Festival at Glimbridge

By Roger Jones

When Percy Vosper inaugurates a literary festival in his home town in the north of England, little does he realise the place will be shaken to its foundations when a dysfunctional travelling theatre company and a stream of larger than life literati descend on it.

Leading literary critic Graham Burton and aspiring journalist Heather Glaze observe events with a wry detachment unaware that the arrival of an American breakfast cereal mogul will change their lives irrevocably.

The business ambitions of a leading national newspaper group and a local radio station's hilarious broadcasts add further spice to this lively novel which ranges from tragedy to farce.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Jones
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780954018924

Roger Jones

Roger Jones is a writer and an editor specializing in careers, living and working abroad, and music. A graduate from King’s College, London University, who studied modern languages, he has worked abroad in Europe, the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and in refugee welfare and education in the UK. A longstanding member of the Society of Authors, he plays an active role in civic amenity groups. He lives in Gloucestershire, UK.

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FESTIVAL AT GLIMBRIDGE

by

Roger Jones

Smashwords edition.

Originally published in 1999 by Citron Press

ISBN: 978-0-9540189-2-4

Copyright Roger Jones 1999, 2011

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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MAIN DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Mora Brand, a bank manager

Graham Burton, literary editor of The Gazette

P C Bullock, a policeman

John Field, Editor of The Gazette

Lord Springfield, owner and chairman of the British Newspaper Group

Grevil Forbes, an author

Heather Glaze, a reporter on The Glimbridge Observer

Dolores Groat, a literary agent

Revd. George Jenkins, a Baptist Minister

Blair Kingston, a dead playwright

Geoffrey Myers, a theatrical director

Charles Newsom, a publisher

Maureen North, a local radio presenter

Roger Workington, drama critic of The Gazette

Percy Vosper, director of the Glimbridge Literary Festival

Francis Weston, a best-selling author

Derek Williamson, MD of the British Newspaper Group

The New Age Theatre Company:

Kevin Parks

Grant Murray

Chloe

Sharon

Piers Davenport

ONE

Grevil Forbes emerged from Leicester Square Underground Station in London and made his way lugubriously along Charing Cross Road. Murder was on his mind. There had been a time when his step would have been lighter and his heart full of joyful anticipation, but today this particular exercise had now degenerated into a dismal chore.

He entered an Edwardian office building which had clearly seen better days. Many of the office suites were now vacant, their occupants having moved to brighter, more modern accommodation elsewhere to be encased in huge, faceless blocks with walls of glass. Eventually, the demolition men would move in here and Graves MacDonald would need to find another home.

The ancient lift being out of order as usual, Grevil braced himself for the climb to the third floor. Thirty years ago he would have leaped up the stairs two at a time, but now all he could manage was a slow plod. The years had exacted a price on him: youthful exuberance had been supplanted by numb dejection and a feeling of emptiness.

He rang the bell and marched into the office. Graves MacDonald had yet to install an entry phone or any of the other paraphernalia of modern life. But then if you are a well established literary agency there is no need to indulge in such fripperies. In any case the authors the firm represented would be horrified if walnut panelling were to make way for plastic and the gloom dissipated by fluorescent lighting.

Dolores Groat was expecting him. Grevil regarded her as one of the younger generation of agents, though, in fact, she was fast approaching middle age. Of course, she wasn't a patch on Nigel Graves who had handled his affairs so adroitly since his very first novel. Nigel was an agent of the old school who had understood how the literary mind worked. As for Dolores, the least said the better: she was businesslike and efficient, but had absolutely no literary taste. He was determined to stir her up.

I've a good mind to concoct a murder, he announced.

A murder, Grevil? Dolores raised an eyebrow.

Either that or expose a horde of state secrets. It seems to be the only way to get noticed.

You mean......write about them?

Don't be silly, Dolores. You know I'd never stoop to genre fiction. A Grevil Forbes novel belongs to the realm of literature.

His agent sighed.

Unfortunately, literature doesn't sell these days.

My sort does ....... given a measure of commitment from the publisher.

That, Dolores reflected, was the problem. Grevil Forbes had not moved with the times, and the reading public was more interested in rising literary stars than fallen comets. How was she to put that over to her touchy client.

Do you realise my royalties have virtually dried up? he went on. What's a man to live on? - you just tell me.

Clearly her client was in one of his moaning moods and was expecting her to don the therapist's mantle once more. She decided the best policy was to remain silent.

I can't understand why some of my best work is out of print now.

