Dead Giveaway

by Brett, Simon

  But his path to the bar was obstructed by Sydnee.

  ‘I’ve sorted it out with Make-up. You’re to go down first.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. Straight away.’

  ‘Oh, but I was just going to get another drink.’

  ‘Isn’t time. Sorry. They’re just finishing with Joanie Bruton at the moment. Then one of the contestants is going in at quarter to seven. They want you at half-past six. Can you go straight there?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘Thanks. And can you be sure you go down the backstairs, through Studio B and then through Studio A? That way there’s no risk of you meeting anyone you shouldn’t. You know where Make-up is when you come out of Studio A?’

  Charles nodded, and left the bar with bad grace. He really needed another drink. It was bad enough to be given a gin instead of a whisky, but then to only have one . . . It had only been a single, anyway . . . He felt hard-done-by.

  He stomped down the back-stairs, then into Studio B. There was no one about. The cameras were set facing their test-cards, ready for the half-hour’s statutory line-up before the recording. The set looked unchanged, with its random scatterings of weapons and phials of chemicals. If Chippy was there guarding the exhibits from Melvyn Gasc’s Black Museum, there was no sign of her.

  He pushed through the double doors out of Studio B into the corridor, where he encountered the black-leather-clad designer, Sylvian de Beaune, who was pacing anxiously up and down.

  ‘Set looks really terrific,’ said Charles encouragingly.

  ‘I hope so.’ The designer did not seem to be convinced. ‘I hope so,’ he repeated, and walked off towards the lifts. Charles pushed through the double doors into Studio A, and found himself alone in the huge, dimly-lit space.

  He was halfway across the set when he had the thought. Still feeling self-pityingly disgruntled about only having had one drink, he suddenly remembered Barrett Doran’s words to Sydnee about his glass.

  It was worth trying. With a look round to check that he was not observed, Charles went across to the blue, triangular lectern. On it stood a red-and-blue-striped carafe and a red-and-blue-striped glass. Both were full of colourless fluid.

  The contents of the carafe had no smell.

  But the contents of the glass smelt reassuringly of gin.

  So that was how Barrett Doran fuelled his bonhomie in front of the cameras.

  Charles looked at his watch. Nearly half-past six. He’d have to hurry to Make-up.

  Still, that sod Barrett Doran could spare it.

  Charles took a long swig from the glass.

  Then, opting for a sheep-as-lamb philosophy, he took another.

  The alcohol burned comfortingly inside him.

  He topped up the glass with water from the carafe, and, feeling more cheerful, went out of the studio to Make-up.

  Chapter Four

  THE AUDIENCE WHO came to Studio A that evening had, to some extent, been victims of the same disillusionment as the contestants. All of them, applying either as individuals or on behalf of such organizations as Townswomen’s Guilds, insurance company social clubs and amateur dramatic societies, had written in asking for tickets to attend a recording of that very popular, long-established game show, Funny Money. They had all, instead, been offered tickets for a brand-new game show entitled (as far as they were concerned – indeed, as far as everyone except two irate Americans was concerned) If The Cap Fits. There had been few rejections of the offer. After all, television was television, and the show didn’t really matter so much as the fact of actually being there.

  For many of them, it was their first visit to a television studio, and they gazed around with fascination at the suspended monitors above their heads and the Dalek-like cameras which patrolled the No Man’s Land between them and the distant red, blue and silver set.

