Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  Whilst I had a good deal of sympathy with the NUS - and knew that Da and his fellow dockers would be right behind them - hearing this made me feel that perhaps three days abroad wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  At least it wouldn’t be if Nell would iron my favourite Van Heusen shirt and I could find some batteries for my travel shaver.

  I hurried back downstairs and was relieved to see that she was busy at the ironing board and that a pile of pressed clothes, which included the shirt I needed, was mounting to one side.

  ‘Where’s Alison?’ Although I had noted that she didn’t appear to be upstairs or with Nell, my question was merely intended as an icebreaker. It failed.

  ‘It’s Monday. She goes to Brownies, remember?’ Nell didn’t even look up.

  I tried again. ‘Did you hear about the state of emergency? Sounds a bit heavy-handed to me.’

  Nell pressed the iron down on a pair of my Y-fronts with unnecessary vigour. ‘You won’t be saying that when we’ve only got Spam for tea.’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. On The World at One, they were talking about a return to rationing.’ Nell slammed down the iron, forcing steam to escape in an angry whoosh.

  I retreated to the kitchen and rummaged in vain through our tin of electrical spares, for shaver batteries. Then I remembered Nell’s Ladyshave. I went back upstairs and searched for it in her bathroom cabinet. To my disappointment, I found it didn’t take batteries. As I put it back in the cabinet and wondered why Philips didn’t allow ladies to shave when abroad, I noticed a sheet of vellum paper, folded in three, on the shelf above. I lifted the top flap with my index finger and immediately recognised the FIFA 1966 World Cup logo. Having closed and locked the bathroom door, I unfolded the document and discovered to my horror it was a letter confirming Nell’s appointment as a referees’ interpreter.

  I shot downstairs.

  ‘How come you’ve got this job?’ I said, tossing the letter onto the ironing board in front of her.

  She calmly replaced the iron in its holder, picked up the letter and used it to bookmark her place in The Bell Jar, which she had left open beside her chair. ‘FIFA were keen to recruit Russian interpreters for the World Cup. I speak three foreign languages fluently, including Russian, and have previous experience of working in football. They said I was ideal.’

  ‘I don’t understand: there won’t be any Russian referees. The Government won’t let them in the country, in case they’re spies.’

  ‘Nonsense. The Soviet Union have a team in the tournament; so they’ll be twenty-two potential spies here anyway - not counting our own home-grown ones. Another one or two won’t make any difference.’

  I tried a different tack. ‘You constantly complain about feeling tired. Why do you want to take on unnecessary work?’

  ‘It’s only a temporary, part-time job, over less than 3 weeks. Anyway, I’ve told you: I need a break from domesticity and some proper adult company.’ She drew on her cigarette and exhaled forcefully. ‘And Dr Finlay agrees.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with him?’

  ‘He’s treating me for my nerves, isn’t he. He said a little temp work would do me good.’

  ‘Oh, did he? He knows nothing about our circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’ said Nell, with a sneer.

  ‘Who will look after Alison, for example?’

  ‘The briefings for the referees will take place in the morning. So I’ll be back before Alison gets home from school.’

  ‘What about lunchtimes?’

  ‘Alison says most of the other girls have lunch at school. So I asked her whether she wanted to. She was really excited about it.’

  ‘What will happen when she breaks up from school?’

  ‘Her holiday will only coincide with three mornings in the final week of the competition, and Jane has invited Alison to play with her Rachael then.’

  ‘Who is Jane?’ I said, my frustration beginning to simmer.

  ‘I told you. She’s Alison’s best friend Rachael’s mum.’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? What’s the problem: can’t you bear living in a nice house, with all mod cons and me looking after you?’

  ‘Maria said you’d be threatened by it.’

  I wasn’t threatened: I was enraged. ‘Who the fuck is Maria?’

  ‘Why are you getting so het up?’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk: you’re always yelling.’

  With exaggerated composure, Nell said, ‘Maria is my friend from New York, remember?’

  ‘Oh, I might have guessed that bitch would be behind this.’

  Nell killed the remains of her cigarette in the crowded ashtray, turned and gesticulating in my face - her right thumb pressed hard against her first and second fingers, as if squeezing the life out of my words - she shouted, ‘Don’t you dare call her that!’

  I had no intention of retreating. ‘Tell the entire world you can’t face bringing up your own kid, why don’t you?’

  Nell picked up handfuls of my freshly ironed clothes and hurled them at me, followed by the contents of her ashtray. When she had exhausted her ammunition, she screamed ‘vaffanculo!’ (“fuck you!”) and ran upstairs.

  I pursued her to the foot of the stairs and yelled, ‘This is England: speak fucking English!’

  Returning to the lounge, I realised I had just trodden ash into my favourite shirt.

  It was an utter mess.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Saturday, 25th June 1966

  Once I had returned from Yugoslavia, my working life assumed the usual closed season subduedness. I had telephoned Rita regularly to see if there was anything for me to do at Number 10. On each occasion, she told me in effect that Forsyth was exclusively focused on preventing, what he called, “the seamen’s communist provoked strike against the nation” from wrecking Operation Jules Britannia.

