Fixing Sixty Six

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Fixing Sixty Six Page 21

by Tim Flower


  ‘It’s just, creating that kind of atmosphere would entail fundamental change: England would have to play a different way and with a different team.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. Tell us what you would change and why and leave the rest to us.’

  ‘So I can propose anything I believe will excite the home supporters and get them behind the England team, can I?’

  ‘Anything at all, Miller. Let your imagination run free.’

  I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Forsyth, Ramsey or FA would be interested in my England imaginings. But, without looking idiotic, I couldn’t think of a way of enlightening myself. So, I didn’t comment. Instead, I laid back in my reclining leather seat, fell into an intoxicated stupor and, for the rest of the flight, dreamt of England.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, 18th April 1966

  Once I had returned from Glasgow and got back behind my Imperial typewriter, it didn’t take me long to commit my dreams to writing. Not all of them, of course (that could have strained relations with Nell to breaking point): just those concerning the England team at Wembley. So, I was ready to submit my paper to Forsyth a week ahead of my deadline and had contacted Rita to arrange to this. She had explained, however, that he was so busy preparing for the assembly of the new Parliament on the following Monday and working on the PM’s speech for his re-election by the Parliamentary Party the same day, he had told her not to make any more appointments for him. When I explained that Forsyth needed the paper for his meeting with Ramsey and the FA on the Tuesday, she had suggested I go with her to the Parliamentary Party meeting and she would do all she could to get me in front of Forsyth there.

  The meeting was being held in the Assembly Hall of the Church House, next to Westminster Abbey, where the Church of England was headquartered. Rita met me outside just before midday, when the meeting was scheduled to start, took me into the circular chamber and found us two seats at the back. Travelling to the hall, I had been feeling increasingly apprehensive about showing my paper to Forsyth. The atmosphere inside did nothing to calm my nerves.

  As it was the first post-election meeting of the Parliamentary Party, I had expected it to be an excited, jubilant one. But the three hundred and sixty odd, almost entirely male MPs, seemed tense, sober and restrained. Surrounded by polished oak, heraldic emblems and gilded angels, and with light streaming down through the arched, gallery windows, they spoke in low, respectful voices as if awaiting the start of a state funeral. Feeling like an interloper, I was glad to have Rita accompanying me.

  Although she too seemed on edge. She sat forward in her chair, with her slender stockinged legs tight together, fiddling with the clasp of the handbag she held firmly on her lap. Making conversation whilst we waited for proceedings to begin, she spoke with a seriousness and intensity that I hadn’t experienced before.

  ‘There isn’t much of a party atmosphere.’ I said, light-heartedly. ‘Anyone would think Labour had lost.’

  ‘It’s a very important meeting.’

  ‘Because they’re electing the leader and his deputy?’

  ‘It’s not just that. According to the Fox, the PM has to get the Party and the country excited about what the new Government can achieve.’

  ‘The warm-up act better be good then.’

  Rita wasn’t to be jollied. ‘I think both Mr Brown and the Chancellor speak first. I’m not sure who else does, if anyone.’

  ‘Whoever speaks, I hope they put the Fox in a good mood. I don’t want him grumpy when he reads my paper - or more than usually grumpy, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up: he wasn’t very happy this morning.’

  ‘Oh dear. Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know: he was all right first thing. The only news we’ve had this morning is that they’ve dropped the theft charge, against that docker, Betchley. That shouldn’t have upset him.’

  ‘So Scotland Yard don’t think he was involved in stealing it? I’m not surprised. What about that bloke I saw leaving Central Hall - the one who matches the description of “the Pole”?’

  ‘Shh, Harry!’ Rita looked anxiously about her.

  ‘It’s all right. Nobody heard me.’ I smiled reassuringly, but Rita’s expression didn’t change.

  I whispered, ‘Have Scotland Yard arrested… you know who?’

  ‘No. They aren’t looking for him.’

  ‘Why in heavens not?’

