Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  ‘I had the news on - when I was in the kitchen making our tea - and I heard Robert Dougall say something about the Wilsons’ return to Number 10. I got in here just in time to see them walk past someone who looked the splitting image of you. I thought he might come into shot again, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Did the bloke looked tired and in desperate need of a beer?’ I took my pipe etcetera from my jacket pocket and collapsed theatrically into my chair. It had the desired effect.

  Nell smiled sweetly and said, in a low semi-seductive voice, ‘Would you like a Double Diamond? I took back the empties and got you a fresh supply.’

  I nodded and, relieved that the conversation had seemed to have moved on from whether I was in Downing Street, I began to wonder what was behind the “model housewife” performance.

  Nell returned with my beer, perfectly poured in my favourite Worthington stemmed glass. ‘I got us a nice piece of sole for this evening. And chips. With spotted dick and custard for dessert.’

  Recently, when I had suggested Dover sole, she had torn into me about not giving her enough housekeeping. Worried I may have overlooked something, I quickly ran through family anniversaries in my mind. There was nothing on 1st April.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked, trying to appear relaxed.

  ‘Nothing special,’ she said, sounding slightly offended. ‘I wanted to take my Crimplene suit into the dry cleaners - you know, the Windsmoor three-piece one.’ I didn’t. ‘I popped into Macfisheries on the way and this sole had just come in - straight from the boat, they said.’

  ‘That was lucky.’ It didn’t explain her appearance; but I wasn’t going to question that. I didn’t want to risk her reverting to trousers and no make-up.

  ‘Incidentally, I was going to take your suit in as well, but I couldn’t find it.’

  Fortunately, I had prepared a response for this eventuality, which entailed only minimal lying. ‘It’s at the office. The Chairman’s getting fussy about what we wear. So if he’s around, I put it on.’

  ‘What about a shirt and tie?’

  ‘I’ve taken those in as well.’

  ‘Will you bring the shirt back regularly so I can wash it?’

  ‘It’s okay: one of the girls at work takes it to the laundry.’ Of my five statements on the subject, only the third one was untrue.

  ‘Is she called Rita?’

  The name hit me like a sodden football. I fiddled with my pipe and again feigned deafness. ‘Is she called what?’

  ‘Someone called Rita telephoned for you earlier.’

  In an instant, 10 Downing Street and 4 Kingswood Drive had become scarily proximate. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’ I snapped.

  ‘Give me a chance. You’ve only just got in. She left a message…’ Nell went to fetch the message pad I had filched from the office, which we kept on the landing by the phone. ‘Mr Forsyth will meet you seven-thirty tomorrow morning by the BUA desk at Gatwick.’

  ‘Okay. Fine.’

  ‘Are you flying to Glasgow?’

  ‘Well, I’ll wait a long time at Gatwick for a boat.’ It wasn’t like me to be sarcastic; but I was weary and on the defensive.

  Surprisingly, Nell didn’t take exception. ‘Since when has the Mirror sent its reporters by plane?’

  She had a point. Even my most imaginative colleagues would have struggled to get a jet to Scotland on expenses. ‘Forsyth is Scottish.’ True, but irrelevant. ‘Someone he knows gets him cheap tickets.’ Unlikely, but possible.

  ‘Who’s Forsyth?’

  This was why I hated not telling the truth. One lie led to another and, before you knew it, you had created an entire myth. ‘He’s a new smudger. He’s covering the Home Championship decider with me at Hampden Park.’

  Nell appeared to accept this answer and returned to the kitchen. However, just as I got my pipe between my teeth and lit a Swan Vesta, she called out, ‘Who is that Rita I spoke to? She sounded very… I don’t know… official.’

  ‘What does it matter? She was just passing on a message.’

  Nell popped her head out of the kitchen. ‘When a strange woman leaves a mysterious message for my husband, aren’t I entitled to ask who she is?’ She stared at me, waiting for my explanation.

  I gave Rita Sandra’s identity. ‘She’s a copytaker at the Mirror. She types up the copy when the reporters file it over the phone.’

  ‘Why was she phoning?’

  Another good point. ‘She’s going out with Forsyth.’