  After a while an inexorably cheerful man, who introduced himself as Charlie Hook, bounced on to the set and welcomed them. It was lovely to see so many smiling faces on such a cold night, he asserted. He could see, just by looking at them, that they were going to be a lovely audience, and W.E.T. had got a really lovely show lined up for them that evening. There were a few lovely parties he’d like to say hello to. Was there a party from the Braintree Afternoon Club? Oh yes, there they were! Well, a really big hello to them. Didn’t they look lovely? And were they all set to have a lovely time? Good, yes, that was the spirit. Now, as he said, it was going to be a really lovely show, and to make the show really go with a swing, he wanted to hear lots of lovely laughter and applause from the lovely audience. Would they be lovely enough to oblige him? Good, yes, that was lovely. Now, of course, at W.E.T., they didn’t have little men holding up signs saying ‘LAUGH’ and ‘APPLAUD’. What they were after was spontaneous reactions. On the other hand, there could be one or two moments when the audience might need to be told when these spontaneous reactions were required, her, her. So, if they saw him, Charlie, or one of the Floor Managers . . . Ooh, they’d like to meet the Floor Managers, wouldn’t they? Yes, of course they would. Lovely fellows they were, the Floor Managers, lovely fellows. And here they were. Say a lovely big hello. Lovely. So, anyway, if he, Charlie, or one of the Floor Managers raised their arms like this, would they please regard it as a cue to applaud and not a signal that they should leave the room, her, her. Lovely, right, good. Well, it would just be a few minutes before they got on with the show, so perhaps he could tell them a rather lovely story he’d heard a few days before about an Irishman who went into a cafe and ordered a hot dog . . .

  Eventually, Charlie Hook introduced their lovely host for the evening’s proceedings, someone they all knew very well from countless other shows, one of the loveliest, most genuine people and one of the most popular faces on British Television – Mr – Barrett – Doran!

  As soon as he came on to the set, Barrett switched his charm on like a light-bulb. He chatted with members of the audience, told them he felt terribly nervous, reiterated how important their contribution to the success of the evening would be, explained a little about the mechanics of the game and then introduced ‘our four celebrity guests, who will be playing If The Cap Fits with us tonight!’

  The celebrities came on, with varying degrees of ostentation, and sat down behind their long blue desk. Barrett Doran told the audience that, once the show started, they would be meeting some delightful (and very plucky!) contestants who had also agreed to take part in If The Cap Fits. He then asked the Floor Manager how ready everyone was to start the recording. Had to check with ‘the boffins in the box’, he explained to the audience. Terrific production team they’d got on the show. Great Executive Producer, John Mantle. Really talented Producer, Jim Trace-Smith. Really great back-up team, as well. All great chums, one big happy family. How about a nice round of applause for all those people out of sight whose contribution was so important in making the evening the success it was absolutely bound to be?

  The audience duly applauded.

  There were a few more delays, but finally the recording was ready to commence. Members of the audience were advised to watch the monitors rather than the set, because the opening credits were on film. The audience duly gawped up at their monitors. They saw the clock which was used to identify the programme. It was started and ticked away for sixty seconds. For the last three of these the screen went blank.

  Animated credits of cartoon figures changing hats appeared. High-pitched jingle voices sang out the words as the title, If The Cap Fits, appeared in silver letters on the screen. A deep, unseen voice intoned portentously, ‘And tonight, on If The Cap Fits, our star prizes include . . . a portable video-recorder and lightweight camera . . .’

  A shot of this hardware, carried by a grinning, bikini-clad Nikki, was shown on the screen. ‘Ooh,’ went the audience, and applauded.

  ‘. . . a champagne weekend for two in Amsterdam . . .’

  An inappropriate clip of a Dutch windmill appeared. ‘Ooh,’ went the audience, and appl
auded.

  ‘. . . and tonight’s super-duper star prize – a brand-new Austin Metro with all the extras, plus a full year’s tax, insurance and petrol!’

  The Austin Metro appeared on screen. Through its open window a grinning, bikini-clad Linzi waved awkwardly. ‘Aaaaah,’ went the audience, and applauded frantically.

  More cartoon figures changed hats. ‘All these could be won tonight by some lucky contestant,’ the voice continued, ‘if the cap fits! And here’s the man who wears a variety of hats with equal success . . . Barrett Doran!’

  The show’s host bounced, smiling, up to his lectern. The audience gave him an ovation which might have been warranted if he had just invented an antidote to radiation sickness.

  ‘Hello, hello, and thank you very much. Welcome to If The Cap Fits. And if it doesn’t, well . . . keep it under your hat! Thank you, thank you. And without more ado – nice girl, Moira Do, pity she couldn’t be with us tonight . . . thank you – without Moira Do, let’s meet our panel of celebrities who are going to find out for themselves tonight . . . if the cap fits!

