Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  Although clattering away on her typewriter, it was soon apparent that Brenda had been listening. ‘Isn’t that the newspaper you work for?’

  ‘Yes. And I happened to have been at Central Hall around the time it was stolen. But I can assure you it wasn’t me. If I was that way inclined, I would have taken the much more saleable stamps, not an internationally renowned trophy worth a tenth of their value.’

  ‘It all sounds very fishy to me,’ Brenda said, sounding like Lady Penelope. ‘Why would a thief go to all the trouble of stealing anything only to leave it in someone’s front garden?’

  ‘Maybe the thief realised the police were on to him,’ Rita said excitedly. ‘He hid it there and was going to come back for it later.’

  Rita had been watching too much Dixon of Dock Green. ‘It wasn’t much of a hiding place. As soon as the car was taken out of the drive, it would be there for all to see.’

  Brenda added, ‘And it could easily have been flattened in the process.’

  Rita looked embarrassed. So I continued, ‘But you’re right, Rita: for whatever reason, it must have been put there deliberately.’

  ‘Perhaps the thief wanted it found.’ Now Brenda was playing detective.

  ‘Do Scotland Yard know who the thief was, Rita?’ I asked.

  ‘They don’t know his name, but they’ve got a good description of him.’ She referred to their report. ‘Male, early 30s, tall, thin, with greased black hair — ’

  ‘That could be anyone,’ Brenda said dismissively, and resumed typing.

  ‘Wait,’ said Rita, ‘I hadn’t finished,’ She continued reading from the report. ‘He has a two-inch scar on his right cheek and calls himself “the Pole”.’

  An image flashed across my mind of the tall, lean Action Man who almost collided with me, coming out of the rear of Central Hall. He had a scar exactly like that. He didn’t speak like a Pole though. (I didn’t really know how Poles spoke; but I imagined it would be a bit like Auric Goldfinger.) His accent was more Kent than Katowice. Then again, he only said a few words.

  Before I could comment, Marcia Williams charged into the office with orders for Brenda.

  ‘Stop what you’re doing: this is urgent,’ she said, dumping a dictation tape and a pile of papers on Brenda’s desk. Her face was flushed and her voice barely under control. ‘Why arrange the PM’s Manchester speech for last Saturday?’ Although she seemed to address Brenda, it was soon apparent that the question was rhetorical. ‘It was supposed to be his big entrance - at the height of the campaign: the star taking centre stage, to rapturous applause and rave reviews from the press.’ She leant towards her secretary and quietly, with mock innocence, said, ‘As you know, I was ill, so I couldn’t be at the Belle Vue Stadium.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Williams’

  ‘However, according to Mr Forsyth, the speech was extremely well received.’

  ‘I am very pleased to hear it, Mrs Williams.’

  ‘As was I, Brenda. As was I.’

  Clearly seething, she flounced to the centre of the room and bellowed, ‘YET HE BARELY FEATURED IN THE BBC OR ITN NEWS OR ANY OF THE SUNDAY PAPERS!’

  After gawping at me, she strode over to an understandably apprehensive looking Rita, lent across her desk and, glaring into her eyes, said, ‘Why did Mr Forsyth arrange it for Saturday, Rita? Do tell me.’

  I sprang to Rita’s - and, therefore, Forsyth’s - defence. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Williams, the speech clashed with several major sporting events, including the Grand National.’ In the wake of her tirade, I probably sounded diffident and unconvincing. Certainly, when she turned her attention to me, she was unmoved.

  ‘Then, Mr Miller, he bloody well should have shifted Harold to another day.’

  Rita gave me a “don’t get involved” shake of the head.

  I should have taken her advice; but the way Mrs Williams had spoken to her annoyed me. ‘In fairness, Mr Forsyth couldn’t know that a 50/1 outsider would win the National by twenty lengths - and that a jockey who was almost killed in a car accident two days earlier, would ride the winner.’

  ‘Mr Forsyth has appointed you as his spokesman, has he?’ she said.

  I felt duly put in my place.

  She returned to her secretary’s desk. ‘If he isn’t focusing the press on what’s important, Brenda, what the fuck is he doing?’