  ‘And she calls him, “Mr Forsyth”?’

  I felt cornered. ‘Everyone calls him “the Fox”,’ I said brusquely. ‘But she probably didn’t like calling him that to a complete stranger.’

  ‘Why’s he called the Fox?’

  ‘Why the interrogation?’ I sounded sufficiently exasperated that Nell let it go.

  ‘I was only showing an interest in your work - like good wives are meant to.’

  Eager to unearth the notes of my interview with the Wembley groundsman, I retreated to my writing room downstairs. I had kept all my old shorthand notebooks in cardboard boxes I had scrounged from our local grocer. I rifled through the box I had marked “1964/65” and was relieved to find, near the top, my notes for that year’s FA Cup Final. I was devouring the details, thinking through how they could advantage England, when Nell called me up for my tea.

  Over the sole, I let her chatter away about a coffee morning and someone’s son playing an April fool. I sensed that Nell was happier than she had been of late, and so I could safely tune out and apply my mind to the playing features of Wembley’s hallowed turf.

  However, I had to tune back in rapidly when, out of the blue, Nell raised the subject of World Cup referees. ‘Did you know that FIFA are appointing Ken Aston as a Referees Liaison Officer?’

  ‘Do I know that FIFA - what?’

  ‘Are appointing Ken Aston - for the World Cup. He’s a former English referee who—’

  I interrupted. ‘I know who Ken Aston is.’

  ‘He’ll be in charge of the panel of World Cup referees.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I thought you’d be interested. FIFA want to develop a team spirit amongst the officials. They’re all going to stay in the same hotel, apparently.’

  ‘But they can’t have been chosen yet. The panel won’t be finalised until the end of season.’

  ‘That’s only next month.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  Nell stood, took from the sideboard a melamine tray she’d bought with Green Shield stamps, and started clearing the table.

  Her sudden interest in FIFA referees, on top of her appearance and the meal, made me suspicious. ‘You’re very well informed about this,’ I said, in a quizzical tone,

  Initially, she didn’t respond. Then, whilst conscientiously making a space on the tray for the cruet set, she said, sheepishly, ‘I got a letter from FIFA. They’re looking for English interpreters who understand the game and can help develop a good working relationship amongst the officials.’

  I realised then this whole performance had been about trying again to persuade me to let her take a job. I adopted my first line of defence. ‘You don’t like football.’

  ‘Not watching it, particularly. But I enjoyed interpreting for those French and Italian football teams - and for Gavriil Kachalin, you know, the Russian manager, when they came here in ‘58.

  ‘What about your job as a wife and a mother?’ I said, trying to contain my soaring anger. ‘Don’t you enjoy that?’

  Nell was calm but assertive. ‘I need a life beyond domestic servitude, Harry.’

  I breathed deeply and, in a tight, constrained voice said, ‘You could volunteer at the WI. That’s what Vera does. Norman says it gets her out, but not so she can’t do what she needs to indoors. Why don’t you do that?’

  Clearly annoyed by my suggestion, Nell snapped back, ‘Because I want to be with people whose principal concern isn’t whether Omo or Daz washes whiter.’


  My tired mind was nagging me about home advantage and the morning flight to Glasgow with Forsyth; and I was desperate for the space and time to silence it. I shoved my chair back to leave the table. The rear legs caught in the lush Bri-Nylon of our new Cyril Lord carpet and it fell backwards like a stricken boxer. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!’

  ‘Shut-up Harry,’, Nell screamed through clenched teeth. ‘Our daughter is upstairs, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I’m going down the pub.’

  ‘What about dessert?’

  ‘I’ll have it when I get back,’ I barked, as I stormed downstairs. ‘If that won’t be too much trouble.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, 2nd April 1966

  Nell and I didn’t exchange a word when I returned from the pub. And the following morning, she stayed stubbornly asleep while I dressed. Having forgotten to bring my wedding suit home, I had to resort to my Sunday outing attire: a polo neck shirt, grey flannel trousers and the sports jacket with leather elbow patches of which Nell was fond. I hoped that, in Forsyth’s eyes, Hampden Park permitted more informal dress than Number 10.

