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smile. ‘Dear boy, I am an unashamed elitist, not a snob. I have standards. As one who has suffered the delights of modern state education, you would perhaps not understand the difference between snobbishness and elitism, but I assure you there is one.’
    Marjorie Dooks spoke decisively from the chair. ‘This question has been debated in this committee several times previously, and I think each time at your insistence, Peter. With the possible exception of romantic fiction, the detective novel is more widely read than any other form of literature. At its best, it stands up beside the serious novel and certainly warrants a place in our programme.’
    â€˜I am aware that this has been discussed before and also that I seem to be a lone voice for the civilized ethic. Perhaps I shall have to consider my position.’
    There was a sudden profound silence, in which tiny sounds such as breathing and the rustling of paper seemed miraculously enlarged. Then Mrs Dooks said evenly, ‘Perhaps if you hold this view so strongly you should do just that, Peter. Your resignation would be regrettable, but I’m sure we should all understand.’
    Preston had not expected to have his bluff called like this. He had no real wish to resign. Indeed, his continued involvement in the success of the festival was necessary to his pose as a leading cultural presence in the area. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed elaborately, and said, ‘I have said my piece. I appreciate mine is not the popular stance, but minority views need voicing, unless we are to proceed along the lines of the fascist suppressions of the thirties.’ Having voiced this outrageous parallel, he nodded sternly and studied his agenda.
    Sam Hilton was on the point of renewing his attack, but the chair took decisive action. ‘Sam, could we have the latest news on your own efforts, please?’
    Young Hilton felt his protest cut off at source, almost as if he had been physically checked. He dragged his thoughts back to why he was here and contented himself with a last glare of molten hatred at Preston. ‘Yes. I’ve been in contact with three poets. I’m happy to say that Bob Crompton has agreed to come. He will read some of his verse and try to explain how he goes about achieving his effects.’
    Peter Preston had snorted when he mentioned the name. Hilton glared at him as if daring him to voice a challenge, but the older man contented himself with a renewal of his patronizing smile. Sam Hilton was not used to committees and the more formal language appropriate to them, but he strove to discipline his feelings and speak as moderately as he could. He found himself breathing unevenly as he did so. ‘Bob comes from a very different background from that of most people in Oldford. He is from a one-parent family in a great northern city. Manchester is producing a group of young poets who may well rival the influence of the Mersey poets in a previous generation. He writes about love and sex and politics with a raw edge, which many of his listeners here will find very challenging. I am sure the experience will benefit them greatly.’
    He stared round the table as if inviting a challenge, but Marjorie Dooks said swiftly and smoothly, ‘I am sure it will be a mutually beneficial exchange. Many of the speakers at our last literary festival said how important it was to them to have an audience and to hear the feedback on whatever form of writing they were producing. Thank you, Sam. I’m sure that without your personal contact we should not have been able to secure the attendance of so well-known and eminent a contemporary poet as Bob Crompton. She glanced automatically at Peter Preston, but that pillar of tradition was nursing his previous wounds and had more sense than to speak again. ‘Ros, could we have your report, please?’
    Ros Barker was only thirty herself, but she felt an almost maternal need to support and protect