The next arrivals were three shiny red-faced stocky young men, who’d obviously been in the Cotchester Arms since opening time, who strode up to Taggie waving their tickets. The shortest one, who had hard blue eyes and crinkly hair, thrust a melting box of chocolates into Taggie’s hand.

‘Hullo, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Bet you didn’t expect us.’

‘Sorry we were a bit rowdy when you dropped in,’ said the second.

‘Thought we’d come and give you a bit of support,’ said the third.

It was the Captain and two props from Winchley Rugger Club. Tears filled Taggie’s eyes as she hugged them all. ‘How sweet of you. Come and meet my father. He adores rugger.’

Declan shook them all by the hand several times. ‘Treat Corinium like the Welsh at Twickenham,’ he said. ‘And here they come.’

A great theatrical hiss went up from the Venturer camp as the Corinium mafia trooped in. They were led by Tony, very brown from Ascot. Wearing a new dark-pink and blue silk shirt, a pink tie, and a pink carnation in his buttonhole, he managed to flash his teeth at everyone in the room except Venturer. He was followed by Ginger Johnson, Georgie Baines, who’d obviously had a few to steady his nerves, Mike Meadows, Head of Sport, Charles Fairburn, Seb Burrows, Simon Harris, who’d been allowed back in a consultancy capacity to impress the IBA, and whose straggly beard had turned quite white, Cyril Peacock, false teeth rattling, sweating through his suit, and Cameron, truculent in an elongated black T-shirt which came five inches above her knees. Sarah Stratton, wearing a dress in Virgin Mary-blue, with a white Puritan collar also to impress the IBA, brought up the rear with James Vereker, whose head was held high so more people could recognize him.

‘I fear the Greeks when they come bearing Presenters,’ muttered Declan.

‘Who’s chair?’ James asked Charles Fairburn as the Corinium contingent sat down in the front row.

‘Dunno. Belongs to the Town Hall, I should think,’ said Charles.

‘No,’ said James impatiently, ‘who’s Chair?’

‘I’ve just told you.’

‘I’m asking you, who is chairing the meeting?’

‘Oh.’ Comprehension dawned on Charles’s round red face. ‘Might be Old Mother Goose —’ which was everyone’s nickname for Lady Gosling — ‘but I wouldn’t have thought she’d have bothered to come this far.’

Cameron grabbed a seat at the end of the row by the window, as far away from Tony as possible. All she could see was one of his beautifully polished black shoes, rotating as if he were doing an ankle-slimming exercise — a sign that he was nervous. The company in situ always got more flak at public meetings than those seeking to oust it. Tony, frightened of ridicule, knew he was in for a bumpy evening. The entire Corinium contingent studiously ignored Venturer — the committed from distaste, the moles from embarrassment. Henry Hampshire, however, who’d been to a drinks party, had no such reservations.

‘Hello everyone,’ he beamed as he came through the door. ‘Hullo, Taggie darling, you’re looking beautiful. Hullo, Rupert.’ Then, turning to the cringing Corinium contingent, boomed, ‘Oh look, there’s Charles, Georgie and Cameron. Must go and say hello.’

‘Hen-ree,’ hissed Rupert, grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear. ‘You’re not supposed to know they’re on our side.’

‘What?’ said Henry loudly. ‘What’s that? How d’yer mean, not on our side? ’Course they are.’

Fortunately Tony was talking to the Archdeacon and didn’t hear. As Rupert tried to explain, Henry looked as deflated as an English setter who’s been told he’s not going on a walk, then cheered up when he saw Daysee Butler.

‘Who’s she? She on our side?’

‘No, she’s with Corinium.’

‘Damn shame, pretty girl like that, and that’s Sarah Stratton next to her, isn’t it? She’s a damn pretty girl too. Why isn’t she on our side? Met her shooting at Tony’s.’

And next moment Henry had broken away from Rupert’s restraining hand and marched across the room to talk to Sarah, who introduced him to Daysee.

‘Just saying to Rupert, pretty girls like you should be on our side.’

Sarah giggled: ‘I don’t think Tony’d like that very much. How’s your Springer spaniel?’

‘How incredible you remembering that,’ said Henry, now beaming down on the two girls like an English setter waving his plumy tail at two bitches. ‘What are you both doing afterwards?’

‘Bugger off, Henry,’ snarled Tony.

‘Hen-ree,’ Rupert dragged him off.

Fortunately at that moment a diversion was provided by Basil returning with Marti, quite soberly dressed now, and Janey Lloyd-Foxe in a pink flying-suit.

