Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

‘Poor bloke.’

  ‘So he should get a reward, for all he’s done.’

  I still wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘But if he was, you know, a government agent, he would already be on a good wage.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Rita enquired innocently.

  ‘Tell you what: next time I see him, I’ll ask him.’

  She looked horrified.

  ‘I’m joking. Official Secrets Act. Purple ink. I haven’t forgotten.’

  She gave me her “naughty boy” look.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why the blackmailer chose the least wealthy FA member to demand the money from in the first place. Why not the Earl of Harewood? He’s the Queen’s first cousin, or something. Everyone knows he’s loaded.’

  Rita shook her head. ‘I don’t know what goes through a blackmailer’s mind - I’m pleased to say.’ She glanced down at the dainty silver watch on her wrist. ‘Crikey! We’d better get back upstairs. The Fox could be looking for me.’

  I followed her out of the study. This was a mistake. The sight of her long legs, sculpted by black patent, high heels, wasn’t suitable for a married man.

  As soon as we entered Rita’s office, the buzzer on her desk sounded. Forsyth had arrived, and I was to go immediately to his office.

  I did as I was told and knocked on the oak-panelled door.

  ‘Yes,’ came the bark from inside.

  I cautiously opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Forsyth was sitting at his desk, beneath the imposing biscuit tin painting, closely studying what appeared to be a list, stamped “Strictly Confidential”.

  He didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge my presence. Using a green tortoiseshell fountain pen, he appeared to be correcting and annotating the list. I shuffled forward. Then, uncertain whether I could take a seat, I stopped and stood in “no-man's-land”.

  After several minutes, I summoned up the courage to break the silence. ‘Congratulations on your - or, I should say, Labour’s - re-election.’

  ‘Sit down, Miller.’

  I hurried over to the low-slung chair in front of him, eased myself into it and tried again. ‘The World Cup coverage seemed to do its job, Mr Forsyth.’

  He ignored me and continued working on the list.

  After several more minutes, he screwed the top onto his fountain pen, placed the list in the front of his signing book and buzzed for Rita.

  When she didn’t immediately appear, he looked at me, raised his eyebrows and gave me a “Well, what do you want?” stare.

  Conscious that Forsyth considered his office an insecure environment, and wishing to avoid being accused of loose talk, I leaned forward and whispered, ‘Shall we go downstairs to the gents?’

  Forsyth looked askance. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘So you can brief me on, you know... phase II of... you know what.’

  He glared at me in a “have you misplaced your marbles” kind of way.

  I began to think I had. ‘It was just... what you said... about the walls having ears...’

  ‘Not today they don't. The Weird Sister has taken her shingles back to Golders Green - thank God.’

  I assumed he was referring to Mrs Williams. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And I had the whole place swept this morning. So we're free of bugs and bags,’ he said with a smirk.

  Rita entered. ‘You buzzed, Mr Forsyth?’

  ‘Yes, five minutes ago.’

  ‘Sorry, I was powdering my nose.’

  ‘Next time, do that in your tea break, Miss Davies.’ He handed her his signing book. ‘In there is the list for the re-shuffle. Give it to the PM personally, in his hand, right away.’

  ‘But he’s just left for Transport House, Mr Forsyth: to celebrate with all the party workers and everyone.’

  ‘Then you had better get after him, PDQ.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’ She sounded keen on the mission.

  ‘Find the PM. Give him the document — ’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘And come straight back.’

  Rita looked deflated.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  This time the “Yes, Mr Forsyth” was distinctly apathetic.

  I wanted to give Rita an encouraging wink but couldn’t catch her eye. She did a half-pirouette and smartly left the room.

  Forsyth lit a long, slim Dunhill and held it erect beside his head. He stared at me, his ice-chip eyes dispelling all hope that he would show the slightest interest in, let alone appreciation for, the World Cup publicity I had arranged. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted back in his chair and ejected a perfect plume of smoke high into the air. ‘Three years ago, when he vetoed our application to join the EEC, General De Gaulle said, “L’Angleterre, ce n’est plus grand chose”. How does that make you feel, Miller?’

