Page 78 of The Gathering Storm

‘I’ve been working with Baird,’ he said, unmoved by Oliver’s sceptical tone. ‘But the fire was a terrible blow.’

‘The fire?’ Oliver said vaguely.

‘Crystal Palace. You must know it burned down. It was in all the papers.’

‘Of course, I heard about it.’ The fire had broken out in the night of the 30th of November, and the blaze had been seen as far away as Willesden and Haywards Heath.

‘Well, that’s where Baird had his workshops and studio and so on. All destroyed. And now Reith has dropped the Baird system in favour of EMI.’

‘Who’s Reith?’

‘John Reith, fellow in charge of the BBC. You’ve heard of the BBC?’

‘Of course.’

‘They were doing experimental television radiations, using the Baird system and the EMI system on alternate weeks. But Reith hates Baird, something to do with their schooldays – they’re both Scots, you know – and the fire was the final excuse to drop him. But to be fair, the EMI system is better. Vacuum cells. Electron scanning.’ He frowned, staring into the distance. ‘All the same,’ he said, coming back suddenly, and fixing Oliver with a stern look, ‘Baird is a true visionary. He’s already working on colour transmission and larger screens, which is more than the other lot are. But mechanical scanning will only take him so far. Look here!’ he said. ‘Have you got an hour or two?’ Oliver made a cautious noise. ‘Come back to my place, and see the receiver set I’m building. That’s what’s in the bag – parts I’ve been scavenging. There are all sorts of useful shops in Tottenham Court Road. Have you ever seen television?’

Oliver admitted he hadn’t.

‘Well, then, come back to my place and I’ll give you a demonstration.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘We can catch one of the regular BBC programmes. And I can show you the new improved receiver I’m building.’

‘What was it like?’ Verena asked later, over dinner.

Oliver considered. ‘Human fish swimming in dishwater.’

‘Oliver!’

‘It’s true. Like figures viewed through the fog. And the sound was a bit foggy, too. Poor old Beefy! He says it’s because they don’t have enough lines in the picture for his larger screen, whatever that means. He says Baird reckons he can get a thousand lines before long.’

‘It sounds like a school punishment.’

‘The conventional set he had was better – still grey and strangely two-dimensional, like a post-Stilton dream, but not so foggy. But the screen was so small – about six inches square. After squinting at it for half an hour, I had quite a headache. Beefy says that’s why the BBC only broadcasts for an hour at a time, twice a day – concern for the welfare of the “lookers-in”, as they seem to call them.’

Verena seemed bemused. ‘It all sounds most unsatisfactory.’ She helped herself to the fish from the dish the footman was holding for her.

‘Well, it’s early days. One must suppose it will get better. I dare say radio was pretty sad when they first started it. And you remember how jerky the old cinema films used to be. But I can’t see the point of television, I must say. If I want to see a play, I’ll go to the theatre. If I want to hear a political talk, I’ll go to the town hall. If I want a variety show—’

‘I take the point,’ Verena interrupted. ‘What did you see, by the way?’

Oliver gave a rueful smile. ‘A variety show – dancers, singers, jugglers, and a man telling jokes. Oh dear!’ He took potatoes from the offered dish, and waited for the sauce to be handed. ‘However, Beefy said that this Reith fellow is negotiating with the Postmaster General for the right to show the Coronation on the television. I don’t suppose there are more than two hundred people in the country who have a receiver, but as a general principle, looking to the future, that might be something worthwhile – to show great national events. After all, not everyone can attend them in person.’

Verena looked up from her plate. ‘Surely they won’t film inside the Abbey.’

‘Good heavens, no. Just the procession.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down again, and separated a forkful of fillet. ‘But it’s bound to be on the cinema newsreels, anyway. So nobody needs a television receiver.’

‘Quite,’ said Oliver.

Basil turned twenty-one in January 1937, and went home for the weekend for this remarkable fact to be celebrated. Barbara came with her husband and child, and everyone made a very pleasant fuss of him. His father shook his hand, and said, ‘Now we’re not responsible for you any more,’ and though he smiled, Basil suspected he wasn’t entirely joking. He gave him a handsome watch; Barbara and Freddie gave him a silver hunting flask engraved with his name; and Michael sent a telegram from Yorktown.

‘You’re looking better than when I last saw you,’ Helen said, automatically brushing back a stray lock of his hair. ‘I think you’re turning into quite a handsome man.’

Barbara protested: ‘He was always handsome, Mummy.’

‘Is he turning into a responsible man, that’s the question,’ Jack said. ‘How are you getting on at work?’

‘I’m working hard,’ Basil said. ‘It’s interesting.’