Mark Russell
20th January 2005, 10:30 AM
By popular demand....the continuing adventures of Bagshot and his merry crew at the offices of a fantasy UK Podiatric representative organ.
All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental and is probably a figment of your imagination! Have fun.....and read at bed-time with a long glass of Ardbeg by your side!
FESTIVE FULES
SCENE 1: EXT: UNDER THE ARCHES OF TOWER BRIDGE: NIGHT
Two men meeting clandestinely. Long raincoats. Mist from river. Rats scurrying around ground. The only light is the glow of cigarettes. All is quiet.
GRANDEE: There you are; told you so. You won’t hear anything again. They get fed up in the end. They always do. We had the same problems with the lecturers during the 1970’s. They thought they knew what was best for the profession but they were wrong too. Best that these types are kept at bay; or as far away from us as we can manage. Lord! Why do they always think that they know best?
NEW BOY: Mhmmmmm
GRANDEE: I mean, can’t they see we can’t do anything else?
NEW BOY: What do you mean?
GRANDEE: We’ll we’re not going anywhere are we? Most of the members can’t be bothered right? What’s the point of us sticking our necks out? What good will it do?
NEW BOY: {shifting uncomfortably on feet}
But what about the new graduates? Or the ones with families? How will they cope? What will they do when they find out? They’ll have commitments to meet? How will they manage? What will they think about what the Society has done?
GRANDEE: That’s their problem; not ours. It’s all about shifting responsibilities nowadays. The Department of Health is doing it. Why shouldn’t we?’ Christ! What do they expect anyway? They get a Journal and their insurance paid for them. What do they want for three hundred quid anyhow? Caviar and Perignon? We only get tea and crumpets! What makes them think they deserve better?
NEW BOY: Who knows?
They extinguish their cigarettes into the river, pull up the collars of their raincoats and emerge from the dark, damp shadows below. Their shoulders are stooped and low. The grandee at the rear, smiles with satisfaction at the back of his companion and blows his, not inconsiderable nose into a large pink handkerchief he extracts from his breast pocket. It has seen much use.
As they climb the steps back up to Tower Bridge Road, the old man pauses and bangs his stick against the railing to catch the younger man’s attention.
NEW BOY: Yes?
GRANDEE: Keep them in the dark.. It’s the best way it is. Always worked for us.
NEW BOY: What about the web-site. All those dissenters
GRANDEE: Who cares? It’s just that bloody nutter again – he’s the one who’s stirring them all {looks away briefly and spits into the murky current of the river below} besides, steps have been taken…..pretty soon you’ll not be hearing from him anymore. Just ignore the rest of them, they won't give us any trouble now.
NEW BOY: Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thing is, these songs have been on the website for ages. Nearly five thousand members have printed them off and are selling them to their patients. It's a phenomenon they say. I mean, I was driving down the M11 last week and Steve Wright played the ‘March of the Old Grandees’ on Radio Five Live – it’s up to number two in the charts now. It was supposed to be a secret within Council. God, it’s getting really embarrassing at work – it’s played constantly on the wards – they say it cheers the patients up.
The grandee smiles to himself, content with the secret he dare not share with his companion. How would he take it? What would he say? If only he knew the real story. What would he do? What would anyone in his position do - a recently elected council member? Toe the line if they knew what was best for them. Or else!
SCENE 2: EXT: EMBANKMENT: NIGHT
They say their goodbyes near the Tower and the grandee makes his way to Liverpool Street Station; mist following him inland along the narrow embankment streets. He stops for a moment outside a cobblers, and admires the bespoke footwear scattered inside the floor of the shop window. A balloon stretcher is visible, protruding from the waist of a Hotter comfort shoe. Its apron is relaxed and soft.
The grandee looks at the shoe, puzzled why anyone would want to stretch the upper in the manner that it is now being fashioned. He mutters under his breath…
GRANDEE: It would get rid of the corn, it would. God; have they no sense at all?
He shakes his head and marches into the station.
SCENE 3: INT: RAILWAY STATION: NIGHT
His is the last train home. He walks down the platform towards the locomotive. On the way a familiar song starts up over the Tannoy……
{”Honourable Council Members, of the S.C.P…..”}
Everywhere, people smile and begin to sing along. The grandee puffs out his chest with pride.
SCENE 4: INT: RAILWAY CARRAIGE: NIGHT
He takes his seat in a carriage near the rear. It is almost deserted. A single passenger is sitting on a bench seat, reading the final edition of the ‘Standard’. The grandee sits opposite, and peers out from over his half-moon glasses, reading the headline. It runs;
“CHIROPODISTS ACCEPT 50% PAY CUT”
The grandee smiles, nodding his head gently. Thank goodness the Christmas holidays were just starting. Good job they switched the answer machine off too. Opposite him, the top half of the paper folds down, and reveals a tall, elegant, well dressed lady with long blonde hair. Strands of grey run through it. Crows feet frame both eyes. The grandee smiles at her, admiring her beauty. There were times that he wished he was a little younger…not many…..but there were times.... Damn! The vagrancies of aging! The previous night he was unable to reach his feet to cut his toenails. How was he going to cope now? Same way as every other pensioner had to, he supposed. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat; a tinge of guilt settling over him. Maybe he could bring it up at the next council meeting - see if they could relax the rules on expenses to get his chiropody treatment costs reimbursed. The fees were extortionate compared to what he used to charge when he was in practice. Mind you that was thirty years ago!
He curses his stupidity with a small laugh. How stupid - getting council to endorse his suggestion. He IS the council! Ha!
The woman looks at the grandee inquisitively.
WOMAN: Well? Did you speak with him?
GRANDEE: Yes, of course. That should do it. We shouldn’t hear any more complaints at council meetings now. Not until after the next election and we can still work our magic on the ballot papers again…mhmmm? Keep the buggers out in the first place! Damn good idea of yours it was. The best we’ve had for ages…….
WOMAN: Yes…sometimes a younger brain has its advantages…..
GRANDEE: {raising eyebrows} Don’t get carried away now…..you’re not in the Inner Sect yet. Don’t damage your prospects….remember ….ears are everywhere. {coughs gently} I see the Standard picked up the news. The Minister said he would release it to them first. Good headline. Plenty publicity – pity they don’t like using podiatry though – still I suppose we all graduated as chiropodists anyway. Front page eh?
WOMAN: ‘Yes..... {she goes back to the section she was reading, doning her own half moon glasses to read the small print}...thing is, I can’t see our names here though, I’ve searched twice.’
The grandee looks at her, a scowl creasing his well-lined face. He reaches over and snatches the newspaper out of her hands and looks for himself, running his well-manicured finger down the lines of newsprint. After a minute he throws down the paper in disgust.
GRANDEE: Damn! They promised! Maybe they meant next year….
The woman bends forward to retrieve the paper from the carriage floor, patting the grandee’s knee as she does. It is a rare display of compassion and he scowls at her in castigation for her stupidity and weakness. She lifts the paper and folds it on the seat beside her and looks out of the window to the darkness beyond. The window reflects the headine in the pages that she was looking at. It reads:
“TSIL SRUONOH SRAEY WEN”
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 5: INT: A BUILDING NEAR TOWER BRIDGE: MORNING
A smoke filled room with a large table and seating for nineteen. Two men in the corner, one holding tightly to a Zimmer frame are huddled together in quiet conversation. The younger man – our grandee - has a name badge on the lapel of his jacket. It reads Peregrine Bagshot
OLD GRANDEE: How did the business go last night? Everything taken care of?
BAGSHOT: Yes, no problem at all. Didn’t even have to raise my voice. These new council members have no backbone at all. God they’re so weak…
OLD GRANDEE: Ah, things were different in my day. Men were men and women knew their place in life. Things have changed so much today. Never mind; it makes our job so much easier. Now what about that nutter up north. Has he been taken care of yet?
BAGSHOT: That’s being attended to as we speak….we know he likes red wine, God the whole world knows that…..so we’ve sent him a case of Lafite ‘83 for Christmas. Each one laced with a bottle of monocholoracaetic acid crystals.
OLD GRANDEE: Ha! That should sort his peri-anal warts out if nothing else! Very good….very good. You get an extra crumpet for that one! Marvelous!
They slap each other heartily on the back, the old man buoyant with joy. He turns away from his younger companion and hobbles in a strange higgledy piggildy fashion across to an enormous black leather commode in the corner and lifts the seat. Inside there is a shoebox. He beckons Bagshot across and gestures to him to remove it. This he does very gingerly.
BAGSHOT: What is it?
OLD GRANDEE: It’s for you. Go on take it.
Bagshot is hesitant. The base of the box is wet from something in the commode. He opens the top with care.
BAGSHOT: (excitedly) Oh it’s lovely. Yes, it’s just what I always wanted.
OLD GRANDEE: You’re very welcome. You’ve worked hard for it.
Bagshot holds aloft a small glass ornament. It depicts three monkeys; one holding its ears, another holding its mouth, the last covering its eyes. Underneath, engraved in the glass are the words; Hear no Sense, Speak no Sense, See no Sense. Bagshot has tears in his eyes and his hands tremble with excitement.
BAGSHOT: I knew it! I knew it! I always knew it would be my destiny. The Master-elect of the Society. Oh that’s almost poetic! Oh my, inspiration….we can’t have that.
OLD GRANDEE: (sternly) No we can’t now, can we? No slip ups at any time. You can never let the membership suspect anything. Never. That is the greatest secret. Always keep them in the dark. Feed them stories, anything. Never the truth.
BAGSHOT: You’re right of course. I just couldn’t believe how easy it was when I started. Sheep are more inquisitive. No wonder they’re called sleepers, mhmm?
OLD GRANDEE: True, but never forget who pays for the tea and crumpets though. Don’t forget them; ignore them maybe, but don’t forget them.
BAGSHOT: Don’t worry. Election time is coming around soon and I’ve got a new video made. My strategic plan! It’s called ‘My Way’.
OLD GRANDEE: That’s excellent. God all this new technology. I just can’t keep up nowadays. Video you say? Never heard of it! Is it like a cine? Can I see it?
BAGSHOT: Yes of course you can…..let’s go; we’re showing it at the council meeting just now. Come along now, easy does it….
SCENE 6 EXT: FELLMONGERS CLOSE: MORNING
A convoy of bakery vans arrive at the entrance. Hundreds of men unpack box after box of cream cakes and crumpets. A tanker pumps steaming tea through an open window.
SCENE 7: INT: CONFERENCE ROOM: NOON
Twenty-four individuals huddled around a narrow table. A man with an electronic device searches for hidden bugs. He finds none. When he has gone, the assembled members take off their socks and shoes and raise their right legs. A tape recorder is switched on and an orchestra is heard playing the opening bars of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. In unison, the group begins to sing:
COUNCIL: (collectively)
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Onward to obli-vion
That’s our destiny
Pay no heed to mem-ber-ship
They only get one vote
Listen to the ancients
We’ll give you all the hope
For a brighter fu-t-ure
We’ll lead you all the way
Hark the glorious gran-dees
And you'll be one some day
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Our cup it flow-eth over
With great sagacity
Tell no-one what you’re do-ing
That goes against the grain
A 'cup of tea and crum-pets'
Should be your sole refrain
Zip your gob and key-bo-ard
We’ve heard it all before
The ungrateful damn dissenters
They’re such a bloody bore
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Nothing will ever change us
We’re here ‘till eternity
If you think we're lunatics
It won't mean a thing
Because we can dismiss you
On the slightest whim
We have the best intentions
Of that we're sure you'll see
If you don't like what we're doing
Go and work for the H.P.C.
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Onward to Obli-vion
That's your destiny
Bagshot stands erect once the voices have died down. The old grandee beside him wipes a tear away from his eye.
BAGSHOT: That’s enough! Quiet! Sit down now, on the floor, cross legged. Welcome to the last Council meeting of the year. Now the business for today is as follows; first we will watch my new election video and then we’ll watch it again before the cakes arrive. Then we’ll watch it again and then well have the tea and crumpets. After that I’ll be asking you questions to see if you have been paying attention. An extra crumpet will go to all those who can recite the whole script accurately!
{Excited chattering and gnashing of teeth}
Now, any questions before we begin? No?
WEE LASSIE: Eh....excuse me....
BAGSHOT: (angrily) What? You wanted to talk? I hope it’s not rubbish….I’ve heard enough of that this week already!
WEE LASSIE: Erm…no….it’s about the website. I was wondering, sir, if we can answer some of these questions that the members keep asking……they’re getting quite impatient….
BAGSHOT: No! What have you been told. Don’t respond - there’s no need. That’s what we got that trainee for wasn’t it? Just ignore them. It’s the only way. Now sit down and don’t open your mouth again. Not if you know what’s good for you…..(mutters)... how stupid can you get....
{He switches on the video and blows out all the candles. The television lights up showing the grandee sitting behind an operating table holding a scalpel in one hand and an amputated foot in the other. Blood runs down his operating gown. His pink handkerchief is around his head. He delivers his speech.}
Bagshot takes his seat beside the old man. As the video progresses, a curious look befalls the old man’s face. After a moment he leans over to his younger compatriot.
OLD GRANDEE: That’s familiar. Your speech. I’ve heard that somewhere before….
BAGSHOT: Yesssss
OLD GRANDEE: (puzzled) Where….where was it. Was it at conference?
BAGSHOT: (smugly) No…no….try again.
OLD GRANDEE: (angrily) Don’t be stupid. No games. No humour. Tell me now!
BAGSHOT: (sheepishly) Oh all right then.
The Grandee slips his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket and extracts a slim magazine and hands it to the old man. It is the April edition of Podiatry Now. A pink bookmark is visible protruding from the top. The old man opens the magazine and looks at the page. It is headed; ‘Reforming Foot Health Services’. The old man shuts the magazine and sits back and smiles.
OLD GRANDEE: Oh, very good, Very good indeed! You’re learning all the time. I would have done the same myself! Excellent! And the best thing is, nobody will ever know. They’re all too stupid!
BAGSHOT: Thank you. I knew you’d like it.
OLD GRANDEE: Oh I do, I do. Tell you what Bagshot – just to celebrate. Can you get them to sing a couple of verses of the ‘Corn- Cutter's Lament’ for me? It’ll cap the day, just fine.
BAGSHOT: Of course I will. They can sing it all; twice if you like! For you, anything at all……we might even have time to finish with some Christmas Carols....you'd like that wouldn't you?
OLD GRANDEE: Yes.....'Silent Night' is my favourate....do they know it?
BAGSHOT: I'm sure they do; should be second nature by now....
They look at each other briefly, exchanging, only for a second, a look of shared happiness. A shudder passes through both of them as a result. They return their gaze to the assembled crowd, looking for any signs of discontentment or poor attention. They could never afford to let their guard down. Ever. After all, too much was at stake.
SCENE 8 INT: THE COACH AND HORSES: EVENING
A busy Soho pub. Much of the bar has been taken over by a school reunion. Tom and Brian stand at the end of the counter, their glasses replenished, filling in the years since they last met.
TOM: I wasn’t really sure about coming along tonight – you know – it’s like some sort of barometer or gauge on how successful or otherwise you’ve become in life, and I really couldn't be bothered with that.
BRIAN: Yes, it’s like a twenty five year report card – earn above fifty grand and you get an ‘A’; thirty to fifty a ‘B’; and twenty to thirty a ‘C’.
TOM: What fifty grand and you get an ‘A’? At today’s rates? Christ Brian, you get twenty five grand a year working in the Parks Department cutting grass. You don’t have to be too clever to earn fifty grand nowadays – nah – you’d need to be earning over two hundred a year to get an ‘A’ – fifty would get you a ‘C’ pass – but only just.
BRIAN: Oh dear then. I’ve just slipped from a ‘D’ to an ‘E minus’ in the past week on that scale.
TOM: Why, what’s happened? You lose your job or something? Your business?
BRIAN: No……I’m a chiropodist
Tom nods to himself as he digests Brian’s words. When he responds there is concern in his voice.
TOM: I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. God you’ve been shafted recently – haven’t you? We’ve been following the government’s maneuverings in chambers – one of our partners specialises in employment law – predominately public sector – and I have to say there is a great deal of disbelief at what’s happened to you and your colleagues. Never before have we seen such draconian pay cuts being implemented in such a manner. First, they relax the entry criteria for the profession, flooding the market with cheap labour, and then they use the ‘market principles’ argument to reduce the salary levels. Of course, the politicians then say that it’s the Health Authorities responsibility to commission and pay for services – not theirs – and all the NHS is doing is securing the care at the best price, but the reality is that thousands of chiropodists are going to be crippled by the cuts – if you’ll excuse the puns.