Dolores could, but her professionalism prevented her from revealing her innermost thoughts.

That's why this latest project of mine is so crucial.

....... Provided someone's prepared to take it on, Dolores interjected.

I can't understand it, came the retort. "The Gresham Conundrum is my best work to date."

It's not finished.

Hell, what does that matter? There's enough to go on ........ the plot, sample chapters, my reputation. Why - when Nigel Graves handled my affairs just the hint of a plot and publishers came rushing forward waving cheques.

A lot has changed since Nigel passed on, Dolores pointed out.

Nigel knew how to handle publishers, said Grevil somewhat pointedly.

The agent was sensitive to criticism.

Are you suggesting that I don't? she bristled.

I wasn't criticising.

Dolores decided that a few home truths were in order.

Look, Grevil. As you say, times have changed. The publishers that Nigel handled were different from today's publishers. They were nice, urbane gentlemen who adored books and loved talking with authors.

Grevil braced himself for a stream of excuses.

Nowadays it's different, Dolores continued. Publishing has become a business, just like every other. Publishers handle what they think will sell. They're no longer interested in what you call 'literature'.

You're being unduly cynical, was Grevil's riposte. Literary agents, I suppose, have gone the same way?

We move with the times, Grevil. We have to. We have to earn our bread.

Grevil Forbes grunted with displeasure. Nigel Graves would never have talked in such terms. For him representing authors had more or less been a labour of love.

Perhaps I too should move......to another agency, he said.

No threats please, Grevil. We're doing our best.

I wish I could believe that, he muttered to himself. This meeting was turning out to be a disaster, and he rather wished he had stayed in bed for the day nursing his Muse. Given the proper treatment he knew he could make a successful comeback, but Dolores seemed neither to realise this nor to care. He would give her one last chance. If nothing positive materialised he resolved to track down a more energetic representative who could make him front page news again.

Some two hundred miles from London the situation was looking considerably brighter with Percy Vosper in a state of great excitement.

At last, It's all coming together, he muttered gleefully as he admired the sheet of details in front of him. He glanced at his watch, then donned his jacket and adjusted his tie. Now was the time to tell the world.

A minute or so later he was scuttling along the High Street quite oblivious to the myriad of shoppers who were scanning shop windows for bargains. His destination was the studio of the local radio station where he had been promised an airing on The Morning Show.

He had never been interviewed on radio before and was somewhat apprehensive. What sort of questions would he be asked? How much time would he be allotted? What would happen if his mind went blank? His mind raced through the programme of events. He knew which ones he wanted to highlight, and hoped he would get a chance to put them over.

He entered the radio station and gave his name to the receptionist.

That's right, said the reply. Up there and through the door marked Studio B. Maureen's waiting for you.

Maureen?

Maureen North - the interviewer.

Percy followed the instructions and found himself in a room which resembled an aeroplane cockpit. Seated at a huge console was a young woman who looked as if she was still in her teens. He stood there feeling awkward. He had been expecting to meet someone with years of broadcasting experience.

Maureen caught sight of him, smiled, and took off her headphones.

Hello, she said warmly. You must be Percy.

That was another shock. He hardly expected a girl young enough to be his great-niece to call him by his Christian name. He nodded.

Can you sit down at the mike and say something. I want to check the sound level.

Percy glanced nervously at a black object dangling before him and obliged.

Right. I'll talk to you right after the announcement.

The woman in the cockpit put on her headphones and manipulated various switches on the console.

Hello. This is Radio Glimbridge and I'm Maureen North with sixty minutes of music, news and views about events in the Glimbridge area. And in the studio today I have Percy Vosper who's going to tell us about the literary festival he's planning for the town.

She turned towards him.

Percy, what gave you the idea of a literary festival here in Glimbridge? she asked.

Percy took a grip on himself and responded to her nod.

Well, we've a lot of talented writers dotted around the area, so I thought it would be a nice idea to bring them all together to talk about their work, he began.

So this festival is to be a showcase for local talent?

Not exactly, he continued. "We're also having some well-known names coming up from London. For instance, Professor Henry Bowman is going to lecture on Shakespeare; there's going to be a performance by one of the country's leading fringe theatre groups; and I'm planning a discussion entitled British Literature Today with a panel consisting of a leading critic and publisher."

To Maureen this sounded pointless and dreary, but dreariness was the last thing one wanted on The Morning Show.

This sounds really exciting, she said. Are any famous writers coming along?

Famous writers? Percy's mind suddenly went blank and the interviewer tried again.

