Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  ‘I was reading about it in the Guardian.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How come they’re playing here?’

  ‘They beat Australia. All the other contenders withdrew in protest at only one team from the African and Asian continents being allowed to compete at the finals.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Why is a country, controlled by a hard-line Stalinist regime, which Britain doesn’t even recognise and with whom we’re still at war --’

  ‘Still at war?!’ This took me completely by surprise.

  ‘Yes, technically. There’s never been a peace treaty,’ she said, as if I ought to have known. ‘So why are they being invited to play football in this country?’

  ‘Why not? If you start bringing politics into sport, you —’

  ‘It isn’t about politics.’ Her tone went from reproachful to angry. ‘North Korea was responsible for the deaths of over eleven hundred British soldiers, with a similar number held prisoner in appalling conditions.’

  ‘That was fifteen years ago.’ I immediately regretted my response. For Nell, Korea was so much more than military history. I was lucky: I did my National Service in Germany. Nell’s elder brother, Mark, was sent to Korea. He never came back.

  ‘If they had killed your brother, you wouldn’t forget.’

  She was right, of course. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ I tried to steer the conversation away from war. ‘Was the Guardian article about the World Cup?’

  ‘No. The Battle of Suoi Bong Trang.’

  ‘The battle of where?’

  ‘It’s in Vietnam. They were comparing the fighting there to the Korean War.’

  ‘How did the World Cup feature?’

  ‘It was an incidental comment that North Korea would be participating even though they weren’t recognised.’

  ‘They might be participating; but they won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, that’s alright then,’ Nell said sarcastically, and disappeared again into the kitchen.

  As my stomach rumbled, I pondered Nell’s reaction to North Korea’s participation in the World Cup. Particularly given the number of British casualties, why hadn’t there been an outcry about this? The only explanation I could think of was that, like Nell, the vast majority of the population (not being fans of international football) were blissfully unaware that our communist foe would be landing here shortly.

  Just as I started contemplating going out to get fish and chips, Nell called out, ‘Supper’s ready. Sit up.’

  I took my seat in what she called a butterfly chair, at the head of our oval, pedestal table. She retrieved two plates of food from the serving hatch, put the largest in front of me and sat in the place she had laid for herself, opposite me.

  The food was unrecognisable. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Polpette di pesce.’

  Nell liked to cook dishes her mother had taught her. Some of them were okay; this one, though, looked like bull’s testicles in Heinz tomato soup. ‘It’s Friday. I’m Catholic, you’re Jewish: we should be having fish.’

  ‘When was the last time you went to Mass?’

  ‘You don’t have to go to Mass to like fish on Fridays.’

  ‘I’ve got good news for you: it is fish. Fish balls.’

  ‘Fish balls!’ It was better than bull’s balls - but not much.

  ‘That’s what Polpette di pesce means. Balls of fish.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a nice piece of Dover sole.’

  Nell scoffed, ‘Dover sole? On the housekeeping you give me!’

  This pressed a sensitive button. ‘If you don’t have enough housekeeping, it’s because you spend it on Marsala.’

  She stared fixedly at her food and her neck reddened. No doubt realising I had spotted her glass, she didn’t return fire. Instead she jumped up, grabbed her plate and fled to the kitchen.

  Seconds later, she pushed open the doors to the serving hatch and spat, ‘If you want your sweet you can come and get it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Budino cremoso,’ adding in a supercilious tone, ‘Italian caramel pudding, to you.’

  I responded with a curt, ‘What’s wrong with British puddings?’

  ‘They’re old fashioned, stodgy and totally overrated.’ She pulled the hatch doors closed with a bang.

  I rejected the remaining fish balls and passed on the caramel pudding. Instead I went out to the chipper. And on my journey back, I contemplated a front-page story headlined, “The North Koreans are coming”.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday, 28th February 1966

  As well as writing copy for Monday’s Mirror, I had spent a good deal of the weekend preparing for my meeting with Forsyth. I had developed my North Korea story idea into a dozen typed pages of supporting material, which included - with the aid of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (Nell had criticised me for buying from a door-to-door salesman) - a detailed review of the Korean war. As I sat down to watch The Saint on ITV, all that remained for me to do was piece together an outfit that would satisfy Forsyth’s sartorial demands.