BRIAN: Fine I know. My missus is a chiropodist too and even before the cuts, we both qualified for Tax Credits. That’s after twenty two years at the coalface. Some career choice eh? I was praying old Davidson was going to be here – you remember, the careers and guidance master? To tell you the truth, it’s the only reason I came. I was going to wait for him afterwards, take him to the far end of Firth Street, and give him the biggest thrashing of his life. You know something…..there’s never been one working day in the last twenty two years when I haven’t been asked a question from someone or another – a patient or a doctor. Anyone. The strange thing is, it’s always the same question.
TOM: What is it?
BRIAN: After five or ten minutes of conversation the question always arises.
“Tell me, what made you want to do chiropody in the first place?”
And it’s always asked with an accompanying look of genuine puzzlement. Buggers!
Tom smiles and nods his head again.
TOM: To be honest Brian, it was going to be my next question too.
BRIAN: See! Bloody hell! You know, I must be the only one here tonight whose sole aim in life is to get through one working day without being someone’s source of amusement or whatever else they get out of asking the damn thing.
TOM: Maybe pity now?
BRIAN: Maybe it was always pity. But if it is pity it should be reserved for the new graduates and students. That's who I really feel sorry for - and their student loans. What if there's no jobs to pay them back? They've really been let down. Anyway....enough about chiropody, what of you? What adventures has life thrown at you? You said you were in law; what do you specialise in?
TOM: Mostly trade union and contract law. Less of the latter in these times though – the trade unions have finally woken up to the fact that they are nearly extinct and they’ve decided to make one last stand. Should keep me busy until the next reunion methinks. Shall we mingle for a bit?
Both men work the crowd. Music is blaring from the juke-box – Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – the revelers know the words by heart. After a couple of hours the crowd starts to disperse, leaving a few diehards to prop up the bar and annoy Norman, the formidable bartender, and the handful of ‘regulars’. Tom spots Brian at the end of the bar. He is carefully counting the loose change from his pocket, calculating to the last the amount he needs to see himself safely home – and how much left he can spare for drinks. He has allowed himself twenty pounds for the evening – a luxury he can ill afford over the festive break what with the January pay check over six weeks away. But his wife had insisted. It would be good for him – it would buck him up a bit. It would be worth every penny, she said. In fact it was worth a turkey. They were having chicken roll from Bernard Matthews on Christmas Day instead. No great ‘festive fayre’ in that household then. Not of the edible kind anyhow!
Brian looks up from his coppers and notices Tom staring at him. He realises in an instant what his friend is thinking and he blushes with embarrassment. Tom comes across and sits down beside him.
TOM: If you like, I can drop you off. I mean, we’ve got an account with the black cabs – it’ll be no problem.
BRIAN: Thanks and all that but I need to get the train. I couldn’t afford even to rent in London these days – I’m down in Sussex now. Thanks anyway.
Tom orders another couple of drinks from Norman, who has a face like thunder. As he does so Brian’s gaze shifts to the pub doorway. Bagshot has entered and has removed his overcoat. A large pink handkerchief hangs from the breast pocket of his jacket. He stands for a minute, looking into one of the mirrors near the door. After a moment he extracts a small metal comb and runs it carefully through his bouffant grey hair. When he is satisfied, he turns and approaches the bar. He carries an air of aloof arrogance, impervious to the onlookers’ gaze. By now the whole bar is watching him. There is not a whisper from anyone.
BAGSHOT: Yes, good evening. Can I have a glass of claret please?
BARMAN: A claret? Would sir like any particular year – or chateau?
BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact, I have a penchant for Pomerol ’62 or a Lafite ’76 at a push. Do you have them?
BARMAN: As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’ve got our house red, which if you’re lucky might still register on the pH scale, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it though. Still, it’ll be nice and musky, just like a good claret. Not a Lafite though – that’s a Bordeaux. Do you want a pint or a half pint then squire?
{muffled laughter from the regulars)
BAGSHOT: No, no. I’ll have a sweet sherry then instead.
BARMAN: Right. Good choice. One pickled fairy coming up.
Bagshot collects his drink and waits patiently until Norman has written a receipt for the £1.75 he has handed over. Finally he makes his way over to a vacant table near a coat stand and sits down. Lifts up the glass and sniffs the bouquet with his eyes shut. This he does for nearly a minute, his nostrils flaring every few seconds. Finally he takes a sip and his eyes snap open with a look of disgust. Tom turns back to Brian.
TOM: What a strange character and I’m sure I’ve seen him….……you okay Brian? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know him?
BRIAN: Sorry….Christ I certainly do! That’s the new Master – elect of the Society. You’ve probably seen his picture in the press recently. He’s usually on his hands and knees behind the Health Minister. Sometimes you see him peeking round the arse of his trousers for a look at what’s going on. The Labour party might have a poodle leading it. We had to have a ****z-zu!
TOM: Bloody hell. That’s the one who sold you down the river then. Never mind old Davidson – why don’t we take him up Firth Street instead?
BRIAN: No, don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t take much.
As they talk another man enters the pub and sits down at the same table as Bagshot. He has greasy hair and shifty eyes. His dental health is poor – probably as a result of crunching numbers too long. He is grossly obese and his puffy face has strange feline characteristics. He does not approach the bar. Norman is, on the surface, nonplussed. Inside an atavistic rage begins to boil.
TOM: That’s strange…
BRIAN: What’s that?
TOM: That chap that’s just come in….he’s the new chair of that quango that was formed the other month – the one that’s supposed to oversee all public sector appointments - the ones at board level. He used to be a client at our chambers – something to do with a dispute over his last platinum handshake. I wonder what he’s talking to your man about….?
Tom, careful to remain unnoticed, stares intently at the newcomer for a few moments then raises his eyebrows in mild astonishment. Brian looks at him curiously.
BRIAN: What are you doing?
TOM: I can lip read. Learned about twelve years ago. Invaluable in this profession I can assure you! Hang on a sec…..
Tom continues to look. After another pause he relates what he has been able to discern.
TOM: Something about him being offered a Chief Executive or Chairman’s post in the New Year. In recognition of his cooperation. No bong just now…too sensitive…..maybe next year……but six figure salary with the new post. Lucky for some.
BRIAN: Well someone from the profession might manage to get a ‘B’ pass then after all!
TOM: Aye, but few others will though. If any. Never mind though, there’s one benefit that I can see coming.
BRIAN: What’s that?
TOM: Well if he’s appointed a management post in the NHS he can’t run the Society anymore. Maybe the new broom will sweep in a different direction – be more assiduous and assertive with the government.
BRIAN: What do you mean he can’t run the Society? Of course he can.
TOM: Not if he’s NHS management. You can’t have management sitting on a staff side trade union council. That would flaunt the founding ideology of trade unionism and make a mockery of the basic employment principles to boot! No trade union membership will allow that.
BRIAN: That can’t be right. We’ve got loads of NHS managers sitting on our Council. Have you not heard the song that's in the charts right now….Council Members? The bit about vested interests?
TOM: So that’s what that refers too! My God! I don’t believe it.
BRIAN: I’m afraid it’s true. The thing is, few in the profession seem to think it’s a problem. Either that, they’re too scared of their jobs and are staying quiet.
TOM: That's precisely the reason you can't have that set-up. No wonder you got shafted proper. Tell you what though…this is really interesting….maybe we can do something about it after all. I’ve got a client – an investigative reporter who does these in-depth exposés – you know, the Russian mafia, Afghan war lords. That kind of thing. You’ll have heard of him – McIntoes Undercover? Anyway, he owes me a favour or two. I think I’ll ask him to turn his gaze on our friend here – if he doesn’t make a documentary he can always send the tape to ‘You’ve been Framed’. It would make a mint! Give me your number before we leave and I’ll get Donald to give you a call….you can give him the whole picture.
BRIAN: Yes sure.
Suddenly Bagshot and his companion stand and make for the door. Bagshot hesitates, turns, and then makes his way back to the bar. Norman is at the far end near Tom and Brian. He ignores Bagshot completely. After a minute Bagshot makes his way to speak directly to him. He stands between Brian and Tom.
BAGSHOT: Ahem.
BARMAN: (snarling} What?
BAGSHOT: I’ve left fifty pence for the service charge. I wonder if you would be so kind to get me a receipt. If you don’t mind.
BARMAN: What service charge?
BAGSHOT: You know, your tip? That’s what you do in these places, isn’t it?
BARMAN: Tip! I’ll give you more than a tip. You’ll get the whole of my foot up your arse if you don’t get out of here, never mind the tip. You and your chateau lafite’s and sweet sherry and your stingy faced pal. Bugger off.
Bagshot is unperturbed. If he is shocked at the onslaught, he does not show it. He has dealt with much worse before. What is a mere publican to him? Or his sordid regulars? Bagshot looks with disdain at Brian. Brian is smiling back.
BRIAN: Hello there.
Bagshot tilts his head back and looks down his nose at Brian. His look is even more scornful and it wipes the smile from Brian’s face. Bagshot turns and walks away and as he does, we hear a muttered {commoners} from his receding back. Once more at the pub door he hesitates. Turns to the table and lifts the 50p tip. Walks to the jukebox, slots the coin and makes a selection. He turns towards the bar once last time and leaves them with a sneer he reserves for special occasions. His eyes are fixed on Brian. As the door closes behind him, the music starts up with Art Gurfunkel on the vocals.
{Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again……}
Only Brian makes the connection.
BRIAN: Bloody hell!
TOM: What?
BRIAN: I didn’t think he recognised me then. I spoke to him at conference just a few weeks ago, but I thought he’d forgotten after the look he gave me just now. But he knew who I was all the time.
TOM: How can you be sure.
BRIAN: When I cornered him on the final day I mentioned to him there was never any response from himself or from most of his colleagues on the website…no-one knew what was happening until it was too late. I said something along the lines… “the only sound is silence.” The song he put on…..?
TOM: Bloody hell indeed!
BRIAN: You know that Donald you mentioned?
TOM: Yes.
BRIAN: Is it too late to call him tonight?
They smile and make their final toasts. At the door they exchange their contact details and resolve to meet after the undercover McIntoes completes his initial investigation. More handshakes and warm words. As they head outside to the wet December night they both fail to see the back cab parked with its lights off, fifty yards down the road. In the distance, through the driving rain, we can make out Bagshot’s face peering into compact binoculars. As he watches the men leave he extracts a small black notebook from his overcoat pocket and scribbles a few words and underlines the last word three times. It says simply ‘TROUBLEMAKER’. Thank God for his intellect and his photographic memory. He needed them for all these clandestine activities. No wonder the Old Grandees wanted him in the Inner Sect as soon as possible. He was unstoppable. Providing he kept the troublemakers at bay. And that was his greatest skill.
Slowly, as the mist sweeps in from the river on a southerly breeze, the taxi drives off into the night. It heads east, its tail lights casting an eerie red glow into the greying gloom. When it disappears at last, the night becomes discernibly darker.
SCENE 9 EXT: TOWER BRIDGE ROAD: MORNING
The bridge is busy with traffic and pedestrians on their way to work. It is snowing heavily and the large piles at the side of the pavement suggest that the weather has been inclement for several days. Beggars line the sides of the bridge, huddled together in small groups to keep the chill air at bay. Condensed breath hangs in miniature clouds above their heads. As we move past them we can see that some are no more than children, many with eastern-European features. But most are elderly people. At their feet are a row of placards proclaiming their plight. They read:
“Give us some Chiropody for Christmas”
“I lost my right foot at Dunkirk. Please help save my left one now.”
“92 year-old; 6 stone; 12 inch toenails. Please give generously”
“Save us from the cuts!”
“NHS = National Health Service NOT National Hard-Ship”
In front of the placards are some tin cans. The occasional passer-by slows and drops some coins into them. They all receive a gracious ‘thank-you’. After a while a white van appears and a television crew exit with their equipment. They disappear down Fellmonger’s Lane towards a shiny glass tower and wait patiently outside the front door. After a while another man joins them and they enter the building together. The pensioners on the bridge look on curiously. Several walk down Fellmonger’s Lane to see what is happening. Soon they are joined by others. A small, but growing crowd starts to form.
SCENE 10 INT: GLASS TOWER RECEPTION: MORNING
McINTOES: Morning. We’ve an appointment to see the Master-Elect today at nine-thirty. The name is Finnegan from GTMV.
RECEPTIONIST: Ah….let me just check…..yes here it is. You’re making a film about careers aren’t you? That’s right; Mr Bagshot was telling us about it yesterday. He’s really looking forward to this. I’ll let him know you’re here.
McINTOES: Thanks.
The receptionist turns and pulls a small lever on the wall behind him. In the distance we can hear a bell ring. Within a few seconds a door opens and Bagshot appears and beams an enormous (and rare) smile. Unused to such a position, his lips fissure at the corners causing him to grimace – but only for a second. Today is a special day. His debut on national television. He would stand naked in the middle of a raging fire in Hades to ensure it is successful. Painful lips are nothing to him. The smile grows even wider. He rushes over and extends his delicate, manicured hand to the reporter.
BAGSHOT: Oh Mr Finnegan, can I say how wonderful it is to meet you at last. I don’t get much opportunity to watch daytime television nowadays, but a lot of my colleagues, who do enjoy a bit more leisure time than me, say that you are their favourite.
McINTOES: That’s really good to hear sir. Please pass on my best wishes to them all.
BAGSHOT: Oh I will, I will. I’m going to be writing about your visit in next month’s journal and I’ll make sure everyone reads it. We’ll have a photograph of you on the front cover too if you like?
McINTOES: On the front cover of a chiropody magazine? Really?
BAGSHOT: Oh yes – our covers are the talk of the printing world you know. No stuffy professional designs for our flagship rag. No! We have VIP’s, celebrities, film stars – all the beautiful people – on our cover. It was my idea you know. You can mention that if you like.
McINTOES: Right, yes. I just might. Now where can we do this?
BAGSHOT: Oh right…follow me.
All exit through the inner door.
SCENE 11 INT: THE CONFERENCE ROOM: MORNING
The crew have just finished setting up. A make-up girl is applying compact to Bagshot’s nose. She is a buxom girl and her choice of low-cut tee-shirt was perhaps not the best choice for this morning. Not for our Peregrine anyhow! She is inches away from his face and his mouth twitches from the excitement of the moment, revealing the fissured corners.
LUCY: Oh dear. Shall I get some Vaseline?
BAGSHOT: Pardon?
LUCY: For your lips. I’ve always found that Vaseline works best on painful cracks. Didn’t you know that?
BAGSHOT: Certainly not. Vaseline you say?
LUCY: Oh yeah. I use it on my cracks all the time. I get them every summer I do. Must be the warm weather. And the slingbacks of course! Just slap on the Vaseline at bedtime then wrap myself in some cling film. Just the job. You should try it you should!
Bagshot’s eyes open wide at the thought.
BAGSHOT: Yesss. Maybe I will…..
The make-up girl finishes her administrations and packs her equipment away into a neat metal case. As she opens the lid a certificate attached to the inside cover catches Bagshot’s eye and he stoops to read it more closely. It is a Health Professions Council certificate with CHIROPODIST/PODIATRIST written under the girl’s name.
BAGSHOT: Oh I didn’t know that you belonged to my fold too!
LUCY: Well I don’t really….I mean I do the occasional manicure and pedicure as part of my job. So when I heard the other year that anyone could be a chiropodist I thought it would be a good idea to buy myself the certificate. Something to fall back on if the make-up business goes up the spout. And what’s sixty quid a year to the HPC? Good insurance I think. Anyway that’s you done. Good luck.
BAGSHOT: Yesss. Right.
The girl walks away leaving the Grandee at the head of a large table. In the far corner, McIntoes peruses the professional regalia. He is trying to look interested. He knows all that he needs to know about the Society and its Council. His file on the Grandee is almost an inch thick. He has spent the last few days in the hostelries of east London speaking to fellow Scots about their experiences at the hands of the Society. They painted a depressing picture. He turns towards Bagshot at the table and walks briskly over.
