Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

‘Of course, Rog. Mum’s the word.’

  ‘If Alf found out I snitched on him, it would be bye-bye World Cup for me and Greavsie.’

  I left Rog chatting to England hopeful, Ian Callaghan, and caught the new British Rail, “Inter-City” electric train back to London. The just under three-hour journey gave me plenty of time to mull over Rog’s shocking revelation. The more I thought about it, the more serious it seemed. Tottenham had paid what was then, for the club, a record transfer fee for Ramsey. Had they known he would be thirty before the end of the season, they almost certainly wouldn’t have paid such a large sum for him. Indeed, it was highly unlikely they would have bought him at all. In which case, instead of earning £1,000 a year at Tottenham, he would have been on Division Two wages at Southampton. Had he remained at Southampton (a club that, in 1953, was relegated to Division Three, South), it was equally doubtful he would have played thirty-two times for England and subsequently been chosen to manage the national team.

  What was beyond doubt was that this had all the makings of a front-page story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday, 20th March 1966

  Ever since we were married, my and Nell’s Sunday mornings had comprised, waking late, brief - but satisfying - sex, and breakfast in bed with the Sunday Mirror/Observer. However, the day after the Merseyside derby, we woke up at a leisurely hour, but otherwise the morning took a disturbingly different course.

  Nell claimed to “have the painters in” and, as soon as we had woken up, had gone downstairs to join Alison and read more of The Feminine Mystique (or the “Weirdness of Women”, as I had dubbed it). According to the book’s blurb, the author was an American (Betty Friedan). An American must have also sent it to Nell, because the blue cover was marked “75 cents”. It claimed to be “The Year’s Most Controversial Bestseller” about “American woman’s greatest problem”. I couldn’t imagine what possible problem American women might have that could fill almost 400 pages; or how it had any appeal, or indeed relevance, to a middle-class housewife in Finchley. Nonetheless, Nell must have found something in it of interest because she carried it around with her like a bible.

  I had to make do with a cup of tea from the teasmade and go all the way down to the bottom of the house to collect my paper. On my way back up, I poured myself a bowl of cornflakes, only to find that Nell had used up the last of the milk. To ease my frustration, I decided I would put on some old clothes and clean and polish the car, inside and out.

  As I passed through the lounge, Alison was sat on our new fitted carpet, making fluff balls with her feet.

  ‘Can you do this Daddy?’ she said, offering me her Sindy and a mini hairpiece.

  I had attempted the task at Christmas, when we had given her the doll and accessories. Never again. ‘Mummies are best at that sort of thing,’ I said.

  ‘Mummy’s reading,’ Alison said firmly, adding in awe, ‘She got a letter from America.’

  I turned to Nell, who had the Weirdness of Women open on her lap but was reading an airmail letter. ‘Since when did we get post on Sundays?’

  She sighed, refolded the lightweight, blue letter and used it to mark her book. ‘It came second post, Friday.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t see it Friday.’

  ‘You were drinking with Norman,’ Nell said, grabbing Sindy and impatiently attempting to fit the wig. ‘And, yesterday, you went straight off to Liverpool, remember?’

  ‘Who do you know in the States?’ I asked, with the Weirdness of Women’s provenance in mind.

  ‘Maria, my Pen Pal.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a Pen Pal.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ she said in an accusatory tone. ‘Maria Goldstein - was Zuccotti. Daughter of Mama and Papa’s best friends in Milan. I told you: she’s an Air Stewardess with Pan Am. Or, rather, was.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Maria.’ I was none the wiser. ‘What’s her news?’ I wasn’t actually interested, just keen to discover whether she was the supplier of Nell’s man-hating literature.

  ‘You know Pan Am sacked her last year because she got married?’ I didn’t, but I nodded. ‘She’s brought a lawsuit against them for illegal sex discrimination. She’s one of the first to sue for being dismissed for having a husband.’ Nell handed Sindy back to Alison, who luckily didn’t seem to notice that her doll’s new coiffure was lopsided.

  ‘Wow. That’s brave,’ I said, trying to sound engaged, whilst thinking I was no nearer establishing the source of the book. I resorted to direct questioning. ‘Was it her that sent you that?’ I enquired innocently, pointing to the offending tome.

