CHAPTER
Twenty

Barrrurrrrr!” Dinsdale got the evening off to a splendid start, bellowing across the room like an old she-elephant.

“Barry, do tell me, are you going to be the chairman? I absolutely can’t bear it if you are. I’m desperate to be it. Absolutely wild for it.”

“Oh, shut up, you bloody old fool, do. Absolutely crazy. You know perfectly well who the bloody chairman is. Where’s the bloody drink around here? That’s what I want to know. Bloody crazy.”

When Oliver decided to move, he moved. It was just five days since I’d seen him in the Groucho club, and now over a dozen major celebrities were assembled in a conference room at Capital Daily Television for our first meeting. It was the Famous Club, acting branch, with certain key additions. Edwina Roper and the bearded figures of SUSTAIN’s press officers were standing in a little group with Oliver, Vicky Spankie and Julian. Vicky was wearing a khaki combat jacket and peaked cap with a hammer and sickle on it.

Oliver was in his most charming, authoritative mode, working the room, relaxing everyone. He was talking to Edwina Roper, touching her arm, looking at her as if she was the most interesting person in the world. Edwina was coloring slightly, charmed, putting her hand to her throat.

The Irish actor Liam Doyle was standing in another group with three actors donated by the RSC. Bill Bonham was already seated at the table, mouthing something, his mantra presumably. Rajiv Sastry and his friends were talking in low, bitter voices and looking around the room. Behind them Corinna Borghese was lecturing a group of Soft Focus personnel. And Dave Rufford, the wealthy ex–rock star, was handing round photos of his five-year-old son, Max, sitting on a Shetland pony and dressed in full fox-hunting gear.

I was talking to Nigel Hoggart, a very clean young man in a gray suit, who was the representative of Circle Line Cargo. They had more or less promised me a sponsored flight to take out the first lot of food, provided they were happy with the publicity.

There was a commotion at the door and Kate Fortune fluttered in, followed by the nanny, the baby and two aides. She swooped across the room and positively fell upon Oliver, taking hold of her hair and throwing it back into the eyes of Barry, who was coming forward excitedly to greet her.

Dinsdale caught hold of my arm. “D’you know, my darling. I’m so sorry. I’m such a senile old fool. I did not have the faintest glimmer of a clue who you were the other night outside the theatah. I only remembered when you’d disappeared and I was agonized. You must think I’m the most frrrrightful boorish old nincompoop.”

“No problem. I’m very glad—”

“But could you help me out, my darling, could you? Could you bear to? Where is it we’re raising the money for? Do you know? You could possibly bear to tell me? Could you?”

“Nambula.”

“Oh, Nambuuuula.” The brown eyes fixed on me concernedly. “Ah yes. Nambula. Bossy neighbors, bothersome borders. What is it? Refugees? Keftians? All that again? We must gather round and support. We must help. We must.”

“Yes, Keftians. Didn’t know you were an Africa buff, Dinsdale.”

“Oh, I read the papers, you know. Every day, my darling, cover to cover, never miss. Barry!” he roared.

“What is it now, you bloody fool?”

“It’s Nambuuula. Nambuuula.”

“Yes, all right, all right. No need to make a bloody song and dance about it.”

Edwina Roper tapped me on the shoulder. “Rosie, this is terrif, what a turnout! Well done. Isn’t Oliver Marchant the most charming man?”

“This is Nigel Hoggart from Circle Line Cargo, who are going to help us with the flight—we hope!” I said, smiling creepily at Nigel.

“Yes, I know. Been twisting our arms all week, this lady has!” said Nigel. “That’s what’s been occurring.” He winked at Edwina.

“Have you heard anything from the government?” I asked her.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to the ODA. Not good, I’m afraid. They’re aware of what’s happening in Kefti. They’re concerned, but they don’t have the funds at the moment. They’ll need an additional budget before they can do anything, especially as it has to be a question of airlifting now.”

“Have you heard anything from Safila?”