  The following morning, I donned the light grey suit and white shirt I had worn to our wedding, a plain maroon, Turin FC tie Nell’s dad had given me, and a pair of black leather ankle boots. At breakfast, unsurprisingly, Nell queried why I was dressed up to the nines.

  ‘I’m interviewing some Chelsea players,’ I fibbed. ‘This is how they dress.’

  Since I didn’t like lying, least of all to Nell, I resolved to keep my Number 10 outfit at the paper and change into it there.

  I was pleased to have arrived at Number 10 in good time for my meeting; and, with the temporary staff pass Miss Davies had given me, I was able to go straight up to her office on the second floor. The door was open, and I peered inside. I could see she was on the telephone.

  ‘I will see if he’s available,’ she told the caller and, with a manicured finger, smartly pushed one of the buttons on the two-tone grey desk set. ‘Mr Forsyth, it’s Mr Goodman for you.’ She replaced the handset and, seeing me hovering by the door, rose and said, cheerily, ‘Come in, Mr Miller.’

  She wore a crisp pink blouse, which had a bow that concealed her bust. She was the only splash of colour in an office equipped with grey metal furniture and a similarly coloured, state-of-the-art, golf ball typewriter.

  ‘Call me Harry. Everyone else does - when they’re not being rude, anyway.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m Rita. You’re here for your nine o’clock meeting with Mr Forsyth, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ I said enthusiastically and not altogether truthfully.

  ‘Unfortunately, Harry, he can’t now meet you until ten. He’s about to go in with the PM, you see.’ Lowering her voice, she continued, ‘He’s announcing the General Election this evening on the television - the PM that is. They’ve got to finalise what he’s going to say.’

  Before I could respond, her phone rang. ‘Mr Forsyth’s office… No, Mr Howell, I’m afraid he’s engaged. Would you like him to return your call?’

  I assumed she was speaking to Denis Howell, the Minister of Sport. For the first time, I felt excited - rather than terrified - about being at the core of British Government.

  I turned away, trying to appear oblivious of her conversation and noticed another desk like hers, similarly equipped, except the electric typewriter was the more conventional kind. I was wondering who it belonged to, when a middle-aged woman came in and sat down at it, just as Rita finished her call.

  ‘Oh Brenda, this is Harry Miller,’ she said, with an introductory wave of her arm. ‘He’s assisting Mr Forsyth for a few months. Harry Miller: Brenda Britten.’

  Dressed in a high-buttoned white blouse, below-the-knee grey skirt and low-heeled Oxford shoes, Brenda was the antithesis of “with it”.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Miller.’ She had a matronly voice that complemented her figure.

  ‘Hello Brenda.’

  ‘Harry likes to be called…,’ Rita g
ave me a kindly look, ‘… well, Harry.’

  ‘Nice to meet you… Harry.’

  Brenda had a no-nonsense air about her. She wasn’t wearing jewellery - not even a wedding ring. Rita subsequently confirmed she was a spinster who had favoured her career as a secretary over finding a husband. She had previously worked in the High Commissioner’s office in the British zone of West Germany, but now lived happily in Croydon with her cat, ‘Mittens’.

  ‘Brenda is Mrs Williams’ secretary.’

  ‘Marcia Williams?’

  Brenda nodded. ‘She prefers Mrs Williams.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll remember that. But isn’t she Harold’s… the PM’s secretary?’

  Brenda smiled, a tad patronisingly. Whilst expertly sandwiching carbon paper between two sheets of foolscap and feeding it into her typewriter, she explained that Mrs Williams was the PM’s personal and political assistant and she herself needed secretarial support in carrying out that role.

  She precluded any further conversation by inserting a pair of earphones, pressing a foot pedal beneath her desk and furiously typing.