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, it was.’ Nell gave me an inquisitive look, as if about to ask me why I wanted to know. But she didn’t. ‘She knows Betty Friedan quite well.’

  ‘Does she really?’ Mystery solved. It was Maria I had to blame for upsetting our marriage.

  ‘The Feminine Mystique helped her realise she was a victim of sexism and inspired her to take legal action.’

  ‘Sexism? What’s that?’

  Disappointingly, it had nothing to do with sex.

  ‘It’s the term Friedan has coined for the all the shit woman have to put up with thanks to men.’

  I was tempted to retaliate; but I had learnt that, when she was in that sort of mood, it was best to give her a wide berth. ‘I’m going to wash the car,’ I said, thinking perhaps she did have the painters in after all.

  I only got as far as the door to the downstairs, when she responded, ‘Do you have to wash it today?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought we’d spend the day in town.’

  Both the suggestion and the cheery tone in which she made it, took me by surprise. ‘You want to go up to town, today?’

  ‘Have you forgotten? It’s Mothering Sunday.’

  ‘I know.’ For once, I hadn’t forgotten. Although in my family we never bothered with it, I was going to buy a card in Liverpool for Alison to give Nell. But with all the business with Da, and Our Rog’s revelation, I didn’t get round to it.

  ‘Anyway, it’s nice weather; and it’s a long time since we’ve done anything together as a family.’

  Suspicious of her motives for suggesting it, I was non-committal. ‘What about dinner?’ On a Sunday we always had roast beef, roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. It was the best meal of the week and I didn’t want to miss it.

  ‘We can have it when we get back.’

  ‘But what can we do in London on a Sunday?’

  ‘Alison hasn’t seen the Changing of the Guard. If we go soon, we can catch that. It’s on at half-past eleven.’

  As she was saying it, I remembered that Norman had told me that the Jules Rimet trophy had just gone on exhibition at the Central Hall, Westminster. Going up to town suddenly became an excellent idea.

  I turned to Alison, who was conscientiously brushing Sindy’s asymmetric hairdo. ‘Would you like to see the soldiers at Buckingham Palace, in their bright red uniforms and big bearskin hats?’ I marched up and down the lounge imitating a Guardsman on parade.

  Alison leapt to her feet and screamed, ‘Can we go, Mummy. Can we?’

  Nell looked relieved to have her daughter’s support. ‘If you promise to be good.’

  ‘Hurray!’ Alison literally jumped for joy. Then she paused. Looking very serious, she said to Nell, ‘Sindy’s wearing her coffee party outfit. Is that okay?’

  Nell smiled lovingly back at her. ‘Perfect.’

  Alison ran upstairs, shouting excitedly, ‘I’ll get Sindy’s coat.’

  I told Nell what I had in mind. ‘The World Cup is being exhibited at Central Hall, in London. It was the first day yesterday. Whilst you two watch the Changing of the Guard, I think I’ll pop in and take a look.’

  ‘Why don’t we all go?’

  ‘Alison won’t want to see a boring football trophy’

  ‘Isn’t there anything else to see there?’

  ‘Only a load of old stamps. The Central Hall is very close to Buckingham Palace.’ />
  ‘So not quite a family day out then?’

  ‘I’ll only be gone a few minutes. After the Changing of the Guard, we can get a snack in the Regency Café.’

  ‘Good. Because there is something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  I knew it. She too had an ulterior motive for wanting to see the Changing of the Guard.

  Nell booking a discussion like this, always made me uneasy. I consoled myself that, since it would be in the presence of Alison, it couldn’t be that serious.

  How wrong I was.

  I reversed my Triumph Herald 1200 Convertible out of the garage. In the bright light of a fine spring morning, it looked in need of the wash and polish I had now postponed for a week. Her shiny livery - dark green with a white flash - showed every bit of dirt. But it was worth £700 and some elbow grease to own such a characterful car, with its red seats, a fold down roof and an incredible, twenty-five foot turning circle.