There are rumours that the author Francis Weston is going to appear, she prompted.

"Francis Weston......of course. Yes, we're very lucky to get hold of him. He's coming to talk about his latest best-seller - Death Stalks at Midnight."

The girl interviewer positively drooled.

Francis Weston at Glimbridge? That's just fantastic, isn't it, folks? I'm sure he'll draw in the crowds. Now let's have a break for music, listeners, and then we'll find out more about this literary event in Glimbridge.

And so it went on. Ten minutes later Percy bade the ebullient Miss North farewell and tottered out of the studio. The experience of going out on the air waves had proved something of a trial, and he worried lest his answers had not been as lucid as they should have been. As he sauntered out into the busy street he tried to recall what he had actually said but couldn't remember a word.

I do hope I didn't make a complete ass of myself, he muttered to himself.

As he passed Brown's Bakery and Tea Shop he had a sudden urge to relieve the tension. He sloped in and ordered a mug of coffee and a bun. In the background he heard the sound of a radio.

Is that Radio Glimbridge? he asked the waitress. She nodded.

What did you think of the last item - the interview? he enquired.

The waitress looked at him quizzically.

Oh we only have it on for the music, she replied. I wish they'd cut out all that talk. Spoils the programme, it does.

In London literature is a very serious business, and nowhere is it taken more seriously than in the literary pages of The Gazette. Graham Burton, the paper's literary editor saw to that, though he had to confess that these days it was an uphill struggle to extract the gems from a sea of mediocrity.

But that was not the worst of it. He had to contend with publishers who pushed their products with the same robust determination that double glazing salesmen employ. He was in the middle of a telephone conversation with a persistent offender at this very minute.

Yes, he cooed, "I'm sure it's a brilliant book. But if we review every brilliant book that comes out there'll be no room for the news ...... To give you an idea I've got a pile of thirty books on my desk just come in this morning ...... No, I haven't time to review it myself ...... I've lost all my staff in the cutbacks. It's been disastrous. All that's left in the literary editor's office is yours truly and a part-time secretary who can't spell ...... OK, OK. I'll see what's happened to it, but I can't make any promises.'

He slammed down the phone and mopped his forehead. He had lied a little. There were not thirty books on his desk; merely a dozen. And his secretary was literate.Her main defect was her inability to intercept unwanted calls and ensure he was not bothered by pleas for reviews.

The phone rang again, and he prepared himself for another hard sell. This time, however, it was a message to say the editor would like to see him - which sounded ominous. John Field was not the type invite one in for a glass of sherry and pat one on the back for all one's hard work.

He ambled along to the editor's office and found Field with his hands in his pockets gazing out of the window at the London skyline. Graham Burton gave a discreet cough and his boss turned to face him.

We haven't had a good chat for a long time, the latter observed.

As a matter of fact I thought you'd forgotten I existed, replied Graham sweetly.

Field sat down at his desk and gestured to his colleague to do the same.

Graham, I've decided that we have to do something about the provinces.

Graham was unsure how to take the comment.

You know what I mean: Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle, etc. We must do something about them.

Graham had no idea what his boss was driving at. For all his journalistic pretensions Field could hardly be called a born communicator.

Why not abolish them? he suggested.

That was not the type of answer that Field appreciated, and his expression told all.

I don't think you grasp the problem. Our circulation in the provinces is static, he said.

Oh! Graham could not for the life of him imagine why he had been brought in to hear such tedious news. It was hardly his concern.

In some areas it is actually declining.

The literary editor wondered what his superior was leading up to.

Lord Springfield wants us to take firm action to stem this decline.

Graham frowned at the mention of the press baron who owned The Gazette.

Does he? he muttered. Fine, but I don't honestly see what that has to do with me.

It concerns every one of us, was the reply. We can't stand idly by and watch our competitors leap ahead of us in Stoke on Trent, Middlesbrough and Wolverhampton. At this rate we'll be going down the slippery slope into financial loss.

I hope you're not blaming me for all this .....

I'm merely putting you into the picture. To counteract the decline we've decided to step up coverage of what's happening in other parts of the country. And you're going to play a key role in turning the tide in our favour.

This sounded a dreadful idea, and Graham had difficulty in envisaging his role in his chief's grand design.

Me? he said. What on earth do you want me to do? Dig up a forgotten literary gem out of some slag heap in Yorkshire?

The sarcasm was lost on Field.

I thought we might run a series on literature in the regions - something that'll make people sit up and take notice. What do you think?

Graham almost exploded. In his judgement it