  At that moment Forsyth came in and heard Mrs Williams bitching about him. ‘If you really want to know, seeing to it that “Pickles” gives Harold infinitely better press than any speech of his ever could.’

  She gave him a supercilious smirk and, as she left the office, remarked, ‘I’ll tell Harold you compared him to a dog - unfavourably.’

  Forsyth ignored her, and my presence, and spat out an instruction to Rita. ‘Get me a meeting with Hugh Carleton Greene, ASAP today.’

  Rita sought confirmation. ‘Mr Greene at the BBC?’

  ‘He was when I last spoke to him - unfortunately.’

  ‘If he asks me what it’s regarding, what shall I say?’

  ‘Tell him, The Man from Uncle.’

  ‘Do you mean the television show... on Thursday evenings?’ Rita said, suddenly sounding very interested. I guessed she was a fan of the show like me - and millions of other people.

  ‘Yes, but this Thursday you and the rest of the electorate will have other things to do. And Harold, unlike Mr Carlton Greene it seems, doesn’t want you all to miss your favourite programme.’

  (Later Rita told me that Forsyth got the BBC to postpone Steptoe and Son, scheduled for the night of the ‘64 General Election, for the same reason. It was only then I realised that the PM wasn’t being entirely selfless.)

  Forsyth snatched his signing book off Rita’s desk and turned to me. ‘Seeing as that foul-mouthed succubus is in residence, we’ll meet in my ground floor office in ten minutes. In the meantime, Miss Jones here will tell you about Pickles and the Jules Rimet trophy.’

  Before I could tell him she already had, he grabbed the unmarked folder which Rita had omitted to return to her locked drawer, gave his secretary a chastising stare and departed.

  ‘Bother,’ Rita said. ‘I shouldn’t have had that out on my desk.’ She had the look of an errant schoolgirl on detention.

  ‘That’s okay. You didn’t leave it unattended,’ I said as reassuringly as I could.

  ‘The Fox doesn’t know that.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Rita wagged her index finger at me. ‘Don’t you dare.’ She looked very cute.

  ‘What did the Fox mean by--’

  ‘Succubus?’ Rita interrupted. ‘A succubus is a demon in female form who has sex with sleeping men.’

  ‘Rita!’ Brenda’s sudden exclamation made me jump.

  ‘It does: I looked it up.’

  I wasn’t sure whether Brenda was objecting to the nature of Forsyth’s abuse of her boss being spelt out, or Rita referring to sex in my presence. In any event, Rita had incorrectly anticipated my question. ‘Actually, I was wondering what the Fox meant by his ground floor office.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rita giggled. ‘That’s the gents. Where you met before.’ My face must have fallen. ‘Come on: it isn’t that bad.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Rita smiled sweetly, and her cheeks turned an attractive pink.

  Brenda intervened. ‘Can I have a little hush? I’ve now got a whole tape of dictation to do after this.’

  ‘Sorry, Brenda,’ I said, nodding to her apologetically. ‘I’m going now anyway: I have to see a man about a dog - and a cup.’

  ‘I take it you now know about the trophy’s recovery,’ Forsyth said, ushering me into the end cubicle and propping himself against the mahogany basin surround opposite me.

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth. That is good news.’ I tried to project an air of poise and professionalism; but this wasn’t easy, squatting on a closed toilet.

  ‘The FA have their trophy back and the thief is in custody, where he belongs.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve
caught him now have they?’ I was puzzled: the passage from Scotland Yard’s report, which Rita had read out, implied the thief was still at large. ‘The tall, lean man with a two-inch scar?’

  Forsyth’s face darkened. ‘What do you know about him?’ he snapped.

  I realised I was in danger of betraying the fact that Rita had disclosed parts of the “Highly Confidential” report Forsyth was now gripping, unnecessarily firmly, in his right hand.

  ‘I—I was standing outside the rear of Central Hall at the time of the theft.’

  ‘Were you indeed.’

  ‘Yes. And I saw a man who looked like that leave the building, carrying a bulging briefcase, and get into a green Jaguar Mark 2.’

  ‘Did you report this to the police?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You see, I only made the connection just now.’