  She was a sporty little runner too. She would cruise comfortably at 55mph. Before the Government started its 70mph speed limit experiment, on the M1, I once got her up to almost eighty.

  As I revved the engine to warm it, Alison ran out of the house in her Sunday best, calling, ‘Can we have the roof off Daddy?’

  Although sunny, it wasn’t warm enough for that. But I let her assume her favourite travelling position: lying across the rear bench, like a juvenile Sophia Loren on a chaise longue.

  Nell followed shortly afterwards, also looking film-starish, in cigarette style slacks and over-sized sunglasses. Although I would have preferred it if she had followed her daughter’s lead and worn a pretty dress, I was pleased that she was wearing makeup and had made some effort with her appearance, especially because, in the West End, we could run into a colleague from the paper or someone else I knew.

  Once we were driving down the Regent’s Park Road to London, with Alison happily engaged with her Sindy, I wondered whether Nell would raise whatever it was she wanted to discuss. But she didn’t.

  I dropped the girls off outside Horse Guards Parade and arranged a rendezvous for an hour later. I then drove the half mile along the east side of St James’s Park to Central Hall. As I passed between its elaborate frontage and Westminster Abbey opposite, I could see posters advertising the Stampex exhibition, carrying life-size photographs of the foot high, Jules Rimet trophy.

  I couldn’t see anyone coming or going through the main entrance. Nonetheless, since Norman had assured me that, like London’s museums, it would be open on a Sunday, I searched for a parking space.

  I found one, at the rear of the hall, in Matthew Parker Street. As I locked my actual car, I noticed my dream one was in front: a British Racing Green, Jaguar Mark 2 with tan leather interior. Its number plate even included my initials. I would have liked to have stood and admired it. However, the driver was sitting in it with the engine running and so I could only give it a furtive glance as I passed.

  It encouraged me to see that one of the two double wooden doors at the rear of Central Hall was ajar. I approached up two stone steps, pushed it open and peered inside. It was dark. From the daylight coming in, however, I could see on the floor, behind the other door, a wooden bar and some brass fittings and screws. I guessed that the door was in the process of being repaired. I could hear organ music in the background, but there was no sign of life.

  I stepped back outside and onto the street. I was considering what to do, when a tall, thin man in a dark suit hurried out of the building carrying a chubby leather briefcase. He was clearly surprised to see me standing in his path.

  ‘Go round the front,’ he said, like a grumpy policeman, pointing in the direction I had just come from.

  I noticed he had a scar on his cheek reminiscent of an Action Man. I stepped back to let him pass. He jumped into the passenger seat of my dream car, which then took off down the street and disappeared left in the direction of the abbey.

  I did what the Action Man directed and walked around to the front of the hall. An elderly woman leaving the building explained that a Methodist service was being held there, but the Stampex exhibition was shut. So I turned on my heels and traipsed back to the car, muttering about Norman’s duff information and the inability to do anything remotely interesting on Sunday.

  I met up with the girls on Horse Guards Road. We went to see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, and Nell wanted to go on from there to Number 10. I had a vision of being recognised by the police officer stationed outside or even bumping into Forsyth. Fortunately, when I offered to buy lunch and, specifically for Alison, a Knickerbocker Glory, both girls plumped for the Regency Cafe instead.

  Perhaps because she was worried that, having been frustrated in my efforts to see the Jules Rimet trophy for real, I wouldn’t be in the best of moods, over lunch she didn’t raise her threatened topic for discussion. Nor did she during the remainder of our day out, or the journey back. It was only after we had got home, and I was having my second beer, a pipe and a read of the Sunday papers, she finally revealed what was on her mind.

  I had to wait almost two hours for Nell to serve Sunday dinner. So, having already consumed the more interesting sections of the Sunday papers, I had to resort to reading about the General Election campaigns. One of the major differences between the parties concerned Britain’s entry into the Common Market. The Conservative leader, Ted Heath, had apparently been strongly advocating that Britain make another bid to join. Harold Wilson was much more cautious and had accused Heath of “rolling on his back like a spaniel” in response to any encouraging gesture from the French.