“Nothing recent, I’m afraid. There’s still no radio contact and Malcolm has been away. But we’re getting reports of arrivals in Wad Denazen and Chaboulah.”

“UN made their minds up what they think yet?”

She shook her head. “I think what we have in this room is our best shot.”

Oliver gave good meeting, relaxed and authoritative.

“Right,” he was saying, looking round the table. “Acting? Acts? Africa? What are we going to call ourselves?”

“Act on Africa,” said Vicky looking at him hopefully.

“Arms Around the World?” said Kate Fortune. “Hearts? Hearts of Africa?”

“Bleeding Hearts for Africa?” said Corinna dryly, lifting off her sunglasses.

“Africa Crisis,” said Julian. “Blast no—Drama. Drama out of a Crisis. Must be something in there.”

“Love Aid,” said Kate Fortune. “Love the Children Aid? Arms Around the Children?”

“Luvvie Aid,” said Rajiv.

“Now that’s not bad,” said Oliver. “Luvvie Aid. What d’you think? Bit flip?”

“Completely crazy.”

“Acts, acting, come on,” said Oliver. “African Acts, relief, famine, charity, Charitable Acts.” He turned to me with a long, smug look. “Charitable Acts. What about it?” Charitable Acts it was.

“I can put it into the Soft Focus slot in either two or three weeks’ time, but ten P.M. on a weekday is not ideal. Vernon Briggs will have to approve it, and if we want another slot it’ll have to come from him.”

There were a number of childish noises from around the table. Vernon Briggs was Oliver’s boss, from the old end-of-the-pier school of TV entertainment. Not a popular man with the younger celebrity.

“Like, OK, if I have to work with Vernon, then I’m, like, out of here,” said Rajiv.

“Now, come along,” said Oliver.

“Do you really think this is appropriate to a Soft Focus spot?” said Corinna. “I mean, it’s not exactly arts, is it?”

“We’re artists, aren’t we? Aren’t we? Is theater not art?” said Vicky. “I mean, I certainly think of myself as an artist. Aren’t we artists too?”

“Bloody crazy. Sitting here talking about this, that and the other,” roared Barry. “Is this art? Bloody nonsense. What is the performance? What is the performance? None of us has got a blind idea what the hell lines we’re supposed to be learning. Absolutely crazy.”

“Take no notice of him, my darlings. Mind’s completely gone. Vanished totally, years ago.”

“Well, it’s a fair-enough point,” said Oliver. “What is the heart of the show going to be? It has to be something short—we can’t count on more than an hour. The viewers have to feel they’re getting their money’s worth if they’re going to send cash. They want to see you doing something you wouldn’t normally do. It’s got to be simple and it needs a theatrical connection—”

“Can I just say something here?” said Eamonn Salt, in his flat monotone. “Obviously we’re very grateful for this turnout tonight.”

“Absolutely,” said Edwina Roper. “It’s fantastically generous of all of you to give up your time and energy to this wonderful cause. Thank you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to thank everyone too, on behalf of the camp at Safila.”

“Excuse me,” said Corinna, “excuse me. I find it rather odd that charity professionals should feel they have to be sobbingly grateful to a group of performers for a few days’ work. I think the gratitude should probably be the other way around.”

“Well, let’s say we’re all grateful to each other and try not to break down, shall we?” said Oliver, after an awkward moment. “Now what were you saying, Eamonn?”

“Yes, indeed,” Eamonn went on in his droning tone. “I think it would be helpful if the content of the program could somehow mirror what the appeal is about. The money raised will help in the short term, but essentially this is a political issue. There are things it is difficult for us, as a charity, to say, but you could say them for us.”

“Excuse me?” said Corinna. “If we all get up in front of the camera are we supposed to be saying what we think, or what you think? I mean, you know, like, everyone’s always saying we shouldn’t be ill-informed mouthpieces. So are we allowed to say what we think?”

“Well, let’s hear what SUSTAIN think first,” said Oliver.

