Flying Under Bridges

by Sandi Toksvig

  Love, Eve

  PS. I just got your card. I’m glad Shirley doesn’t understand the fig tree story either. I don’t know why but it makes me feel better. At least she’s starting to talk. I miss you both.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Under the new Talent Team scheme, Inge’s talent was protected the minute she entered the BBC building. She had barely passed through the stage door at Television Centre when Jenny Wilson —talent guardian to the stars — was standing in front of her with a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  ‘Black, one sugar,’ she boomed, and beamed as she handed over the beverage to Inge. This required Inge to put down the briefcase, handbag and newspaper she was carrying.

  ‘Thanks, …’

  Jenny frowned at her charge. ‘You don’t look pleased? Oh God, don’t tell me, was it two sugars?”

  ‘No. One is great.’

  ‘You do have coffee in the mornings, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I just usually wait till I get out of the foyer.’

  Jenny put back her head and roared with laughter at this fine remark. She liked Inge a lot. Inge was a very nice woman. She was a pleasure to guard. A large clock above the bank of foyer televisions came into Jenny’s field of vision with shocking focus.

  ‘Oh my word, we’re late! Quick, quick. We cannot keep Paul waiting.’ Jenny raced off towards the lifts. ‘I’ll get the lift. Leave that to me. Excuse me, you there, hold the lift! We need the lift for Inge Holbrook.’

  A deeply impressed young man allowed himself to be crushed to near-death in an attempt to halt the progress of one of the lifts.

  He smiled weakly from between the metal doors as Inge attempted to pick up her case and paper while balancing the hot coffee.

  ‘Inge, the time!’ admonished Jenny.

  Inge rushed forward rather faster than her coffee cup. For a brief cartoon moment the drink hovered in. the air and then descended down Inge’s cream trouser suit. It was black coffee. There was nothing cream about it. She let out a loud yell that was followed by an even greater cry from Jenny.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, Inge Holbrook is injured.’ Jenny rushed to the reception desk. She was a big woman and the movement had a ripple effect across the room. Everyone who had been waiting now started watching. ‘Tannoy, immediately. We need a first-aider or a doctor. Whatever you can get. Inge Holbrook has been injured!’

  No one rushed to help but Inge was now the centre of everyone’s attention. Fortunately Jenny had purchased the coffee some time in advance of Inge’s arrival and it had not exactly been boiling. Inge removed a hanky and dabbed at the damage.

  ‘I’m fine, Jenny. I’m fine.’

  Jenny rushed from the desk to her charge. ‘A wheelchair? What about a wheelchair?’

  ‘No. Nothing. I’m fine.’

  Jenny wrung her hands in a fine imitation of old time melodrama. ‘It’s my fault. I was worried about the time.’ She pointed to the clock. Inge looked up.

  ‘That’s the time in New York,’ she said quietly.

  No first-aider turned up and the only doctor in the building was there as a television presenter so no one thought to call him. When things settled down, Inge and Jenny once more headed for the lift. Jenny was aware that her first greeting in the building had not been a big success. She stood silently for a while, watching the numbers in the lift light up.

  ‘Inge?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please don’t say the coffee was my fault. I know it’s a lot to ask but I’m new and—’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Jenny looked as if she were about to cry. ‘Thank you. Everyone said what a nice person you are but I had no idea. I thought it was just, you know.., publicity. Thank you.’

  Inge had an English woman’s stomach for emotion and could have jumped for joy when the lift doors opened and released them from the confines of their almost intimate moment. The two women headed down the corridor towards Paul’s office. When they reached the door, Jenny reached out one of her chubby hands and grabbed hold of Inge’s arm.

  ‘Inge, this morning has made me realise something,’ she said. Inge couldn’t possibly think what it could be. Perhaps the need for a change of career? Perhaps a thunderbolt that what she was doing for a living was ridiculous? Perhaps the notion that one fewer visit to the cake shop would pay off? Jenny nodded her head confidently. ‘I can see I’m going to have to be prepared for emergencies. What is your blood group?’