  Not surprisingly, Nell was as keen as Heath on Britain joining. But I was with Harold. We had won the war: we shouldn’t be kowtowing to the Continent and favouring them over English speaking Commonwealth countries. I was pleased, therefore, to read that Barbara Castle - Labour’s feisty Minister for Transport - had the previous day condemned Heath’s support for entry, saying that “nothing could show greater subservience to foreign governments”.

  I wanted to show the piece to Nell: here was a woman saying what I had been telling her ever since De Gaulle had said “non”. She was in the kitchen, listening to talk on her transistor radio, whilst she prepared our belated roast. I called out, ‘Come in here, love: I want to show you something.’

  Nell emerged, with oven gloves in one hand and, to my surprise, a large glass of Marsala in the other.

  The sun was almost over the yardarm, so I ignored the drink. ‘Take a look at this,’ I said, gesturing at the newspaper, which I had folded at the relevant page.

  She ignored it. ‘Harry, can you put the paper down a minute. I need to talk to you.’

  I obliged.

  She sat in her chair opposite me, took a swig of the Marsala and deliberately placed the glass down beside her, before looking me straight in the eye and saying, ‘I want to go back to work, Harry.’

  ‘What!’ I hadn’t seen this coming at all. ‘Why do you want to do that for God’s sake?’

  Like a politician, instead of answering my question directly, she treated it as a cue to deliver a prepared script. ‘Alison has now settled in at school. She’s been there, full time, for more than a term and she’s happy. So, between eight-thirty in the morning and four-thirty in the afternoon - except for half an hour or so when she comes home for lunch - I’m here on my own.’ She spoke with oratorical conviction, but a very slight quiver. ‘And I’m lonely, Harry: lonely, bored and frustrated.’

  ‘You need to keep busy,’ I said, trying to be constructive. ‘There must be plenty to do around the house.’

  Nell exploded into animation. She jumped out of her chair and, gesticulating wildly, bellowed, ‘Filling my day with pushing a Hoover, ironing your shirts and doing all the other monotonous domestic tasks I do, is NOT a solution.’

  ‘That isn’t all you do. You go out to the shops, meet other mums and the like.’

  ‘That doesn’t take me out of my miserable domestic servitude,’ she said, spitting w
ith passion. ‘I need time to be me, Daniela Paventi: a woman who read French and Russian at Cambridge and held a professional job as an interpreter for six years. Not Nell Mullaly: parent, wife and skivvy.’ She flashed her right hand at me dismissively.

  ‘Are you saying you don’t want to be Alison’s mum, or married to me any longer?’

  ‘No! I’m saying it isn’t enough. My brain is atrophying by the day. If I carry on like this, I’ll soon be unfit to work.’

  ‘But you don’t have to. It’s my job to put a roof over our heads and bread on the table. Yours is to look after the home and family.’

  ‘No, that’s what women’s magazines would have us believe. But it’s a myth perpetrated by men.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The notion that a woman’s pre-ordained role is limited to wife, mother and housekeeper.’

  ‘Is that what that American women’s propaganda you’ve been reading says?’

  Nell hurled her oven gloves onto the floor, snatched her copy of the “Weirdness of Women” off her side table and, like Mao with his “Little Red Book”, held it aloft, shrieking, ‘It’s the core truth of one of the most important books of the twentieth century, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘If you go back to work,’ I said, deliberately adopting a calm, measured tone, ‘who would make Alison’s lunches and be there when she gets back from school? She’s far too young to be a latch-key kid. And when would you do the housework and prepare tea?’

  Before Nell could respond, Alison cried out from the bathroom, ‘Mum, quick! Sindy’s fallen in the bath - in her bridesmaid dress!’ She wailed.

  Nell glared at me, as if I had been responsible. She gestured like she was squashing me between her thumb and first two fingers, mumbled something in Italian - no doubt obscene - and rushed upstairs.

  I went into the kitchen to get another beer. As I was replacing a full bottle with my empty one in our returns crate, Nell’s radio broadcast a news bulletin.

  “The football World Cup has been stolen whilst on exhibition at Central Hall in Westminster, London. The £30,000 solid gold Jules Rimet trophy disappeared whilst a church service was taking place in another part of the building…”