“Yes, indeed. In the first place the Keftian people’s movement has arisen because of a war, and the war has arisen because of a corrupt autocracy in Abouti. In the second place the reason why provision has not been made for these refugees is because of a certain slowness to react and cumbersome bureaucracy from the UN, but also—and essentially—because of the slow responses of governments. The reason why food is not in place, actually, is because our government, and the French didn’t send what they were supposed to send when they said they would.”

Kate Fortune was looking very intently at the nail on her index finger. She bent it towards her and starting picking at it with her thumb. Julian was starting to play with his electronic organizer. Eamonn was not one of the world’s great orators.

“If you look beyond that,” Eamonn continued, “if Nambula wasn’t saddled with a massive foreign debt, because of the loans made by the World Bank during the oil boom in the seventies, then they wouldn’t be using all their fertile land to grow cash crops and would have more than enough food to deal with their own refugee crises.”

“Well, that should be easy enough to put across entertainingly in half an hour,” said Rajiv.

“Oh, but listen, everyone. Don’t you think, really, for all that, it’s the children who really get through to people?” said Kate Fortune. “I don’t think we want to get all bogged down in politics, do we? It’s the children we should be thinking about.”

“Stupid woman,” muttered Barry.

“Honey, what about Elizabethan-style playlets?” cried Vicky Spankie, looking at Oliver with sparkling eyes. “The roots of famine personified—War, Debt, Bad Governance!!”

This hugely amused Barry.

“Lo! I am Bad Governance! Begotten of a fat greedy despot in a gold-plated Roller,” he thundered, in that famous overenunciated delivery.

“Lo! I am Incompetence—” Dinsdale began.

Kate Fortune got to her feet, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I really don’t think we should be making jokes when . . . when children are dying.”

“All right. Yes, let’s all settle down,” said Oliver, glancing at Vicky, who was looking red-faced and furious.

Bill Bonham piped up, “What about trying to do something more with what’s preoccupying the world at present, linking the whole thing with a spiritual karmic quest? Doing good, feeling good about yourself. It could be presented as more of a journey.”

“Yes, thank you, Bill,” said Oliver, adding under his breath, “Any more completely lunatic suggestions while we’re at it?”

“I have to say I don’t think we should be doing this at all, actually,” said Corinna.

There was silence.

“I really think it’s, like, counterproductive,” she went on. “This is a Tory cock-up and then we say,‘Oh, it’s OK, guys, we’ll fill up the gaps, no sweat, you know.’ I mean, puh-lease.”

“And, of course, we’re only giving the illusion of filling the gaps, aren’t we?” said Oliver. “Aren’t we talking drops in the ocean?”

“It is true that the total amounts raised by Live Aid and Band Aid was less than five percent of the government overseas aid budget for that year,” said Eamonn Salt.

Everyone stared at him, taking it in.

“But Live Aid did a lot of good, didn’t it?” said Julian, looking hurt.

“Yeah,” said Dave Rufford expansively.

“Of course, Live Aid was a tremendous help,” said Edwina Roper. “It completely changed the face of giving. It was tremendous fun. It opened up a new sector of young donors which didn’t exist before. It did tremendous things for all the agencies.”

“Yeah. It was like this rebellion. We were telling the Tories, ‘Look, cunts, we’re not ’avin this,’” said Dave.

“Oh, yes, it had its moment”— Corinna was yawning through her nose— “but the moment has passed. Now every two-bit model in the business is gushing around the world doing photo shoots with the starving. It’s gross. I mean, it’s cultural imperialism at its absolute worst. It’s, like, we the celebs save the little monkeys, you know. Self-congratulatory crap.”

A crestfallen air fell on the table.

“Yeah, that’s right, actually,” said Rajiv. “I’m with Corinna on this. I’m having no part of it.”

“So you think there’s no point?” said Julian, dismayed.

“Well. It’s something we do have to consider,” said Oliver. “All this ‘Make way, let me help, I’m famous.’ Maybe it is irresponsible.” He looked almost relieved. I couldn’t believe this. It had all been there and now it was slipping away.