McINTOES: Okay, are we ready? Good. Let’s start.
(Lights snap on; the camera rolls.)
{three, two, one…}
McINTOES: Good morning. Today we’re at the elegant headquarters of the Society of Chiropodists and Podiatrists in London. The Society represents nearly nine thousand specialist clinicians all over Britain who work hard to keep the likes of you and me on our feet. Without chiropodists, this country would simply stagger to a painful ‘stop’. Sitting beside me is the Master-Elect of the Society, Peregrine Bagshot, and he’s kindly agreed to give us his pitch for a career that some of you are perhaps thinking of joining…….sir?
BAGSHOT: Ahem. Yes……
Bagshot launches into a detailed and articulate description of the profession of podiatry. It is a speech he has consigned to memory. It is littered with words and phrases such as; ‘caring’, ‘dedicated’, ‘rewarding’, ‘secure’, ‘important and vital role’, ‘progressive’, ‘familial’, ‘community’, ‘open and transparent’ and ‘robust representation’. There is not a single mention of tea and crumpets, yet, just before he finishes, a door opens and four servants pull in trolleys laden with just that. Bagshot continues without interruption. McIntoes looks bemused. When Bagshot has finished he sits back in his chair, head and shoulders held high, and breathes slowly and deeply. A confident smile is set on his face.
McINTOES: Thank you very much for that. Now, while we’re here….I wonder if I can ask you a few supplementary questions about the profession.
BAGSHOT: Certainly. Ask away…
McINTOES: I was just wondering why it is that a profession, one of such great importance as podiatry obviously is, is regarded with such disdain and ridicule almost, by most of the public and politicians today. Why do most of your members have to rely on Tax Credits to earn a decent income in the twenty first century?
BAGSHOT: {looks as if he’s just sat on a 18g needle}
Well…..ah…..I’m not quite sure what you mean. Disdain? Ridicule? Oh I don’t think so. We’re highly regarded by everyone. I got a Christmas card from Tony this year, you know? And a box of handkerchiefs – the right colour too! (pause) Tax Credits? What are they?
McINTOES: Oh nothing much. Just something that half your membership need to stop them starving to death this winter. Nothing important. Now then…….can you also comment on why there’s been no public outcry about all our pensioners who have been removed from chiropody lists in the NHS over the last seven years? Why hasn’t the Society been fighting on their behalf? They stop the bus passes and there’s a national strike, but when they stop chiropody – and you can’t walk to the bus anymore– we hear nowt! How come?
BAGSHOT: Oh…erm…..I’m not sure. Maybe not enough people read our magazine. There’s been one or two small but vigorous statements in there during the last couple of years. I think. But that’s really a question for our Fraternity of Health Service Managers, not really me. I don’t bother with those sort of things. Would you like to see our magazine…it’s got a super cover this month…
McINTOES: No thank you. What exactly does this ‘career’ offer the youngster of today? Can you explain the attraction of spending time and money at university, toiling to make a hard-earned degree, only to find yourself in the dustbin of the NHS, struggling to keep your head above the poverty line? Why take this road when you can do a correspondence course over three weeks and still have the same qualification?
BAGSHOT: Well of course they can join an organisation like ours and have a lovely new home in London {he throws his arms around him}, with lovely views. Well I should add that it’s not really their home, but they can visit for an hour once a year. If they’re invited.
McINTOES: So? The correspondence chiropodist can join as well, can’t they?
BAGSHOT: Yes but only as an associate. They get to visit every three years. If they’re lucky.
McINTOES: So the reward for your studies and financial burdens is the joy and contentment of belonging as a full member to the Society. Is that right.
BAGSHOT: Erm… yesss….I think so.
McINTOES: Right. Fine. One last question. Do you have any concrete plans to move this profession away from its lowly status. Surely as an organisation you must constantly be looking at ways of improving the circumstances of the ordinary nail cutter. How are you going to achieve it?
BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact you might be interested to see the new video I’ve had made. It’s called ‘My Way’ and it’ll tell you all you want to know. Would you like a copy?
McINTOES: Yes that would be most useful. I’m sure we could use it. Thank you very much for your time.
BAGSHOT: No, no…thank you. It was most enjoyable. (then quietly) I think.
McIntoes smiles in response. The crew begin to dismantle their equipment whilst the Grandee rummages around in a filing cabinet. After a moment he extracts a videocassette and holds it aloft.
BAGSHOT: Here it is.
He takes the video over to McIntoes who is standing by a window looking out to the street below. A large crowd of pensioners has caught his attention. They are sitting down in the snow and slush, their shoes and socks removed. Long gryphotic toenails spiral skywards. The demonstrators’ mouths are taped closed with meefix. A large banner is unfurled in front of them. It says simply: ,/I]
‘PLEASE HEAR US – HELP US WALK’
McIntoes looks questioningly at Bagshot who in turn looks disinterested. The Grandee ushers him away from the window.
BAGSHOT: Don’t mind them out there. Just ignore them. That’s the best way. It works for us. They’re just the dregs of society after all. The government should bring in compulsory euthanasia at sixty unless you’ve got a healthy bank balance. That would sort them out! Keep them under the streets instead of cluttering the top of them! That’s what I say. What?
McIntoes looks astonished then realises that his lapel mike is still switched on. Bagshot is looking seriously at him then he breaks into another grin, opening the fissures once again.
BAGSHOT: Just kidding! That fooled you…Ha! No we couldn’t do that now could we. No, we need them all for our practices we do. They’re our customers after all. What would we do without them? Mhmm?
McINTOES: I don’t know. But maybe you’re going to find out sooner than you think.
BAGSHOT: Mhmm….er…what? What was that?
McINTOES: Nothing…it doesn’t matter. Anyway, thanks for your time and we can see ourselves out. Lovely crumpets and cakes too. Did yourselves proud, you did. Cheerio then…
Bagshot remains in the Council room and watches the crew depart towards Tower Bridge. The videocassette is visible in McIntoes jacket pocket. As soon as they are out of sight Bagshot rushes downstairs to the basement and opens a heavy steel door, which leads to a long narrow room with a number of curtained cubicles. He flicks a light-switch and the room is illuminated.
SCENE 12 INT THE BASEMENT LATE MORNING
,I]Bagshot has pulled on an old dirty-white nylon overcoat. Blood and pus stains the front and sleeves. The basement has been converted from a historical museum to a working surgery with minimal (or no) alterations or additions. Leather strops decorate the walls. There are no windows to the outside world but there is a trapdoor in the ceiling where coal was once dropped. A new loft ladder has been affixed to its underside. Bagshot walks over to the ladder and pauses. Takes deep breath, closes eyes, arches fingers and cracks the joints, then exhales slowly and with purpose. He is ready to begin.
He opens the trapdoor and lowers the ladders. The trapdoor is directly in front of the crowd of pensioners. A telescopic pole is pushed up through the opening and secured to an old table leg. On the top of the pole a notice proclaims.
TOENAILS TRIMMED; CORNS CUT.
£5.00 PER FOOT
BEST PRICE IN LONDON
CASH ONLY
ONLY VISIT A STATE REGISTERED CHIROPODIST
Except STATE has now been scored out.
Bagshot waits expectantly. There are nearly five hundred people outside. A thousand feet (maybe). Five thousand pounds and he could be finished them by late afternoon. Not bad for a days work. Bloody Tax Credits indeed! Anyway, he should be charging extra today. A new celebrity was about to ‘do their feet’. That was surely worth another pound a foot, wasn't it? He couldn’t wait to tell them all about his TV debut. He looks up in anticipation.
BAGSHOT: Come on then….who’s first?
SCENE 13: INT: BAGSHOT’S BEDROOM: NIGHT
Two single beds. Mrs Bagshot is propped up in one, reading a Francis Gay Yearbook. On a bedside table sits the ornament of the glass monkeys that was gifted to her husband just a few days ago. A bulge under the sheets of Bagshot’s bed outlines the shape of a ceramic hot water piggy. Suddenly there is a resounding (crash) from the adjoining en-suite bathroom. Mrs Bagshot springs from the bed to investigate. She opens the door to the bathroom to find her husband close to death, on his hands and knees. He is wearing pink silk pyjamas with the Society's crest on the breast pocket, and a pair of white cotton bed-socks. Around his head is wrapped several layers of cling-film. The skin under the food wrap is tinged with a bluish-grey hue. Mrs Bagshot is a woman of practical means. Quickly she lifts a nearby loo brush and, without a moment’s hesitation, she rams the brush end through the PVC into his mouth, then pulls it out again. The sides are covered in Vaseline.
There is a huge intake of air.
MRS BAGSHOT: My God….what on earth are you doing?
BAGSHOT: {gasping} I…I…I was trying to fix my mouth…and I must have passed out. Good God!
MRS BAGSHOT: Fixing your mouth? With cling film? That’s a joke! Try using Duck-Tape next time – it might be more successful. Cling film – what rubbish! Go on now into bed. And I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you again tonight. God knows what you’ll get up to next. Men….who would have them?
She marches her husband off to bed and tucks him in. She looks down forlornly as he drifts off to sleep. It was always the same. Great intellect – No common sense. She was grateful that he was a chiropodist and worked on his own. She couldn’t bear the worry if he was responsible for employing other people – it would surely be a disaster. Better that he was responsible only for himself. But even then she couldn’t be too careful. Cling film and Vaseline! Whatever next…..
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 14 INT BROADCASTING HOUSE EVENING
FADE FROM BLACK
{subtitle} …eight months later….
A huddle of men and women around a large circular table. Low lighting. VCRs and TV monitors strewn all around the floor.
MCINTOES: Okay, tomorrow it is. We’ve got enough material here for a whole series never mind a fifty-minute exposé. Jeezy peeps, this is going to be good! Ten times better than the British Dental Association. You okay about it Lucy?
LUCY: Yeah, it’ll be a scream Donal…. d’ya think he’ll recognise me from the last time?
MCINTOES: I’m counting on it. There was definitely some chemistry there, especially when you were winding him up about the cling film and Vaseline. There are certainly hidden depths to this character, that’s for sure. We just gotta look in the right place, that’s all. But…..
EDITOR: But what?
MCINTOES: Well, it’d be better if we can get him to loosen up more. That way he’s liable to do anything…remember what Brian told us about the incident in the pub. A wee sip of sweet sherry and we could be in line for a RTS award with this one!
EDITOR: But he’s hardly liable to drink during the day though, especially with the cameras there.
MCINTOES: No…. more’s the pity. (pause) What?
He looks across the table at Lucy who is grinning mischievously. She winks in response and the investigative reporter studies her face hard for some insight. She raises both eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. The rest look on suspiciously.
MCINTOES: Okay, we won’t ask. Right, let’s go over it one more time…..
FADE TO BLACK
FADE IN
SCENE 15 INT TOWER BRIDGE DAY
Peregrine Bagshot is walking briskly across the bridge towards Fellmongers. There is a spring in his step and although it’s a glorious summer’s afternoon, he wears a bowler hat and carries a black umbrella. As he turns into the Path a number of filthy, wretched pensioners reach out to him; the remnants of the protest at Christmas. Those who make it close get prodded sharply with the business end of the umbrella. He makes it to the door unscathed – as always.
SCENE 16 INT RECEPTION DAY
Lucy is sitting on a sofa reading a magazine as the Master enters the building. Beside her is a cardboard box – approx 12” square. A receptionist is typing away on a keyboard.
BAGSHOT: Ah, the lovely make-up girl. Good afternoon to you….
LUCY: You remembered then?
BAGSHOT: Of course. You didn’t expect me to forget did you? How could I?
He beams a broad smile and this time, the corner of his lips stay intact. Lucy stands and extends her hand. He holds her fingers gently then lifts them to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand with affection. She looks on bemused. Behind the desk the receptionist looks on in astonishment until he glances sideways and she quickly looks away. Bagshot ushers Lucy through a door and into the building proper and as she walks ahead of him she catches a sweet sickly smell and she realises that it is comes from the back of her hand…..
SCENE 17 INT: BAGSHOT’S OFFICE SUITE: MORNING
Opulent décor. Heavy dark-red velvet curtains and matching carpet. Louis IV reproduction furniture. On the walls are a number of famous paintings – the Madonna dell Granduca, the nymph Galatea, La Belle Jardinère and St George fighting the Dragon – all mounted in heavy gilt frames. In the far corner, behind the desk, an elegant Victorian changing screen partially obscures a leather chaise longe. Lucy is agog.
LUCY: My goodness, this is fabulous. I mean it looks so different….
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: It must have cost an absolute…
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: It’s fabulous and all in, what, eight months?
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: You don’t waste any time do you? Gosh, it’s unbelievable!
Lucy walks around admiring the paintings. Bagshot watches her intently, a huge smile lighting up his face.
LUCY: Italian Renaissance? Leonardo da Vinci?
Bagshot opens his mouth to reply just as the door to his office opens and the receptionist enters, carrying the box Lucy left on the sofa. Bagshot turns on her with a fury.
BAGSHOT: How many times have you to be told? You knock and wait. Never enter until I say so.
RECEPTIONIST: But…
BAGSHOT: No buts. No excuses. Get out of here. (turns to Lucy) I’m terribly sorry….
LUCY: Actually it’s my fault. (walks over to the trembling girl) I left this in reception by mistake. It’s a present for you; a sort of belated congratulations for your coronation…..sorry, I forgot all about it in my excitement.….
She takes the box from the receptionist and thanks her. Bagshot is coming back from the edge of an apoplectic fit {huge intake of air} Dismisses the receptionist with a wave of his hand (muttering ‘last chance’ under his breath). His face softens and he takes the box from Lucy when it’s offered. He is immediately calm and chivalrous.
BAGSHOT: Why this is so kind…..oh, I say! I say!!
Inside is a large, exquisitely decorated chocolate cake with a winged foot made of white marzipan delicately balanced on top of the letters SCP in the centre. All around the edge, in small gold icing, are the words, looking after our interests, enabling us to live more luxuriously……
LUCY: I made it myself.
BAGSHOT: Why thank you….it looks delicious.
LUCY: I remembered the lovely spread you laid on for us the last time. The crumpets were out of this world. But I thought you’d appreciate some home baking for a change.
BAGSHOT: Oh yes. Tell you what; we’ll have it at the council meeting this afternoon. There’ll be plenty to go around.
LUCY: Council meeting?
BAGSHOT: Uh huh. Didn’t I mention it on the telephone?
LUCY: No I don’t think you did. I thought you were going to show me round the offices then we’d film the interview later on when Mr McIn….I mean, Mr Finnegan comes with his crew.
BAGSHOT: Well if it’s going to be a problem I can just send them home. They won’t mind you know; they get their expenses and plenty more besides! (winks conspiratorially) Keep them sweet and you can get anything you want. That’s the secret.
LUCY: I’ll bet. No it won’t be a problem. What time does it start?
He looks surprised.
BAGSHOT: My dear girl, when I’m ready, of course. Shall we…?
He leads her out of his office, breathing deeply, chest puffed out.
SCENE 18 INT ANTE-ROOM DAY
(cut to)
In a small ante-room next to his office, Bagshot punches a seven-digit number into a key-pad concealed behind a plastic rubber-plant. Immediately a mirrored wall slides away to reveal a heavily reinforced steel door with another numeric keypad. He punches in another code and the door swings seamlessly open and he walks slowly inside.
SCENE 19 INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: DAY
(cut to)
The twenty-four members of the Council sit in silence around a large circular board-room table. In front of each one is a yellow legal pad and pencil; a cup and saucer; and a large plate with fork and knife. As soon as Bagshot enters the room the assembled group stand and bow their heads. Bagshot walks slowly to his chair – a step-up black leather Hinders-Leslie, complete with extendable leg-rests – and sits down.
BAGSHOT: Ready? After three…..
They all take a step back and kick off their right shoe. A tape recorder is switched on and a string quartet plays ‘Clemintine’. On ‘three’ the entire group raise their right legs straight out and start to sing in unison…..
COUNCIL: Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
Pods of every land and clime
Be assured we’re here to serve you
And we do that task just fine
Council members are united
We shall serve both true and strong
Never fear that vested interests
Will conspire to get it wrong
Do not listen to the doubters
Pay no heed to what they say
Council members are quite certain
That there can be no other way
The Promised Land is coming closer
Bountiful its riches be
Not in money for the masses
But for us with cakes and tea
For that day you all must labour
Work hard and have no fear
We will lead you to greater glory
Trust the Council of the S.C.P.