  The meeting with Paul went well. Inge apologised for her appearance and her own stupidity in spilling coffee down her suit. Paul was most sympathetic and most effusive. He and Nick from development were sure that Don’t Even Go There! was going to be huge. A woman from the press office joined them and said she knew it was going to be huge. She knew this because all the focus groups said it was going to be huge. Paul had statistics from a questionnaire completed in the streets of Swindon that said it was going to be huge. Ever aware that size does matter to boys, Inge was never the less more interested in being clear what the show was about.

  ‘It’s a documentary, right?’

  Nick from development shook his head. ‘I don’t really like to call it that,’ he muttered. ‘I think we need to be cutting edge.’

  Paul soothed his way into the conversation. ‘It’s very exciting, Inge. It’s going to be a doco-game show. All the hidden camera technique of Big Brother — you know, people being watched constantly and yet they’re taking part in a game show. It’s very exciting. It’s going to be huge.’

  Inge nodded and smiled. ‘So members of the public train for a sporting event of their dreams and we watch…’

  Nick stood up and started pacing. ‘We’re nowhere with this. Why are we nowhere with this?’

  Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Jenny? Has Inge not had the proposal? Where is the proposal?’

  Jenny paled and began to murmur, ‘Oh God, I knew there was something. I got the coffee but…’ Jenny rummaged in her large shoulder bag and removed a document with a laminated cover. She handed it to Inge. Meanwhile, Paul moved to sit on the edge of his desk. He leant over, adjusted his balls to the move and made a small note on a desk pad. Then he looked up and smiled.

  ‘No matter. I think it was Bill Cotton who once said to me that the best television ideas are the simple ones and this is so simple. We take three famous sporting celebrities who have children. They all swap children and train the other person’s child to compete in a sporting event. We make a documentary about the training, which we show while you ask the kids questions about what happened. You know, get that cute kid stuff and then the final is the actual competition. Doco-game show.’

  Inge took in the idea slowly. At least it was to do with sport. At least it was something she vaguely knew about. ‘And what sports people have you got?’

  Paul looked to Nick who looked to the press officer who looked up from her notepad. ‘We’re just checking appropriate profiles now. The market research people. .

  The meeting broke up with Inge feeling none the wiser about what was happening or when. She had been making television for twenty years. She had made some good television. Now she felt they were all just making television for the sake of it. Because that was what they all did for a living and not because it held any actual value. That perhaps her greatest contribution would be to encourage people out into the sports field because there was nothing to watch on the TV.

  The press officer stopped Inge on her way out. Inge felt her stomach tighten.

  ‘We’ll be lining up some publicity for you, Inge.’ The woman flicked through her notepad. Through the door Inge could hear Paul on the phone.

  ‘No, it’s fine, Barry. She’s fine. I’m just a little worried. I think something’s happened. She’s letting herself go. You should have seen the state of what she was wearing today.’

  The press woman found what she was looking for. ‘Obviously we’ve been inundated with reque
sts. You are very popular.’ The officer sighed as if she couldn’t imagine anything more annoying.

  ‘I want to try to get an angle. Do something a bit different. The Mail are running a nice thing about single career women. It’s called Why I Never Married and all you have to do is a quick photo and an interview about…’

  Inge didn’t hear any more. She left the building in a daze. She drove home in a daze. When she got in, Kate was playing chess in the conservatory with Patrick. The day’s post was piled high on the kitchen table. Much of it had been sent on from the BBC.

  Dear Miss Holbrook,

  I am writing to you about my four-year-old daughter Imelda who recently died of a brain tumour. My wife and I are determined to make her short life a valuable one so we are going to start a hospice for children called Imelda’s Place. We know that you will appreciate how much this is needed. Your warm nature shows us that you would be just the person to act as patron of Imelda’s Place and…

  Dear Inge,

  I am your biggest fan. Is there any chance of a photo?

