Flying Under Bridges

by Sandi Toksvig

  I’ve been trying to take up smoking while I’m in here but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I’ve tried lots of times before. I wondered if I could use those nicotine patches smokers use to stop, and build up to smoking gradually? It would be something to do while I sit — smoking. I’m forty-five and never puffed a fag behind a bicycle shed.

  God, stick to one thing at a time. The news. I know the news is not my business, but it used to keep me awake at night. All those Kosovan refugees with nowhere to go. Muslims who hate Christians who hate Muslims… Shirley used to tell me I should pray. The last time we were in the kitchen alone together she wanted to hold my hand with her eyes shut.

  ‘I’m making it my mission for you to see the way, Mum,’ she said, while I was trying to get some garibaldis out of the bottom cupboard.

  I’m sorry, I’m drifting. I want to tell you about the day of the lunch because it matters. We had to wait for Adam’s ‘little friend’, his injured member, to settle down before we could get in the car to go. He wasn’t at all well.

  ‘I don’t think I can drive,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, so we went in my car. I knew he was badly wounded because he hates me driving. It’s not just me. He hates anyone else being behind the wheel. Sits sucking in his breath every time I turn a corner. It makes me nervous so I rather lurched out of the drive.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ I said, feeling defensive at the first suck of his breath. ‘There’s something funny about the automatic gearbox. I know it’s supposed to change gears on its own, but not when you’re not expecting it.’

  ‘Eve, you must get this car seen to,’ Adam said for the millionth time. And he was right. I should have. It was another thing I had put off having fixed. I looked in the mirror to pull out and I could see that I was frowning my supermarket frown.

  ‘The mechanic always treats me as though I am stupid,’ I said, narrowly avoiding hitting a bus. Adam sucked on his teeth. I didn’t tell him that I had written off for a book about cars from Reader’s Digest. The ad said it explained everything and you got a free forty-piece socket set. Perhaps I could be less stupid. We sat silently for a moment.

  ‘Adam…’ I began. ‘I’ve been thinking about… my time.’ We both sat quietly while we thought about this idea. This notion of my time. I moved on slowly. ‘Now that the children have grown up—’

  ‘Grown up? Tom’s never going to grow up!’

  ‘He’s no trouble and he’s not at home any more. I was thinking about doing one of those Open University courses. You know, art or something.’

  ‘Art or something? Eve, what is the point of that? Where’s the point in art? Why don’t you stick with what you’re good at?’

  ‘All right, what am I good at?’ This made us both think. He’s not unkind, Adam, so he really did try.

  ‘Lots of things.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Like… cupboards.

  Kitchen cupboards. You’re very good at organising cupboards.’

  The car lurched through another unexpected gear change.

  Kitchen cupboards. That’s what he thought I was good at.

  I have to go now. Tom’s come to visit. He’s been wonderful. We talk and that helps. Love to Shirley and some for yourself.

  As ever,

  Eve

  Chapter Five

  Inge moved to Edenford at the end of May. The morning of the Friday before her departure from London found her staring at the breasts of the BBC’s senior, female newsreader. The removal firm had left her a pile of old newspapers to wrap around the china. They had offered to do it as part of the service, but Inge wanted strangers in the house for as little time as possible. The yellowing collection of newsprint included the seamier Fleet Street papers that Inge never bought. Now she was sitting on the floor staring at what passed for news in these publications. The breasts she was looking at were slightly out of focus, but clearly breasts and it was quite clear who they belonged to.

  Carol Hart, senior newsreader for the BBC, was reclining on a yacht wearing only the bottom half of a rather finely conceived bikini. Her breasts lay exposed to the sun and indeed now to the world. It might not have been news were she not recovering from reconstructive surgery following a major breast-cancer scare which had hit the headlines. She had nice breasts. The plastic surgeon had done a good job. She looked great. Carol was loved by the nation and now the nation could love her breasts. She had gone away to recover and now the nation could rejoice. Even people who didn’t buy the paper could rejoice. The breasts were on the front page.