Do not worry at the silence
Council members they know best
Send your thanks and hard-earned money
These good chaps will do the rest
Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
Pods of every land and clime
Be assured we’re here to serve you
And we do that task just fine.
Bagshot is breathing deeply, eyes closed. Suddenly they snap open and he nods his head in appreciation. They look on anxiously.
BAGSHOT: Good. Very good. Now sit.
Smiles all around as they take their seats. {Quiet chatter, building….}
BAGSHOT: Silence! Now to business. Right, you all remember Lucy here….
He waves her across from the doorway where she has been standing, looking on in absolute astonishment.
LUCY: Hi.
BAGSHOT: The BBC are coming back later today to finish their filming for the documentary on the Society and I thought I’d invite Lucy here along to see how I do things at Fellmongers before the production team bring their inevitable chaos. And a good thing too! Look what she’s brought….
He shows them the chocolate cake and an excited murmur fills the room.
BAGSHOT: If you’re good, only if you’re good….
Hungry hands clatter cutlery and plates.
BAGSHOT: Enough. We’ve got some business to attend to first. Now then Lucy, you sit over there beside one of our new members from the Fraternity of Managers. (quietly) Just watch his hands.
He points towards a timid looking middle-aged man who is wearing a large badge on his lapel with ‘New Boy’ emblazoned in red letters. She sits down and as she does she notices a half-bottle of cheap brandy protruding from his pocket.
BAGSHOT: Now then, first on the agenda today is the strategic plan. You all know I’ve been working day and night to devise the road map for the profession over the next ten years. This is vital if podiatry is to take its rightful place on the medical stage. With that in mind, you’ll be pleased to know it’s coming along just fine and you needn’t ask about anything about it again. A letter is being sent to the members to tell them the same. Right; next on the agenda is Income Generation (rubs hands together). Well I can now tell you what we’ve decided.
He leans forward and presses a button underneath the table and a door to the rear of the room opens. A well-dressed man with silver-white hair walks into the room carrying a perspex box.
BAGSHOT: For those who are forever ignorant or stupid, this is Dr Kim Pine-Martin, one of the finest podiatric surgeons this country has ever seen. Dr Pine-Martin has been working with the Society on a top-secret project for nearly ten years. Now, I’m excited to say, that project has reached fruition and we are all about to reap the dividend. Well some of us anyway. Dr Pine-Martin…
DrPM: Thank you Master. Right, you’ve possibly heard a rumour over the past few years of an incredible new discovery some of us top pods have made. It’s a new form of bio-mechanics or as it’s now being called, Calibrated Resonance Articular Protocol. You might also have heard that the Americans are pursuing their own research too, in an attempt to steal our thunder, but they’re way behind with their work. Their system, is fatally flawed; even its name is a loser…Schematic Horizontal Integration and Tensioning Equation. Quite a mouthful mhmm? And not very pleasant either.
BAGSHOT: Yes quite. Get on with it.
DrPM: Sorry. Yes, right; well the end result is this…..
He opens the box, removes a set of carbon-graphite orthoses and places them flat on the table.
DrPM: These are called Bunny-Orthotics and they have a unique patented prescription. See here, look how they lean into each other. That’s because of a fifteen degrees lateral heel wedge. There’s a cut-out first ray which ensures forefoot adduction and also restricts the windlass effect and…..
LUCY: Sorry, I’m not technically minded…..
BAGSHOT: Don’t worry, neither is anyone else.
DrPM: Well it’s like this. They’re absolutely guaranteed to produce a condition called Hallux Abducto Valgus for whoever wears them. They way the big toe lies when you have a bunion.
NEW BOY: What, they’re going to give the wearer bunions?
DrPM: No son, hallux valgus. There is a difference you know. Bunions come after….
.
NEW BOY: Oh, right.
LUCY: Why would you want to make a deformity though? Surely you want to prevent it?
BAGSHOT: Ah….that’s what you’d think, wouldn’t you? But you see straight toes are the problem nowadays. Especially for you girls. Just think of all the nice shoes you could wear if your toes were the same shape as the toe-box. It would prevent corns you know. Why fight fashion when you can embrace it with comfort and style. These patented devices will do just that. And if you get bunions in later life then that’s all the better for our members, isn’t it? The surgeons especially!
DrPM: You can throw away your Hotter’s and Ecco’s. You’ll be wearing Jimmy Choo’s all the way to the coffin. And the smile will never leave your face for a moment.
A small beady woman with a calculator puts her hand up to ask a question.
BAGSHOT: Yes Mrs Kipper?
MRS KIPPER: As dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers I would like to know what the cost of these insoles are to the NHS.
The Master glares at her and she shrinks back into her chair whilst hiding the calculator under the table.
BAGSHOT: Why don’t you concentrate on your service redesign Mavis? I’m sure there are still some pensioners getting free chiropody in your district. Don’t you think your time would be better used trying to weed them out? Anyhow they’re NOT insoles, they’re ORTHOTICS. God, will they never learn! The point is this. The Society is part owner of the patient. These devices will make a fortune if they’re marketed properly.
MRS KIPPER: (quietly) I don’t do service redesign anymore. I’ve been seconded to the HPC for the time being.
COUNCIL: (in unison) Oooooooooooooo! The H. P. C.!! Whoopee!! (Mavis blushes)
NEW BOY: (helpfully) But who is going to make them for us? Do you think Tx-Labs will be interested? I went to the summer school this year and it was really good.
DrPM: Don’t be stupid. Tx? Are you mad?
BAGSHOT: Keep your suggestions to yourself in future. Unless you’re asked. Got it?
NEW BOY: Yes Master. Sorry.
BAGSHOT: For your information we’re manufacturing the devices ourselves. That way it keeps the costs down and maximises the profits. Are you listening Mavis? Good. Dr Pine-Martin has set up a laboratory in his garage and we’re sending some of the admin staff to work the grinders. Cheaper than Chinese, so it is. Anyway that’s the future as far as income is concerned. Thank you Dr Pine-Martin. Close the door as you leave.
MRS KIPPER: What about the new members you promised earlier in the year? You know, the quacks. That should have brought in quite a bit of money by now.
BAGSHOT: Yes, well it’s in hand Mavis. Just a slight delay, that’s all.
MRS KIPPER: What’s the problem?
NEW BOY: (To Mrs Kipper) Sshh! That’s the thing we’re not supposed to mention – remember? Do you not read the website?
MRS KIPPER: What website?
NEW BOY: The Society’s website ….the Forum ?
MRS KIPPER: What’s he talking about?
BAGSHOT: Rubbish Mavis; just ignore him. Everyone else will…. sooner or later…..
The Master fixes the new boy with a hard stare then he turns his attention back to the cake. He removes a large fish-belly fixed-blade scalpel from his pocket and quickly slices the cake into twenty-four pieces. One by one the council members line up with their plates.
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 20 EXT FELLMONGERS PATH LATER
Lucy standing outside the offices, a mobile telephone pressed to her ear.
LUCY: Yes, about forty-five minutes. An hour at the most. I’ve gotta go….
SCENE 21 INT THE INNER SANCTUM LATER
Lucy re-enters the fortified room just as the Council members are finishing the last crumbs of cake. A trolley has arrived beside Bagshot. It is covered in hundreds of crumpets and freshly whipped cream. Bagshot beckons her in….
BAGSHOT: Come in, come in. You find the little girls room alright?
LUCY: Yes thanks. Right next door to the big boys room, just like you said.
BAGSHOT: Good. I must say, your home baking was wonderful. Isn’t that right people?
COUNCIL: (collectively) Yes Master…thank you Lucy.
LUCY: (flushing with embarrassment) Thank you, you’re most welcome.
BAGSHOT: We already ordered those from Fortnum and Mason (pointing to the crumpets). We might not manage them now but I’ll keep them here anyway. Helps to concentrate their minds. Right now; back to business.
Lucy takes her seat again. A strong smell of alcohol makes her turn and look at the New Boy sitting beside her. She notices a length of flexible rubber tubing protruding from the collar of his jacket. When she looks down she can see the other end in the neck of the brandy bottle. He smiles lecherously at her……
BAGSHOT: Right now; last thing on the agenda before the film crew arrives, is my proposal for a new Council structure – or as I would like it to be referred to from now on - the House of Depravities. (questioning glances around the table) The way it works is like this. Members from all over the country will be putting their name forward to sit at a trial assembly next year. We’ll pay their bus fare from the benevolent fund – it’s rarely used nowadays – and they’ll spend the day at a conference centre listening to some of our distinguished senior members talk about professional obligations and commitment to the Society.
MRS KIPPER: Conference centre? That’ll cost a fortune!
BAGSHOT: No actually Mavis. Once again it pays to get your facts right before you open that rancid mouth of yours. We’ve hired Battersea Picture House for the day, alright?
MRS KIPPER: Battersea Picture House. But I didn't think that was open anymore.
BAGSHOT: So what?. That’s why it’s only costing twenty quid. Dearie me; can I continue? Anymore of this and I’ll have to get the duck-tape out again. You’re worse than the members! Right now where was I….Oh yes, the speakers. We’ve got Alister Dumpling giving a two-hour talk on how to fill in a NHS Travel Claim properly – without being found out; the Reverend Pamela Sogone on the by-laws of the Health Professions Council; and the Chief Executive will speak about the importance of ledger accounting. Good huh?
{silence}
Well, what do you think?
NEW BOY: Can you repeat the quesh-ton?
BAGSHOT: What?
NEW BOY: ……forgotten what I shaid.
BAGSHOT: Do you know the one thing about you northerners that I cannot stand?
NEW BOY: Whashat?
BAGSHOT: Your smell. Now be quiet.
{muffled laughter}The New Boy sits back in his seat trying to work out what the Master has said. After a minute he lifts the collar of his jacket and sucks hard on the material.
MRS KIPPER: Well if you pardon me, I must say that it doesn’t appear to be terribly exciting. If you think members will come down to London for the day – even paying their bus fares – for that programme, you’re badly mistaken.
{stunned silence}
BAGSHOT: Really Mrs Kipper. That’s precisely the reaction from membership that we want! In fact we won’t even book Battersea Picture House because it was knocked down three years ago. Nobody will come. Which is precisely what we want! Good God woman, have you no sense at all? Do you think we want members taking part in the affairs of the Society? Do you? If we allow that it’ll be the beginning of the end; it’ll be anarchy! These famous offices will be populated with corn-cutters and pedicurists and we’ll be the laughing stock of the medical establishment. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THAT MAVIS? OBVIOUSLY NOT! Besides, I’ve already chosen the lucky members who will be serving on the committee. They were selected in keeping with the Society’s policy of open democracy.
MRS KIPPER: How’s that?
BAGSHOT: They successfully completed a questionnaire I sent out the other month. Those with the highest scores were the lucky ones.
MRS KIPPER: What questions did you ask?
BAGSHOT: (angrily) Oh, this and that. The questions weren’t important; it was the answers that counted. Those with the most number of ‘yeses’ came top. Have you finished?
Everyone around the table has shrunk down into their seats during the tantrum, with the exception of Lucy, who has a small digital recorder in her right hand. Even the New Boy looks sober after the outburst.
BAGSHOT: (exasperated) Oh, I don’t know why I bother anymore. Each time we make a little progress, some fool comes along and before you know it we’re back at square one. Why do I bother? (Rolls eyes upwards and slumps back in the chair)
LUCY: Because it’s worth it?
BAGSHOT: Pardon?
LUCY: Because it’s important and the profession is worth all the effort. That’s why you bother, isn’t it? That’s why all of you bother.
BAGSHOT: (sitting up) What do you mean?
LUCY: Well it always struck me, that the profession that kept homo-sapiens upright and mobile has got to be more important than the profession that gives you a nice smile. Isn’t that obvious? And if you’re more important then you should be rewarded more for what you do. Isn’t that the whole point of what the Society stands for? Making things better for its members?
BAGSHOT: Well yes, of course. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I suppose you’re right……
Council members exchange surprised looks with each other. Lucy stands.
LUCY: Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but having read all the research that the BBC has done on podiatry, it strikes me that you really could be on the threshold of something quite big here. I mean, what other business has the advantages that podiatry has to offer? You’ve got guaranteed custom from an increasing sector of society and there’s all the work that’s been done with children. I’m not sure about Dr Pine-Martin’s philosophy, but if you can stop people getting painful knees and hips when they get older, then I think you’re onto something really special.
BAGSHOT: You do?
LUCY: Yes of course. For the last few months we’ve been filming podiatrists at their work all over the country, and it’s been a tremendous opportunity to hear what they have to say. They’ve got some wonderful ideas and it wouldn’t be amiss if you spent some time listening to their proposals for a change.
MRS KIPPER: What’s the point? All they moan about is more money or poor conditions.
LUCY: Yes, well if you were in their shoes, you’d be moaning and complaining too. The NHS podiatrists are the most underprivileged of the lot. Poor pay, no prospects, grumpy managers – not a very enjoyable environment is it? More than that they’re worried about their jobs. Perhaps you need to think about how you make life better for them. A sympathetic ear would be a good start.
MRS KIPPER: As long as they don’t get more than me!
LUCY: Why not? They’re the most important people in the health service after all. They look after the patients. What do you do?
MRS KIPPER: Well, I…I…I…go to meetings and sign their expense forms and now I discipline them. So there!
LUCY: My point exactly. For what it’s worth, it’s the ordinary podiatrist you should be supporting and encouraging. (looks directly at Bagshot) Keep them sweet and you might just see things happening in podiatry – more than you ever imagined.
BAGSHOT: (suspiciously) Yessss, but they’ll get all the credit.
LUCY: Not necessarily. I read something somewhere when I was researching the profession, hold on.
Lucy rummages in her pockets and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper and opens it. She reads it to complete silence.
LUCY: It’s a quote that I thought was very apt. It says;
Leadership is power governed by principle, directed towards raising people to the highest levels of personal motive and social morality. Power manipulates people as they are; Leadership as they could be. Power impacts; Leadership engages. Power tends to corrupt; Leadership creates.
Lucy folds the paper and returns it to her pocket. There is a look of confusion on the faces of the Council members – except that of the New Boy who is lying slumped, comatose, in his chair.
BAGSHOT: Yes, well very eloquent. But what has that got to do with anything?
LUCY: I think it was something that one of your members wrote. Maybe they were trying to tell you something?
BAGSHOT: (sarcastically) Yesss, I can imagine.
LUCY: No, really. For what it’s worth, everyone we spoke to wants the Society to do well – you lot included. It’s just that they feel they never get listened to; that their voices fall on deaf ears. I mean this business about the Picture House is a good case and point. Mrs Kipper is right; they won’t come down and participate because they can see right through what it is you’re trying to do. They don’t like being ignored. Would you?
BAGSHOT: I’m never ignored.
LUCY: Really? I wouldn’t be so sure about that.
She stops speaking and looks down at the New Boy to her right. He is sound asleep and snoring gently, head tilted over to one side – the tubing from his lapel, still between his lips.
BAGSHOT: Hmmmm! So what do you suggest?
LUCY: Well…….I’ve been thinking. The most important thing any organisation like the Society could do, is to make sure it is communicating effectively with all its members. That means opening the doors to all suggestions and listening carefully when they come in. But you’ve first got to get your message across – that you’re willing to listen - that you’ve turned over a new leaf.
BAGSHOT: What? Admit we’re wrong you mean?
LUCY: No! You shouldn’t be so defensive all the time. We all make mistakes. I’m sure most of your members do as well. But humility can be seen as a great strength, especially in leadership. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you do this?
With the exception of the New Boy (who cannot be roused) the Council pull in their chairs and listen carefully to what Lucy has to say.
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 22 EXT FELLMONGERS LATER
Three dark-blue transit vans with BBC emblazoned on the side. A huddle of people. In the middle Lucy is holding court.
LUCY: So that’s what we’re going to do. Another fifteen minutes should do it. They were really getting into it when I left.
MCINTOES: That’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant. But how did you manage it?
LUCY: That was the easy bit. I just added a secret ingredient to the chocolate cake. Half an ounce of Nepalese Hash! (looks at her watch) It should be kicking in right about now…….
FADE TO BLACK (AND STARS!)