  Travelling to the airport, I revised for the examination I was expecting on the flight up. Through a combination of my library research, the record of my interview with the Wembley groundsman and some alcohol-fuelled ruminations the night before, I had managed to identify several factors that could potentially give the England team a home advantage. I hadn’t even convinced myself, however, that any or all of them would come close to ensuring that the hosts ended up winners.

  As usual, I had allowed more than enough time for the journey and so was standing by the BUA desk, as instructed, with twenty minutes to spare. I filled in the time by browsing the papers in the terminal’s newsagent. Naturally, they were full of Labour’s landslide victory. The front page of The Guardian had a photograph of Harold Wilson waving outside Number 10 and Mary Wilson glancing to one side, looking amused. Fortunately, who she was glancing at was not considered worthy of inclusion in the shot.

  At 7.29am, I was back at my post. However, it was almost a quarter to eight before Forsyth arrived. He didn’t apologise for his tardiness; but I was more concerned to see that, beneath his Gannex mac, he was wearing a suit and tie. Equally inappropriately for a football match, he was sporting a fedora felt hat and carrying a tan leather briefcase, fastened with buckles and straps.

  Simultaneously, Forsyth noticed my attire. ‘Don’t you have anything appropriate for flying either?’

  Before I could respond, he left me to check-in with the BUA hostess, who greeted him like an old friend.

  I had flown to cover games abroad on several occasions, but always at the back of the plane. So it was only when we had boarded and I had sat down next to Forsyth in First Class that I understood his sartorial gripe. Aside from one Joyce Grenfell look-a-like, all my fellow front row passengers were men; and they were all smartly dressed in suits and ties. I told myself that my style of dress was good enough for Roger Moore in The Saint, so it was good enough for the new, morning BUA One-Eleven jet service to Prestwick.

  As the plane levelled off after take-off, the Captain announced that passengers were free to undo their seat belts and smoke. To my relief, Forsyth took a silver monogrammed cigarette case out of a breast pocket and lit one of his long Dunhills. I took this as a green light to smoke my pipe.

  ‘If you’re going to smoke that thing, stand at the back,’ he said waving his hand dismissively in the direction of the toilet. Fortunately, I had anticipated Forsyth’s objection and had bought ten Players in the newsagents.

  “Sally”, an extremely attractive air hostess, wearing a smart black uniform with red and gold insignia and a pillbox hat, handed us a posh, foil printed breakfast menu and a complimentary glass of Champagne. She had just taken our order - a Darjeeling tea with lemon, and toast and Oxford marmalade for Forsyth, and the full English for me - when the captain announced she had won the Miss London Airport 1966 beauty contest. The cabin applauded enthusiastically - with the exception of Forsyth.

  When breakfast was served, I wished I had followed his example and ordered toast. My compartmentalised, full English looked like play food that Valerie Singleton might have made on Blue Peter. As I delayed tackling the pink skinless sausage, lurid scrambled egg and stiff, brown rashers, by genteelly sipping my tea, Forsyth started his interrogation.

  ‘What home advantage will England have Miller?’ He bit into his half slice of toast like a hungry Alsatian and stared out of the adjacent porthole window.

  ‘I’ll just get my notes.’ I had put them ready in the “kangaroo pouch” in front of my seat. I hurriedly retrieved them, showering my egg in tea and shattering my bacon in the process.

  ‘Firstly, England are used to Wembley’s unique playing surface. Other teams have little or no experience of playing there.’

  ‘So?’ he said, still scanning the Chelsea-blue sky above the clouds beneath us.

  ‘Our players would be better adjusted to the turf, Mr Forsyth.’

  He bolted down the rest of his toast triangle and, with equal impatience, said, ‘But what tangible advantage would it give England?’

  ‘When I interviewed the head groundsman not so long ago, he was emphatic that those who haven’t played at Wembley before find the pitch particularly energy-sapping, they don’t manage their exertion levels as effectively and often succumb to cramp.’