  At home, relations with Nell remained tense. Although we still talked to one another, our conversations were short and limited to delivering essential communications or exchanging awkward pleasantries. So I had taken to postponing my return from work by going via the Mucky Duck. And since I had been doing nothing for Forsyth which I could let slip, I had also reinstated Friday drinks with Norman - in a big way. This was how, a little more than a month after my ding-dong with Nell over her FIFA job, I came to be opening Friday’s second post on Saturday morning, with a thick head.

  In the football themed letter rack in my writing room, I found three envelopes addressed to me. Two of them were brown with a window and proved, as I suspected, to be bills: from the GPO and the London Electricity Board. I was in no mood to pay money, so I discarded them in my “Pending” tray. The third was a white, pocket envelope, upon which my address had been mistakenly typed as “London N1”. Scrawled in blue biro next to my name, beneath the special 4d World Cup stamp, were the words, “Not known at Elm Park Avenue”. Given that I lived at “Elm Park Close”, this was not surprising. Furthermore, the erroneous “N1” had been corrected in what looked like red crayon, to read “N3”.

  I looked at the postmark. The letter had been sent from “London WC2” eight days previously.

  Irritated by the sender’s incompetence, and with my head starting to pound, I ripped the envelope open. In it was a typed letter on Football Association headed paper from the Chairman, Joe Mears, which I started to read:

  Dear Mr Miller,

  ENGLAND’S EUROPEAN TOUR - 26th June to 5th July 1966

  The Association wishes to appoint a temporary Press Officer to represent it at England’s forthcoming tour of Europe. This will comprise four matches, over ten days, in Finland, Norway, Denmark and Poland. The appointee’s principal function will be to highlight, for the football press, the team’s triumphs and the individual attainments and accomplishments that contribute to them.

  With your experience and reputation as a football writer, the Association considers you to be id
eally suited for this nationally important role. Accordingly, with the Daily Mirror’s permission and indulgence, and on the Associations behalf, I am delighted to inform you that the Association have today appointed you to this honorary position.

  Questions invaded my mind. How could Mears be appointing me to a position I hadn’t applied for? Why hadn’t they chosen one of the more renowned English football writers - like Geoffrey Green, or Brian Glanville at The Sunday Times? Whilst the Mirror would, presumably, continue to pay my wages, what about travel and subsistence? Most important of all: as a journalist trained to report the facts - without fear or favour - how could I adulate the England team come what may?

  The telephone ringing interrupted my thoughts and jarred my sensitive head. I waited to hear if Nell answered it, and she did.

  I returned to the letter.

  Please meet me at my club (The In & Out) on Friday, 24th June at 3 pm, when I will brief you on your appointment and give you your itinerary and tickets. In the meantime, I would ask you to make such personal arrangements as are necessary to enable you to fly to Helsinki on the morning of Sunday, 26th June.

  The briefing was yesterday: I had missed it. What could I do? I had no means of getting to Finland, the next day or at all. And I wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone at the FA until Monday.

  As I ricocheted around the issues raised by the letter, I heard Nell shout from upstairs, ‘Harry, it’s for you.’

  I called back, ‘Who is it?’

  After a beat, and in a cold, suspicious voice, Nell replied, ‘Mister Forsyth.’

  This triggered a volley of new issues. Why was Forsyth ringing me, at home, on a Saturday? Did Rita place the call and speak to Nell? What did Forsyth and/or Rita say to her? Had Nell realised Forsyth isn’t a photographer and Rita’s his secretary not his girlfriend?

  I could have taken the call on the telephone in my room; but I couldn’t risk Nell not replacing her receiver and listening in. So, I raced upstairs, through the two lounge doors, to find Nell guarding the one at the foot of the upper stairs.

  With one hand gripping the receiver and the other clasped over the mouthpiece, she whispered curtly, ‘He said his secretary has been trying to get hold of you since yesterday.’ She gave me a chastising glare, thrust the receiver against my chest and marched off, slamming the door behind her, making the wrought iron and glass in it rattle like a snare drum.

  With my head protesting, I announced myself to Forsyth.

  ‘Why haven’t you responded to Mears’ letter?’ came the response, without so much as a “good morning”.

  I had begun to explain that it had been delivered via a similar address in Tottenham and had only arrived in my hands moments earlier, when he interrupted me with, ‘I’m not interested, Miller. Just get your backside down to the West London Air Terminal by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. A ticket for the next flight to Helsinki, and everything else you need, will be in left-luggage locker number twenty-one. Have you got that?’

  It was an easy one to remember. ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth, number twenty-one: key of the door. Talking of which, where do I get the locker key?’

  ‘Tell them your name at the enquiry desk and they will give it to you.’

  I was keen to vent my concerns about the appointment and get answers to my questions. I was also wondering why he was following up on the letter from Mears, rather than the FA. But before I had a chance to say anything else, Forsyth ordered me to report to him, without fail, as soon as I got back, and hung up.

  Presumably having heard me replace the phone’s receiver, Nell opened the lounge door, drew sharply on a Consulate and exhaled like a dragon. ‘How come your friend and colleague, Mr Forsyth, speaks with a posh accent, refers to you as “Miller” and has a personal secretary?’ she said with the tone and body language of a sceptical detective. ‘Has the Mirror begun recruiting its sports photographers from the landed gentry?’