To be continued…….
All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental and is probably a figment of your imagination! Have fun.....and read at bed-time with a long glass of Ardbeg by your side!
FESTIVE FULES
SCENE 1: EXT: UNDER THE ARCHES OF TOWER BRIDGE: NIGHT
Two men meeting clandestinely. Long raincoats. Mist from river. Rats scurrying around ground. The only light is the glow of cigarettes. All is quiet.
GRANDEE: There you are; told you so. You won’t hear anything again. They get fed up in the end. They always do. We had the same problems with the lecturers during the 1970’s. They thought they knew what was best for the profession but they were wrong too. Best that these types are kept at bay; or as far away from us as we can manage. Lord! Why do they always think that they know best?
NEW BOY: Mhmmmmm
GRANDEE: I mean, can’t they see we can’t do anything else?
NEW BOY: What do you mean?
GRANDEE: We’ll we’re not going anywhere are we? Most of the members can’t be bothered right? What’s the point of us sticking our necks out? What good will it do?
NEW BOY: {shifting uncomfortably on feet}
But what about the new graduates? Or the ones with families? How will they cope? What will they do when they find out? They’ll have commitments to meet? How will they manage? What will they think about what the Society has done?
GRANDEE: That’s their problem; not ours. It’s all about shifting responsibilities nowadays. The Department of Health is doing it. Why shouldn’t we?’ Christ! What do they expect anyway? They get a Journal and their insurance paid for them. What do they want for three hundred quid anyhow? Caviar and Perignon? We only get tea and crumpets! What makes them think they deserve better?
NEW BOY: Who knows?
They extinguish their cigarettes into the river, pull up the collars of their raincoats and emerge from the dark, damp shadows below. Their shoulders are stooped and low. The grandee at the rear, smiles with satisfaction at the back of his companion and blows his, not inconsiderable nose into a large pink handkerchief he extracts from his breast pocket. It has seen much use.
As they climb the steps back up to Tower Bridge Road, the old man pauses and bangs his stick against the railing to catch the younger man’s attention.
NEW BOY: Yes?
GRANDEE: Keep them in the dark.. It’s the best way it is. Always worked for us.
NEW BOY: What about the web-site. All those dissenters
GRANDEE: Who cares? It’s just that bloody nutter again – he’s the one who’s stirring them all {looks away briefly and spits into the murky current of the river below} besides, steps have been taken…..pretty soon you’ll not be hearing from him anymore. Just ignore the rest of them, they won't give us any trouble now.
NEW BOY: Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thing is, these songs have been on the website for ages. Nearly five thousand members have printed them off and are selling them to their patients. It's a phenomenon they say. I mean, I was driving down the M11 last week and Steve Wright played the ‘March of the Old Grandees’ on Radio Five Live – it’s up to number two in the charts now. It was supposed to be a secret within Council. God, it’s getting really embarrassing at work – it’s played constantly on the wards – they say it cheers the patients up.
The grandee smiles to himself, content with the secret he dare not share with his companion. How would he take it? What would he say? If only he knew the real story. What would he do? What would anyone in his position do - a recently elected council member? Toe the line if they knew what was best for them. Or else!
SCENE 2: EXT: EMBANKMENT: NIGHT
They say their goodbyes near the Tower and the grandee makes his way to Liverpool Street Station; mist following him inland along the narrow embankment streets. He stops for a moment outside a cobblers, and admires the bespoke footwear scattered inside the floor of the shop window. A balloon stretcher is visible, protruding from the waist of a Hotter comfort shoe. Its apron is relaxed and soft.
The grandee looks at the shoe, puzzled why anyone would want to stretch the upper in the manner that it is now being fashioned. He mutters under his breath…
GRANDEE: It would get rid of the corn, it would. God; have they no sense at all?
He shakes his head and marches into the station.
SCENE 3: INT: RAILWAY STATION: NIGHT
His is the last train home. He walks down the platform towards the locomotive. On the way a familiar song starts up over the Tannoy……
{”Honourable Council Members, of the S.C.P…..”}
Everywhere, people smile and begin to sing along. The grandee puffs out his chest with pride.
SCENE 4: INT: RAILWAY CARRAIGE: NIGHT
He takes his seat in a carriage near the rear. It is almost deserted. A single passenger is sitting on a bench seat, reading the final edition of the ‘Standard’. The grandee sits opposite, and peers out from over his half-moon glasses, reading the headline. It runs;
“CHIROPODISTS ACCEPT 50% PAY CUT”
The grandee smiles, nodding his head gently. Thank goodness the Christmas holidays were just starting. Good job they switched the answer machine off too. Opposite him, the top half of the paper folds down, and reveals a tall, elegant, well dressed lady with long blonde hair. Strands of grey run through it. Crows feet frame both eyes. The grandee smiles at her, admiring her beauty. There were times that he wished he was a little younger…not many…..but there were times.... Damn! The vagrancies of aging! The previous night he was unable to reach his feet to cut his toenails. How was he going to cope now? Same way as every other pensioner had to, he supposed. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat; a tinge of guilt settling over him. Maybe he could bring it up at the next council meeting - see if they could relax the rules on expenses to get his chiropody treatment costs reimbursed. The fees were extortionate compared to what he used to charge when he was in practice. Mind you that was thirty years ago!
He curses his stupidity with a small laugh. How stupid - getting council to endorse his suggestion. He IS the council! Ha!
The woman looks at the grandee inquisitively.
WOMAN: Well? Did you speak with him?
GRANDEE: Yes, of course. That should do it. We shouldn’t hear any more complaints at council meetings now. Not until after the next election and we can still work our magic on the ballot papers again…mhmmm? Keep the buggers out in the first place! Damn good idea of yours it was. The best we’ve had for ages…….
WOMAN: Yes…sometimes a younger brain has its advantages…..
GRANDEE: {raising eyebrows} Don’t get carried away now…..you’re not in the Inner Sect yet. Don’t damage your prospects….remember ….ears are everywhere. {coughs gently} I see the Standard picked up the news. The Minister said he would release it to them first. Good headline. Plenty publicity – pity they don’t like using podiatry though – still I suppose we all graduated as chiropodists anyway. Front page eh?
WOMAN: ‘Yes..... {she goes back to the section she was reading, doning her own half moon glasses to read the small print}...thing is, I can’t see our names here though, I’ve searched twice.’
The grandee looks at her, a scowl creasing his well-lined face. He reaches over and snatches the newspaper out of her hands and looks for himself, running his well-manicured finger down the lines of newsprint. After a minute he throws down the paper in disgust.
GRANDEE: Damn! They promised! Maybe they meant next year….
The woman bends forward to retrieve the paper from the carriage floor, patting the grandee’s knee as she does. It is a rare display of compassion and he scowls at her in castigation for her stupidity and weakness. She lifts the paper and folds it on the seat beside her and looks out of the window to the darkness beyond. The window reflects the headine in the pages that she was looking at. It reads:
“TSIL SRUONOH SRAEY WEN”
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 5: INT: A BUILDING NEAR TOWER BRIDGE: MORNING
A smoke filled room with a large table and seating for nineteen. Two men in the corner, one holding tightly to a Zimmer frame are huddled together in quiet conversation. The younger man – our grandee - has a name badge on the lapel of his jacket. It reads Peregrine Bagshot
OLD GRANDEE: How did the business go last night? Everything taken care of?
BAGSHOT: Yes, no problem at all. Didn’t even have to raise my voice. These new council members have no backbone at all. God they’re so weak…
OLD GRANDEE: Ah, things were different in my day. Men were men and women knew their place in life. Things have changed so much today. Never mind; it makes our job so much easier. Now what about that nutter up north. Has he been taken care of yet?
BAGSHOT: That’s being attended to as we speak….we know he likes red wine, God the whole world knows that…..so we’ve sent him a case of Lafite ‘83 for Christmas. Each one laced with a bottle of monocholoracaetic acid crystals.
OLD GRANDEE: Ha! That should sort his peri-anal warts out if nothing else! Very good….very good. You get an extra crumpet for that one! Marvelous!
They slap each other heartily on the back, the old man buoyant with joy. He turns away from his younger companion and hobbles in a strange higgledy piggildy fashion across to an enormous black leather commode in the corner and lifts the seat. Inside there is a shoebox. He beckons Bagshot across and gestures to him to remove it. This he does very gingerly.
BAGSHOT: What is it?
OLD GRANDEE: It’s for you. Go on take it.
Bagshot is hesitant. The base of the box is wet from something in the commode. He opens the top with care.
BAGSHOT: (excitedly) Oh it’s lovely. Yes, it’s just what I always wanted.
OLD GRANDEE: You’re very welcome. You’ve worked hard for it.
Bagshot holds aloft a small glass ornament. It depicts three monkeys; one holding its ears, another holding its mouth, the last covering its eyes. Underneath, engraved in the glass are the words; Hear no Sense, Speak no Sense, See no Sense. Bagshot has tears in his eyes and his hands tremble with excitement.
BAGSHOT: I knew it! I knew it! I always knew it would be my destiny. The Master-elect of the Society. Oh that’s almost poetic! Oh my, inspiration….we can’t have that.
OLD GRANDEE: (sternly) No we can’t now, can we? No slip ups at any time. You can never let the membership suspect anything. Never. That is the greatest secret. Always keep them in the dark. Feed them stories, anything. Never the truth.
BAGSHOT: You’re right of course. I just couldn’t believe how easy it was when I started. Sheep are more inquisitive. No wonder they’re called sleepers, mhmm?
OLD GRANDEE: True, but never forget who pays for the tea and crumpets though. Don’t forget them; ignore them maybe, but don’t forget them.
BAGSHOT: Don’t worry. Election time is coming around soon and I’ve got a new video made. My strategic plan! It’s called ‘My Way’.
OLD GRANDEE: That’s excellent. God all this new technology. I just can’t keep up nowadays. Video you say? Never heard of it! Is it like a cine? Can I see it?
BAGSHOT: Yes of course you can…..let’s go; we’re showing it at the council meeting just now. Come along now, easy does it….
SCENE 6 EXT: FELLMONGERS CLOSE: MORNING
A convoy of bakery vans arrive at the entrance. Hundreds of men unpack box after box of cream cakes and crumpets. A tanker pumps steaming tea through an open window.
SCENE 7: INT: CONFERENCE ROOM: NOON
Twenty-four individuals huddled around a narrow table. A man with an electronic device searches for hidden bugs. He finds none. When he has gone, the assembled members take off their socks and shoes and raise their right legs. A tape recorder is switched on and an orchestra is heard playing the opening bars of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. In unison, the group begins to sing:
COUNCIL: (collectively)
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Onward to obli-vion
That’s our destiny
Pay no heed to mem-ber-ship
They only get one vote
Listen to the ancients
We’ll give you all the hope
For a brighter fu-t-ure
We’ll lead you all the way
Hark the glorious gran-dees
And you'll be one some day
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Our cup it flow-eth over
With great sagacity
Tell no-one what you’re do-ing
That goes against the grain
A 'cup of tea and crum-pets'
Should be your sole refrain
Zip your gob and key-bo-ard
We’ve heard it all before
The ungrateful damn dissenters
They’re such a bloody bore
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Nothing will ever change us
We’re here ‘till eternity
If you think we're lunatics
It won't mean a thing
Because we can dismiss you
On the slightest whim
We have the best intentions
Of that we're sure you'll see
If you don't like what we're doing
Go and work for the H.P.C.
Honourable Council Members
Of the S.C.P.
Onward to Obli-vion
That's your destiny
Bagshot stands erect once the voices have died down. The old grandee beside him wipes a tear away from his eye.
BAGSHOT: That’s enough! Quiet! Sit down now, on the floor, cross legged. Welcome to the last Council meeting of the year. Now the business for today is as follows; first we will watch my new election video and then we’ll watch it again before the cakes arrive. Then we’ll watch it again and then well have the tea and crumpets. After that I’ll be asking you questions to see if you have been paying attention. An extra crumpet will go to all those who can recite the whole script accurately!
{Excited chattering and gnashing of teeth}
Now, any questions before we begin? No?
WEE LASSIE: Eh....excuse me....
BAGSHOT: (angrily) What? You wanted to talk? I hope it’s not rubbish….I’ve heard enough of that this week already!
WEE LASSIE: Erm…no….it’s about the website. I was wondering, sir, if we can answer some of these questions that the members keep asking……they’re getting quite impatient….
BAGSHOT: No! What have you been told. Don’t respond - there’s no need. That’s what we got that trainee for wasn’t it? Just ignore them. It’s the only way. Now sit down and don’t open your mouth again. Not if you know what’s good for you…..(mutters)... how stupid can you get....
{He switches on the video and blows out all the candles. The television lights up showing the grandee sitting behind an operating table holding a scalpel in one hand and an amputated foot in the other. Blood runs down his operating gown. His pink handkerchief is around his head. He delivers his speech.}
Bagshot takes his seat beside the old man. As the video progresses, a curious look befalls the old man’s face. After a moment he leans over to his younger compatriot.
OLD GRANDEE: That’s familiar. Your speech. I’ve heard that somewhere before….
BAGSHOT: Yesssss
OLD GRANDEE: (puzzled) Where….where was it. Was it at conference?
BAGSHOT: (smugly) No…no….try again.
OLD GRANDEE: (angrily) Don’t be stupid. No games. No humour. Tell me now!
BAGSHOT: (sheepishly) Oh all right then.
The Grandee slips his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket and extracts a slim magazine and hands it to the old man. It is the April edition of Podiatry Now. A pink bookmark is visible protruding from the top. The old man opens the magazine and looks at the page. It is headed; ‘Reforming Foot Health Services’. The old man shuts the magazine and sits back and smiles.
OLD GRANDEE: Oh, very good, Very good indeed! You’re learning all the time. I would have done the same myself! Excellent! And the best thing is, nobody will ever know. They’re all too stupid!
BAGSHOT: Thank you. I knew you’d like it.
OLD GRANDEE: Oh I do, I do. Tell you what Bagshot – just to celebrate. Can you get them to sing a couple of verses of the ‘Corn- Cutter's Lament’ for me? It’ll cap the day, just fine.
BAGSHOT: Of course I will. They can sing it all; twice if you like! For you, anything at all……we might even have time to finish with some Christmas Carols....you'd like that wouldn't you?
OLD GRANDEE: Yes.....'Silent Night' is my favourate....do they know it?
BAGSHOT: I'm sure they do; should be second nature by now....
They look at each other briefly, exchanging, only for a second, a look of shared happiness. A shudder passes through both of them as a result. They return their gaze to the assembled crowd, looking for any signs of discontentment or poor attention. They could never afford to let their guard down. Ever. After all, too much was at stake.
SCENE 8 INT: THE COACH AND HORSES: EVENING
A busy Soho pub. Much of the bar has been taken over by a school reunion. Tom and Brian stand at the end of the counter, their glasses replenished, filling in the years since they last met.
TOM: I wasn’t really sure about coming along tonight – you know – it’s like some sort of barometer or gauge on how successful or otherwise you’ve become in life, and I really couldn't be bothered with that.
BRIAN: Yes, it’s like a twenty five year report card – earn above fifty grand and you get an ‘A’; thirty to fifty a ‘B’; and twenty to thirty a ‘C’.
TOM: What fifty grand and you get an ‘A’? At today’s rates? Christ Brian, you get twenty five grand a year working in the Parks Department cutting grass. You don’t have to be too clever to earn fifty grand nowadays – nah – you’d need to be earning over two hundred a year to get an ‘A’ – fifty would get you a ‘C’ pass – but only just.
BRIAN: Oh dear then. I’ve just slipped from a ‘D’ to an ‘E minus’ in the past week on that scale.
TOM: Why, what’s happened? You lose your job or something? Your business?
BRIAN: No……I’m a chiropodist
Tom nods to himself as he digests Brian’s words. When he responds there is concern in his voice.
TOM: I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. God you’ve been shafted recently – haven’t you? We’ve been following the government’s maneuverings in chambers – one of our partners specialises in employment law – predominately public sector – and I have to say there is a great deal of disbelief at what’s happened to you and your colleagues. Never before have we seen such draconian pay cuts being implemented in such a manner. First, they relax the entry criteria for the profession, flooding the market with cheap labour, and then they use the ‘market principles’ argument to reduce the salary levels. Of course, the politicians then say that it’s the Health Authorities responsibility to commission and pay for services – not theirs – and all the NHS is doing is securing the care at the best price, but the reality is that thousands of chiropodists are going to be crippled by the cuts – if you’ll excuse the puns.
