POST-WAR TELEVISION AT "ALLY PALLY" - A DRAMA SECRETARY'S EYE VIEW

I became, by the greatest good fortune, secretary to Michael Barry a few months before the official re-opening of the BBC Television Service after the 1939-45 war. I had come from Sound Broadcasting, was young - 19 - and had never seen Television.

I had been working since 1942 in the North American Service, first for Professor Denis Brogan, and then for various producers of programmes for the American Networks. (I think it would be appropriate here to mention that I never forget typing "off the record" from dictation by an exhausted and clearly moved BBC War Correspondent, on his knees by my desk, describing the Battle of Arnhem - Stanley Maxted).

Mary Adams, who was the producer of Transatlantic Quiz in which Denis Brogan was the shining light, asked me early in 1946 if I had thought of working in Television. She know of a Drama Producer, Michael Barry, who was looking for a secretary, and she knew I was interested in Drama in an amateur way. She arranged a meeting for me with Michael in his office, which was then in the tower of Alexandra Palace. He asked me to come the next day and sit in with his rehearsal in Studio 'B' for his opening programme, The Silence Of The Sea.

So the die was cast and it has to be said that the next five years were the happiest, busiest, most exciting and rewarding of my life. I entered this electrically-charged atmosphere - because that was what it felt like - with some trepidation. Fortunately for me, there were many others who had not been involved in the pre-war service. Michael had been, thought, and must have been delighted to be back.

He was, like many others, rehearsing in the studio, (there were two, A & B), for several days while I'm sure all aspects of the new service were being co-ordinated and tried out - cameras, lighting, scenery, technical equipment, staff - all of these rehearsals which turned out to be a luxury not enjoyed again, after the opening of the service, except for the day of transmission only! (All other pre-rehearsals were carried out in obscure rooms dotted about London and hired for the purpose, with chalk marks for scenery, furniture, and the producer being the camera). A lot of these early productions are of hazy memory, but the opening phrase of this first play The Silence Of The Sea, recorded and played ad nauseam by the "Gram" Operator for these many rehearsals, sticks in my mind - "Since they came, the symbol of France has been silence …."

So my initiation was to find myself in the gallery of Studio 'B', sitting at a long steel desk next to this tall, dark, intense man, I having a pad and pen, and staring fixedly and bemused at two 9" screens marked "Preview" and "Transmission", about 8-foot in front of us. There was also a control desk in front with the Vision Mixer, (generally a girl), and the Sound Mixer, (a man). Behind was another desk where the Engineer-in-Charge sat, and any other interested party. There was also a desk on the left with turntables for the Gramophone Operator. The large window looking down onto the Studio floor, was on the Producer's right, and communication to the studio staff was by a microphone in front of the Producer to the headphones of the Cameramen, Boom Operator, Studio Manager, (who co-ordinated all the studio requirements - and whose right arm was an invaluable appendage) - and a switch to 'open' the studio loudspeaker when you did want the actors to hear. During the rehearsals and transmission, the gallery was in darkness except for individual desk lamps to illuminate the script and other controls. Michael would fire instructions at my notebook during rehearsals, to be given to the actors later.

Studio A Control Gallery has a similar layout but was of different dimensions and shape. Each gallery was reached by a treacherous steel, narrow staircase of some fifteen steps. Amazingly, I cannot recall anyone falling down (or up) them. Below the gallery were the "R.A.C.K.S.", where marvellous manipulations were made by the engineers to the outgoing pictures to ensure the highest quality. The procedure remains a closed book to me to this day!

I spent the next five years at Ally Pally working for this man dedicated for the most part to writing and producing plays especially for television such as I Want To Be An Actor, I Want To Be A Doctor, Shout Aloud Salvation - about the marvellous work of the Salvation Army, (and we spent a fascinating few days at Denmark Hill); specially adapted stores like The Passionate Pilgrim by Charles Terrot, a powerful drama about Florence Nightingale's nurses at Scutari.

I suppose we must have done about eight or nine full-length dramas a year, bearing in mind that we had about three weeks' rehearsals, then two transmission (probably Sunday evening 7-8.30pm and a repeat the following Thursday afternoon 2-3.30pm), then a week or so in the office to prepare the next production.

First, the script to be stenciled, which if you were lucky you got all in one go - if not, in dribs and drabs - the script, the base from which all information flowed: the scenery, the costumes, the furniture and 'props', the captions, and not the be forgotten - the cast. All these lists to be prepared and produced in good time, if possible, to ensure the smooth running of the production on the day. "Radio Times" programme information with an inflexible dead-line caused many a missed-beat while getting the last cast name! The script, which for a 90-minute play ran to as many pages, had to be typed on stencils using only the right hand half of the page for dialogue, and the left-hand for all other scene-setting, camera and visual instructions.