  It occurred to me that I should have made a carbon copy of my notes, so I could show Forsyth the extent of my research. I asked Rita if there was anywhere I could make a photostat of them. She took me down the hall and into a small windowless room that was almost entirely occupied by a machine labelled “Rank Xerox 914”.

  ‘This makes copies just like the original. But we need to be quick - before Jane sees us,’ Rita said anxiously.

  ‘Who’s Jane?’

  ‘She’s the PA to the PM’s PPS, Derek Mitchell.’

  ‘The PM’s what?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry: his Principal Private Secretary.’

  ‘I thought Brenda said Marci… Mrs Williams was the PM’s principal private secretary.’

  ‘No, she’s not his PPS. She’s his political private secretary. Mr Mitchell is his Civil Service private secretary.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ In truth, I was utterly confused. ‘Why mustn’t Jane see us?’

  Rita carefully positioned the first sheet of my notes on the photocopier’s glass and brought down the heavy light excluding cover. ‘Mr Mitchell says it can only be used for Civil Service copying.’ She sensed by puzzlement. ‘You see, official and political expenses have to be kept separate - even phone calls and photocopying. Your notes are definitely political.’

  After it had made the first copy, the machine stopped working. Rita was checking whether it had paper and if a sheet had got jammed, when a voice from behind us bellowed, ‘Don’t let that little cunt Mitchell - or his dog - see you doing that.’

  I caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar looking woman, tall with a blonde perm, disappearing down the corridor.

  Rita rolled her eyes in the direction from which the profanity had been delivered. ‘That’s Mrs Williams.’

  ‘I thought it was. What was that about a dog?’

  ‘She means Jane, Mr Mitchell’s P.A.’

  ‘Does he know how Mrs Williams talks about him?’

  ‘I expect so. She doesn’t hide it.’

  ‘It isn’t very ladylike.’

  ‘She can be charming one minute and the next, swear like a sailor on shore-leave.’

  ‘But she’s married?’

  ‘She was. They got divorced a few years ago.’

  ‘If she talked to her husband like that, I’m not surprised.’

  Rita giggled.

  Unable to get the photocopier to work, she led me off to find another machine. ‘We’ll use the one in the basement. And, whilst we’re at it, I’ll introduce you to the Garden Room Girls.’

  They sounded like a dance troupe. ‘Who are the Garden Room Girls?’

  ‘They’re typists. They work in the basement rooms that give on to the garden at the back.’

  Rita led me down the stairs. ‘We might see the PM in there.’

  ‘Why, he’s not one of them, is he?’ I winked at Rita.

  ‘No, silly.’ She leaned towards me and whispered, ‘The PM likes a bit of skirt.’

  ‘Does he?’ I said, rather too loudly.

  ‘Shh! Don’t tell anyone I said so.’

  ‘Me? A Daily Mirror reporter? Tell anyone?’

  ‘Oh don’t, I’ll get the sack.’

  I gave Rita a reassuring smile. ‘I won’t say a word.’

  I wondered who else I might encounter. ‘Mrs Williams won’t have gone down there, will she?’

  ‘No chance. She can’t stand the Garden Girls: thinks they’re all Tory debs.’

  I was enjoying gossiping with Rita and, for the first time at Number 10, felt relaxed.

  ‘What about Forsyth? Does he like a bit of skirt too?’

  Rita suddenly looked serious. ‘No… No, he doesn’t come down here either.’

  I had noticed that Rita pronounced some words, like “either”, with a very slight South Wales accent. What with her surname being Davies, I asked, ‘Are you from the Valleys?’ I couldn’t help saying it with a lilt.

  She sniggered. ‘I lived in Swansea until I was five. But we didn’t speak like that.’

  I felt a little embarrassed. ‘With a West Country stroke Merseyside drawl, you mean?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, that’s what it was,’ and opened one of two unmarked doors. ‘Are you from Liverpool then?’

  ‘Born and bred in Birkenhead, me.’ My John Lennon impression was more successful. ‘But don’t tell Mr Forsyth.’

  She turned to me and, with a twinkle in her eye, whispered, ‘It’s okay. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act too.’