BRIAN: Fine I know. My missus is a chiropodist too and even before the cuts, we both qualified for Tax Credits. That’s after twenty two years at the coalface. Some career choice eh? I was praying old Davidson was going to be here – you remember, the careers and guidance master? To tell you the truth, it’s the only reason I came. I was going to wait for him afterwards, take him to the far end of Firth Street, and give him the biggest thrashing of his life. You know something…..there’s never been one working day in the last twenty two years when I haven’t been asked a question from someone or another – a patient or a doctor. Anyone. The strange thing is, it’s always the same question.
TOM: What is it?
BRIAN: After five or ten minutes of conversation the question always arises.
“Tell me, what made you want to do chiropody in the first place?”
And it’s always asked with an accompanying look of genuine puzzlement. Buggers!
Tom smiles and nods his head again.
TOM: To be honest Brian, it was going to be my next question too.
BRIAN: See! Bloody hell! You know, I must be the only one here tonight whose sole aim in life is to get through one working day without being someone’s source of amusement or whatever else they get out of asking the damn thing.
TOM: Maybe pity now?
BRIAN: Maybe it was always pity. But if it is pity it should be reserved for the new graduates and students. That's who I really feel sorry for - and their student loans. What if there's no jobs to pay them back? They've really been let down. Anyway....enough about chiropody, what of you? What adventures has life thrown at you? You said you were in law; what do you specialise in?
TOM: Mostly trade union and contract law. Less of the latter in these times though – the trade unions have finally woken up to the fact that they are nearly extinct and they’ve decided to make one last stand. Should keep me busy until the next reunion methinks. Shall we mingle for a bit?
Both men work the crowd. Music is blaring from the juke-box – Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – the revelers know the words by heart. After a couple of hours the crowd starts to disperse, leaving a few diehards to prop up the bar and annoy Norman, the formidable bartender, and the handful of ‘regulars’. Tom spots Brian at the end of the bar. He is carefully counting the loose change from his pocket, calculating to the last the amount he needs to see himself safely home – and how much left he can spare for drinks. He has allowed himself twenty pounds for the evening – a luxury he can ill afford over the festive break what with the January pay check over six weeks away. But his wife had insisted. It would be good for him – it would buck him up a bit. It would be worth every penny, she said. In fact it was worth a turkey. They were having chicken roll from Bernard Matthews on Christmas Day instead. No great ‘festive fayre’ in that household then. Not of the edible kind anyhow!
Brian looks up from his coppers and notices Tom staring at him. He realises in an instant what his friend is thinking and he blushes with embarrassment. Tom comes across and sits down beside him.
TOM: If you like, I can drop you off. I mean, we’ve got an account with the black cabs – it’ll be no problem.
BRIAN: Thanks and all that but I need to get the train. I couldn’t afford even to rent in London these days – I’m down in Sussex now. Thanks anyway.
Tom orders another couple of drinks from Norman, who has a face like thunder. As he does so Brian’s gaze shifts to the pub doorway. Bagshot has entered and has removed his overcoat. A large pink handkerchief hangs from the breast pocket of his jacket. He stands for a minute, looking into one of the mirrors near the door. After a moment he extracts a small metal comb and runs it carefully through his bouffant grey hair. When he is satisfied, he turns and approaches the bar. He carries an air of aloof arrogance, impervious to the onlookers’ gaze. By now the whole bar is watching him. There is not a whisper from anyone.
BAGSHOT: Yes, good evening. Can I have a glass of claret please?
BARMAN: A claret? Would sir like any particular year – or chateau?
BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact, I have a penchant for Pomerol ’62 or a Lafite ’76 at a push. Do you have them?
BARMAN: As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’ve got our house red, which if you’re lucky might still register on the pH scale, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it though. Still, it’ll be nice and musky, just like a good claret. Not a Lafite though – that’s a Bordeaux. Do you want a pint or a half pint then squire?
{muffled laughter from the regulars)
BAGSHOT: No, no. I’ll have a sweet sherry then instead.
BARMAN: Right. Good choice. One pickled fairy coming up.
Bagshot collects his drink and waits patiently until Norman has written a receipt for the £1.75 he has handed over. Finally he makes his way over to a vacant table near a coat stand and sits down. Lifts up the glass and sniffs the bouquet with his eyes shut. This he does for nearly a minute, his nostrils flaring every few seconds. Finally he takes a sip and his eyes snap open with a look of disgust. Tom turns back to Brian.
TOM: What a strange character and I’m sure I’ve seen him….……you okay Brian? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know him?
BRIAN: Sorry….Christ I certainly do! That’s the new Master – elect of the Society. You’ve probably seen his picture in the press recently. He’s usually on his hands and knees behind the Health Minister. Sometimes you see him peeking round the arse of his trousers for a look at what’s going on. The Labour party might have a poodle leading it. We had to have a ****z-zu!
TOM: Bloody hell. That’s the one who sold you down the river then. Never mind old Davidson – why don’t we take him up Firth Street instead?
BRIAN: No, don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t take much.
As they talk another man enters the pub and sits down at the same table as Bagshot. He has greasy hair and shifty eyes. His dental health is poor – probably as a result of crunching numbers too long. He is grossly obese and his puffy face has strange feline characteristics. He does not approach the bar. Norman is, on the surface, nonplussed. Inside an atavistic rage begins to boil.
TOM: That’s strange…
BRIAN: What’s that?
TOM: That chap that’s just come in….he’s the new chair of that quango that was formed the other month – the one that’s supposed to oversee all public sector appointments - the ones at board level. He used to be a client at our chambers – something to do with a dispute over his last platinum handshake. I wonder what he’s talking to your man about….?
Tom, careful to remain unnoticed, stares intently at the newcomer for a few moments then raises his eyebrows in mild astonishment. Brian looks at him curiously.
BRIAN: What are you doing?
TOM: I can lip read. Learned about twelve years ago. Invaluable in this profession I can assure you! Hang on a sec…..
Tom continues to look. After another pause he relates what he has been able to discern.
TOM: Something about him being offered a Chief Executive or Chairman’s post in the New Year. In recognition of his cooperation. No bong just now…too sensitive…..maybe next year……but six figure salary with the new post. Lucky for some.
BRIAN: Well someone from the profession might manage to get a ‘B’ pass then after all!
TOM: Aye, but few others will though. If any. Never mind though, there’s one benefit that I can see coming.
BRIAN: What’s that?
TOM: Well if he’s appointed a management post in the NHS he can’t run the Society anymore. Maybe the new broom will sweep in a different direction – be more assiduous and assertive with the government.
BRIAN: What do you mean he can’t run the Society? Of course he can.
TOM: Not if he’s NHS management. You can’t have management sitting on a staff side trade union council. That would flaunt the founding ideology of trade unionism and make a mockery of the basic employment principles to boot! No trade union membership will allow that.
BRIAN: That can’t be right. We’ve got loads of NHS managers sitting on our Council. Have you not heard the song that's in the charts right now….Council Members? The bit about vested interests?
TOM: So that’s what that refers too! My God! I don’t believe it.
BRIAN: I’m afraid it’s true. The thing is, few in the profession seem to think it’s a problem. Either that, they’re too scared of their jobs and are staying quiet.
TOM: That's precisely the reason you can't have that set-up. No wonder you got shafted proper. Tell you what though…this is really interesting….maybe we can do something about it after all. I’ve got a client – an investigative reporter who does these in-depth exposés – you know, the Russian mafia, Afghan war lords. That kind of thing. You’ll have heard of him – McIntoes Undercover? Anyway, he owes me a favour or two. I think I’ll ask him to turn his gaze on our friend here – if he doesn’t make a documentary he can always send the tape to ‘You’ve been Framed’. It would make a mint! Give me your number before we leave and I’ll get Donald to give you a call….you can give him the whole picture.
BRIAN: Yes sure.
Suddenly Bagshot and his companion stand and make for the door. Bagshot hesitates, turns, and then makes his way back to the bar. Norman is at the far end near Tom and Brian. He ignores Bagshot completely. After a minute Bagshot makes his way to speak directly to him. He stands between Brian and Tom.
BAGSHOT: Ahem.
BARMAN: (snarling} What?
BAGSHOT: I’ve left fifty pence for the service charge. I wonder if you would be so kind to get me a receipt. If you don’t mind.
BARMAN: What service charge?
BAGSHOT: You know, your tip? That’s what you do in these places, isn’t it?
BARMAN: Tip! I’ll give you more than a tip. You’ll get the whole of my foot up your arse if you don’t get out of here, never mind the tip. You and your chateau lafite’s and sweet sherry and your stingy faced pal. Bugger off.
Bagshot is unperturbed. If he is shocked at the onslaught, he does not show it. He has dealt with much worse before. What is a mere publican to him? Or his sordid regulars? Bagshot looks with disdain at Brian. Brian is smiling back.
BRIAN: Hello there.
Bagshot tilts his head back and looks down his nose at Brian. His look is even more scornful and it wipes the smile from Brian’s face. Bagshot turns and walks away and as he does, we hear a muttered {commoners} from his receding back. Once more at the pub door he hesitates. Turns to the table and lifts the 50p tip. Walks to the jukebox, slots the coin and makes a selection. He turns towards the bar once last time and leaves them with a sneer he reserves for special occasions. His eyes are fixed on Brian. As the door closes behind him, the music starts up with Art Gurfunkel on the vocals.
{Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again……}
Only Brian makes the connection.
BRIAN: Bloody hell!
TOM: What?
BRIAN: I didn’t think he recognised me then. I spoke to him at conference just a few weeks ago, but I thought he’d forgotten after the look he gave me just now. But he knew who I was all the time.
TOM: How can you be sure.
BRIAN: When I cornered him on the final day I mentioned to him there was never any response from himself or from most of his colleagues on the website…no-one knew what was happening until it was too late. I said something along the lines… “the only sound is silence.” The song he put on…..?
TOM: Bloody hell indeed!
BRIAN: You know that Donald you mentioned?
TOM: Yes.
BRIAN: Is it too late to call him tonight?
They smile and make their final toasts. At the door they exchange their contact details and resolve to meet after the undercover McIntoes completes his initial investigation. More handshakes and warm words. As they head outside to the wet December night they both fail to see the back cab parked with its lights off, fifty yards down the road. In the distance, through the driving rain, we can make out Bagshot’s face peering into compact binoculars. As he watches the men leave he extracts a small black notebook from his overcoat pocket and scribbles a few words and underlines the last word three times. It says simply ‘TROUBLEMAKER’. Thank God for his intellect and his photographic memory. He needed them for all these clandestine activities. No wonder the Old Grandees wanted him in the Inner Sect as soon as possible. He was unstoppable. Providing he kept the troublemakers at bay. And that was his greatest skill.
Slowly, as the mist sweeps in from the river on a southerly breeze, the taxi drives off into the night. It heads east, its tail lights casting an eerie red glow into the greying gloom. When it disappears at last, the night becomes discernibly darker.
SCENE 9 EXT: TOWER BRIDGE ROAD: MORNING
The bridge is busy with traffic and pedestrians on their way to work. It is snowing heavily and the large piles at the side of the pavement suggest that the weather has been inclement for several days. Beggars line the sides of the bridge, huddled together in small groups to keep the chill air at bay. Condensed breath hangs in miniature clouds above their heads. As we move past them we can see that some are no more than children, many with eastern-European features. But most are elderly people. At their feet are a row of placards proclaiming their plight. They read:
“Give us some Chiropody for Christmas”
“I lost my right foot at Dunkirk. Please help save my left one now.”
“92 year-old; 6 stone; 12 inch toenails. Please give generously”
“Save us from the cuts!”
“NHS = National Health Service NOT National Hard-Ship”
In front of the placards are some tin cans. The occasional passer-by slows and drops some coins into them. They all receive a gracious ‘thank-you’. After a while a white van appears and a television crew exit with their equipment. They disappear down Fellmonger’s Lane towards a shiny glass tower and wait patiently outside the front door. After a while another man joins them and they enter the building together. The pensioners on the bridge look on curiously. Several walk down Fellmonger’s Lane to see what is happening. Soon they are joined by others. A small, but growing crowd starts to form.
SCENE 10 INT: GLASS TOWER RECEPTION: MORNING
McINTOES: Morning. We’ve an appointment to see the Master-Elect today at nine-thirty. The name is Finnegan from GTMV.
RECEPTIONIST: Ah….let me just check…..yes here it is. You’re making a film about careers aren’t you? That’s right; Mr Bagshot was telling us about it yesterday. He’s really looking forward to this. I’ll let him know you’re here.
McINTOES: Thanks.
The receptionist turns and pulls a small lever on the wall behind him. In the distance we can hear a bell ring. Within a few seconds a door opens and Bagshot appears and beams an enormous (and rare) smile. Unused to such a position, his lips fissure at the corners causing him to grimace – but only for a second. Today is a special day. His debut on national television. He would stand naked in the middle of a raging fire in Hades to ensure it is successful. Painful lips are nothing to him. The smile grows even wider. He rushes over and extends his delicate, manicured hand to the reporter.
BAGSHOT: Oh Mr Finnegan, can I say how wonderful it is to meet you at last. I don’t get much opportunity to watch daytime television nowadays, but a lot of my colleagues, who do enjoy a bit more leisure time than me, say that you are their favourite.
McINTOES: That’s really good to hear sir. Please pass on my best wishes to them all.
BAGSHOT: Oh I will, I will. I’m going to be writing about your visit in next month’s journal and I’ll make sure everyone reads it. We’ll have a photograph of you on the front cover too if you like?
McINTOES: On the front cover of a chiropody magazine? Really?
BAGSHOT: Oh yes – our covers are the talk of the printing world you know. No stuffy professional designs for our flagship rag. No! We have VIP’s, celebrities, film stars – all the beautiful people – on our cover. It was my idea you know. You can mention that if you like.
McINTOES: Right, yes. I just might. Now where can we do this?
BAGSHOT: Oh right…follow me.
All exit through the inner door.
SCENE 11 INT: THE CONFERENCE ROOM: MORNING
The crew have just finished setting up. A make-up girl is applying compact to Bagshot’s nose. She is a buxom girl and her choice of low-cut tee-shirt was perhaps not the best choice for this morning. Not for our Peregrine anyhow! She is inches away from his face and his mouth twitches from the excitement of the moment, revealing the fissured corners.
LUCY: Oh dear. Shall I get some Vaseline?
BAGSHOT: Pardon?
LUCY: For your lips. I’ve always found that Vaseline works best on painful cracks. Didn’t you know that?
BAGSHOT: Certainly not. Vaseline you say?
LUCY: Oh yeah. I use it on my cracks all the time. I get them every summer I do. Must be the warm weather. And the slingbacks of course! Just slap on the Vaseline at bedtime then wrap myself in some cling film. Just the job. You should try it you should!
Bagshot’s eyes open wide at the thought.
BAGSHOT: Yesss. Maybe I will…..
The make-up girl finishes her administrations and packs her equipment away into a neat metal case. As she opens the lid a certificate attached to the inside cover catches Bagshot’s eye and he stoops to read it more closely. It is a Health Professions Council certificate with CHIROPODIST/PODIATRIST written under the girl’s name.
BAGSHOT: Oh I didn’t know that you belonged to my fold too!
LUCY: Well I don’t really….I mean I do the occasional manicure and pedicure as part of my job. So when I heard the other year that anyone could be a chiropodist I thought it would be a good idea to buy myself the certificate. Something to fall back on if the make-up business goes up the spout. And what’s sixty quid a year to the HPC? Good insurance I think. Anyway that’s you done. Good luck.
BAGSHOT: Yesss. Right.
The girl walks away leaving the Grandee at the head of a large table. In the far corner, McIntoes peruses the professional regalia. He is trying to look interested. He knows all that he needs to know about the Society and its Council. His file on the Grandee is almost an inch thick. He has spent the last few days in the hostelries of east London speaking to fellow Scots about their experiences at the hands of the Society. They painted a depressing picture. He turns towards Bagshot at the table and walks briskly over.
McINTOES: Okay, are we ready? Good. Let’s start.
(Lights snap on; the camera rolls.)