  Whilst my schoolboy French only got me as far as “England isn’t more large…”, I guessed the General’s comment hadn’t been complimentary. ‘Offended?’ I conjectured, tentatively.

  ‘Only offended?’ Forsyth sounded astonished. ‘He said our nation “isn’t much anymore”. He referred to England: but what the ignorant Frog meant was, Britain. I consider it a gross insult. He maligned our country and, therefore, the Queen and every one of her subjects, including you and me.’ Forsyth looked suitably injured. ‘We will prove him wrong, Miller. We have to prove him wrong. Our future admission to the Common Market depends on it.’

  Forsyth sounded genuinely passionate about EEC membership. I found this puzzling. Taking the country into Europe had been a central plank of the Conservative Party’s election campaign. Harold Wilson had appeared distinctly lukewarm about the idea - as, it seemed, the public as a whole were.

  ‘Is being in the Common Market important then?’

  ‘It isn’t important, Miller: it’s vital. Whether we like it or not, the world is changing. The Commonwealth is not what it was. If we are going to forge this new Britain, for the modern, science-led age, and by this means maintain the nation’s rightful place in the world, we must be part of a united Europe.’ Forsyth’s normally calculating tone had become borderline Churchillian. ‘Otherwise, we risk being isolated - a mere satellite of the United States - and surrendering the international influence we have exercised for centuries.’

  This triggered an emotion that, for once, trumped my free-floating anxiety in Forsyth’s presence. ‘Labour’s huge majority shows that the British public have every confidence that this Government will make Britain great again,’ I said with patriotic fervour, emphasising the point with a swing of my fist.

  Forsyth brought me quickly down to earth. ‘We went to the Country, less than eighteen months into the new regime, whilst we could still maintain that the modern Britain Labour promised is a work in progress; whilst the balance of payments problems, pressure on the pound and the such like could still be blamed on thirteen years of Tory misrule; and whilst the electorate remain blissfully unaware of what is in the pipeline. We cannot take the public’s continued support for granted.’

  ‘No. Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of — ’

  ‘The forthcoming economic conditions will be - in the words of the Chancellor - “exceptionally challenging”. Inevitably, bad news stories will abound. We must not only counter them but change the narrative by achieving high-profile successes that create a sense of a country that knows where it is going and is getting there. Otherwise, the national mood will darken, De Gaulle will sneer, “Je te l’avais bien dit” and we can kiss our hopes of Common Market membership and a third term in Government a fond goodbye.’

  ‘I understand.’ Actually, my understanding of the French only amounted to, “I you had good said”; but, from the context, I gathered it wasn’t positive. I tried to anticipate where Forsyth was heading. ‘So is phase II of Operation Jules Britannia about making our hosting of the World Cup one of those successes?’

  Forsyth looked pensive as he gently stubbed his cigarette repeatedly in the centre of the clean marble ashtray in
front of him. ‘The phase II objective, Miller, is quite simply to ensure that on 30th July 1966 the nation is triumphant.’

  I was mute for a moment or two, wondering whether I had misunderstood. ‘Are you saying, for the tournament to be a success from a Government standpoint, England has to win the World Cup?’ I couldn’t help sounding incredulous.

  Forsyth opened a left-hand draw in his desk and took out a slim document bearing the English FA’s three lions coat of arms. ‘This is a report on what I understand has been termed the “Little World Cup”, held in Brazil two years ago. You will no doubt be aware of how we fared.’

  ‘We came last.’

  ‘Precisely. And, according to this,’ Forsyth waved the report menacingly, ‘We lost to our South American hosts, five goals to one. I assume it isn’t a typographical error?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. England’s defence simply couldn’t cope with Pele.’

  ‘Who or what is Pele?’

  ‘The coloured players have sort of nicknames. It's short for Edson Arantes do Nascimento. He’s Brazil’s star inside forward. Jimmy Greaves said he was “on another bloody planet”. Excuse my French.’