“It’s, like, crap. It’s like a false reassurance for the public,” said Rajiv.

“Exactly,” said Corinna, looking smug. “Why isn’t that ship there? Whose cock-up is this? This is what we ought to be asking, not demanding fivers from pensioners.”

“Right. Robbin’ the poor to bail out the cunts,” said Dave Rufford.

“Well, quite,” said Corinna. “I mean puh-lease.”

“Absolutely crazy!” said Barry, rising to his feet and thumping his hand down on the table. “Have you all completely taken leave of your senses?” He stood motionless, staring around the room with one eyebrow raised. “Have you gone mad? A camp,” he said, raising one hand in the air, and staring ahead, “a camp in darkest Africa, thronging with people, starving to death. They ask us for help. . .”—his voice dropped to a whisper— “and we say no? If you stood before a dying child and he held out his hand, and asked you for food, which you had, would you say no?”

He paused, turning his head from one side to the other, glaring round the room. “Well, let’s bloody well get on with it then,” he roared.

“But this is exactly what I’m saying,” said Kate Fortune. “It’s the children—”

“Oh, puh-lease,” muttered Corinna. “I mean, that’s just propagating the neocolonialist—”

Dinsdale jumped to his feet. “First word of sense I’ve heard from the old fool in fifty years,” he bellowed. “Of course we must do what we can, my darlings, what can you be thinking of? We must help! We must thrrrow ourselves to the fore!”

“Yeah, I’m with you on that, Dinsdale. No point being bleedin’ right-on about it when the poor fuckers are starvin’ to death,” said Dave Rufford.

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely.”

“I agree,” said Julian. “I’d love to do something. Oh, blast.” His phone had started ringing again.

It was plain sailing after that. Oliver was growing more and more ambitious. He was talking about doing a satellite broadcast from the camp. He was being absolutely wonderful. Even Corinna was beginning to come round.

Kate Fortune rose fussily to her feet. “Well, I’d like to say here and now that I would be more than happy to go out to Nambula.”

Barry’s head crashed down onto the table.

“We can discuss who’s going to go out later,” said Oliver. “What about the main show? We can have a few people’s party pieces and monologues, but we need something central and theatrical.”

“Shakespeare,” said Barry. “It should be the Bard.”

“What about a Shakespeare sketch?” said Julian. “A comic one.”

“Like it,” said Oliver. “Maybe speeded-up Shakespeare. A fifteen-minute Hamlet? Obviously we’d have to have other things around it, but that could form the core.”

“I’d love to do my Ophelia,” said Vicky.

“Oh, yes! So would I,” said Kate.

“Surely you’re more of a Gertrude, darling,” someone murmured.

On it went. I didn’t care. It was all going to happen now, that was what mattered. And the thought crossed my mind that if Muhammad and the representatives of RESOK found themselves in the Famous Club they would be just as bad. The Keftian tent moving, the political engineering was all part of the same thing. The Keftians wanted not to be hungry, not to be sick so that they could live, improve their lot and their status, and show off, indulge in life’s little vanities like everyone else.

“So”—Oliver closed his large matte-black notebook and banged his hand on top of it— “thank you, everyone. We meet again here, at the same time, next week, by which time we will have a running order and scripts on the way.”

“Hang on. Who’s doing the casting?” said Liam Doyle.

“Me,” said Oliver. “Thanks very much, everyone, meeting adjourned.”

Under the table Oliver slipped his hand onto my knee. I lifted it and put it back on his own.

Immediately afterwards, he cleared his throat and said, “By the way, before we all get too excited remember this all has to be cleared by Vernon Briggs or we can’t go ahead. And this is a man who thinks Hamlet is a small cigar, and a comic sketch means a mother-in-law, a banana skin and three racial stereotypes. We’ll keep you posted, anyway. Thanks very much, everyone.”

Now why did he cast a dampener like that, just when we were all fired up?