by Tim Flower
‘Come on then: don’t keep me in suspenders.’
Norman grinned and, as if disclosing proof of the Loch Ness Monster’s existence, excitedly shared his copy of the team sheet.
It was, indeed, a joy to read. Ramsey had reverted to my proposed 4-2-4 formation, with two wingers. The right-winger was no great surprise: Terry Paine was an established international who had scored a hat-trick for England. But Ramsey’s selection of Bobby Tambling on the left was quite remarkable. Chelsea’s dashing star was probably the most naturally talented and entertaining wide-man in England. Yet he had been capped for his country only twice, the last time over three years previously. What was more, he wasn’t in the provisional World Cup squad of forty players, which Ramsey would soon have to reduce to twenty-two.
I was initially disappointed to see he had picked Hurst, and not Hunt, to play alongside Jimmy Greaves. Then I remembered Our Rog had been injured playing for Liverpool. With a thrill I realised the FA and Alf Ramsey had not only read my paper, they had treated it as a blueprint for the match.
‘Ramsey’s robots are dead,’ I exclaimed.
Norman’s eyes widened in response to my apparently fanatical declaration, but he didn’t comment. Instead, having briefly glanced back and forth, he said, ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
I couldn’t tell him I was expecting the Prime Minister’s public relations man. So I said, ‘I’m on my way to England’s dressing room to get a quote or two,’ and headed off towards the tunnel at the east side of the ground.
Having seen Norman disappear into the North Stand, no doubt heading for the press room, I turned on my heels just in time to spot Rita approaching the meeting spot he and I had just vacated.
‘Rita,’ I called out in both surprise and delight.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, hurrying towards me.
She was wearing a stone coloured, gabardine trench coat and had covered her hair with a pretty silk scarf.
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I said. Realising that this might have sounded like a criticism, I added enthusiastically, ‘Not that that’s a problem. It’s nice to see you.’
I looked around for Forsyth. ‘Is the Fox coming separately?’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘I telephoned your home and spoke to your wife, to say he can’t make it now.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to spend the evening in Forsyth’s company, but also concern that Nell had received another “mysterious message” from a “strange woman”. ‘Why’s that?’
She leaned forward and whispered, ‘The Cabinet are up in arms about his S.E.T.’
‘S.E.T.?’
‘Selective Employment Tax. Mr Callaghan announced it, in his budget yesterday.’
The budget always left me cold. When I had seen in the paper the previous day that - to everyone’s surprise - the Chancellor hadn’t increased the tax on beer, tobacco or petrol, I had thanked god and moved on to the sport. ‘What are they up in arms about?’
‘To be honest, I don’t really understand it. But the Fox said Mr Callaghan needs to get people to spend less, to get inflation down. With the local elections next week, the Fox persuaded him not to put up the tax on the things ordinary people enjoy doing, but to increase what employers pay instead.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Most of the Cabinet weren’t told that that’s what would be in the Budget until it was too late for them to do anything about it.’
‘Why would they want to? It sounds like a good policy to me.’
‘It’s not that they don’t like the policy: according to the girls, several of the Cabinet think the Fox keeps them in the dark deliberately.’
Whilst I was interested in the goings-on at Number 10, I was keener to learn more about the message Rita left with Nell.
‘Anyway, you’re here.’
‘Yes, and I’ve got the tickets,’ she said, taking them out of her handbag. ‘So we’re all set.’
As I led her to the stadium entrance, I tentatively asked, ‘You know when you spoke to Nell — ’
‘Is Nell the name of your wife?’
‘Eh yes, yes it is.’ I don’t know why I sounded uncertain. ‘You didn’t let on who you - or the Fox - were?’
‘Of course not. Don’t worry. I just said the Fox wasn’t now able to make it, but I was coming instead.’
‘What did Nell say?’
‘Just that she expected you would go straight from the office to the match, but she would pass on the message if you came home first.’ I must have seemed concerned, because Rita belatedly added, ‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘No, not at all. It’s just… you know: as I can’t tell her about any of this, or who you are, it’s better perhaps if, in future, you telephoned me at the paper.’
