The Archers turns 70
Programme assistant Gill Powell taped Grange Farm’s turkey chicks, printed Phil Drabble’s Nature Notes – and made one awful mistake
In 1989, in a BBC Pebble Mill boardroom, I walked into a job interview unlike any other. I was asked, ‘What car does Eddie Grundy drive?’, ‘Name Peggy’s cat’ and ‘On a romantic night in, what music would Shula and Mark listen to?’
For a 20-something undergraduate who listened twice a day to The Archers, and again to the Sunday omnibus, it was a dream come true.
I landed the role of programme assistant. A few years later, in 1991, I helped celebrate their 40th anniversary. On 1st January 2021, this radio institution will be 70.
During my first week, producer Niall Fraser introduced me to the cast, with a warning: ‘Never call the actors by their character name.’
A white-haired chap, immaculate in a cream suit, looked me up and down. ‘And who the hell are you?’ muttered the inimitable voice of my favourite character, Nelson Gabriel, played by Jack May. ‘I’m Gill,’ I said. ‘You must be Jack.’ His eyes twinkled; an unexpected friendship was formed. It was always a joy to spot him and the fabulous Margot Boyd (Mrs Antrobus) in the BBC Club, tucking into egg and chips, washed down with a wee dram or two. Mollie Harris (Martha Woodford) presented the production team with bottles of her home-made sloe gin every Christmas.
In my job, preparation for the monthly script meetings was key. I noted forthcoming events both real (such as the FA Cup Final) and in Ambridge (such as Mike and Betty’s wedding anniversary). I never knew how the writers would use my research. Christine Barford’s birthday might result in a passing reference from Kenton: ‘I’ve bought a card for Auntie Chris.’ Or it could lead to a whole episode with a party, where I might be roped in for the family chorus of ‘Happy birthday’.
Other tasks included photocopying Phil Drabble’s Nature Notes and, most importantly, booking the buffet. One lunch inspired Sam Jacobs to write a line later spoken by the Grey Gables chef Jean-paul: ‘Those damp mattresses the English call quiche.’
I penned the ‘Teasers’ – one-sentence descriptions of each episode for the Radio Times. ‘A dip in time saves a fine’ summed up a sheep storyline; for Good Friday, ‘Eddie is hot and cross’. As well as fine-tuning the gaps between scenes, I ensured the edits were properly done, and made cuts in episodes that were over-long.
Once the scripts were recorded, the mammoth task of typing endless continuity cards began before I filed them in the archive. Continuity details I archived included the fact that landowner Cameron Fraser drove a Jaguar with ‘one of those newfangled CD players’.
Attention to detail was paramount. In one episode, incorrect sounds of the Borsetshire Hunt resulted in a stiff letter from Willy Poole, the famed master of foxhounds, pointing out mistakes. He travelled to Birmingham where I recorded his horn blasts and noted their specific meanings for the sound library.
When the Aldridge children flew a kite, I travelled to the Malvern Hills with a studio manager for authenticity (below).
For Grange Farm’s ten-day-old turkey chicks, I tracked down three-week-old poults, the closest I could find both in age and in distance from Birmingham.
The owner warned me, ‘Them birds’ll sound too old.’ I never knew if that farmer was winding me up but, if he was, the mature chirps passed undetected by the eagle-eared audience.
A fan was disappointed when Tom Forrest mentioned that he’d never seen a Montagu’s Harrier, recalling that the gamekeeper had talked about the bird in the past. The listener wrote, ‘Is it simply that your continuity supervisor cannot cope with a 30-year time span?’ According to the Head of Network Radio at the time, Jock Gallagher, I was ‘the best continuity girl the programme has ever had’. Not on that occasion.
One studio visitor worked in local radio and interviewed the cast. Many weeks later, the day before his recordings were due to be broadcast on Radio Suffolk, he called:
‘Why is there a pancake toss in Ambridge? It’s not Shrove Tuesday.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I replied. ‘Shrove Tuesday’s next month,’ he said. I glanced at my BBC diary and gasped. He was right. The whole nation was going to be listening to Ambridge enjoying pancakes four weeks too early. With the script meeting so far in advance, I had worked out the date using the previous year’s calendar. I was wrong.
Across the corridor, I sought sanctuary in the Radio 4 Features Department, imagining my P45. Producer Sara found me slumped, head in hands. Calmly, she advised, ‘Bosses want solutions, not problems.’
We read the script. No one had actually said, ‘Today’s Shrove Tuesday.’
Nervously I knocked on the Editor’s door. Vanessa Whitburn’s smile slipped into a scowl when I explained my mistake. The episode was broadcast that evening and we waited for the letters to the Radio Times. Nothing. No one noticed – unless you found yourself irrationally craving pancakes a month before Shrove Tuesday in 1992.
If you did, I apologise. It was my fault.