So the first script produced for rehearsal was a very one-sided affair! Having typed the stencils, we then had to produce the copies. Most of the production offices were housed in the North West corridor of Ally Pally past the scene dock and on the top corridor where the P.B.X. was also situated. The producers there were Royston Morley, Stephen Harrison, Harold Clayton, Eric Fawcett, Walton Anderson, Jan Bussell, Philip Bate, John Glyn-Jones, George More O'Ferrall, and Michael. The corridor on our landing was about 30 yards long and 8 foot wide, and at the further end, outside the P.B.X.'s door, was the Roneo machine, (just one), and here we rolled off our ninety stencils - anything up to eighty copies for a big production - and then the long corridor was invaluable, if a bit dirty, for collating the scripts. Many a long evening will have been spent this way, on feet and hands, when the corridor traffic was light!

Now there was one aspect of these stencils which came to loom large in our lives. The rolled-off 'black stencils' (from the ink in the Roneo) had to be kept for the time, at the end of rehearsals, when hopefully the final camera instructions were ready to be inserted onto the stencils on the left-hand side and then rolled-off again for the studio personnel. It does seem incredible now, but we put these black-inked stencils back into our typewriters to amend, and then before you could type any other memo or letter you had to get the methylated spirit and brushes and paper and clothes and thoroughly clean all working parts! Woebetide the producer who wanted another camera alteration - you'd type the whole page again on a new stencil rather.

Strangely, it was to be about six years later before this system was tackled. I was asked, then at Lime Grove studios, to help find an answer. Several suggestions were made, including using different colours of ink, but none were successful until, quite by chance, whilst thinking that what we needed were two clean stencils, I took the backing sheet off one stencil and placed two waxes together with one backing sheet behind, placed them in the typewriter and tried that. Bingo! The result was remarkable - the images from both were excellent - the second even better than the first. And so, with Roneo's help, the double stencil was born. Such a simple answer and how I wish we'd had time to seriously think about it before.

Of course, the main aim of a Producer and his secretary was to create an efficient working team with a system which was quickly and easily understood by the people who had to transfer it onto the screen in the shortest time possible. To this end, I soon realised that a cameraman, faced with a 90-page script on the morning or rehearsal, and expected to read, digest and execute his craft, had a daunting task. So I devised what were to be called 'crib cards' for each cameraman. I used index cards - 6" x 4" - and typed his order of shots, numbered, and with corresponding script page and short description of shot. Thus, 10-20 crib cards clipped beside his view-finder helped to make life a bit easier. (I have since learned that something similar was done before the war, so if there is someone out there protesting, my apologies).

I used to attend the first 'outside' rehearsal, of course, where the cast was to meet for the first time, and at this 'read-through' iron out any hiccups that may be evident with the script; to make sure that everybody knew about costume or wing arrangements or any other pertinent appointments. We had an Assistant Stage Manager, (ours was Marguerite Young), and she was my Liaison Officer during these two weeks' rehearsals. (Later on we had additional trainee Assistant ASM's - Paddy Russell and David Askey). Michael would sometimes come back to the office after rehearsal for urgent changes or, of course, for information on future productions - many of which he was writing himself. Last call to rehearsal was with the (hopefully) final camera script. I judged myself fortunate to have as my Producer a most meticulous exponent of the art of television production, and a kind and caring man to boot.

During these rehearsal weeks, scenery was designed and executed, (mostly for Michael by Barry Learoyd or Stephen Bundy), furniture and props lists taken to Stewart Mortimer, (taken rather then sent, because it was much better to discuss things with him, if you could persuade him that he wasn't that busy). Of course he always was, terribly busy - what a job - who'd want it? He had a tough exterior with a lovely soft centre and it was as well to find that out. Caption lists also were carefully prepared for those Caption Artists - no wrong spellings for your discredit for all to see!

When Michael wrote I Want To Be A Doctor and it was found to contain about 60 short scenes in as many minutes, thereby presenting quite a headache to the Scene Shifters and Property Men, I was able to devise, with Stephen Bundy's help, a series of 'charts' showing all the changes in resume. So what one was always trying to do, was create an efficient working method that would ensure a smooth production on Transmission Day. That day, then, was extraordinarily exciting. All those things you had put down on paper were there in reality before your eyes. My job in the gallery was mostly to minutely follow the script, calling the transmission and preview shots, check the time on the stop-watch and generally be prepared for any emergency, and to keep calm! In the case of our Toad Of Toad Hall productions, using the orchestra in Studio B under its conductor Eric Robinson, I had also to keep an eye on the music score. How did the studio personnel keep so amazingly cheerful when they were doing this sort of thing every day, facing a different producer's needs and methods and different sorts of productions - drama, documentary, musical, cabaret, etc. Percy Cornish and Jimmy Plater, (Scene Masters who smiled reassuringly through everything); the immaculate Johnny Bradnock, (Wardrobe) and kindly Mrs Robb; the wonderfully calm Tommy Manderson (make-up); the lighting 'boys' on the studio floor; the camera team - Ted Langley (brusque but so sensitive), "Wilkie" (stalwart in all situations); strong silent Frank Creswell; Peter Friese-Greene (of famous background); Senior Engineers - Henry Whiting, Jock Strathairn - varied people with whom you shared endless hours in a darkened gallery and with whom you created a miracle! There are endless happy memories of scores of interesting people, some half-remembered, some half-forgotten, most indelibly etched on one's memory - but names so elusive, I wish I could name them all.

