The programme was coming to an end. The grinning host was saying, “...be sure to keep your home-movie clips coming in, because you could be the winner of our clip of the series prize, and that’s worth a cool ten thousand pounds.”
“Ten grand!” said Albert, deeply impressed. “Now that might be worth lashing out for. The clip of the series. We’d have to think of something really brilliant. Get me a pen and paper, quick. I’m taking down the address.”
In bed, Karen was trying her best to sleep, drawing the thin blankets tightly around her, thinking of continental quilts, double glazing and central heating. She wondered how much they really had in that bank account.
Albert’s voice broke into her fantasies. “It would have to be a really great caper. Something completely fantastic. They wouldn’t give the money for one more silly kid messing about with a hosepipe.”
Karen said, “Are you still on about that programme?”
“I’m on about ten grand.”
There was an interval of silence before Karen spoke again.
“It would have to be believable.”
“What do you mean?”
She raised herself onto her elbows, any hope of sleep impossible as long as Albert was preoccupied with the big prize. “Well,” she said, “when you see most of those clips, the situation is just unreal. You couldn’t believe in it.”
The bed creaked and Albert rolled towards her. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Tonight, for instance,” Karen said. “The chap who ended covered in paint. You yourself said it was probably all set up for the programme. I mean, who would want to film a door being painted?”
Albert clutched her arm. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. It’s hardly a prime home-movie subject.”
Karen explained, “That’s why the ones they show at weddings work so well. You know, when they can’t get the knife into the cake and they knock it off the stand. Or a breeze gets under the bride’s gown and lifts it up to her waist. Stuff like that. People accept them as genuine accidents because a wedding is the place where you take your video camera.”
“But you can’t mess up someone’s wedding just to get a laugh on video,” Albert said, misreading the plot.
“That’s just an example,” said Karen. “All I’m telling you is that to win the big prize you’d have to find a situation when it would be perfectly normal to be filming. Then it looks genuine, and it’s funnier, too.”
Albert pondered the matter further. “Weddings, kiddies’ parties, barbecues, village fetes. Where else do people take these little cameras?”
“Holidays,” Karen dreamily replied. She yawned. “Night, night.” She turned over, trying to find a comfortable spot between the thinly-covered mattress springs.
Albert’s eyes were gleaming in the dark. He reached out and fondled Karen’s rump. “You’re brilliant.”
“Shove off,” she said, pushing his hand away.
“What I have, I hold,” said Albert, replacing it. “You and I are going to take a holiday, my sweet. A caravan holiday.”
“A caravan, did you say?”
“And I know where to get one. That bloke across the street who keeps it on his drive.”
“Mr Tinker? He wouldn’t let us borrow his caravan.”
“I bet he will. He doesn’t use it himself. Since the divorce, it’s been stuck on that drive for two years. He’ll be glad to be rid of it.”
“Rid of it?” said Karen, failing to understand.
“We’ll be doing him a favour,” said Albert. “What does he want with a caravan? He’ll make a few quid on the insurance. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
When Albert returned from his chat with Joe Tinker, he was practically turning cartwheels of joy. “He couldn’t be more helpful,” he told Karen. “Like I said, he’s got no more use for the caravan. We’re welcome to do just whatever we like with it.”
“Take it on holiday?”
“We’re doing him a favour,” said Albert. “He won’t have to park his car on the street any more. But that isn’t all. I told him what this is about.”
“You told him?” said Karen, horrified.
“Everything. To get his co-operation,” said Albert. “He’s seen the programme and he thinks the same as us. He says this is one hell of a stunt and he reckons we can’t fail to win the big money. I’ve told him I’ll give him a couple of hundred if we do. Fair enough, eh?”
“I suppose so,” said Karen, “but can we trust him to stay quiet about it?”
“That’s why he gets a cut. He’s part of the conspiracy, then,” said Albert. “But I haven’t told you the best part. Joe Tinker also owns a camcorder. Yes, I’m not kidding. He’s going to lend it to us for nothing. For nothing, Karen! What’s more, he’ll show you how to use it.”
“Me?” said Karen.
“Unless you want to be making an idiot of yourself on television, you’ve got to be holding the camera, pointing it at me. And it’s got to be done properly. Good focusing. No shaking. You only get one take, remember. It’s got to be right first time, and it’s got to be up to professional standard to win the ten grand.”
She said nervously, “I don’t think I can do it, Albert.”
“Course you can! They’re simple, these camcorders, dead simple. I told Joe you’ll be over for some instruction this afternoon. He’s a good bloke, and he fancies you anyway. He’ll give you all the confidence in the world.”
“What is this stunt, anyway?” said Karen.
“We take a holiday, like I said, towing Joe’s caravan.”
“Where to?”
“Some remote part of Wales. I’m going to study the map this afternoon while you’re learning to be an ace camerawoman. If you get your certificate of competence we can drive down there next Saturday for the shoot.”
“The shoot?”
“Of the film,” Albert explained. “Get with it, love. We’re shooting a film, remember? Like I say, we hook the caravan to my old Cortina. Joe’s lending me his towbar as well. He’s great.”
“Is it strong enough?”
“The towbar?”
“Your car. Those caravans are big things to tow.”
“No problem,” said Albert. “We can take it gently, just tootling along. We’ll be stopping every few miles filming bits and pieces of our journey.”
“What for?”
Albert sighed. Everything always had to be explained to Karen. “Because it has to look like we’re on a proper holiday. We need about twenty minutes of boring holiday stuff to divert suspicion from our real intentions. Can’t you see how phony it will look if the only thing on the tape is the caravan going over the cliff?”
Karen gasped in horror. “Over the cliff? Mr Tinker’s caravan?”
Albert smiled. “With only the seagulls as witnesses — apart from the camera and fifteen million viewers.”
“It’s insane!”
“That’s why it’s going to win ten grand. What a spectacle! I’m going to look at the Ordnance Survey and find a bit of the coast with a gentle slope leading to the cliff edge, and a good long drop to the rocks below. We park the caravan thirty yards up the slope. That way I have time to get out.”
“Get out?”
“Before it rolls over. It’s going to be sensational. You’ll be outside filming the scenery from the cliff top. You pan around to me at the window of the caravan. I’ll hold up a bit of metal and say, ‘What’s this, love?’ The caravan will start to move. I’ll shout something the TV people will have to bleep out — the audience always loves that — then I leap from the door holding the broken hand-brake of the caravan, to watch the thing roll over the edge.” He laughed out loud and raised his arms like a boxer who has just heard his opponent counted out.