  Of course what I’d actually like is any underwear you wore during one of your races. Just kidding! Are you ever in Wolverhampton? Only I’d be happy to let you buy me lunch…

  Dear Inge Holbrook,

  In an otherwise enjoyable programme about the history of Wimbledon, I was appalled to hear you remark that mixed doubles has never had the same fan base as other aspects of the game. For thirty years I have run a magazine entirely devoted to…

  Dear Miss Halbrook,

  My wife and I are big fans. This year I am taking on the captaincy of the West Wittering Golf and Social Club and we would love you to come and speak at the annual captain’s dinner. Obviously we can’t afford to pay you but we can promise you a delightful evening…

  Dear Inge,

  Do you have skin cancer? No? Then you’re lucky but here are some photos of kids who are not. You could help. Give your time or money and one of these kids might just live a little bit.

  There were the letters and there were the bills. Inge had got used to earning a lot over the years and she had never been careful with money. Lately she had been buying Kate all sorts of treats and for once she was noticing how high her credit card bills were. She had to work and for the first time she realised she no longer wanted to. She didn’t want to do anything. Inge had spent a career trying to please. Being nice, being ‘fun’, being friendly and it was enough. She couldn’t do it any more. From her earliest days she had carried her country’s hope on her shoulders when she ran. Now people still turned to her but she couldn’t save the world. She couldn’t save anybody. The pile of post sat looking at her. Inge reached into her handbag for her cheque book. Caught up in her leather wallet was the leaflet Pe Pe had given her at the party. Inge sat and looked at it. This was what the world was reduced to. Pamphlets, leaflets that could secure your home, damp-proof your walls, make you fit/thin, check your guttering, bring God straight to your door and… make you smile.

  Do you frown all the time? Are you frowning while you read this? Wouldn’t it be fabulous to be one of those people who smiles their way through life? Now you can be and you can do it without discovering the secrets of eternal happiness. No, it’s not a visit to a Tibetan guru but simple cosmetic surgery.

  So much for Pe Pe’s self-help to heaven and happiness. Her mush was held up by glue and the skill of a man with a scalpel. Inge wandered out to the conservatory where she could hear Kate and Patrick chatting. Kate had her earnest voice on. She rarely talked intently with anyone except Inge and Inge was surprised.

  ‘I don’t know, but there’s plenty of time for you,’ she said.

  Inge stood in the doorway. ‘Tea for anybody?’

  Patrick looked up from the chessboard and grinned at her. He was a handsome fellow. ‘I’d love a coke,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you would.’ Kate reached out and tousled his hair. ‘You must be sweating from all that gardening.’

  Patrick pulled back laughing. ‘Hey! You’re the one who keeps wanting a rematch.’

  ‘That’s because I’m the one who keeps losing.’ Kate sighed as she carefully laid her black queen on its side.

  Inge fetched them all a drink and they sat in the garden, watching the sun go down. Inge had rarely seen Kate so relaxed. The boy was good for her and she was glad.

  ‘Who taught you to play chess, Patrick?’ Inge asked. ‘My dad. He says it’s a game for kings.’

  Kate snorted. ‘Did he not mention gardening boys then?’ ‘You’re just a bad loser,’ grinned Patrick. ‘I’ve told you, you don’t attack enough. You just respond. You have to plan ahead or you won’t win.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The morning after Eve’s mother moved in, Adam fitted a burglar-proof gate to the front door. It came from a shop that stocked specialist gates and safes for the paranoid suburbanite. Stalwart Security — Safe As Houses. As far as Eve was concerned all it meant was that now she had to unlock two things to get in. The focus of Adam’s election campaign on safety in Edenford was translating itself into a very personal matter. When not out knocking on doors to secure votes, Adam was busy making sure his entire house was attack-proof. Sometimes Eve found it almost impossible to get into her own home. She suspected that Adam would have quite liked it if someone had tried to burgle them as a test. He had scrapped the Neighbourhood Watch stickers that had been on the hall window in case it deterred potential villains. Eve watched him work. Screwing and fitting.