  Without averting his gaze from the heavens, Forsyth nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The turf has an unusual texture. Players who aren’t used to it, when they shoot from range, often blaze the ball over the bar. Bobby Charlton knows how to keep long shots down at Wembley.’ In truth, this last statement was only my conjecture. But having seen Charlton score at Wembley several times from a distance, I thought he must know the secret.

  Forsyth brought his teacup to his lips, with his little finger stiff and erect, and took a series of short sips. ‘What you describe is only a home advantage if England play all their games at Wembley.’

  ‘They do. Well, all but one. Assuming England win their group and quarter final - like Brazil did in Rio.’

  ‘What about the game scheduled elsewhere?’

  ‘The semi-final would be at Goodison Park. There are a lot of football fans in Liverpool. So I suppose it’s only fair they have an opportunity to see their heroes play live.’

  ‘One should only play fairly when one has the winning cards.’ Forsyth suddenly swivelled his head in my direction and glared. ‘That’s what Oscar Wilde said. And he was right.’

  All I knew about Oscar Wilde was that he was a playwright, a poof and he went to gaol. If he had said that, I couldn’t have agreed less. But I wasn’t about to argue the point.

  ‘England did play a warm up game there in January,’ I said, to reassure Forsyth that what he might have seen as pandering to Merseysiders’ interests had not prejudiced the nation’s prospects. ‘So they’ve had a dry run.’

  Having apparently lost interest in the subject of home advantage, Forsyth summoned Miss London Airport 1966 to bring him another cup of Darjeeling, ‘With lemon, not milk.’

  I stuffed my notes down the side of my seat and made a start on my, by now, half cold, pretend breakfast. I had just established that the “scrambled eggs” were in fact made from shredded car-sponge, when Forsyth barked, ‘Didn’t you come up with anything else?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have other points,’ I said, abandoning my attempt to eat and retrieving my crumpled notes.

  The second factor I had listed was that visiting teams would have to live away from their families, in strange surroundings and eat unfamiliar food. The third was that the schedule gave England the maximum recovery period between matches. But in view of Forsyth’s lukewarm reaction to what I thought was a much more significant factor, I passed over these and move straight onto what I thought was England’s other key advantage.

  ‘Wembley - or wherever England play - will be full of home s
upporters cheering loudly for their team. This has been described as being as valuable as an extra player.’ I didn’t mention that, for the West Germany game, Wembley was only three-quarters full and the home crowd had jeered, not cheered.

  Forsyth looked underwhelmed. ‘How so?’

  I ploughed on with feigned enthusiasm. ‘Home fans rally their team: they give the players encouragement and confidence. It has the opposite effect on visitors - and that includes the officials.’

  ‘And, with the officials, the tangible advantage would be what?’ he said, taking delivery of his black tea without so much as a thank you.

  ‘A capacity crowd, almost entirely supporting the home side, can intimidate the referee and - shall we say - make him think twice before ruling against their team.’ I grinned and chuckled to emphasise what I intended to be a humorous understatement.

  Forsyth was unmoved. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know?’

  ‘That a home crowd has this effect,’ he said impatiently. ‘We know that if politicians are presented as being open and honest the electorate are more likely to vote for them, because we have motivational research that proves it.’

  I dreaded what was coming.

  ‘What evidence do you have to show that supporters can motivate a team to win - or persuade a referee to adjudicate in their favour?’

  None. I knew it instinctively because I had witnessed it in football grounds up and down the country. ‘I don’t have any evidence as such — ’

  ‘So it’s just an old wives’ tale, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s true. I have experienced it first-hand, standing in The Kop at Anfield. That’s where thousands of Liverpool’s keenest supporters congregate.’ I pressed the point with passion. ‘I have seen the home side raise their game in response to the Kop singing You’ll Never Walk Alone. I’ve also seen the same crowd intimidate the visitors - officials and players - by booing, whistling and heckling. When Liverpool are playing at Anfield, it is like they have a twelfth man.’

  Forsyth was dismissive. ‘So you say.’

  He summoned Sally and told her to remove his breakfast things and bring him a copy of The Times. He surrounded himself with its broadsheets for the rest of the short flight, leaving me to brood on my apparent failure to satisfy Forsyth’s demand for home advantage.