  The garden room was penalty box sized, with a row of deep Georgian windows down one long side and high shelves of box and lever-arch files along the other. In between, on top of a threadbare carpet, were a class of dark wood desks, each supporting a “sit up and beg” typewriter, In/Out document trays and an array of paperwork. The girls were either literally wearing a twinset and pearls, or similarly attired, and all diligently clattering and pinging their way through their typing allocation.

  As we headed towards the photocopier at the far end, Rita introduced me. ‘Girls: this is Harry Miller. He’s going to be working with Mr Forsyth for the next few months.’

  Most of them just smiled politely without breaking rhythm. But a blonde, bouffant-headed girl, sitting with her back to the copier, appeared to welcome a break. She spun half round on her chair and chirped, ‘You’re working with the Fox? Bad luck!’ She sounded lively, but very BBC.

  Although she was obviously referring to Forsyth, the nickname puzzled me. ‘“The Fox”?’

  ‘It’s one of the codenames he uses,’ Rita whispered, ‘when his involvement needs to be kept secret.’

  ‘You make it sound like The Avengers!’

  Rita smiled. ‘We aren’t that glamorous.’

  The blonde shot me a glance. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Maggie!’ Rita gave her a look.

  ‘All sorts of people here have code names,’ Rita explained to me in a hushed tone. ‘The PM’s “The Plumber” - because he has a pipe.’

  I chuckled and thought, he should really be “The Cuban”. ‘Why’s Forsyth called “The Fox”?’

  Maggie piped up again. ‘Because he’s like the fox on Fox’s Glacier Mints: as sly as anything and cold as ice.’ She grinned at Rita and the girls in her immediate vicinity.

  Her enjoyment was cut short by a supervisor. ‘Have you finished those Cabinet papers yet, Margaret?’ Maggie spun back round and continued clattering.

  When Rita finished the photocopying, I asked if I could look around the garden while I waited for Forsyth. Although it was rather cold and gloomy outside, I fancied clearing my thoughts with a stroll, as I imagined Harold might do before an important Cabinet Meeting. Rita confided that, whilst they weren’t meant to, she and other girls would sometimes sneak out the back for a breath of fresh air. She opened the external door, checked no-one was there or on the terrace above and beckoned me into
the famous grounds.

  However, just as she did, Maggie called us back. ‘Brenda phoned down. She said the Fox is waiting for Mr Miller.’

  ‘Is he? Oh dear. Thanks Maggie.’ Rita hurried me back inside. ‘Quick, Harry: go to the gents on the ground floor.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t need to—’

  ‘No, that’s where Mr Forsyth will be waiting.’ Rita’s tone was urgent.

  ‘In the gents?!’

  ‘Look… I’ll show you where to go and explain on the way.’

  Whilst marching me back through the garden room, up a flight of stairs and down a corridor, she told me, somewhat breathlessly, ‘The thing is, Mr Forsyth doesn’t trust Mrs Williams any further than he can throw her.’

  ‘Oh dear. Why’s that?’

  Rita shook her head. ‘It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, if she’s in the building, he won’t hold confidential meetings in his office, in case she overhears.’

  ‘So he has them in the gents instead,’ I said this as if it naturally followed, whilst thinking that it didn’t at all.

  ‘He says it’s one of the few remaining places a man can find sanctuary.’

  I wondered why we couldn’t have our discussion walking anonymously around St James’s Park. That’s what they did in spy films. They didn’t meet in a toilet.

  I didn’t quite know what to expect when I pushed open the dark, panelled door marked “Gentlemen”. Perhaps sub-consciously I had assumed that the Prime Minister, like the Queen, didn’t need to spend a penny and was therefore surprised that Number 10 had a gents.

  The black and white tiled convenience was unlike any I had been in before. Instead of the usual “odour toilette”, I got strong whiff of musky cologne. The floor was clean and dry, and the white toilet porcelain sparkled.

  Forsyth was at the far end of a line of brass tapped wash basins that occupied one wall. He was leaning on the polished mahogany surround as if it were a shooting stick and was waiting patiently for the cubicle opposite him to become free. But the doors to all four were open.