Rita said, ‘Oh, okay,’ in a way that suggested that she didn’t entirely see the problem but would do as I had asked.
As we took our privileged seats in the centre of the North Stand, a scan of the stadium confirmed my fears about attendance. Although the teams were due to take the pitch any minute, the stands and terracing were half empty. The Royal Box itself was even more sparsely populated.
England got off to a strong start. After little more than half an hour, thanks to Greaves and Bobby Charlton, they were two-nil up. The home crowd, seemingly excited by the goals and their team’s uncharacteristically expansive, bordering on Brazilian, style of play, were compensating for their lack of numbers with enthusiastic cheering, clapping and singing. I joined in. I was both thrilled and proud that my paper appeared to have had such a strong, positive influence on, not only Ramsey’s team selection but also the way England were playing the game. I couldn’t resist showing off to the only person I could.
‘What you’re seeing now is what I recommended - thanks to you getting me in front of the Fox at the Church House and delivering my paper to Howell.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful.’ Rita said politely, without appearing entirely engaged.
Keeping one eye on the game, I persevered. ‘If England continue to play like this, they’ll have a capacity crowd roaring them on and then who knows how far they can go in the World Cup. They might even beat Brazil.’
‘Do you think so? The Fox would be pleased.’
‘Are you looking forward to the World Cup? Or are you dreading it: three weeks of football on the telly?’
‘I don’t mind watching football. When it’s like this, it’s quite exciting.’ The way she said it, I wasn’t completely convinced. ‘Anyway, I think most people are worrying more about affording their TV than what will be on it.’
‘With the budget you mean?’
‘Not only that. Rent and rates have already gone up.’
I noticed that when Rita talked about non-work matters, her Welsh Valleys accent - which, at Number 10, was barely discernible - became more pronounced. I liked it: it was soft and welcoming.
‘At AEC - you know what’s now Leyland - the union’s demanding a six percent wage rise, just to keep pace with prices.’
This didn’t surprise me. The NUJ were making similar noises. ‘That’s where Barry works, isn’t it?’
As I said this, some Tambling trickery momentarily distracted me. When I realised Rita hadn’t responded, I turned to see her head was bowed. She seemed to be staring at a discarded cigar butt at the tips of her grey court shoes. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
When she looked up, I saw her eyes were glistening and her smile looked forced. ‘I’m fine. Just feeling a little chilled.’
Whilst the temperature wasn’t unseasonably low, the wind tended to whistle through Wembley’s concrete stands. So sat stationary, wearing office attire, one could quickly feel the cold.
‘Here, have this,’ I said, offering Rita the wool lined, silk scarf, Nell’s parents had given me one Christmas.
‘Thanks. But I’m okay. It’ll be ha
lf-time soon, won’t it?’
As if prompted by Rita’s enquiry, seconds later the referee gave a prolonged blow on his whistle and the teams trooped towards the tunnel at the eastern end of the ground.
We retired to the VIP room, which was smartly furnished with round, white linen dressed tables and royal blue, velour chairs. The caterers had laid out a selection of posh finger-food: mini sausage rolls, cheddar cubes with pineapple chunks on sticks and, most appropriately, Huntley & Palmers cheese footballs.
Given the disappointing attendance, we had no difficulty finding an unoccupied table. The temperature in the room was almost tropical; so we soon shed our coats. Rita removed her headscarf to reveal bouncy, curly hair, like the girls in the Silvikrin advert.
A busty cocktail waitress - nearer mutton than lamb - with a Dusty Springfield beehive and a little black dress, tottered over to take our drinks order. Once she had returned with a Cinzano and lemonade for Rita and a scotch and ginger for me and we had toasted, “The New England Team”, I thought Rita seemed more relaxed. However, when I asked, by way of small talk, how often she saw Barry play for London Welsh, instead of a chatty reply, I just got a troubled stare.