  ‘First, it’s a great pleasure to welcome that lovely actress, who you all know as Lizzie Parsons from that very funny series, Who’s Your Friend? – Fiona Wakeford!’

  The actress simpered prettily in response to the applause.

  ‘Tell me, Fiona,’ asked Barrett, ‘are you really as dumb as you appear?’

  ‘Well, no,’ she replied, bewildered. ‘I can talk.’

  The audience screamed at this Wildean riposte.

  ‘Next we have a gentleman who really packs a punch – Nick Jeffries!’

  The audience saluted their faded Great White Hope.

  ‘’Ere!’ The boxer made a fist. ‘I don’t like your attitude.’

  The audience hailed another shaft of wit.

  ‘Actually, Barrett,’ Nick went on as the noise subsided, ‘that reminds me of a joke about a man with a dog. This bloke –’

  ‘I make the jokes around here,’ said the host with a smile on his lips and a deterrent steeliness in his eyes. ‘Next, we have a lady who’s brought happiness to millions – and without taking her clothes off, which has to be a novelty – the country’s favourite Agony Aunt – Joanie Bruton!’

  The audience roared as she smiled in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Tell me, Joanie – or may I call you Auntie? – could you help me with a little personal problem that I have?’

  ‘Perhaps, Barrett.’

  ‘Well, my trouble is that I keep thinking I’m a pair of curtains. What do you think I should do about it?’

  ‘Pull yourself together, love.’ Joanie completed the old joke with commendable promptness and the audience howled their appreciation for this devastating sally.

  ‘Finally, we have a gentleman who never seems to be off your television screen these days, investigating frauds, righting wrongs, standing up for the little man . . . you may know him as Joe Soap – Bob Garston!’

  The last panellist gave his gritty, proletarian smile as the audience clapped.

  ‘Tell me, Bob, have you ever come across a major fraud that involved hats?’

  ‘No, you’re the first one, Barrett.’

  The audience bayed with delight, honoured to be participants in this rare feast of wit. ‘Eat your heart out, Congreve,’ they seemed to say.

  Barrett Doran’s smile stayed in place, but the reaction of his eyes to Bob Garston’s crack was less genial. ‘And now, as well as this splendid line-up of celebrities, we also have four brave – or should I say foolish? – members of the public who have agreed to be with us tonight to play If The Cap Fits!’

  On this cue, one of the high-pitched jingles was played and, under cover of the music, the four contestants, propelled by the invisible Chita, moved awkwardly on to the set. Barrett Doran, scooping up a little pile of printed cards from his lectern, moved across to greet them effusively.

  ‘Now first we have a very charming lady who’s come all the way from Billericay. Patricia Osborne is her name, but she’s known to her friends as Trish.’ He beamed the full force of his charm straight at her, and putting on a babyish voice, asked, ‘Can I be one of your friends and call you Trish?’

  ‘Of course, Barrett.’

  ‘Terrific. Now I gather, Trish, that you’re not the world’s greatest decorator . . .’

  ‘Not really, Barrett, no.’

  ‘In fact . . .’ He consulted the card, on which the researchers had summarised the answers to the ‘any amusing incidents that may have happened in your life’ part of their questionnaire. ‘. . . I gather you once papered your bedroom with vinyl wallpaper and woke up next morning to find it had all fallen off the walls on top of your bed!’

  ‘That’s right, Barrett,’ Trish agreed over the audience’s hoots of delight.

  ‘And I bet your husband said, ‘Trish, that’s the vinyl straw!’

  ‘No, he didn’t actually.’ But Trish Osborne’s response was lost in the audience’s acclamation of their favourite epigrammatist.

  The other three contestants were introduced with comparable wit, and then the rules for the First Round were explained. The four contestants were paired with their celebrity helpers. (A last ditch attempt by Tim Dyer not to be landed with Fiona Wakeford was brutally thwarted.) Then, to the sound of another jingle, the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor moved into their pre-arranged positions. The hamburger chef was wearing the Tudor bonnet, the surgeon the bowler, the stockbroker the chef’s hat, and the actor the green hygienic cap. The camera moved slowly from one to the other, while the participants and audience tried to estimate which face went with which profession.