  Inge knew Carol and knew that she had brought a complaint against the paper but everyone also knew it was a waste of time.

  The breasts were in the public domain and Inge was using them for packing. The other tabloids, who had failed to get the paparazzi pictures in the first place, had generally responded with moral outrage. They were outraged at the paparazzi, they were outraged on behalf of Carol Hart, they were outraged on behalf of all recovering women (photographs of breasts in various stages of repair), they were outraged on behalf of anyone with breasts (fine photographic evidence), they were outraged at the cost of surgery to get such fine breasts (examples of splendid breasts through the ages) and they were generally a decent and fine publication which Middle England could embrace. It went well. Middle English women were pleased with the outrage, Middle English men were pleased with the breasts.

  Inge shuddered. The papers had never gone to town on her but she knew it was only a matter of time. A couple of the gossip columns did have some inches on her but it was a replay of an old rumour about her and Mark Hinks, the footballer. She and Mark were friends, they were both single, they often went out together and each time it caused talk. Would they, wouldn’t they? Did they, didn’t they?

  Inge looked around the place she had called home for the last ten years. The smart flat with its high loft ceilings was full of boxes now and some of her best mugs were carefully wrapped in the exposure of other people’s lives. Inge packed the china into a cardboard box and sealed it shut. She had nearly finished but she still didn’t know if they were doing the right thing. She had never wanted to leave the flat or London. It was so perfect. So central. So safe. She had never thought she would go back to Edenford, the sleepy Home Counties town where she had been brought up. Edenford. God, it seemed such a long time ago, but they needed the garden, needed the air. Inge had never sold her parents’ house after her mother died, and when the tenants moved out it seemed like fate. It seemed as though things had been decided for her, but Inge was dreading it. Dreading going home.

  When the phone rang she called, ‘I’ll get it,’ although she oubted Kate would have the energy to take a call. Inge wasn’t expecting anyone to ring and immediately she felt afraid. She couldn’t have said what she was afraid of, but something in her stomach turned over. It wasn’t a new feeling. It happened when the phone rang, when the post thudded through the letterbox, when the morning paper landed on the mat. It used to happen when the doorbell went, but in this apartment building the porter didn’t let anyone up without getting clearance. Despite that safeguard, Inge lived in a permanent and inexplicable state of slight fear. It was as if she knew that someday something would happen to bring everything crashing down around her head. It never had, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t. She had lived like this all her professional life. It was the norm.

  The porter was at his most businesslike.

  ‘Someone from the BBC, Miss Holbrook. I expect you’ll want me to show them straight up. A Miss Jenny Wilson.’

  ‘Wilson?’ Inge couldn’t think of anyone called Wilson. Maybe one of those waiting-room women. Maybe something was being sent round. Maybe…

  ‘No, wait. Let me have a word.’ There was some muttering as Miss Wilson came to the phone.

  ‘I don’t normally allow anyone in my booth … Mind my paperwork … No, don’t sit on the chair, it’s specially adjusted for my back …’ The porter was professionally unhappy. He handed the receiver over reluc
tantly and a bright, booming voice thundered down the line. The porter needn’t have bothered with the phone. The caller had a vocal quality that did not require the use of amplification in order to be heard from the foyer.

  ‘Hello, there. Jenny Wilson, BBC Talent Department.’

  Inge moved the phone a few inches from her ear and frowned. ‘I’m sorry, you are..

  ‘Jenny Wilson, Talent Department.’ In the background Inge could hear the porter muttering, ‘BBC pass, BBC person or I wouldn’t even have called up.’ He did not like having his judgement questioned or his phone taken from him.

  Inge was still confused. ‘Yes, sorry, Miss Wilson, did we have an appointment?’

  ‘It won’t take a moment. Shall I come up?’