{three, two, one…}
McINTOES: Good morning. Today we’re at the elegant headquarters of the Society of Chiropodists and Podiatrists in London. The Society represents nearly nine thousand specialist clinicians all over Britain who work hard to keep the likes of you and me on our feet. Without chiropodists, this country would simply stagger to a painful ‘stop’. Sitting beside me is the Master-Elect of the Society, Peregrine Bagshot, and he’s kindly agreed to give us his pitch for a career that some of you are perhaps thinking of joining…….sir?
BAGSHOT: Ahem. Yes……
Bagshot launches into a detailed and articulate description of the profession of podiatry. It is a speech he has consigned to memory. It is littered with words and phrases such as; ‘caring’, ‘dedicated’, ‘rewarding’, ‘secure’, ‘important and vital role’, ‘progressive’, ‘familial’, ‘community’, ‘open and transparent’ and ‘robust representation’. There is not a single mention of tea and crumpets, yet, just before he finishes, a door opens and four servants pull in trolleys laden with just that. Bagshot continues without interruption. McIntoes looks bemused. When Bagshot has finished he sits back in his chair, head and shoulders held high, and breathes slowly and deeply. A confident smile is set on his face.
McINTOES: Thank you very much for that. Now, while we’re here….I wonder if I can ask you a few supplementary questions about the profession.
BAGSHOT: Certainly. Ask away…
McINTOES: I was just wondering why it is that a profession, one of such great importance as podiatry obviously is, is regarded with such disdain and ridicule almost, by most of the public and politicians today. Why do most of your members have to rely on Tax Credits to earn a decent income in the twenty first century?
BAGSHOT: {looks as if he’s just sat on a 18g needle}
Well…..ah…..I’m not quite sure what you mean. Disdain? Ridicule? Oh I don’t think so. We’re highly regarded by everyone. I got a Christmas card from Tony this year, you know? And a box of handkerchiefs – the right colour too! (pause) Tax Credits? What are they?
McINTOES: Oh nothing much. Just something that half your membership need to stop them starving to death this winter. Nothing important. Now then…….can you also comment on why there’s been no public outcry about all our pensioners who have been removed from chiropody lists in the NHS over the last seven years? Why hasn’t the Society been fighting on their behalf? They stop the bus passes and there’s a national strike, but when they stop chiropody – and you can’t walk to the bus anymore– we hear nowt! How come?
BAGSHOT: Oh…erm…..I’m not sure. Maybe not enough people read our magazine. There’s been one or two small but vigorous statements in there during the last couple of years. I think. But that’s really a question for our Fraternity of Health Service Managers, not really me. I don’t bother with those sort of things. Would you like to see our magazine…it’s got a super cover this month…
McINTOES: No thank you. What exactly does this ‘career’ offer the youngster of today? Can you explain the attraction of spending time and money at university, toiling to make a hard-earned degree, only to find yourself in the dustbin of the NHS, struggling to keep your head above the poverty line? Why take this road when you can do a correspondence course over three weeks and still have the same qualification?
BAGSHOT: Well of course they can join an organisation like ours and have a lovely new home in London {he throws his arms around him}, with lovely views. Well I should add that it’s not really their home, but they can visit for an hour once a year. If they’re invited.
McINTOES: So? The correspondence chiropodist can join as well, can’t they?
BAGSHOT: Yes but only as an associate. They get to visit every three years. If they’re lucky.
McINTOES: So the reward for your studies and financial burdens is the joy and contentment of belonging as a full member to the Society. Is that right.
BAGSHOT: Erm… yesss….I think so.
McINTOES: Right. Fine. One last question. Do you have any concrete plans to move this profession away from its lowly status. Surely as an organisation you must constantly be looking at ways of improving the circumstances of the ordinary nail cutter. How are you going to achieve it?
BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact you might be interested to see the new video I’ve had made. It’s called ‘My Way’ and it’ll tell you all you want to know. Would you like a copy?
McINTOES: Yes that would be most useful. I’m sure we could use it. Thank you very much for your time.
BAGSHOT: No, no…thank you. It was most enjoyable. (then quietly) I think.
McIntoes smiles in response. The crew begin to dismantle their equipment whilst the Grandee rummages around in a filing cabinet. After a moment he extracts a videocassette and holds it aloft.
BAGSHOT: Here it is.
He takes the video over to McIntoes who is standing by a window looking out to the street below. A large crowd of pensioners has caught his attention. They are sitting down in the snow and slush, their shoes and socks removed. Long gryphotic toenails spiral skywards. The demonstrators’ mouths are taped closed with meefix. A large banner is unfurled in front of them. It says simply: ,/I]
‘PLEASE HEAR US – HELP US WALK’
McIntoes looks questioningly at Bagshot who in turn looks disinterested. The Grandee ushers him away from the window.
BAGSHOT: Don’t mind them out there. Just ignore them. That’s the best way. It works for us. They’re just the dregs of society after all. The government should bring in compulsory euthanasia at sixty unless you’ve got a healthy bank balance. That would sort them out! Keep them under the streets instead of cluttering the top of them! That’s what I say. What?
McIntoes looks astonished then realises that his lapel mike is still switched on. Bagshot is looking seriously at him then he breaks into another grin, opening the fissures once again.
BAGSHOT: Just kidding! That fooled you…Ha! No we couldn’t do that now could we. No, we need them all for our practices we do. They’re our customers after all. What would we do without them? Mhmm?
McINTOES: I don’t know. But maybe you’re going to find out sooner than you think.
BAGSHOT: Mhmm….er…what? What was that?
McINTOES: Nothing…it doesn’t matter. Anyway, thanks for your time and we can see ourselves out. Lovely crumpets and cakes too. Did yourselves proud, you did. Cheerio then…
Bagshot remains in the Council room and watches the crew depart towards Tower Bridge. The videocassette is visible in McIntoes jacket pocket. As soon as they are out of sight Bagshot rushes downstairs to the basement and opens a heavy steel door, which leads to a long narrow room with a number of curtained cubicles. He flicks a light-switch and the room is illuminated.
SCENE 12 INT THE BASEMENT LATE MORNING
,I]Bagshot has pulled on an old dirty-white nylon overcoat. Blood and pus stains the front and sleeves. The basement has been converted from a historical museum to a working surgery with minimal (or no) alterations or additions. Leather strops decorate the walls. There are no windows to the outside world but there is a trapdoor in the ceiling where coal was once dropped. A new loft ladder has been affixed to its underside. Bagshot walks over to the ladder and pauses. Takes deep breath, closes eyes, arches fingers and cracks the joints, then exhales slowly and with purpose. He is ready to begin.
He opens the trapdoor and lowers the ladders. The trapdoor is directly in front of the crowd of pensioners. A telescopic pole is pushed up through the opening and secured to an old table leg. On the top of the pole a notice proclaims.
TOENAILS TRIMMED; CORNS CUT.
£5.00 PER FOOT
BEST PRICE IN LONDON
CASH ONLY
ONLY VISIT A STATE REGISTERED CHIROPODIST
Except STATE has now been scored out.
Bagshot waits expectantly. There are nearly five hundred people outside. A thousand feet (maybe). Five thousand pounds and he could be finished them by late afternoon. Not bad for a days work. Bloody Tax Credits indeed! Anyway, he should be charging extra today. A new celebrity was about to ‘do their feet’. That was surely worth another pound a foot, wasn't it? He couldn’t wait to tell them all about his TV debut. He looks up in anticipation.
BAGSHOT: Come on then….who’s first?
SCENE 13: INT: BAGSHOT’S BEDROOM: NIGHT
Two single beds. Mrs Bagshot is propped up in one, reading a Francis Gay Yearbook. On a bedside table sits the ornament of the glass monkeys that was gifted to her husband just a few days ago. A bulge under the sheets of Bagshot’s bed outlines the shape of a ceramic hot water piggy. Suddenly there is a resounding (crash) from the adjoining en-suite bathroom. Mrs Bagshot springs from the bed to investigate. She opens the door to the bathroom to find her husband close to death, on his hands and knees. He is wearing pink silk pyjamas with the Society's crest on the breast pocket, and a pair of white cotton bed-socks. Around his head is wrapped several layers of cling-film. The skin under the food wrap is tinged with a bluish-grey hue. Mrs Bagshot is a woman of practical means. Quickly she lifts a nearby loo brush and, without a moment’s hesitation, she rams the brush end through the PVC into his mouth, then pulls it out again. The sides are covered in Vaseline.
There is a huge intake of air.
MRS BAGSHOT: My God….what on earth are you doing?
BAGSHOT: {gasping} I…I…I was trying to fix my mouth…and I must have passed out. Good God!
MRS BAGSHOT: Fixing your mouth? With cling film? That’s a joke! Try using Duck-Tape next time – it might be more successful. Cling film – what rubbish! Go on now into bed. And I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you again tonight. God knows what you’ll get up to next. Men….who would have them?
She marches her husband off to bed and tucks him in. She looks down forlornly as he drifts off to sleep. It was always the same. Great intellect – No common sense. She was grateful that he was a chiropodist and worked on his own. She couldn’t bear the worry if he was responsible for employing other people – it would surely be a disaster. Better that he was responsible only for himself. But even then she couldn’t be too careful. Cling film and Vaseline! Whatever next…..
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 14 INT BROADCASTING HOUSE EVENING
FADE FROM BLACK
{subtitle} …eight months later….
A huddle of men and women around a large circular table. Low lighting. VCRs and TV monitors strewn all around the floor.
MCINTOES: Okay, tomorrow it is. We’ve got enough material here for a whole series never mind a fifty-minute exposé. Jeezy peeps, this is going to be good! Ten times better than the British Dental Association. You okay about it Lucy?
LUCY: Yeah, it’ll be a scream Donal…. d’ya think he’ll recognise me from the last time?
MCINTOES: I’m counting on it. There was definitely some chemistry there, especially when you were winding him up about the cling film and Vaseline. There are certainly hidden depths to this character, that’s for sure. We just gotta look in the right place, that’s all. But…..
EDITOR: But what?
MCINTOES: Well, it’d be better if we can get him to loosen up more. That way he’s liable to do anything…remember what Brian told us about the incident in the pub. A wee sip of sweet sherry and we could be in line for a RTS award with this one!
EDITOR: But he’s hardly liable to drink during the day though, especially with the cameras there.
MCINTOES: No…. more’s the pity. (pause) What?
He looks across the table at Lucy who is grinning mischievously. She winks in response and the investigative reporter studies her face hard for some insight. She raises both eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. The rest look on suspiciously.
MCINTOES: Okay, we won’t ask. Right, let’s go over it one more time…..
FADE TO BLACK
FADE IN
SCENE 15 INT TOWER BRIDGE DAY
Peregrine Bagshot is walking briskly across the bridge towards Fellmongers. There is a spring in his step and although it’s a glorious summer’s afternoon, he wears a bowler hat and carries a black umbrella. As he turns into the Path a number of filthy, wretched pensioners reach out to him; the remnants of the protest at Christmas. Those who make it close get prodded sharply with the business end of the umbrella. He makes it to the door unscathed – as always.
SCENE 16 INT RECEPTION DAY
Lucy is sitting on a sofa reading a magazine as the Master enters the building. Beside her is a cardboard box – approx 12” square. A receptionist is typing away on a keyboard.
BAGSHOT: Ah, the lovely make-up girl. Good afternoon to you….
LUCY: You remembered then?
BAGSHOT: Of course. You didn’t expect me to forget did you? How could I?
He beams a broad smile and this time, the corner of his lips stay intact. Lucy stands and extends her hand. He holds her fingers gently then lifts them to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand with affection. She looks on bemused. Behind the desk the receptionist looks on in astonishment until he glances sideways and she quickly looks away. Bagshot ushers Lucy through a door and into the building proper and as she walks ahead of him she catches a sweet sickly smell and she realises that it is comes from the back of her hand…..
SCENE 17 INT: BAGSHOT’S OFFICE SUITE: MORNING
Opulent décor. Heavy dark-red velvet curtains and matching carpet. Louis IV reproduction furniture. On the walls are a number of famous paintings – the Madonna dell Granduca, the nymph Galatea, La Belle Jardinère and St George fighting the Dragon – all mounted in heavy gilt frames. In the far corner, behind the desk, an elegant Victorian changing screen partially obscures a leather chaise longe. Lucy is agog.
LUCY: My goodness, this is fabulous. I mean it looks so different….
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: It must have cost an absolute…
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: It’s fabulous and all in, what, eight months?
BAGSHOT: Yessss.
LUCY: You don’t waste any time do you? Gosh, it’s unbelievable!
Lucy walks around admiring the paintings. Bagshot watches her intently, a huge smile lighting up his face.
LUCY: Italian Renaissance? Leonardo da Vinci?
Bagshot opens his mouth to reply just as the door to his office opens and the receptionist enters, carrying the box Lucy left on the sofa. Bagshot turns on her with a fury.
BAGSHOT: How many times have you to be told? You knock and wait. Never enter until I say so.
RECEPTIONIST: But…
BAGSHOT: No buts. No excuses. Get out of here. (turns to Lucy) I’m terribly sorry….
LUCY: Actually it’s my fault. (walks over to the trembling girl) I left this in reception by mistake. It’s a present for you; a sort of belated congratulations for your coronation…..sorry, I forgot all about it in my excitement.….
She takes the box from the receptionist and thanks her. Bagshot is coming back from the edge of an apoplectic fit {huge intake of air} Dismisses the receptionist with a wave of his hand (muttering ‘last chance’ under his breath). His face softens and he takes the box from Lucy when it’s offered. He is immediately calm and chivalrous.
BAGSHOT: Why this is so kind…..oh, I say! I say!!
Inside is a large, exquisitely decorated chocolate cake with a winged foot made of white marzipan delicately balanced on top of the letters SCP in the centre. All around the edge, in small gold icing, are the words, looking after our interests, enabling us to live more luxuriously……
LUCY: I made it myself.
BAGSHOT: Why thank you….it looks delicious.
LUCY: I remembered the lovely spread you laid on for us the last time. The crumpets were out of this world. But I thought you’d appreciate some home baking for a change.
BAGSHOT: Oh yes. Tell you what; we’ll have it at the council meeting this afternoon. There’ll be plenty to go around.
LUCY: Council meeting?
BAGSHOT: Uh huh. Didn’t I mention it on the telephone?
LUCY: No I don’t think you did. I thought you were going to show me round the offices then we’d film the interview later on when Mr McIn….I mean, Mr Finnegan comes with his crew.
BAGSHOT: Well if it’s going to be a problem I can just send them home. They won’t mind you know; they get their expenses and plenty more besides! (winks conspiratorially) Keep them sweet and you can get anything you want. That’s the secret.
LUCY: I’ll bet. No it won’t be a problem. What time does it start?
He looks surprised.
BAGSHOT: My dear girl, when I’m ready, of course. Shall we…?
He leads her out of his office, breathing deeply, chest puffed out.
SCENE 18 INT ANTE-ROOM DAY
(cut to)
In a small ante-room next to his office, Bagshot punches a seven-digit number into a key-pad concealed behind a plastic rubber-plant. Immediately a mirrored wall slides away to reveal a heavily reinforced steel door with another numeric keypad. He punches in another code and the door swings seamlessly open and he walks slowly inside.
SCENE 19 INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: DAY
(cut to)
The twenty-four members of the Council sit in silence around a large circular board-room table. In front of each one is a yellow legal pad and pencil; a cup and saucer; and a large plate with fork and knife. As soon as Bagshot enters the room the assembled group stand and bow their heads. Bagshot walks slowly to his chair – a step-up black leather Hinders-Leslie, complete with extendable leg-rests – and sits down.
BAGSHOT: Ready? After three…..
They all take a step back and kick off their right shoe. A tape recorder is switched on and a string quartet plays ‘Clemintine’. On ‘three’ the entire group raise their right legs straight out and start to sing in unison…..
COUNCIL: Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
Pods of every land and clime
Be assured we’re here to serve you
And we do that task just fine
Council members are united
We shall serve both true and strong
Never fear that vested interests
Will conspire to get it wrong
Do not listen to the doubters
Pay no heed to what they say
Council members are quite certain
That there can be no other way
The Promised Land is coming closer
Bountiful its riches be
Not in money for the masses
But for us with cakes and tea
For that day you all must labour
Work hard and have no fear
We will lead you to greater glory
Trust the Council of the S.C.P.