  In turn, each contestant and celebrity team rearranged the hats to their satisfaction. Graphics superimposed over the picture recorded their guesses. It was all very riotous. Two out of the four contestants unhesitatingly identified Charles Paris as the hamburger chef.

  To much oohing and aahing, Barrett Doran then gave the correct solutions. Contestants and celebrities responded with extravagant hand-over-face reactions to their errors. The four ‘professions’ smiled fixedly as their true identities were revealed. The stockbroker was asked if she really was a stockbroker, the hamburger chef was asked to go easy on the onions, and the surgeon was asked if the first cut really was the deepest. The actor wasn’t asked anything. The four were then fulsomely thanked for their participation and, as soon as the camera was off them, hustled unceremoniously off the set by a Floor Manager. At least one of them went straight to the bar and spent the rest of the evening there, risking topping up the earlier gins with Bell’s whisky.

  Which meant that Charles Paris didn’t see the rest of that evening’s rather unusual recording.

  Points and money prizes were then awarded to the contestants. They got £50 for each correct hat. Two had scored a maximum of £200. One of these was Tim Dyer, who congratulated himself on his tactic of having ignored everything Fiona Wakeford said. The other was Trish Osborne. A third contestant scored £100. The fourth, who had managed to get them all wrong, was thanked by Barrett Doran for being a really good sport and asked if she had had a good evening. She assured him it had been the best of her life, before she was consigned to the outer limbo off the set. But, the audience was told, she would not be going away empty-handed. No, she would take with her a special If The Cap Fits cap, hand-made in red and blue velvet with a silver tassel. A shot of this artefact appeared on the audience’s monitors and was greeted by the statutory ‘Ooh’.

  The three survivors were then detached from their celebrity assistants for Round Two. The lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi, still (for the most basic of audience-pulling reasons) dressed in bikinis, brought on four red-and-blue-striped hat-boxes which they placed on the long blue desk beside each panellist. Barrett Doran read out a list of five types of hat (one was a red herring), and asked the four celebrities in turn to read out a clue of mind-bending ambiguity about the contents of their box. The contestants t
hen had to hazard guesses as to which box contained which hat. The celebrities responded to these guesses with much elaborate bluffing, double-bluffing, tactical drinking from their water-glasses and heavy gesturing. Again, graphics recorded the contestants’ final decisions and, at the end, Barrett Doran made his startling revelation of the truth. It was all very riotous.

  Once again, £50 depended on each hat. With the red herring, that meant a possible total of £250, which Tim Dyer, much to his satisfaction, achieved. This win also earned him the portable video-recorder and camera. Trish Osborne had got two hats the wrong way round, so only won another £150. But she was still in contention. The third contestant, having identified only one hat correctly, departed from the show with £150 in winnings from his two rounds and, of course, with his If The Cap Fits cap.

  ‘So,’ Barrett Doran asserted, ‘everything to play for after the break! See you in a couple of minutes, when once again it’ll be time to see . . . if the cap fits!’

  Barrett Doran left the set immediately the END OF PART ONE caption came up. Charlie Hook came forward to tell the audience what a lovely time they were having and what lovely people they were and how lovely the second part of the show was going to be. And weren’t the panellists lovely? And the contestants. Lovely, really, lovely.

  Then Jim Trace-Smith came on to the set. The Producer, Charlie Hook explained to the audience, needed some ‘cutaway shots’. These were just reactions from some of the participants, which might have to be cut in later and would make editing the show a lot easier. Jim Trace-Smith only needed to do reaction shots with the two eliminated contestants; he’d do any others he needed at the end of the recording of Part Two. So the two failed candidates were hauled back on to the set, made to stand in fixed positions and asked to go through a variety of facial reactions – delight, annoyance, excitement, frustration, despair. Neither of them had much aptitude for it; they lacked the professional performer’s ability to switch expressions at will; so the recording process took longer than it should have done.