of Michael John Gregsten. Gregsten and his lover, Valerie Storie, had been sitting in their car at Deadman’s Hill after drinking at a public house in Taplow on the Thames, when a gunman took them hostage and demanded that Gregsten drive towards London Airport. In a lay-by on the A6 Road the gunman killed Gregsten, raped Storie, and then shot her several times, leaving her for dead. Hanratty was convicted mainly on Storie’s identification evidence. There are many peculiarities about the case, usually referred to as the A6 Murder, and the verdict remains controversial.
July
SUNDAY, 12TH JULY
To granddaughter Eleanor and partner Scott for tea and to see their West Hampstead flat. It is small but delightful with light pouring in from large windows and a skylight, and a balcony which now has been made into a small garden. It overlooks the railway, but I never mind the sound of passing trains. When as a child I lived at The Woodlands outside Ludlow, I could hear the trains across the fields when I was in bed, a sound at once comforting, exciting and holding the promise of imagined journeys. On our childhood Sunday walks we would race across the fields at the first intimation of an approaching train, clamber on to a stile and wave at the driver and fireman. Invariably they would wave back. If we were lucky, the fireman might be feeding the furnace and we would glimpse the flaming heart of the monster.
It was on this day, 12th July, in 1988 that Douglas Hurd sent me the letter from the Home Office to ask whether I would be willing for my name to go forward for appointment as a Governor of the BBC. This wasn’t altogether unexpected as Duke Hussey, Chairman of the Governors, had telephoned me a few days earlier to get my reaction. His call was totally unexpected but welcome.
My term of five years as Governor, despite the occasional trauma and the persistent realization that I was both less useful and less effective than I had hoped, was one of my most enjoyable periods of public service.
The BBC has had a board of twelve Governors since its inception and the system has on the whole worked well. Governors are appointed by the Queen on the recommendation of the Prime Minister and, as with so much in British public life, the process by which the selection is made remains mysterious. In recent ye
ars there has been a pattern. One Governor represents Scotland, one Wales and one Northern Ireland. In addition, there is usually a Governor experienced in finance, one who is a trade unionist, one representing the arts, and an ex-ambassador, who is presumably included to have special regard to the interests of the World Service. The others are usually eminent in their fields. It has always been regarded as an honour to serve as a Governor of the BBC and I certainly so regarded it.
During the five years in which I served, the BBC was chiefly concerned with ensuring the renewal of the Charter. This was a corporate effort involving the enthusiasm and commitment of the Governors, the Director General, Michael Checkland and his successor John Birt, the Board of Management and the staff. Success could certainly not be taken for granted. The BBC had powerful friends and public support but it also had powerful and well-informed enemies who accused the Corporation of extravagance, mismanagement and political bias. It was accepted that there had to be changes, some of which would be painful.
The most traumatic, probably the most controversial, meeting of the Governors was one at a private dinner when it was decided, not at first unanimously, to appoint John Birt to succeed Michael Checkland as Director General. Both the Chairman and Vice-Chairman felt strongly that it was right to make that decision, and at that time. John Birt had served as deputy for five years. He was the obvious candidate; he had both the dedication and the strength required to assist the Governors in making the necessary reforms if the Charter were to be renewed, and to announce the successor to Michael Checkland well in advance of his retirement would avoid months of manoeuvring and speculation which could only be damaging to the BBC. It also seemed pointless to go through the procedure of advertising the post if this were merely a charade to give the impression of transparency.
The appointment of the next Director General will, no doubt, be made in a less controversial manner, which is not to say the choice will be without controversy. But he or she will still be the candidate acceptable to the Chairman. This is inevitable. The relationship between the Chairman and the Director General is vitally important to the BBC. They need to be aware of their special and different responsibilities and the defining limits of those responsibilities. There should be mutual sympathy and respect between them and a clear recognition by both of what is meant by public service broadcasting, a recognition also that their roles are complementary, not collusive.
A question, although it was never raised vociferously during my time as a Governor, is whether the Governors should be chosen in a more open and accountable way, perhaps even elected. I can’t see how election could work satisfactorily but it shouldn’t be difficult to make the selection process more transparent than it is at present.
There is a dilemma at the heart of the BBC and one which I don’t think has been resolved. The Corporation should represent excellence in broadcasting, the standard by which all other broadcasters are happy to be measured. This excellence is sometimes difficult to reconcile with high viewing figures, and the BBC has always been almost morbidly conscious of its share of the market. The fear, largely unspoken, has always been that if the listening and viewing share falls below a critical figure (thirty per cent is often quoted), the licence fee will be in jeopardy since viewers and listeners will argue that it is unfair that they should be compulsorily charged for a service which they rarely use. This leads to a concentration on viewing and listening figures and an insidious temptation to go down-market, which could be fatal to the future of the BBC. If the BBC does not provide something different from, and consistently better than, other broadcasters, it may as well be out in the market place fighting for its audience share like everyone else, and paid for by those who want it.
