‘I’ve had a couple of books published. That doesn’t make me famous.’
‘Yes it does. Look, come on over and meet the others. Then you can make your mind up.’
Frank took a large mouthful of pasty, and washed it down with beer.
‘By the way,’ I said. ‘What’s a grockle?’
‘Local word for a tourist.’
‘So you have spoken to local people?’
‘One or two.’
Much as I dislike boats—especially small ones in rough water—I had grown very fond of the ferry. Its tireless chugging from one side of the river to the other was a prosaic journey, and yet each trip I took seemed different from all the others. Perhaps to the locals it was as humdrum as London Transport was to me; I enjoyed, though, the mild sensation of adventure. After all, Underground trains rarely seem in much danger of capsizing in a hundred feet of cold water.
As Frank and I boarded the tiny cabin-cruiser, his flow of chatter ceased for a moment. Then, when the boat was in mid-river, he said: ‘By the way, how do you feel about sex on television?’
‘Not much room for it,’ I said. “Not for two, anyway.’
He laughed uproariously at my feeble joke, and I concluded that a few days in the West Country must have softened his wit.
‘Very good. But seriously CI... I mean, Chris, do you find sex on television offensive?’
‘I don’t watch much television,’ I admitted. ‘I sent the set back last year when the government prohibited colour transmissions.’
‘Yes, we lost a lot of viewers then. But you must see it occasionally. Suppose there’s a play on, and someone appears in the nude ... would you feel like ringing up to complain?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m against any form of censorship.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. But wouldn’t you agree that excessive sex is offensive?’
‘Almost anything taken to excess is offensive,’ I said, painfully aware of the fact that the other passengers on the ferry must have been overhearing our conversation.
‘That’s fine. I’m glad we agree. How about politics? Never mind about television ... do you think the government is doing a good job?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘I didn’t vote for them.’
He looked at me with renewed interest. ‘Then you would describe yourself as being against the government?’
I said: ‘At the last election I didn’t know what to do, so I voted Liberal. Or at least I think I did. I got the names mixed up.’
‘But that book of yours I read was politically committed. The one advocating racialism.’
I winced, and hoped no one on the boat had heard that.
‘If it’s the one I think you mean, it didn’t exactly advocate it,’ I said, but not confidently.
‘Yes it did. It was a fine call to arms for all right-thinking men. At least,’ and he lowered his voice unexpectedly, ‘it would be as well, when you meet Patrick, to bear that in mind.’
‘Who’s Patrick?’
‘The producer of the documentary.’
As the ferry bumped against the town jetty, I said: ‘Are you sure this film’s about tourism, Frank?’
‘Of course ... what else goes on in this Godforsaken hole?’
‘You’ve made me wonder,’ I said.
Tourism, I reflected as we walked along the street from the jetty, was not a subject I had given much thought to. I wondered if, when put to the test in front of Frank’s camera, I’d have anything at all to say.
I suddenly remembered a notion I had once had for a short story. It concerned an observation I had made that, almost without exception, foreign tourists were exceedingly ugly. I had never written the story, mainly because having made that observation—one which, incidentally, can be borne out by random sampling—I couldn’t see a plot developing from it. And I didn’t think Frank would be much interested in this either.
‘Down here,’ Frank said, leading the way along a narrow alley which went back down the hill in the direction of the river.
It opened out after a few yards into a small and pleasant square, against one side of which was the back of a building I recognized as the town hall, and on the opposite side of which was a pub. The far side of the square abutted on to the waterfront; here there was a narrow road, and beyond this a concrete pedestrian promenade, stretching in one direction towards the jetty, and in the other towards the pier where in the summer months, motor-boats could be hired.
Several tall arc-lamps had been erected in the square, and a young man stood by the opened rear doors of a van, connecting up a complicated piece of switching gear. Inside the van I could see several pieces of equipment, and a diesel generator.
Frank led me towards the door to the saloon-bar, on which someone had pinned a printed notice saying: Television Personnel Only.
A girl was sitting by herself at a table near the door. While Frank spoke to her, I appraised her quickly. She looked nice.
‘Is Pat here?’ said Frank.
‘Round the corner in the other bar.’ She glanced briefly at me. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is...’
‘Chris,’ I said.
‘Chris. He’s a famous author. He wants to take part in the film. Chris... meet Tina.’
We shook hands, and she gave me a pleasant smile; indeed, it was the sunniest part of the day so far. Before I could say anything to her, Frank moved off. I let go of Tina’s hand and followed him with a reluctance tempered by curiosity.
‘Pat,’ said Frank, when we reached the other bar. ‘Look who I’ve found. Chris Priest. He writes sci-fi.’
Patrick was a balding, red-faced man in his middle years. He sat awkwardly on a bar-stool, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, but with his feet resting on one of the rungs of the stool so that his large buttocks bulged over the back edge of the seat. He had a glass of scotch on the counter in front of him, and as we arrived he had been talking to a man sitting beside him. As Frank spoke to him, he looked up in my direction, and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He was clearly rather drunk.
‘Hi, Chris,’ he said. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have a small scotch, please.”
‘Double scotch for my guest,’ Patrick said to the barmaid, then turned back to me. ‘Frank’s briefed you, I suppose. We want good, hard-hitting stuff. Don’t pull any punches ... go over the top if you like. We can always take it out later if it’s too strong.’
‘Chris has written a book about racialism,’ said Frank.
‘Pro or anti?’
I opened my mouth. Frank said quickly: ‘Pro.’
‘Good man. Just the stuff. Don’t overdo it, just keep hinting at it. You can play up the anti-promiscuity message for all you’re worth, though.’
‘Promiscuity?’
‘Yeah ... you know. Girl tourists sleeping around, nude swimming. That kind of disgusting behaviour.’
I found mention of the word ‘tourists’ reassuring; I was by now convinced that I had, after all, misheard Frank in the first place.
‘You want me to talk about promiscuous tourists?’ I said.
‘I want you to attack promiscuous tourists!’ said Patrick. He swallowed the dregs of his drink, and banged the glass on the counter to attract the barmaid’s attention. *No ... correct that. I’m not supposed to tell you what to say. Free speech, and all that. I’ll leave it to you.’
‘We could let Chris see the transcripts of yesterday’s interviews,’ said Frank.
There was a pile of notes on the bar, somewhat sodden with spilt drink, and Patrick riffled clumsily through them.