  Panic filled the back of Inge’s throat. There was no need for it but it came unbidden. ‘No, No!’ she replied hastily. She wanted the woman to go away. She didn’t know her. She wasn’t booked. But Inge was terrified of seeming standoffish. Of word getting out at the BBC that maybe she wasn’t the warm, accessible human being she so wanted to be. ‘I’ll be right down.’ Inge hung up and took a deep breath. Why the hell was she seeing her? The woman didn’t have an appointment. Inge brushed her fingers through her hair and looked in on Kate. She was sleeping. Perhaps she wouldn’t even notice Inge had gone.

  Inge took the lift down ten floors and headed for the porter’s small office. A very large woman filled the doorway. She had more chins than seemed a fair share for one person and appeared to be wearing a marquee as a summer dress. It was bright orange with massive cerise flowers. Had it not been of such a violent hue it could easily have been rented out to hold functions.

  ‘God, it is!’ boomed the woman. ‘It is! It is! Inge Holbrook as I live and breath.’

  ‘Inge Holbrook,’ repeated the porter, smiling. ‘In our very building. I tell no one but it is a fact.’ He leant confidentially towards Miss Wilson. ‘I am silent as a grave but I know a great deal. It’ll be a sad day when Miss Holbrook moves out of here…’ Inge frowned at the man who blanched at his indiscretion and tried to recover. ‘Not that she is … moving… and if she were, then you wouldn’t hear it from me…’

  Inge smiled at the woman. ‘Hello?’

  The woman thrust forward a massive, plump hand. ‘Jenny, Jenny Wilson. You were expecting me?’

  ‘No.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, you were. Jenny Wilson, talent team?’

  Inge shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘Oh, but you are. You are not only with me, but top of my list.

  ‘Well, she would be,’ agreed the porter, who seemed to feel he was now part of the conversation.

  The woman smiled broadly. ‘You didn’t know I was coming and that makes it all the more clear to me why I am needed.’ She flashed a BBC staff pass at Inge. ‘Shall we go up? A little more private?’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed the porter and pressed the lift button. ‘Much more private.’

  ‘I was just going to get a coffee… at the coffee shop… next door,’ Inge managed hurriedly. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

  Jenny Talent beamed. ‘That would be lovely.’

  The porter shook his head with disapproval. ‘Not nearly so private.’

  Inge led the way as her large companion followed, causing an upsurge of wind as she walked and her marquee flapped. The coffee shop occupied one small corner of the apartment building’s ground floor and was often the only place Inge managed to get any sustenance. The owner knew her well and swiftly seated the pair at a quiet back table. On one side was a large bank of cushioned seating.

  ‘Lovely place,’ boomed Jenny as she plumped down, covering every inch of the seating space. She beamed at Inge who took a chair on the other side of the table. ‘I hear there are great plans afoot for a new programme,’ Jenny continued.

  ‘Well, I think some people in development are…

  Jenny leant forward and whispered confidentially, ‘Don’t Even Go There!’

  ‘Yes. Of course, I don’t think anyone quite knows…’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Going to be a wonderful documentary.’

  The waitress came for the coffee order giving Inge a moment to pause. Once they were alone again she turned to Jenny.

  ‘Documentary? I thought it was a panel game.’

  ‘Was, indeed, was, but they’ve moved on. Development.’ She looked at Inge’s bewildered face. ‘Oh dear, not keeping you in the loop, are they?’ She raised a hand in the air as if to part the very waters of the Red Sea of confusion. ‘Not going to happen now I’m on board, I can assure you. Anyway, fabulous idea. How many of us just love to watch sport?’

  ‘Well, it is popular.’

  ‘Oh yes, but how many of us have longed over the years to actually participate in a major sporting event but haven’t actually had the … what can I call it?’

  Inge tried for the obvious. ‘Fitness?’

  Jenny shook her head in a movement that caused ripples down her body. ‘No. Opportunity. But now all that will change. Members of the public will apply and, if selected, you will train them to take part in an actual event like Wimbledon, the Olympics, the FA Cup, that sort of thing. Obviously they won’t play in the whole thing. I mean, we can only afford to train them for a week but, you know, they will get their moment. It will be tough but before they begin you will warn them…

  ‘Don’t Even Go There!’ mumbled Inge with her eyes closed. When she opened them again Jenny was still brilliant with pleasure at the concept.