  She shushed me again, before muttering frustratedly, ‘I don’t know.’ She opened her handbag, plucked out a compact decorated with a painted rose, and checked her face. ‘When I asked the Fox that, he looked at me as if I had said something obscene and changed the subject?’

  As she replaced the compact in her handbag, I noticed that the fourth finger of her left hand had a ring on it. Distracted by this, I mumbled, ‘Oh… I see… That’s a…’

  ‘Is there something wrong, Harry?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ I said, snapping back to attention. ‘It’s just… I couldn’t help noticing your ring.’

  As Rita had expected to get engaged in the summer, I wouldn’t have been wholly surprised to see an engagement ring on her finger (although I would have expected her to have announced it and showed me the ring: that’s what women who got engaged did). However, she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring, but a plain, gold coloured, wedding band.

  Rita’s eyes shot down to her left hand, which she then disguised with her right. ‘I forgot to… ’ Her face tightened and flushed. She looked away and up towards the huge glass dome above our heads. Without finishing her sentence, she snatched up her handbag, got urgently to her feet and hurried towards one of the pairs of heavy oak doors punctuating the perimeter of the hall. I was thinking about going after her, when the doors nearest the podium swung open and the congregation fell silent before standing to no more than politely applaud their leaders.

  The two men in front of me proceeded to give each other a mumbling, grumbling commentary on the speeches that followed by George Brown, James Callaghan and a square-shaped man in heavy black-rimmed glasses, who was introduced as Ray Gunter. Whereas, in fact, the Parliamentary Labour Party had just been crowned champions and were destined for five years of dominance, the commentators made it feel like a meeting of a team slipping down the league table who, before long, would be fighting relegation.

  I was wondering how Rita was doing and what she would be making of it all, when she sidled up behind me and whispered, ‘Forsyth wants to see you right away.’ She pointed him out, a sole head peering down from the gallery behind and above Gunter on the podium. I expected to follow her up to where Forsyth was sitting. However, after apologetically squeezing and shuffling my way out of the row, I looked around and saw Rita heading in the opposite direction.

  I made my way upstairs, tiptoed up to the gallery entrance and peered through the glass in the oak swing doors. I could see Forsyth sat, leaning forward, his head propped on the spindled balustrade, staring intently at the congregation. I realised then why he had positioned himself on the gallery. Although he could only hear the speakers, he had the best vantage point from which to see and read the Parliamentary Party’s reaction.

  I had half opened one of the doors and was considering how I could enter inconspicuously, when Gunter finished his speech. Under cover of the merely respectful applause, I slipped inside and made my presence known to Forsyth.

  ‘Good Morning, Mr Forsyth. You wanted to see me?’

  Still gazing below as the applause died, he announced, ‘Yes. There’s a short break now and then it’s the PM.’

  Sure enough, many of the MPs slowly got to their feet and a low murmur started filling the chamber.

  ‘Do you think the session went well?’

  To my surprise, Forsyth turned the question back on me. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

  ‘Me? I… I’ve never been to anything like this before. So it’s difficult to judge. I don’t know whether — ’

  ‘Spit
it out, Miller,’ he said, swivelling to face me. ‘How do you feel having sat and listened to those speeches this morning?’

  The honest answer was, bored and in need of a stimulating cup of tea. ‘I was interested to hear what each of them had to say — ’

  ‘What I need to know,’ he said interrupting, ‘is whether their speeches have filled you with energy and enthusiasm for what the new Labour Government can achieve.’

  I hesitated before answering, ‘To be completely frank… it hasn’t entirely — ’

  His face filled with frustration. ‘Yes, yes. I thought as much.’ He smacked the rail of the balustrade. ‘Well, you’ve now seen, with your own eyes, why winning the World Cup is so important. If our own MPs can become agnostic in little more than a fortnight, what hope is there otherwise of the electorate staying believers for the next five years?’

  ‘Perhaps the Members are just taking a while to get warmed up. I’m sure they’ll give the PM a rousing reception.’ I said this in an effort to lift Forsyth’s mood. In truth, I wasn’t at all sure they would.