‘Hullo, Rupert darling.’ Janey kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Rupert tugged up her zip to the bounds of decency, saying, ‘For Christ’s sake go and distract Henry.’

Basil took Rupert aside. ‘I’ve filled up the hip flask for Wesley.’ Then, dropping his voice, he whispered, ‘Those lovely lips just puckered up to meet yours were round my dick at eight o’clock this morning.’

‘What?’ exploded Rupert. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Basil, grinning.

‘How dare you,’ thundered Rupert. ‘She’s married to my best friend.’

‘’Course she is, and very happily. I’m just making sure she doesn’t suffer from post-natal depression when Billy’s away.’

Rupert might well have hit Bas across the room if the IBA — three members of the Board and various members of their staff — hadn’t trooped in and taken up their places on the platform.

‘We are honoured,’ Charles whispered to James. ‘Old Mother Goose is in the chair. The IBA must regard the outcome as by no means certain then, if she’s come all this way to have a look.’

‘I can’t think why you’re looking so cheerful,’ said James fretfully. ‘Venturer’s bound to offer me a job if they get the franchise. I mean I am “Cotswold Round-Up”, but, as they’ve got the Bishop to handle religious programmes, I can’t see them wanting you.’

‘Who are those deadbeats over there?’ Janey asked Bas.

‘The Mid-West consortium,’ said Bas. ‘Can’t think they’ll bother us much.’

Rupert, having at last persuaded Henry to stop chatting up Daysee and sit down, collapsed into a seat between Taggie and Declan.

‘How the hell am I going to keep this lot under control until December?’ he said.

Taggie giggled: ‘Henry’s certainly fallen for Daysee.’

‘Let me not to the marriage of true mindlessness admit impediments,’ said Declan.

The audience were now occupying every seat in the body of the hall, with Corinium spread out along the front row and Cameron at the far end by the window. Next to her, at right-angles, on a single row of chairs, sat the Mid-West consortium, who looked a pretty moth-eaten bunch. Facing them, also on a single row of chairs, forming a square with the platform, sat Venturer.

Lady Gosling, decided Cameron, looked more like a hedgehog than a goose, a Mrs Tiggywinkle, with small twinkling intelligent eyes, a long thin nose, a pointed chin and rather wild grey hair, held down on either side by tortoise-shell slides. She wore no make-up and, despite the warmth of the evening, was smothered in several shawls over her olive-green wool dress. The cosy exterior, however, was deceptive and hid a rapier mind. As Head of an Oxford college, Gwendolyn Gosling had taught Russian. Her fellow dons were not altogether joking when they nicknamed her ‘Khruschev’. There was shrewdness beneath the amiability, and the twinkling eyes, like the stars, gave off little warmth.

For a hideous moment at the beginning of the meeting it looked as though no one was going to ask any questions. Then a man in spectacles got up and grumbled about the reception in Gloucester. Corinium’s Chief Engineer got up to answer him, and the stupor produced by engineers at public meetings allowed everyone time to collect their thoughts.

More straightforward complaints then followed from local councillors who had not yet been interviewed by James on ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ that coverage in their area was pitiful.

Mrs Makepiece, James’s daily, then rose to her feet, and, disclaiming any connection with Corinium, said ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ was the best programme on telly, and why couldn’t it be on seven days a week. This was greeted by bellows of ‘Rubbish’ and ‘Offside’ from Taggie’s rugger players.

One of the Corinium shop stewards, who’d just screwed a two-thousand-pound rise out of Tony for all his members, as well as a fat bribe for himself, shouted from the back that he wouldn’t trust Declan O’Hara’s mob further than he could throw them. His claim that industrial relations at Corinium were second to none, however, were greeted by cries of ‘si-down’ from all over the hall.

‘As Corinium fork out immediately whatever the unions demand and most of the technicians earn more than the Prime Minister, I should think industrial relations are second to none,’ yelled Bas, to loud cheers from the Venturer supporters.

The Chairman of Chipping Sodbury’s WI then rose to her feet and said in a ringing voice that her institute was sick to the teeth of news about Cotchester and nothing about Chipping Sodbury.

Remembering ‘Miss Corinium Television’, Rupert caught Declan’s eye. ‘She’s forgotten Miss Chipping Sodbury’s tits,’ he whispered across Taggie.

Both men started to shake with laughter, until quelled by a cold look from Lady Gosling.

Tony rose to reply. ‘I can assure you, madam,’ he said smoothly, ‘that, by an extraordinary coincidence, “Cotswold Round-Up” is due to visit Chipping Sodbury later this week.’

‘Are we?’ said James to Sarah, looking startled.