  ‘I see.’ Forsyth said, sounding more suspicious than enlightened. ‘And what made you do that?’ He grinned at me, like my French teacher used to when quizzing me about why I had left my homework on the bus - again.

  ‘I asked Rita - Miss Davies if Scotland Yard knew who the thief was. She said that was confidential.’ The first part was true; the second was a fib. ‘However, Mrs Williams then came in and told me that a witness had seen the thief being driven away from the rear of the hall in a green car.’

  ‘Did she now,’ Forsyth said with scorn.

  Although “a witness” (namely me) had seen what I had described, the rest was a lie to avoid implicating Rita. I calculated that, given their frigid relationship, Forsyth was most unlikely to discover that my knowledge hadn’t in fact been acquired from Mrs Williams. ‘I assume she heard it on the radio.’

  ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t take any notice of what Mrs Williams tells you. We’ve been victorious, that’s what matters. We have our cup back and the villain is under lock and key.’

  “Victorious”? He made it seem like we had won the World Cup, not merely found a replica of it beneath a hedge.

  He launched himself up onto his polished worktop perch and grinned down at me like a gargoyle. ‘Doesn’t that delight you, Miller - fill you with pride in this great nation?’

  ‘Absolutely, Mr Forsyth,’ I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could feign.

  ‘In these final days of the election campaign, we must now ensure the electorate share those same feelings.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘You see, Miller, Heath can’t win this election. But, if voters in the marginals were to take a dim view of the status quo, we could lose it. That’s what sunk the Tories eighteen months ago. Sufficient of the electorate believed that the country was beset by economic problems and political scandals, and that “Supermac’s” successor was unfit for the job. Candidly, many opted for “The New Britain” for this reason - they wanted out with the old one. So, as the incumbents this time around, we must ensure that key voters feel positive about the state of the nation. If they do, they will leave us to get on with it. Do you see?’ He gave me a look that said, “Surely, even you can understand that”.

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth. Completely.’ I had no difficultly grasping what he was saying; what I couldn’t understand was why he was telling me. However, this soon became clear.

  ‘So I need you to show those voters that, as we say on our posters, Labour government works: we are returning Britain to greatness.’

  ‘Me?’ Was I being made responsible for implementing Labour’s election strategy? I shifted uneasily on the toilet lid. ‘Why am… I mean, how do I, err… In what way can I — ’ Mercifully, he interrupted my ramblings.

  ‘Your paper dominates our target demographic: C1s & C2s. Over five million potential Labour voters buy The Mirror; and ten million more will read it. So I’m giving you an exclusive. I want you to break the news that we have recovered the World Cup and, at the same time, highlight what it shows about the state of our nation.’

  Just a few days previously, Forsyth had told me to stick to football reporting. Now he was demanding a general news story, going on political propaganda piece. Ignoring the fact that the real World Cup had never left the FA’s headquarters in Lancaster Place, I was struggling to see what the nationalistic angle on the story could be. What did the recovery of the Jules Rimet trophy say about Britain, other than that there was room for improvement in the way our thieves hid their swag?

  ‘As regards what it shows about… you know, the state of the country… ’

  ‘Yeahhhss?’ he drawled.

  ‘Err… exactly what do you have in mind?’

  He gave me his horrible little man look. ‘The facts, Miller, the facts. Sadly, there are still those who would wish to do harm to this great nation of ours, as the theft of our precious trophy proves. But once again our adversaries failed to take account of the British bulldog spirit. They didn’t calculate for the determination of Mr David Corbett - an honest Thames lighterman - to do his duty to reclaim the stolen trophy for his country. Nor did they reckon with our good old British Bobbies, hunting down the villain and bringing him to justice. Thanks to them, the English FA have their trophy back and the nation can now look forward to hosting the finest international sporting tournament ever staged and showing the world why England will forever be the home of association football.’

  As he was speaking, I was silently challenging several of his “facts”. Corbett didn’t “reclaim” the trophy: Pickles found it abandoned by the wheel of a car. Whoever Scotland Yard had hunted down it wasn’t the thief. And the World Cup belonged, not to the English FA - they were merely temporary custodians of it - but to the football world’s governing body, FIFA, based in Switzerland.

