style="font-size:15px;"> ‘And while we’re about it, we could do with some new kids. I don’t anticipate that we’d get anything better but at least we’d have a change of mother. Those greedy, grasping, status-seeking harridans are beginning to drive me insane.’ Miss M. produces a small container and swallows a couple of pills. She shudders. ‘Christ! But these things taste disgusting. Just getting them past my gums makes me want to throw up.’
‘Melly,’ says Dominic hurriedly. ‘I’d like you to meet Timothy Lea. His nephew is on the programme.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Miss M., gushingly, ‘me and my big mouth. Please don’t take offence. I don’t mean a word I say. I’m just a bit overwrought at the moment. Let me guess which one is yours. Imogen perhaps? No! Of course not, not with that colouring. Jason? Yes, it must be Jason. He’s so good-looking.’
I know she is bullshitting but I cannot help blushing. That upper-class voice does not help either. I am a pushover for a posh bint.
‘Yes, it’s Jason,’ I say. ‘Rosie Noggett is my sister.’
‘Yes. Very pretty blonde girl. She wasn’t one of the ones I was referring to, of course.’
‘Funny. It sounded just like her,’ I say.
‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ Miss M. waggles a finger at me. ‘You mustn’t try to make me feel any worse than I do. Ah, here they come.’
Rosie and the rest of the Mums and brats crowd into the control room and Miss M. starts behaving like Miss Mealie. She is a very good-looking brunette with a few more lines than you see on the telly. I read her as being about twenty-eight, five foot six and a half and 36c cup.
‘Miss Mealie and panel into the studio please,’ says Dominic. ‘Please don’t play with those switches, boys. And, Imogen dear, that’s not a very good place to put your chewing gum, is it? Give it to Mummy, there’s a good girl. And Mummies, could we have absolute quiet during this show, please? We’re always interested in your comments but we’d like them when we’re off the air.’
‘Look into the camera and don’t stutter, Benedict,’ hisses one mother. ‘Remember there’s that series coming up.’
‘Don’t kiss me, Rupert,’ says another, ‘you’ll smudge your make-up.’
When you see the expression of grim determination on these women’s mugs you can understand what Miss Mealie is getting at. They look like Olympic swimming coaches.
‘Good luck, Jason,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget your sweets.’
‘Shut up, you!’ snaps the little monster, snatching them from my hand. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
Little do you know, I think. A couple of weeks and you could be one of the youngest has-beens in the business. I can see myself telling him the bad news: ‘Sorry about this, Jason, but you’ll have to make way for a younger child. The public wants youth, you know.’
‘But Uncle Timmy!’
‘No buts, Jason. You’re finished. Pack your dolly mixtures and get out!’
I watch the little basket gobble down another handful of sweets as he takes his place on the set, and try to shut out the canvas chair with his name on the back of it. A couple of hours in this place and you can feel all washed up at the age of twenty-two.
‘On set everybody, please,’ repeats Dominic. ‘We’re on the air in two minutes.’
‘Can I have his autograph when he learns to write?’ I say as I sit down next to Rosie.
‘Shut up, jealous!’ she barks.
Dominic starts speaking soothing words into a microphone that connects with the set and a shapely bint by his side starts giving a countdown. In front of us are a row of tellyvision screens and a bloke on Dominic’s right commands a bank of switches which control the pictures on each screen. I can see Jason’s self-satisfied little mug staring at me in horrible close-up. At least he seems to be able to leave his hooter alone this week.
‘You blocked up his nostrils, did you?’ I say to Rosie.
‘Shut up!’
‘Have you got my pills, darling?’ Miss Mealie’s voice comes through to the control box. ‘I left them on the desk.’
‘Don’t seem to be here, darling.’ A slight edge creeps into Dominic’s voice. ‘Twenty-five seconds to go. Let’s have a good show now everybody. Good luck.’
‘Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen–’ The Production Assistant’s voice drones on, sounding professionally bored.
I look back to the monitor with Jason’s mug on it and watch the little swine slotting another peppermint into his cakehole. Hey, wait a minute! Those are not sweets! With a sense of impending horror I recognise Miss Mealie’s pills. The ones she said tasted so horrible. They could probably kill Jason. And in front of millions of viewers too!
‘Those pills!’ I shout.
‘Ssh!’
‘Jason is eating Miss Mealie’s pills!’
‘Good afternoon, boys and girls. And Mummies and Daddies too –’ Miss Mealie’s honeyed tones fill the silent control room.
‘Are they dangerous?’
We all peer at the monitor screen with Jason in it.
‘He’s looking a bit green.’
‘– sick.’
‘– blinking.’
‘– awful.’
‘– stomach pump.’
‘We’ll have to take him off when the song comes up.’
‘But every moment is precious. You can’t leave him there!’
‘It’s a matter of seconds –’
‘No!’
‘There’s the other kiddies to be considered too. If you take him off, just like that, it’s going to disturb them,’ sniffs one of the other Mums.
‘You’d rather he dropped dead, I suppose!’ Rosie is moving towards the door.
‘Ladies, please!’
‘You leave that door alone!’
‘He doesn’t look so bad now.’
‘Get out of my way, you slagheap!!’
‘Ooh, that’s nice, isn’t it? I can see where your little boy gets his manners from.’
‘– and now children, here’s a lovely song that you all know very well.’
‘– fingers up his nose.’
‘Ladies