  ‘I’m securing our house as an example,’ he declared, while Shirley Bassey warbled from a cassette player on the patio. ‘Been talking to the boss down at Stalwart Security. He’s very impressed by my campaign — helping to make Edenford safe.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Eve said, heading up the path. ‘I thought it was safe.’

  ‘The bus station,’ Adam admonished his wife. ‘Just remember what happened at the bus station. Anyway, Stalwart think I might be useful to them.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Eve felt fairly sure people from a security firm could secure their own places.

  ‘Advisory capacity. Talk to people about the need for security. What products are available. There are a lot of women living on their own, you know.’

  ‘A salesman then?’

  ‘No, Eve, a security adviser.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Adam shut the new gate. It gave a loud click like a sound effect from Prisoner Cell Block H. Adam pushed his weight against it. ‘Edenford could become a model for the whole country. A safe place for parents and children. A real place for the family.’

  There was a Safeway box on the front step with a dead hedgehog in it. One of the neighbours had left it in the night. Eve sent a message up to the woods via one of her dog-walking neighbours. Tom arrived on foot to get the box. He kissed his mother as she got in the car and he headed up the path.

  ‘What do you think of the new gate, Tom?’ Adam asked his son rather desperately.

  Tom looked at the collection of steel bars. ‘You’ve crushed the hydrangea,’ he said, pointing to where the new gate post had been driven into the ground. The plant was split in two.

  Adam laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about that. We can always get a new hydrangea but we can’t replace your mother!’

  Tom shook his head. ‘We’re in trouble. We’re all in trouble.’

  Adam seemed thrilled with this. ‘Exactly! That’s why we need to protect ourselves.’

  Tom pointed his finger at his father. ‘The people of the past two hundred years have pursued technological growth and personal satisfaction to such an extent that thousands of other life forms have been destroyed. We have done irreversible damage to the soil, the rivers, the lakes, the oceans and the atmosphere. We are thieves who have stolen the means of livelihood from future generations just to increase our own comfort and pleasure.’

  It was probably a quote but, original or not, it was hardly an easy statement for Adam to find a comeback for. Tom picked up his hedgehog a
nd went back to the woods.

  ‘It’s only a hydrangea!’ Adam called after him. ‘That boy’s much too serious,’ he said to no one in particular. Eve pulled out of the garage while Adam slapped his hand against the new security measure with pleasure. As she jerked the car out of the garage she could see that the wisteria on the wall behind her was going to be nice this year. Eve rolled down her window. She needed the air. She needed the escape route.

  ‘Take a tank to get through this,’ Adam shouted as Eve pulled off. She had just turned into the street when he started and yelled, ‘Eve, where are the keys for the new gate?’

  ‘You left them on the hall table,’ she called and drove off. Eve gave a little laugh. Adam was locked out of his own home. She had a sudden image of him driving a tank to get in. It was naughty but it was just a little thing.

  Eve went into town to go to the butcher’s and then on to the charity shop. Since the incident with the squirrel, she no longer trusted anything that was in the freezer. The car lurched along, seeming to change gears at whim. Now that Simon the postman had delivered her free socket set and she had her book on fixing the car, she thought she might have a go at it that afternoon. This was what Eve was thinking about when she went to the big meeting at the charity shop.

  Edenford was a rather average town. Some big-name shops plus everything that the average Home Counties shopper needed — butcher, chemist, newsagent, the Fireplace Shop, the Good-As-New Dress Agency, the Knick Knack Nookery with ‘candles for any occasion’, Ozbal’s Grocery Shop, the fish-and-chip shop — Bernie’s Plaice — and the charity shop.

  Britain is full of charity shops and it is hard to say what actual good they do. Certainly they raise some money for a few noble causes but that may not be the actual point. More than 80 per cent of RSPCA volunteers are women and that’s probably low across the charity board. It may be that the shops are there to give rudderless women a sense of purpose. That their actual function is not to shift old ball-gowns but to be a place where women can endlessly knit and sort in order to make themselves feel useful.