  ‘Then we need to make sure that, at our tournament, he’s brought down to earth.’

  I said, ‘I see.’ I meant I understood Forsyth’s objective: I wasn’t accepting for one moment that it was achievable. Pele was the finest player in the world and possibly the best there had ever been. He could win a game on his own. How can you bring such a footballing god down to earth?

  ‘Thankfully that debacle in Rio was only televised in South America. Here, however, there will be comprehensive TV coverage for the first time, much of it live, and it will be transmitted around the globe. So, not only the British public, the entire world will see how England fare - they won't be able to escape it.’

  ‘Really? That will be amazing.’

  ‘It won’t be if we, the inventors of the game, lose in our own green and pleasant land - to a bunch of wogs!’ Forsyth tossed the report, contemptuously, onto his desk.

  ‘No… Of course not.’

  ‘Everyone, far and wide, will consider it proof that the nation, far from returning to greatness, was going to the dogs, and judge the Government accordingly. So your job, Miller, is to use all available resources to ensure this doesn't happen.’

  I was dumbfounded. He didn’t seem to have the remotest understanding of the magnitude of the task the national team - and now, apparently, I - faced. England weren’t world beaters. With the exception of Jimmy Greaves (and with the greatest respect to Our Rog) England’s players weren’t close to possessing the skills and artistry of the Brazilians. And even Greaves, as he himself recognised, was no Pele. Whilst we had invented the game - this was true - the Brazilians had since developed it from a tough, physical sport to a skilful and creative one. Their exceptional ball technique and almost dance-like movement around the pitch, had won them the previous two World Cups, whereas England had never looked like winning one. Since the war, we hadn't even reached the semi-finals. We were fortunate that, as hosts, we hadn’t had to qualify for the tournament.

  ‘Any questions, Miller?’

  I didn’t know where to start. ‘Nothing occurs to me right now.’

  ‘Very well. I'm told England should have a significant home team advantage. You can start by telling me what that advantage is and how we maximise it.’

  I wanted to laugh hysterically. ‘Do you mean now?’

  ‘No, I have no time now. Tomorrow morning, we are flying to Glasgow to see Scotland play England at Hampden Park. Miss Davies has the details. You can tell me on the flight up.’

  I must have looked as desperate as I felt. ‘The PM has a great deal of confidence in you, Miller. You won't let him down, will you?’

  ‘If Mr Wilson thinks I've got the secret to England winning the World Cup, perhaps I ought to put him straight.’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry about that, Miller. The PM leaves his thinking on such matters to me.’ Forsyth turned away in his chair to face the biscuit tin painting behind him. He peered at it in silence for several moments. Then he said, ‘What do you feel when you see “The Monarch of the Glen”, Miller?’

  I assumed he was referring to the painting and was tempted to say “hungry”. But I resisted.

  ‘What do I feel?’ I said, trying to focus. ‘Let me see… err, reverence possibly. Awe?’ I thought I sounded ludicrous. ‘I don’t know why I say that. I’m probably totally wrong. I’m no art expert, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know why you said that. Landseer painted it in 1851 for the House of Lords. He wasn’t intending to pamper the peers with a romantic portrayal of sporting life in the Highlands: he sought to go much deeper and stir their patriotic souls by creating an image that symbolised Britain’s wealth, power and prestige. Awe is precisely what he wanted you to feel. And it’s what Jules Britannia must evoke too.’

  I couldn’t really grasp what he was saying. ‘Oh, is that right? I’ve never actually seen it before. The original, I mean.’

  Forsyth turned back to face me. ‘You haven’t seen it now, Miller. Dewar’s have the original. That’s a fake. A very good one though.’

  Having fled Downing Street, I avoided fretting about the impossibility of completing Operation Jules Britannia by focusing on the immediate challenge of identifying England’s home team advantage and how best to exploit it.