  ‘I think it could become a catch-phrase.’

  Inge didn’t know where to begin. ‘What do you think the athletes will think about this? Because if you actually get to the FA cup final, would you really want Joe Bloggs from Derby to be on your side?’

  Jenny, thrilled to be asked for an opinion, considered the matter carefully. ‘I think sports people are very realistic these days. It’s big business. They’ll know it’s good publicity. Anyway, they all love you.

  She waited for Inge to bask in the love but the BBC legend was tired.

  ‘And how is it that you know about this and I don’t, Jenny?’

  ‘Indeed. Indeed, how?’ Inge’s companion removed a sheaf of papers from a large shoulder bag and began to riffle through them. She really was an enormous woman. It was like having coffee with the Alps.

  ‘You see, Inge,’ she began, ‘this is what I am here to stop happening.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny, I don’t—’

  ‘No, clearly. You didn’t know I was coming, you didn’t know about the show and that is my brief. To see that this never happens again. Let me explain.’ She assumed a look of deep seriousness and a low tone of confidence. ‘Inge, as you will know, the BBC is very concerned about the talent drain. You know that clever people like you are spending their formative years with the BBC and then drifting off to just any old television channel the minute some more money pops up. Now we don’t want that, but we do want you to be happy. That’s why Paul has set up the Talent Team. We at the Talent Team are here to make sure you are happy. Each established face at the Beeb is going to be given a “talent guardian”. In your case that will be me. It will be my job to make sure you are happy, to see that you have what you need, that no meetings come as a surprise…’ Jenny laughed at this hilarious joke and shook like a blancmange. ‘You and I will really get to know each other, and at any time, should you be on BBC premises or attending a function on behalf of the BBC, I will be there to make sure you are properly looked after.’

  Coffee arrived, which caused a short pause in the proceedings. Jenny looked around the shop. ‘What a handy place. Is it true what the porter said, that you’re moving? Seems a shame. Do the press office know?’

  ‘No. The thing is—’

  Jenny waved her hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get to that. Perhaps a small statement. Now, I am here to help you, so we need to go through one or two essential questions.’ Inge reached for the milk and sugar
but Jenny put out her hand to stop her.

  ‘No, Inge. This is where it begins. I am here to look after you. Every time you enter a BBC building, I, or someone from our team, will be there to make sure you are happy. So, and I think this shows how much we plan to be there for you, how do you have your coffee?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Jenny patted Inge’s hand. ‘You tell me and I do the milk and sugar. It’s no trouble. I’ve got a space on my form for it.’

  Chapter Six

  Eve liked to learn things. She loved facts and she was good at remembering them. There was nothing she liked better than absorbing some obscure piece of information and then passing it on to someone else. But lately this party trick had started to worry her. She had been explaining to someone in the charity shop that ‘More French people die of diseases of the digestive system than any other European nationalities’ when Mrs Hoddle, who was sorting clothes in the back, had said very loudly, ‘Isn’t it a shame that some people confuse gathering information with being clever!’

  Perhaps it had just been a passing remark, but the more that year went on, the more Eve learnt and the less she felt she understood. It wasn’t until later that Eve realised her mother had made a huge culinary mistake in God’s eyes on the day of the will reading. The Bible was absolutely clear about shellfish. Those ‘bottom dwellers’ of the sea were a definite no-no. Prawns should never have been served.

  As Eve drove herself and Adam to lunch at her mother’s, Adam sighed. She thought it was about the faulty car again.

  ‘I’ll get it fixed,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that.’ He sighed again. ‘Just thinking about this new job. I may have to go into the office later.’

  ‘Right.’

  Adam sighed yet again and reached for the cassette player.

  Shirley Bassey filled the journey, singing loudly about the fact that she was no one.