Successive publishers in London have kept the book in print, but in America, in spite of Kurt’s support, it has long since vanished. Now, fifty years after the whole adventure started, not to mention ten more novels and sixteen plays, here it comes again – my first published novel, and also, or so Kurt insisted, my last laugh.
Michael Frayn
London, September 2014
1
‘Breadth of vision’ was a peculiarity much recommended at Amalgamated Television, and from the Chairman’s suite in the penthouse on top of Amalgatel House the vision was as broad in every direction as the industrial haze would allow. At the windows of the suite linen slub curtains for ever sunlit by concealed spotlights stirred endlessly in a gentle summer breeze blown by concealed fans, warmed by concealed heaters, and made country fresh by concealed air-conditioners. They brushed with disarming simplicity against low afrormosia benches, on which tropical plants grew, perpetually watered by invisible built-in moisturising systems. On the walls there hung pictures by Pollock, Riopelle, de Staël, Rothko, and the Chairman’s nephew; and in the outer office there sat two Programme Controllers, one Co-ordinating Producer, two Visualisation Directors, and three Programme Co-ordination Visualisers, who had been summoned for an urgent conference with the Chairman two and a half hours previously, and who had been sitting waiting ever since, at a total labour cost to the Chairman and his fellow shareholders of £24 an hour.
The Chairman was in conference. The fact was announced all over Amalgatel House on little lighted screens. ‘R.V. in conference,’ they glowed, wherever men’s heads might be lifted up to appreciate the news, in lobby, garage, and canteen. One shone in the Chairman’s waiting-room, for the benefit of the assembled surtax payers. The Chairman’s secretary emerged from her office and examined them all for the sixth time with a certain suppressed satisfaction.
‘I’ll go in again and remind R.V. you’re here,’ she said kindly.
She knocked softly on the Chairman’s door and went in. Rothermere Vulgurian was striding slowly round the room, his hands behind his back, the summer sunlight from the windows glinting softly on his distinguished silver hair.
‘R.V.,’ she said. Without looking at her, Mr. Vulgurian detached a hand from behind his back and waved her out of the room. He was in conference with Sir Prestwick Wining, a working member of the Amalgamated Television Board who was responsible for the public, human and cultural relations side. Sir Prestwick, a small, sad, inert man, sat in a deeply-padded swivel chair in the middle of the room, turning slowly round and round like a sunflower to keep his face towards the Chairman.
Mr. Vulgurian stopped to pick absent-mindedly at the impasto on a Pollock.
‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘Who’s producing It’s a Giggle now?’
‘Corbishley,’ said Sir Prestwick.
‘Ah. I want you to go to our friend Corbishley and tell him that Lord Wastwater went on that programme last night with his tie under one ear.’
‘I’ll tell him, R.V.’