  ‘They bloody well better had, Miller. Many of them have got him to thank for their seats.’

  Forsyth got up, ushered me into the row behind his, and then stood with his back to the auditorium, staring down at me. ‘Well? What have you got for me?’

  ‘I’ve prepared the paper you asked for,’ I replied, frantically rummaging in my case for it. I found the top copy and two carbons, one of which I handed to Forsyth. ‘Shall I take you through it?’

  ‘Why? Does it need explaining?’

  ‘Eh… no. I just thought — ’

  ‘Describe for me, Miller,’ he interrupted, tossing the flimsy pages onto a vacant seat, ‘in twenty-five words or less, how we turn Wembley into a cauldron of passion and patriotism.’

  As an experienced reporter, I was used to writing to a word limit or a certain number of column inches. But Forsyth hadn’t set any limitations of that or any other sort. Having carefully crafted twelve-hundred words on the subject, I couldn’t reduce them on command to twenty-five; at least not and do justice to the original. ‘I’m not sure I can, off the top of — ’

  ‘Miller, the first time a writer at my agency presents me with unduly lengthy copy, I put a line through the excess words and give it straight back to him. The copy always proves the better for it. If it happens again, I fire him. A writer incapable of expressing his ideas economically is of no use to me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’ Fortunately, journalistic habits die hard, so I had started my paper with a reporter’s “lead”: a snappy opening designed to hook the reader at the outset.

  ‘How can we rouse our sleeping supporters?’ I read-out, hamming up the mystery and intrigue. ‘Substitute Ramsey’s robots with soccer’s Spitfires: two-winged wonders in a four-two-four formation, thrilling, agile and lethal.’

  ‘That’s twenty-six.’

  ‘I was treating “two-winged” as one word,’ I replied, although I hadn’t actually been counting.

  ‘That’s what it took you several pages to say here, is it?’ he said, snatching up the carbon copy only to toss it away again.

  ‘Errm… yes, but — ’

  ‘Where’s the top copy?’

  I handed it lovingly to Forsyth, praying he wouldn’t blue pencil it.

  He didn’t. Instead he turned and, like a parade ground Sergeant, bellowed to the floor beneath, ‘Miss Davies.’ The congregation hushed momentarily. ‘I need you up here. Now.’

  Rita scurried towards the nearest set of doors and arrived in the gallery moments later, breathing heavily.

  ‘Put this in a brown envelope and address it to Denis Howell MP, would you?’ Forsyth shoved the top copy of my paper into her hand. ‘Mark it “Strictly Private and Confidential” and deliver it to him yourself, by hand, right away.’

  ‘Is he here somewhere?’

  I cringed.

  ‘Don’t be stupid: of course he’s here.’

  Rita’s eyes began to pool.

  ‘I’ll take it to him now,’ she said, holding back the tears.

  He turned to me. ‘You don’t need to stay Miller.’

  Before I could return the discarded copy of the paper to my case, Rita had disappeared through the swing doors and I could hear her hurrying back down the stairs. I followed as quickly as I could but lost her in the throng.

  I did a couple of circuits of the hall but couldn’t find her. Just as I started to wonder whether she had fled, I spotted her standing on the perimeter, clutching a large brown envelope in her left hand, anxiously scanning the mingling Members.

  As I approached, I could see that her left ring finger was now bare. ‘Shall I help you find him?’

  ‘Would you?’ Rita looked relieved. ‘There are so many of them now… Labour MPs, I mean: I’m never sure who’s who.’

  I led the search and soon spotted Denis Howell deep in conversation. ‘He’s over there - the one without the pipe.’

  ‘Talking to Wedgie?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Anthony Wedgwood Benn. The man with the pipe. That’s what they call him at Number 10.’

  I waited whilst she delivered the envelope to the Minister of Sport. When she returned, she thanked me and offered to walk me out. I knew where I needed to go; but, keen to ensure she was okay and perhaps learn the story behind the ring, I accepted.