  I spent the afternoon in the Mirror’s reference library, up to my elbows in cuttings from the archives. Many World Cup hosts appeared to have benefited from a home advantage. Of the seven World Cups there had been to date, the home team had won the first two. Following the war, Brazil hosted the 1950 competition and only lost in the final after being one-nil up with twenty minutes to go. Switzerland hosted in 1954. They were rank outsiders, yet they eliminated 1934 and ‘38 winners Italy. Another 500/1 host, Sweden, got to the final in 1958, only losing to Brazil. And the 1962 hosts, Chile, also lost to Brazil, but not before they’d got to the semi-finals.

  But how were these nations advantaged by playing at home? The only clue I could find was that, in 1950, Brazil played five of their six matches in the capital, whereas their opponents had to travel all around their huge country. But that was unlikely to account for, say, Switzerland’s success, or significantly benefit England. So how else did the hosts gain their advantage? More specifically, what could help England prevent Brazil becoming the World Champions for the third time in a row?

  These were questions to which - after a night of drink and drama, and an especially stressful meeting with Forsyth - I struggled to find any answers. Fortunately, as Norman had got the “Mid-Day Scot” up to Glasgow for the England match the next day, I was able, without guilt or deception, to give The Old Bell a miss and head straight home.

  Usually, when faced with a conundrum I was finding difficult to solve, I wouldn’t keep battling with it. I would focus on something else and return to it the following day. I often found that a solution would then readily emerge. But I couldn’t do this with Forsyth’s challenge. He was expecting answers on what would necessarily be an early flight the following morning. So, as I commuted back to Finchley, my head was full of home team advantage.

  The walk up from Mill Hill East station, took me past the playing fields belonging to St George’s, the local Church of England school, where two teams of rangy teenagers were playing football. The home side were in their all white strip; their opponents wore yellow shirts and blue shorts. Like many school pitches, it had its idiosyncrasies. Not only did it slope steeply down towards the Dollis Brook, it had been laid east to west. A visiting team who won the toss might choose to play downhill in the second half, when they were likely to be tiring. A St George’s captain would know, however, that on a fine, late afternoon, such a team could easily be blinded by the setting sun.

  I stopped to watch what I discovered was the last quarter of the match. The sun was low in the sky and the home team were taking full advantage
of playing west to east. At every opportunity they launched high balls into their opponent’s penalty box; on two occasions, the yellow team goalkeeper, clearly unable to see the ball, conceded a goal as a result.

  Wending my way home, I was silently bemoaning the fact that the Empire Stadium, Wembley was, in complete contrast, the epitome of a level playing field. That was until I remembered a conversation I’d had with its head groundsman. When the previous year’s FA Cup final had gone to extra time, I recalled him explaining the effect the Wembley pitch could have on teams, particularly when they had to play for an additional thirty minutes. Whilst I couldn’t remember the detail of what he had told me, I was sure I would have made shorthand notes of what he’d said.

  My pace quickened with the thought that such notes might just give me something to present to Forsyth. So, as I opened our front door, I was praying I could find them.

  But before I could reach my writing room, Nell called out from upstairs, ‘Is that you Harry?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry I’m bit late. I had a rubbish journey home.’ I had telephoned her to say that Norman had left for Glasgow, so I would be back normal time for a meal. I hadn’t calculated for stopping to watch the school match.

  ‘Come up here, quickly.’

  It sounded urgent, so I ran up the stairs. I found Nell standing, wearing the white frilly apron I had given her at Christmas (which, until then, I had never seen her in) staring at the television. For whatever reason, she had made a real effort with her appearance. She hadn’t reverted to wearing false eyelashes; but she had powered her face and applied lipstick and mascara. Also, for the first time in ages, she wore a skirt - and a miniskirt at that.

  ‘Oh, you’ve just missed it,’ she said.

  ‘Missed what?’

  ‘Were you in Downing Street, when Harold Wilson arrived back?’

  ‘Was I what?’ I heard what she said: I was playing for time.

  ‘Outside watching when Wilson, and Mrs Wilson, arrived back at Number 10?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’ I was genuinely puzzled, and decidedly alarmed.