  I instinctively reacted with a new line of defence.

  ‘That wasn’t the Fox. It was a different Forsyth.’

  ‘Really?’ she said mockingly. ‘Was it Bruce? Does he want you on his show?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He works for the FA. They want me to cover England’s tour of Europe for them.’ I offered her Mears’ letter by way of corroboration. She ignored it.

  ‘His secretary should learn some manners. I assume she was the one responsible for the abandoned calls yesterday?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ In fact, I was certain that it was Rita. When Nell answered, not me, she hung up. However, being a Saturday, Forsyth would have had to have placed that morning’s call himself. ‘What I do know is that I’m flying to Helsinki tomorrow morning, I’ll be away for ten days and I need to pack.’

  ‘Deserting a sinking ship, eh?’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ I said, responding to her gripe with feigned optimism. ‘By the end of next month, the strike could be over, England could be world champions and the whole country could be swinging.’

  She looked me in the eye and scoffed, ‘I was referring to our marriage.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday, 26th June 1966

  I had arranged for a cab to take me to the West London Air Terminal the following morning, hoping the FA would reimburse me. In the past, I would have had Nell drive me. But given the events of the previous day, I didn’t want to ask the favour or risk an hour-long argument.

  The roads were so quiet, it was barely half-past eight when we followed one of BEA’s navy blue and white Routemaster buses up the approach to the terminal buildings: a jarringly modern, steel and glass tower emblazoned with the BEA logo, attached to a matching rectangular box. We drove up the “In” ramp - a squat, concrete helter-skelter for cars and taxis - and pulled up outside the departures area on the first floor.

  I was still paying the cabbie, when a young porter with a peaked cap perched jauntily on the back of his head chirped, ‘I’ll take them for yer,’ and started stacking my luggage onto his red metal trolley. By promising him a two bob tip, I got him to take me inside the vast, pillared concourse to the enquiry desk - where I collected a small, square envelope with my name on it containing a lone stubby key - and onto the nearby bank of left luggage lockers. There I inserted the key into the door of number twenty-one and was relieved to discover inside, a bulging, brown foolscap envelope addressed to me, marked “Strictly Confidential. Addressee Only.”

  Not wanting to open it in front of the porter, I had him drop me by the check-in desks and paid him off. Then shielding the envelope from the queues of well-healed flyers, I cautiously removed its contents.

  There were two thin bundles of foreign bank notes: 130 “MARKKAA” issued by “FINLANDS BANK” and 300 “KRONER NORGES BANK”. Although I hadn’t a clue what a tenner in either currency would buy me, I suddenly felt as affluent as my fellow travellers looked. The feeling didn’t last long. In a BEA cardboard wallet, I found my airline ticket and discovered I was booked on their 10.50 flight to Helsinki - in tourist class.

  The other items in the envelope were an itinerary, what appeared to be a briefing paper and a list of newspaper contacts. I glanced down the latter and saw all the usual suspects’ names, including my Mirror colleague, Ken Jones. I could hear them pillorying me for “going over to the other side”.

  My cheap seat proved to be next to the window, in the cabin’s penultimate row. It had just enough legroom for Jimmy Clitheroe and the only complimentary extra was a lavatory odour. The flight was full and, according to our air hostess, the man who occupied the aisle seat beside me was a Finnish Olympic weightlifter. I could believe it because, with the armrests down, he couldn’t fit into his seat and he didn’t speak any English.

  As soon as we were airborne and I could smoke to ease my tension and hide the toilet smell, I read the briefing paper to discover what its anonymous author expected of me. In contrast to the formal, rather pompous tone of the letter advising me of my appointment, its language was rhetorica
l, punchy and direct. The summary read:

  Your job is to enable the English press to excite their readers’ interest in the forthcoming World Cup and instil in them the belief that their country is on course to win it. For the opening match, the FA wants to see a hundred thousand supporters packed into the Empire Stadium Wembley - and hear of millions crowding around their televisions at home - roaring England to victory with patriotic pride and passion.

  This, and the detailed brief that followed, had Forsyth’s hallmark and revived my scruples about the role. I was a football reporter. My job was to describe faithfully to my readers what they would have experienced had they, like me, been following the tour. It wasn’t to tell them what Forsyth, the FA or anyone else would have liked them to experience. I dealt in fact not fantasy. It was okay to embellish a story, provided it told a higher truth. But the brief had already determined what the truth of the tour would be and demanded I promote it regardless of what in fact transpired. As my neck stiffened, and I began to lose all feeling in my legs, I prayed to God that the England team would give me enough factual threads to spin that truth, so I wouldn’t have to sell my soul to the propaganda devil.

  In the eighty-degree heat of Helsinki’s Olympic Stadium, they didn’t let me down. Their performance was solid and workmanlike, rather than the expansive and inspired one that would have made my job easier. Nevertheless, they scored three goals and, despite Hunter - Moore’s replacement in defence - failing to impress, didn’t concede any.