‘Sorry, Rita: did I say something wrong?’
She took a large swig of Cinzano. ‘It’s not you,’ she said in a constricted voice, peering down into the glass as if she couldn’t believe what it contained. ‘It’s… Barry.’ She raised her head, visibly composed herself and, looking me straight in the eye, said, ‘We’ve broken up.’
I couldn’t believe it. They had been going out for years. A fortnight ago, she was prepared to surrender her virginity to him. I hated these situations. I never knew what to say. ‘Oh, Rita that’s… ’ I couldn’t think of the right adjective. ‘What happened?’
She emptied her glass too quickly, which made her cough. When she had recovered, she asked politely, ‘I know I shouldn’t, but could I have another Cinzano?’ She pronounced it “Sinzarno”, which would have annoyed Nell. But I didn’t mind at all.
‘Of course, you can.’ I caught Dusty’s attention and signalled for the same again. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I pulled the dish of cheese and pineapple sticks closer to us. I didn’t want any (as far as I was concerned, pineapple was a sweet you had with condensed milk); but I thought it was the sort of thing girls might like.
Rita shot me a sad smile, but ignored the offer, as Dusty arrived with our drinks.
After another large mouthful of Cinzano and taking a deep breath, Rita belatedly responded to my enquiry about her breakup with Barry by saying, in a subdued, almost shameful voice, ‘I didn’t go back to the doctors. I couldn’t go through with it. We aren’t even engaged, after all, let alone married.’
‘You were going to get engaged soon though, weren’t you?’
Rita nodded meekly. ‘When he got his promotion - from assistant to actual engineer. He said he’d be able to save quite a bit of his pay packet, so we could get married next year.’
‘Isn’t he getting his promotion now?’
‘Yes, so he says.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘Why aren’t you getting engaged then?’
Rita’s head dropped. She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered hankie she took from her sleeve, before saying timidly, ‘I told him I wanted to wait until we were married to… you know.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Again, stumped for appropriate words, I resorted to journalistic questioning. ‘What did he say?’
Rita jerked her head up. Glaring at me with incensed eyes, she said in a quavering voice, ‘Do you really want to know?’ Without hesitation, I decided I didn’t. However, before I could articulate this, she blurted out, ‘He said I was frigid.’
Unfortunately, her declaration was immediately preceded by the FA President, Lord Harewood, ringing his glass with a spoon prior to addressing the assembled VIPs, which made her words easily audible by the occupants of his and the other tables near ours.
Rita looked about her in horror.
‘It’s alright. I don’t think anybody heard,’ I lied.
Her face contorted with the effort of maintaining her composure. She forced out, ‘Mr Mears did,’ and glanced towards the President’s table.
Right enough, thick set, with a high forehead and a strong, square jaw and looking healthier than he did at Glasgow airport, the FA Chairman was staring at her with some concern.
She grabbed her handbag and fled towards the internal exit. With the President on his feet, I felt I couldn’t go after her. As soon as he resumed his seat, however, I went to see if she was okay.
I spotted her emerging from the ladies’ toilet looking self-conscious and subdued. After checking she was okay, I pretended our conversation about Barry had never happened and led her back out into the stand just in time for the restart.
During the less eventful second half (there were no more goals, although the crowd continued to enjoy England’s entertaining dominance), my mind wandered back to Rita’s upset. How did she know Mears? I recalled the meeting at Prestwick airport, where it appeared Forsyth knew him quite well. Had they met at Number 10? As the match was winding down, I couldn’t resist discreetly pointing to Joe Mears sat below us and asking Rita casually, ‘Have you met the FA Chairman?’
‘Yes, he’s come to see the Fox several times.’
‘Since the World Cup theft, you mean?’
‘No. I seem to remember, he first came to Number 10 before that - in February I think, not long after you met with the Fox in the downstairs toilet.’
‘Don’t remind me of that!’
For the first time that evening, Rita laughed.