It seems to me that in the last two years the BBC has concentrated more on market share than on quality. In particular, the reiteration that channels must appeal to the young is a euphemism for going down-market, hardly a compliment to the young. I sometimes feel that, if I covered up the name of the channel in the newspaper listings, it would be difficult to see which programmes have been put out by the BBC. Already it is in danger of becoming just one more broadcaster. We may indeed reach the curious situation where a new broadcaster will come on the scene dedicated to excellence and usurp the high ground once occupied by the BBC.
Whether it is paid for by licence fee or by general taxation, the BBC needs this assured income if it is to continue. My own view is that people will pay for it if it provides quality, even if they watch or listen comparatively rarely. I do not share my elder daughter’s enthusiasm for opera, but am happy that I should contribute through taxation to the provision of a major opera house; the fact that I no longer have children or grandchildren at school does not mean that I resent helping to pay for national education.
I came to the BBC as a keen listener and viewer, but as one who was always wary about the subtle dishonesty of much television. It seems to me important always to recognize that every image shown is one which the cameraman has chosen to film and the director, editor or producer has chosen to show. I learned a salutary lesson when I was in the Health Service. There was a shortage in the region of beds for the young chronic sick, who sometimes had to be inappropriately nursed in long-stay geriatric wards. The BBC set out to make a programme about this problem. It showed a very young and pretty patient suffering from MS and, in filming the ward in which she was nursed, concentrated on the most senile, depressing and unattractive of the old people. No mention was made of the fact that the young patient had been offered a place in a young chronic sick centre more than once but preferred to stay where she was because she liked being pampered by some of the elderly patients, enjoyed the excellent facilities of the physiotherapy and occupational therapy departments, and was taken home most weekends by one of the nurses to give her a change of scene. It did not need this programme to reinforce what I suspected; documentary producers all too often decide what point they want to make and then look for the evidence.
I also dislike television programmes which muddle fact and fiction, but usually with the intention of leaving the viewer believing he has seen the truth. The Monocled Mutineer and Tumbledown, both excellently directed and acted, were examples of this less than honest filming. Only too often protests are met with the excuse, “But it made good television.” We should ask more often, Was it fair? Was it balanced? Was it true? But it seems to me that the biggest problem for the Governors is that they have least power in the one area which matters most: the making of programmes. The BBC exists for no other purpose than to put out programmes of the highest quality, both on television and on radio. Everything it does should be subordinate to its purpose of excellence in programme-making. Here the Governors have some influence but no real power. By tradition Governors do not preview programmes; the occasion on which this was done with Real Lives when Stuart Young was chairman, provoked immense resentment and controversy. Any previewing, and therefore prejudging, of programmes is regarded as impugning the artistic freedom of producers and directors—a suggestion which has always been anathema to the BBC. Programme-making must be left to the experts and they must have the right to fail as well as the satisfaction of succeeding. But all this does mean that Governors are virtually powerless actively to influence artistic excellence, the very task which it is their responsibility to uphold.
The BBC today is not a happy organization. Efficient managerial systems, providing they do not substitute one onerous bureaucracy for another, are important, but less important than the clear acceptance of the ethos and responsibility of public service broadcasting and a climate in which creativity and artistic excellence can flourish.
For a publicly funded organization and one which frequently proclaims its openness, the BBC is extraordinarily secretive. The costs of the central administration are high in relation to those devoted to programme-making and it is difficult to justify the millions spent on outside managerial advice, particularly in the light of the surely adequate salaries now paid
to members of the Board of Management. Radio continues to take second place to television and there sometimes seems with radio a somewhat desperate desire for change, as if change in itself were synonymous with progress and improvement. The high cost of equipping the BBC to compete in the international market of digital broadcasting has drained resources from programme-making. The BBC still produces superb programmes but too often they are peaks of excellence in a depressing plateau of trivia.
Much will depend on the talents, energy and vision of the new Director General. Ours is an age obsessed with systems and managerial techniques. What the BBC needs now is someone who can inspire and enthuse human beings, particularly the creative men and women on whom the future depends. Since it seems unlikely that the public will now be prepared to pay a higher licence fee, perhaps the BBC should concentrate on doing less and doing it better.
Before I finished my five-year stint as a Governor I was asked to address my fellow Governors and the Board of Management after dinner at one of our annual residential conferences. Re-reading what I said then, the talk seems moralistic and even naïve. But what strikes me most forcefully is how old-fashioned it is. I could be speaking of a different age, a different BBC. I find this thought depressing. But the talk still represents what I feel about the purpose and ethics of public service broadcasting and, particularly, about a service which describes itself as the British Broadcasting Corporation.
MONDAY, 13TH JULY
I have just finished reading The Trial by Charlotte M. Yonge, which was kindly sent to me by Dinah Birch of Trinity College, Oxford, following our discussion on the Victorian novel. The main interest for me in this somewhat turgid novel is the insight it gives into the domestic and professional lives of middle-class Victorians, and particularly the subservient and restricted role of the women. If the author was intending, at least partially, to write what Trollope in his autobiography described as the novel of sensation, as opposed to the novel of realism, she hasn’t succeeded. The murder comes too late, and the story has too little narrative energy to generate either tension or excitement.