Do not worry at the silence
Council members they know best
Send your thanks and hard-earned money
These good chaps will do the rest
Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
Pods of every land and clime
Be assured we’re here to serve you
And we do that task just fine.
Bagshot is breathing deeply, eyes closed. Suddenly they snap open and he nods his head in appreciation. They look on anxiously.
BAGSHOT: Good. Very good. Now sit.
Smiles all around as they take their seats. {Quiet chatter, building….}
BAGSHOT: Silence! Now to business. Right, you all remember Lucy here….
He waves her across from the doorway where she has been standing, looking on in absolute astonishment.
LUCY: Hi.
BAGSHOT: The BBC are coming back later today to finish their filming for the documentary on the Society and I thought I’d invite Lucy here along to see how I do things at Fellmongers before the production team bring their inevitable chaos. And a good thing too! Look what she’s brought….
He shows them the chocolate cake and an excited murmur fills the room.
BAGSHOT: If you’re good, only if you’re good….
Hungry hands clatter cutlery and plates.
BAGSHOT: Enough. We’ve got some business to attend to first. Now then Lucy, you sit over there beside one of our new members from the Fraternity of Managers. (quietly) Just watch his hands.
He points towards a timid looking middle-aged man who is wearing a large badge on his lapel with ‘New Boy’ emblazoned in red letters. She sits down and as she does she notices a half-bottle of cheap brandy protruding from his pocket.
BAGSHOT: Now then, first on the agenda today is the strategic plan. You all know I’ve been working day and night to devise the road map for the profession over the next ten years. This is vital if podiatry is to take its rightful place on the medical stage. With that in mind, you’ll be pleased to know it’s coming along just fine and you needn’t ask about anything about it again. A letter is being sent to the members to tell them the same. Right; next on the agenda is Income Generation (rubs hands together). Well I can now tell you what we’ve decided.
He leans forward and presses a button underneath the table and a door to the rear of the room opens. A well-dressed man with silver-white hair walks into the room carrying a perspex box.
BAGSHOT: For those who are forever ignorant or stupid, this is Dr Kim Pine-Martin, one of the finest podiatric surgeons this country has ever seen. Dr Pine-Martin has been working with the Society on a top-secret project for nearly ten years. Now, I’m excited to say, that project has reached fruition and we are all about to reap the dividend. Well some of us anyway. Dr Pine-Martin…
DrPM: Thank you Master. Right, you’ve possibly heard a rumour over the past few years of an incredible new discovery some of us top pods have made. It’s a new form of bio-mechanics or as it’s now being called, Calibrated Resonance Articular Protocol. You might also have heard that the Americans are pursuing their own research too, in an attempt to steal our thunder, but they’re way behind with their work. Their system, is fatally flawed; even its name is a loser…Schematic Horizontal Integration and Tensioning Equation. Quite a mouthful mhmm? And not very pleasant either.
BAGSHOT: Yes quite. Get on with it.
DrPM: Sorry. Yes, right; well the end result is this…..
He opens the box, removes a set of carbon-graphite orthoses and places them flat on the table.
DrPM: These are called Bunny-Orthotics and they have a unique patented prescription. See here, look how they lean into each other. That’s because of a fifteen degrees lateral heel wedge. There’s a cut-out first ray which ensures forefoot adduction and also restricts the windlass effect and…..
LUCY: Sorry, I’m not technically minded…..
BAGSHOT: Don’t worry, neither is anyone else.
DrPM: Well it’s like this. They’re absolutely guaranteed to produce a condition called Hallux Abducto Valgus for whoever wears them. They way the big toe lies when you have a bunion.
NEW BOY: What, they’re going to give the wearer bunions?
DrPM: No son, hallux valgus. There is a difference you know. Bunions come after….
.
NEW BOY: Oh, right.
LUCY: Why would you want to make a deformity though? Surely you want to prevent it?
BAGSHOT: Ah….that’s what you’d think, wouldn’t you? But you see straight toes are the problem nowadays. Especially for you girls. Just think of all the nice shoes you could wear if your toes were the same shape as the toe-box. It would prevent corns you know. Why fight fashion when you can embrace it with comfort and style. These patented devices will do just that. And if you get bunions in later life then that’s all the better for our members, isn’t it? The surgeons especially!
DrPM: You can throw away your Hotter’s and Ecco’s. You’ll be wearing Jimmy Choo’s all the way to the coffin. And the smile will never leave your face for a moment.
A small beady woman with a calculator puts her hand up to ask a question.
BAGSHOT: Yes Mrs Kipper?
MRS KIPPER: As dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers I would like to know what the cost of these insoles are to the NHS.
The Master glares at her and she shrinks back into her chair whilst hiding the calculator under the table.
BAGSHOT: Why don’t you concentrate on your service redesign Mavis? I’m sure there are still some pensioners getting free chiropody in your district. Don’t you think your time would be better used trying to weed them out? Anyhow they’re NOT insoles, they’re ORTHOTICS. God, will they never learn! The point is this. The Society is part owner of the patient. These devices will make a fortune if they’re marketed properly.
MRS KIPPER: (quietly) I don’t do service redesign anymore. I’ve been seconded to the HPC for the time being.
COUNCIL: (in unison) Oooooooooooooo! The H. P. C.!! Whoopee!! (Mavis blushes)
NEW BOY: (helpfully) But who is going to make them for us? Do you think Tx-Labs will be interested? I went to the summer school this year and it was really good.
DrPM: Don’t be stupid. Tx? Are you mad?
BAGSHOT: Keep your suggestions to yourself in future. Unless you’re asked. Got it?
NEW BOY: Yes Master. Sorry.
BAGSHOT: For your information we’re manufacturing the devices ourselves. That way it keeps the costs down and maximises the profits. Are you listening Mavis? Good. Dr Pine-Martin has set up a laboratory in his garage and we’re sending some of the admin staff to work the grinders. Cheaper than Chinese, so it is. Anyway that’s the future as far as income is concerned. Thank you Dr Pine-Martin. Close the door as you leave.
MRS KIPPER: What about the new members you promised earlier in the year? You know, the quacks. That should have brought in quite a bit of money by now.
BAGSHOT: Yes, well it’s in hand Mavis. Just a slight delay, that’s all.
MRS KIPPER: What’s the problem?
NEW BOY: (To Mrs Kipper) Sshh! That’s the thing we’re not supposed to mention – remember? Do you not read the website?
MRS KIPPER: What website?
NEW BOY: The Society’s website ….the Forum ?
MRS KIPPER: What’s he talking about?
BAGSHOT: Rubbish Mavis; just ignore him. Everyone else will…. sooner or later…..
The Master fixes the new boy with a hard stare then he turns his attention back to the cake. He removes a large fish-belly fixed-blade scalpel from his pocket and quickly slices the cake into twenty-four pieces. One by one the council members line up with their plates.
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 20 EXT FELLMONGERS PATH LATER
Lucy standing outside the offices, a mobile telephone pressed to her ear.
LUCY: Yes, about forty-five minutes. An hour at the most. I’ve gotta go….
SCENE 21 INT THE INNER SANCTUM LATER
Lucy re-enters the fortified room just as the Council members are finishing the last crumbs of cake. A trolley has arrived beside Bagshot. It is covered in hundreds of crumpets and freshly whipped cream. Bagshot beckons her in….
BAGSHOT: Come in, come in. You find the little girls room alright?
LUCY: Yes thanks. Right next door to the big boys room, just like you said.
BAGSHOT: Good. I must say, your home baking was wonderful. Isn’t that right people?
COUNCIL: (collectively) Yes Master…thank you Lucy.
LUCY: (flushing with embarrassment) Thank you, you’re most welcome.
BAGSHOT: We already ordered those from Fortnum and Mason (pointing to the crumpets). We might not manage them now but I’ll keep them here anyway. Helps to concentrate their minds. Right now; back to business.
Lucy takes her seat again. A strong smell of alcohol makes her turn and look at the New Boy sitting beside her. She notices a length of flexible rubber tubing protruding from the collar of his jacket. When she looks down she can see the other end in the neck of the brandy bottle. He smiles lecherously at her……
BAGSHOT: Right now; last thing on the agenda before the film crew arrives, is my proposal for a new Council structure – or as I would like it to be referred to from now on - the House of Depravities. (questioning glances around the table) The way it works is like this. Members from all over the country will be putting their name forward to sit at a trial assembly next year. We’ll pay their bus fare from the benevolent fund – it’s rarely used nowadays – and they’ll spend the day at a conference centre listening to some of our distinguished senior members talk about professional obligations and commitment to the Society.
MRS KIPPER: Conference centre? That’ll cost a fortune!
BAGSHOT: No actually Mavis. Once again it pays to get your facts right before you open that rancid mouth of yours. We’ve hired Battersea Picture House for the day, alright?
MRS KIPPER: Battersea Picture House. But I didn't think that was open anymore.
BAGSHOT: So what?. That’s why it’s only costing twenty quid. Dearie me; can I continue? Anymore of this and I’ll have to get the duck-tape out again. You’re worse than the members! Right now where was I….Oh yes, the speakers. We’ve got Alister Dumpling giving a two-hour talk on how to fill in a NHS Travel Claim properly – without being found out; the Reverend Pamela Sogone on the by-laws of the Health Professions Council; and the Chief Executive will speak about the importance of ledger accounting. Good huh?
{silence}
Well, what do you think?
NEW BOY: Can you repeat the quesh-ton?
BAGSHOT: What?
NEW BOY: ……forgotten what I shaid.
BAGSHOT: Do you know the one thing about you northerners that I cannot stand?
NEW BOY: Whashat?
BAGSHOT: Your smell. Now be quiet.
{muffled laughter}The New Boy sits back in his seat trying to work out what the Master has said. After a minute he lifts the collar of his jacket and sucks hard on the material.
MRS KIPPER: Well if you pardon me, I must say that it doesn’t appear to be terribly exciting. If you think members will come down to London for the day – even paying their bus fares – for that programme, you’re badly mistaken.
{stunned silence}
BAGSHOT: Really Mrs Kipper. That’s precisely the reaction from membership that we want! In fact we won’t even book Battersea Picture House because it was knocked down three years ago. Nobody will come. Which is precisely what we want! Good God woman, have you no sense at all? Do you think we want members taking part in the affairs of the Society? Do you? If we allow that it’ll be the beginning of the end; it’ll be anarchy! These famous offices will be populated with corn-cutters and pedicurists and we’ll be the laughing stock of the medical establishment. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THAT MAVIS? OBVIOUSLY NOT! Besides, I’ve already chosen the lucky members who will be serving on the committee. They were selected in keeping with the Society’s policy of open democracy.
MRS KIPPER: How’s that?
BAGSHOT: They successfully completed a questionnaire I sent out the other month. Those with the highest scores were the lucky ones.
MRS KIPPER: What questions did you ask?
BAGSHOT: (angrily) Oh, this and that. The questions weren’t important; it was the answers that counted. Those with the most number of ‘yeses’ came top. Have you finished?
Everyone around the table has shrunk down into their seats during the tantrum, with the exception of Lucy, who has a small digital recorder in her right hand. Even the New Boy looks sober after the outburst.
BAGSHOT: (exasperated) Oh, I don’t know why I bother anymore. Each time we make a little progress, some fool comes along and before you know it we’re back at square one. Why do I bother? (Rolls eyes upwards and slumps back in the chair)
LUCY: Because it’s worth it?
BAGSHOT: Pardon?
LUCY: Because it’s important and the profession is worth all the effort. That’s why you bother, isn’t it? That’s why all of you bother.
BAGSHOT: (sitting up) What do you mean?
LUCY: Well it always struck me, that the profession that kept homo-sapiens upright and mobile has got to be more important than the profession that gives you a nice smile. Isn’t that obvious? And if you’re more important then you should be rewarded more for what you do. Isn’t that the whole point of what the Society stands for? Making things better for its members?
BAGSHOT: Well yes, of course. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I suppose you’re right……
Council members exchange surprised looks with each other. Lucy stands.
LUCY: Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but having read all the research that the BBC has done on podiatry, it strikes me that you really could be on the threshold of something quite big here. I mean, what other business has the advantages that podiatry has to offer? You’ve got guaranteed custom from an increasing sector of society and there’s all the work that’s been done with children. I’m not sure about Dr Pine-Martin’s philosophy, but if you can stop people getting painful knees and hips when they get older, then I think you’re onto something really special.
BAGSHOT: You do?
LUCY: Yes of course. For the last few months we’ve been filming podiatrists at their work all over the country, and it’s been a tremendous opportunity to hear what they have to say. They’ve got some wonderful ideas and it wouldn’t be amiss if you spent some time listening to their proposals for a change.
MRS KIPPER: What’s the point? All they moan about is more money or poor conditions.
LUCY: Yes, well if you were in their shoes, you’d be moaning and complaining too. The NHS podiatrists are the most underprivileged of the lot. Poor pay, no prospects, grumpy managers – not a very enjoyable environment is it? More than that they’re worried about their jobs. Perhaps you need to think about how you make life better for them. A sympathetic ear would be a good start.
MRS KIPPER: As long as they don’t get more than me!
LUCY: Why not? They’re the most important people in the health service after all. They look after the patients. What do you do?
MRS KIPPER: Well, I…I…I…go to meetings and sign their expense forms and now I discipline them. So there!
LUCY: My point exactly. For what it’s worth, it’s the ordinary podiatrist you should be supporting and encouraging. (looks directly at Bagshot) Keep them sweet and you might just see things happening in podiatry – more than you ever imagined.
BAGSHOT: (suspiciously) Yessss, but they’ll get all the credit.
LUCY: Not necessarily. I read something somewhere when I was researching the profession, hold on.
Lucy rummages in her pockets and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper and opens it. She reads it to complete silence.
LUCY: It’s a quote that I thought was very apt. It says;
Leadership is power governed by principle, directed towards raising people to the highest levels of personal motive and social morality. Power manipulates people as they are; Leadership as they could be. Power impacts; Leadership engages. Power tends to corrupt; Leadership creates.
Lucy folds the paper and returns it to her pocket. There is a look of confusion on the faces of the Council members – except that of the New Boy who is lying slumped, comatose, in his chair.
BAGSHOT: Yes, well very eloquent. But what has that got to do with anything?
LUCY: I think it was something that one of your members wrote. Maybe they were trying to tell you something?
BAGSHOT: (sarcastically) Yesss, I can imagine.
LUCY: No, really. For what it’s worth, everyone we spoke to wants the Society to do well – you lot included. It’s just that they feel they never get listened to; that their voices fall on deaf ears. I mean this business about the Picture House is a good case and point. Mrs Kipper is right; they won’t come down and participate because they can see right through what it is you’re trying to do. They don’t like being ignored. Would you?
BAGSHOT: I’m never ignored.
LUCY: Really? I wouldn’t be so sure about that.
She stops speaking and looks down at the New Boy to her right. He is sound asleep and snoring gently, head tilted over to one side – the tubing from his lapel, still between his lips.
BAGSHOT: Hmmmm! So what do you suggest?
LUCY: Well…….I’ve been thinking. The most important thing any organisation like the Society could do, is to make sure it is communicating effectively with all its members. That means opening the doors to all suggestions and listening carefully when they come in. But you’ve first got to get your message across – that you’re willing to listen - that you’ve turned over a new leaf.
BAGSHOT: What? Admit we’re wrong you mean?
LUCY: No! You shouldn’t be so defensive all the time. We all make mistakes. I’m sure most of your members do as well. But humility can be seen as a great strength, especially in leadership. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you do this?
With the exception of the New Boy (who cannot be roused) the Council pull in their chairs and listen carefully to what Lucy has to say.
FADE TO BLACK
SCENE 22 EXT FELLMONGERS LATER
Three dark-blue transit vans with BBC emblazoned on the side. A huddle of people. In the middle Lucy is holding court.
LUCY: So that’s what we’re going to do. Another fifteen minutes should do it. They were really getting into it when I left.
MCINTOES: That’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant. But how did you manage it?
LUCY: That was the easy bit. I just added a secret ingredient to the chocolate cake. Half an ounce of Nepalese Hash! (looks at her watch) It should be kicking in right about now…….
FADE TO BLACK (AND STARS!)
To be continued…….