  As we walked down the stairs towards the stone, arched entrance to the Church House, I said gently, ‘I see you’re no longer married.’

  Rita initially looked puzzled, then noticed my attention on her left hand. ‘Nobody else knows. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. Then I realised she was assuming knowledge on my part that I didn’t possess. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, silly. I’m not even engaged.’

  Just before the sets of heavy doors leading out into Dean’s Yard, she suddenly stopped. With her head bowed, she rummaged in her handbag. A tear splashed the cuff of her Persil-white blouse.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She took out a neatly folded hankie. ‘Barry wants us to… ’ She dabbed her eyes and looked up at me. ‘You know.’

  I did. Barry wanted sex.

  ‘I said we should wait.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Until we were married.’ She paused, shook out the hankie and held it to her nose. After wiping her cheeks, and with fake nonchalance and a forced smile, she continued, ‘But, according to him, nobody does that anymore.’

  Barry was right. When I was young, free and single, “nice girls” didn’t do “it”. Even if you were “the one”, you weren’t allowed anything below the waist. But, according to the colour supplements, The Beatles, discotheques and the miniskirt had changed all that. More and more single girls were, what was called, “fixed up” - took the contraceptive pill - and so were willing to go all the way.

  ‘It’s not that I think it’s bad… to do it when you’re still single, I mean. Not if you’re in love and going to get married. I just don’t want to risk…’ She clasped her hankie to her nose again.

  ‘Getting in the club?’

  ‘Mum would throw me out.’

  ‘Have you said this to Barry? I’m sure he’d understand.’ Actually, I wasn’t at all convinced; but I couldn’t think what else to say.

  ‘He told me to get these pills from the doctor. He says they make it impossible to get pregnant. But they won’t give them to you unless you’re married.’

  This explained Rita’s ring. ‘So you weren’t wearing a real wedding band?’

  ‘Yes, I was - sort of. Barry gave me his Mum’s ring. She’s estranged, you see.’

  ‘Did it go all right - at the doctors?’

  She bowed her head. ‘He asked me all sorts of personal questions. It was horrid. And he couldn’t give me a prescription there and then. I’ve got to go back next week.’ She looked up at me with moist, sad eyes and seemed so vulnerable.

  I felt a strong
urge to hug her. But I resisted it.

  ‘It would be quicker, easier and a whole lot nicer to get married,’ she said with a brave smile.

  ‘And, if you did, Barry would be a very lucky man.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wednesday, 4th May 1966

  Having witnessed Rita safely delivering my paper into the hands of the Minister of Sport, I eagerly awaited a response, either directly from the FA or, more likely I thought, via Forsyth. However, I heard nothing. So, after a fortnight had passed, I assumed it had sunk to the bottom of a FA or Civil Service in-tray and would never see daylight again.

  I did hear from Rita on a related subject. She telephoned to say that the FA had given Forsyth two tickets in the Royal Box to watch the next England international, against Yugoslavia at Wembley, and he wanted me to accompany him. When I told her I couldn’t because I had to be in Dublin that evening to report on West Germany’s match against Eire, she kindly explained that it was more of a command from Forsyth than an invitation.

  So, at seven-fifteen on the evening of the England match, having persuaded Reg to ghost-write the report of the Eire one for me, I was waiting in my wedding suit, below the stadium’s twin towers, to meet Forsyth.

  Olympic Way was busy, but not seething with colourful, boisterous supporters, as one would normally expect half an hour before kick-off. This suggested the crowd wouldn’t approach the stadium’s hundred thousand capacity or even the seventy-five thousand who had seen the previous international there, against West Germany. I was lighting my pipe, fearing that the sterility of that game has deterred a sizable number of supporters, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Howdy stranger.’ It was Norman. ‘Where’ve you been? We’ve missed you in The Bell.’

  ‘I told you: I’ve had this major World Cup project. It’s taken over my life.’

  ‘You won’t have seen the team then.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’ll like it when you do.’

 

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