‘Why would the Fox want to see Joe Mears back then?’
‘I’ve no idea. The Fox tells me to arrange a meeting and I do it. Often, I don’t know — ’ Rita stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh, that reminds me. I almost forget. The Fox wants you at Number 10 at nine sharp tomorrow morning. He needs your comments on the proposed referee panel.’ She spoke quickly and anxiously. ‘He was going to show you the draft list at the game this evening, but then he couldn’t come. You will be able to make it, won’t you?’
Having helped to transform the home crowd from baying critics to cheering devotees, I was now looking forward to seeing Forsyth. ‘Of course, Rita. No problem. I’ll be there.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thursday, 5th May 1966
Breakfast the following morning comprised, for me, the usual cornflakes, uneven toast and thin-cut marmalade, served at our dining table with the morning paper. Nell was perched on a chair edge opposite me, nursing a cup of black coffee, whilst Alison sat between us, conscientiously listening to her cereal go “Snap! Crackle! and Pop!”. For a while, we could have been enacting a Kellogg’s advertisement. However, like many family meals had of late, it soon descended into a bickering bout between Nell and me, restrained only by Alison’s presence and my shortage of time.
‘Can we get a golliwog badge?’ Alison asked, unaware she was ringing the bell for round one.
‘When Daddy has collected one or two more tokens.’ I said this without any idea of how many more jars of Robertson’s Golden Shred I had to get through to qualify for a free, white-waistcoated, enamelled golly. The words “one or two more” postponed the issue, whilst maintaining hope that the day would come.
Replacing the lid on what - from a badge collecting viewpoint - was sadly an almost full jar, Nell observed, ‘Given Tuesday’s Budget, I might have to get Sainsbury’s own brand marmalade in future.’
‘What do you mean?’ I was concerned about, not only my breakfast, but my standing with our daughter.
‘The Selective Employment Tax Callaghan’s introducing.’
‘What about it?’
‘It will increase the cost of living.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said confidently, remembering Rita’s briefing on the subject. ‘It’s a tax on employers not consumers.’
‘Who told you that?’
>
‘I… I read it in the paper.’
‘It can’t have been The Guardian or the Standard. They’ve both said that S.E.T. will increase the price of food, clothing, everything by almost four-hundred million pounds. It’s the whole point of the tax: to lower consumption and so reduce the spiralling balance of payments deficit.’
Nell’s analysis was way above my head; but I wasn’t about to admit it. ‘Well, we’ll see. I think it will be a good budget.’
‘Are we getting a budgie, Daddy?’ Alison asked, excitedly.
I didn’t attempt to distinguish a financial plan from a household pet. ‘Not right now, babes. When you’re a little older, maybe.’
Her focus quickly shifted back to badges. ‘Can I have a girl golliwog?’
‘Golliwogs are all boys, I’m afraid. But I think there’s a lollipop man one; you know, like they have outside your school.’
Nell challenged this. ‘Who says?’
I hadn’t actually been up to Alison’s school, but I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a crossing patrol. ‘There’s no lollipop man?’
Nell tossed her head in frustration. ‘I was questioning your assertion that Golliwogs have to be boys.’
‘But they do. They depict the minstrels in the Black & White Minstrel Show, and they’re all men.’ I displayed the lid of the Golden Shred so she could see the picture on it. ‘Look: he’s wearing trousers.’
Alison lent her support. ‘Daddy’s right. Golliwogs have red trousers.’
Nell ignored her. ‘You’re assuming that proves the golly is male. Lots of women wear trousers,’ said Nell, getting up to clear the table. ‘It’s like that poster near the tube station.’
‘What poster?’
‘The one with the slogan, “Don’t ask a man to drink and drive”,’ she said, posting our used dishes and the cereal boxes through the serving hatch, before marching into the kitchen to collect them. Raising her voice, she continued, ‘It assumes a man will be driving and that a woman will be nagging him to have a drink with her. But I drive: you could be nagging me to have a drink with you.’