One did strange things as a secretary - I remember being 'roped in' for a short filming session of my hand and forearm (supposedly that of the young Prince in something-or-other), playing with a cup-and-ball. I managed three 'scores' out of five on rehearsal, but only two on the 'take' - galling! Some typing at the keyboard on another occasion was easier. (I wish I could say the same 45 years later)!

One of my most embarrassing moments was brought about when an actor was hurriedly given a camera test and Michael sent us to the library to find a suitable play extract for him. The actor decided on a scene from Private Lives and since there was absolutely no-one around at the time, Michael said I could play the scene with him! We briefly read through the scene in some corner, I in fear and trepidation, the actor, I'm sure feeling highly let down. "Where are our 'Private Livers'?" came Michael's voice over the studio mic. Given the choice, then, I would rather have died. But we went on. Suffice to say that I don't think the actor ever did work for Michael, certainly not at A.P., but I am happy to record that he went on to a career of some distinction and although not now with us, also has a famous actress daughter.

Nevertheless, one was fortunate to work with famous and interesting people over a period of years: Gladys Cooper and Paul Schoefield in Adventure Story, Bransby Williams in The Bells, (he gave me one of his flower paintings, signed and dedicated, as a memento); Emsond Knight in a submarine play (title forgotten), soon after the war in which he had suffered eye injuries and was nearly blind - he was extremely brave and clever at finding his way around the studio in a complicated set-up; Tony Britton in The Man With A Load Of Mischief; Andrew Osborn in The Wandering Jew; Andrew Faulds in Robert Louis Stephenson's Tusitala; Sheila Shand Gibbs in Trelawney Of The Wells; Virginia McKenna and Jill Balcon in Shout Aloud Salvation; annual Christmas productions of Toad Of Toad Hall with Andrew Osborn as Water Rat, Kenneth More as Badger and Jack Newmark as Mole. We had various Toads, and I think all the actors enjoyed the anonymity of the costumes! I remember a play Margaret Rutherford was in which a Bedlington Terrier was required for her. The local pet shop, under this guise, supplied a pure-bred '57' variety pooch, brown-and-black and shaggy! I can't remember how we got round it but we did use it, and I took it home with me at night between transmission so that it would not be left in the scene dock all alone.

Another interesting assignment was going to the lovely home in Hampstead of Judy Campbell for several days to type the script of Memo, which she was adapting, so as to cut down the time between script and first rehearsal.

Michael's adaptation of The Passionate Pilgrim, Charles Terrot's book about the nurses at Scutari, starred Jill Bacon and Maureen Pryor, but one interesting outcome was that Michael recruited six R.A.D.A. students as wounded soldiers, at the same time introducing them to television acting. Three of those students' names I remember well, and I wonder what their memories are of those days? Eric Porter of later fame in The Forsythe Saga; Philip Johnson of American films and now back in the theatre and our TV screens; and James Grout, never now off our radio or TV programmes.

People and faces continually reappear whilst remembering these years and all are worthy of mention as members of what was to uniquely of course, of the comparatively small size of personnel and the historic nature of the enterprise. I think of entering the reception area - the Commissionaires, so helpful to staff and visitors; our two beautiful Receptionists, both super advertisements for the Service - Joanne Symonds with the exotic silver jewellery; and the other with a porcelain skin and carefully coiled hair, (please can anyone remind me of that name that eludes me)? A special thought, too, for our beleaguered Canteen Mistress, Miss Lawrence, who really did a superb job through all the food rationing years.

Another kind and helpful friend to the staff was our Green Line Coach driver, Les Wheeler. This service which ran from A.P. to Broadcasting House at regular intervals during the day was invaluable in many ways, and a helpful driver was such a blessing, transporting scripts and other essentials as well as personnel. There was one incident that was somewhat out of the ordinary. On reaching B.H. one day in the cold winter months, Les was sure he had a leaking radiator until he raised the bonnet and found a terrified ferral cat crouching by the engine housing. It had travelled all the way from A.P. where I suppose he'd found a warm place while the coach was on turn-around. Les brought it back in a cardboard box and brought it up to my office to recover from its ordeal. It spent the afternoon by the gas fire with a saucer of warm milk, but I never saw it again after returning it to the ferral colony round the back of A.P! (And he never did get to see the Queen).

Finally, this would not be complete without a reference to that long wooden shack, out 'local' - "The Dive" - only 200 yards dash away, a very welcome oasis as far as I was concerned, offering a half-pint of Mackeson most lunch hours. Well, all that work did need sustaining!

Valerie Endall (nee Silk)