  Although misleading, it was a moving speech. If it hadn’t been delivered in a gents’ lavatory, to just one man squatting on a toilet, it would have been right up there with the best of Churchill. He gave me a smirk that showed he was aware of this, before adding, ‘I trust you’re now clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, Mr Forsyth… ’ I paused to carefully formulate the “but”.

  Sensing this, he said, impatiently, ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s just the Mirror has its own particular house style, as I’m sure you’ll be aware.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I won’t be… That is to say, I may not necessarily be able to write the piece in quite the terms you’ve suggested.’ In truth, I was not at all sure I would be allowed to write it at all. One of the general news boys had reported the trophy’s theft; and the news editor jealously guarded what he saw as his patch. But I dared not even hint at this problem to Forsyth.

  He shot me another condescending look and said, ‘I think you will find that your paper’s “house style” is to report what is newsworthy to ordinary working people and provide them with the context that will enable them to understand it. And that’s all I am asking you to do.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine then,’ I said, whilst thinking it was far from it.

  ‘If we win on Thursday - and I believe we will - I want you here on Friday for a briefing on the second phase of Operation Jules Britannia.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth. I’ll be here first thing.’

  ‘I won’t be. I’ll have been up all night.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Get here at lunchtime.’

  ‘I will,’ I said dutifully. ‘And in the unlikely event that Labour don’t win: what should I do then?’

  ‘Say goodbye to reporting on the opening match at Wembley and look forward to seeing the commies battling it out in Middlesbrough.’ Forsyth hopped down from his perch. ‘It’s in your hands, Miller.’

  I sensed the moisture drain from my mouth and rise in my palms. I got up awkwardly from my low seat, unravelling the toilet roll in the process, and croaked, ‘Thank you, Mr Forsyth.’

  I had an exclusive which I needed to get to my editor, Jack Hutchinson, as soon as possible. Although this justified a taxi, I soon wished I had taken the bus.

  During what was only a twenty-minu
te journey, the cabbie stridently asserted that: girls in mini skirts get what they deserve; the Moors murders show we should have kept the death penalty; he was not going to accept decimal coinage when it was introduced; Mick Jagger should get a decent haircut; and there were too many wogs in the country. So, when we drew up at the Mirror Building, alongside the Chairman’s stretch Rolls-Royce, it therefore came as no surprise when he pointed to the miniature red flag flying above the car’s “Spirit of Ecstasy” mascot and scoffed, ‘A socialist, in a roller? Who’s he trying to kid!’

  In this respect, at least, the cabbie had a point. Could Cecil King, who insisted on being chauffeur driven in the most exclusive of luxury vehicles, really believe in progressive socialism? The Labour Party, for whom King was so ostentatiously demonstrating his support, thought not. A poster in the window of their Finchley headquarters showed the unmistakable bonnet and radiator of a Rolls-Royce, with the caption, “Tories help the rich. Labour helps the rest”.

  As soon as I got in the building, I went straight to speak to Jack. The newsroom was a cacophony of clattering typewriters, chirruping telephones and chattering reporters. This and - later in the day - the smell of newly printed papers warm off the press, served as regular, sensory reminders of why I had become a journalist.

  I had a good relationship with Jack. He had done my job in the past and so knew the pressures for a reporter of breaking a story. I suggested taking Monte with me down to South Norwood to interview Corbett and get some photos of the real hero. With some decent quotes and an endearing image of one of man’s best friends, I had high hopes of getting my exclusive on the front page, and even smuggling in the gist of Forsyth’s message.

  Unfortunately, however, Jack didn’t like to rock the boat. ‘It’s one for the News Desk, Harry. If I let you run with it, Dan will go ballistic.’

  Forsyth had bestowed on me, personally, the responsibility of communicating with fifteen million voters. And I was keen to discharge it myself, not least so I could fashion the story in the way Forsyth wanted. But Dan Ferrari - the paper’s handlebar moustached News Editor - was not a man to cross. He had a temperament to match his surname. The last one who messed with him, hadn’t even got a final drink in “The Stab”.