by Tim Flower
Forsyth, perched on his favourite area of counter-top, was not as forgiving. ‘Where have you been? You were meant to be here at four.’
Before I could blame my tardiness on waiting for him and the Chancellor to agree on how to save the economy, the door I had just been minding swung open and in walked an impish-looking man, of a similar age and stature to Forsyth, whom I didn’t recognise.
On seeing me, he took a step backwards and said, cheerily, ‘Oh, good afternoon. I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Mitchell. I’m the PM’s PPS.’
I hesitated, trying to recall Rita’s explanation of this particular acronym.
Forsyth broke the momentary silence. ‘This is Miller. He’s assisting me.’
‘On Project Jules Britannia,’ I said, to prove I could speak for myself.
Mitchell looked vaguely interested. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.’
Forsyth scowled at me and - again intervening before I could respond - said, ‘It’s only minor - to do with the World Cup.’
‘It had better be minor.’ Mitchell’s strong voice resonated around the half-tiled room. ‘The Treasury is still waiting for an account of the half mill they gave Howell for that jamboree.’
‘Quietly Derek,’ Forsyth whispered. ‘We don’t want to disturb them at 1HGR,’ (This abbreviation, Rita subsequently explained, referred to the Treasury’s headquarters at 1, Horse Guards Road.)
‘Talking of being overheard,’ Mitchell said, adopting Forsyth’s hushed tones, ‘You know you can’t escape Scarlet O’Harridan in here anymore, don’t you Ludo? She’s just purloined the room next door, opposite mine. She’s in there now.’ He nodded in that direction and mimed her listening through the wall with a glass.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Forsyth left his perch and strode towards me. ‘Come on Miller, we’ll go to my club. She won’t get past the front door there.’
The Reform Club was a palatial building, identified only by its address - 104, Pall Mall - on a discreet brass plate outside.
After signing me in (as if reluctantly standing bail for an errant relative), Forsyth led me through a magnificent glass-domed hall and up a narrow, mirrored staircase into a gallery whose walls were covered with huge, arch-framed oil portraits and ornate, plaster decorations. Forsyth motioned for me to sit in a rich leather tub chair, next to the extravagant balustrade.
A smattering of sombre suits on the other sides of the gallery and down below were generating a respectful, bass hum. I could detect polish, cigars and cognac in the air. But the overwhelming odour was that of power and privilege.
Whilst Forsyth ordered afternoon tea from an austere waiter, I took from my haversack the buff folder Rita had left for me and opened it on the glossy mahogany table in front of me. This was a mistake.
Upon seeing it, Forsyth growled through gritted teeth, ‘Put that away. The production of business papers is forbidden.’
As I snatched it up and stuffed it back in my bag, I tried and failed to understand what possible offence some newspaper cuttings about England’s opening World Cup match could cause to the members.
Having banished the cuttings from sight, Forsyth promptly referred me to them.
‘Any further reports like those and England will be playing to even more depleted and dispirited audiences and the belief in the nation’s team - and potentially its Government - could be fatally undermined. Do you understand?’ he said with a glower. There was greater gravity and urgency in his manner than I had detected before.
‘I do, Mr Forsyth. As I wrote in my piece for today’s Mirror, it’s the way England are playing,’ I explained, welcoming the opportunity to have my case heard. ‘You won’t have seen it, unfortunately, because it got spiked.’ Then it struck me Forsyth might not be familiar with newspaper lingo. ‘That’s to say, it wasn’t — ’
‘Your piece was spiked, Miller, because it could have misled the Daily Mirror’s fifteen million readers into believing that the dreary, goalless match that seventy-five thousand in the stadium and many more at home witnessed was not the inevitable consequence of the South Americans’ cynical, unfair style of play, but the fault of Mr Ramsey’s tactics and team selection - the Ramsey who has repeatedly promised that England will be triumphant and in whom the nation has vested so much faith.’
At that moment, the grim waiter returned pushing a dark wood trolley. On the top was a fine bone china tea set - each piece bearing the club’s crest - and underneath, a fully laden, three-tier cake stand, heavy silver cutlery and starched white table linen. This intervention allowed me to reflect on Forsyth’s words.
After the sedate serving of our tea, I responded, mouse-like, with ‘So did you see my copy, Mr Forsyth?’
‘Certainly not.’ Clearly affronted by my suggestion, he cut into a cucumber sandwich as if it was steak. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to do your editor’s job.’ He then had second thoughts about the sandwich, discarded his cutlery and pushed his plate away against an over-filled sugar bowl, causing cubes to cascade onto the table.
As I went to pick them up, Forsyth snapped, ‘Not with your fingers!’
Reaching for the, as yet, unused folded linen next to my plate, I said, ‘I’ll use this serviette.’
‘It’s a napkin, Miller!’ he barked. ‘Use the tongs, man, for God’s sake.’
I couldn’t have got a bigger reaction if I had used my… napkin to blow my nose.
Whilst I struggled to re-stack the cubes with the silver claw-like pincers, Forsyth laid down the law.
‘The fact is, Miller, we are currently facing very stiff challenges. If we put a foot wrong in the coming weeks, it could have the gravest consequences. Do I make myself clear?’
I nodded vigorously, dropping a sugar cube in the process; although I wasn’t at all sure whether Forsyth was still referring to the England’s World Cup campaign or the country more generally - or both.
‘What we need, Miller, are stories that will reignite the nation’s pride and passion. Like the ones you gave the British press in Finland and Norway. Stories that will fill the Empire Stadium with enthusiastic and patriotic spectators.’
That’s all very well, I thought: in Oslo, England had played attractive, expansive football. Fleet Street required no encouragement to eulogise about the team and manager after that performance.
‘Yes, Mr Forsyth. But however much we might want them to take a particular line, journalists can only report the facts.’
‘Of course,’ he said with a condescending smirk. ‘Which is why we need to make sure they have the right ones.’
‘The right ones?’
‘Facts that will show the public that England are an exciting, confident and accomplished team, who will give them an excellent run for their money. Unlike their foreign opponents, who are uninspiring, unsportsmanlike and unworthy of the title, “World Champions”.’
Although thinking it would be easier to find Ronnie Biggs than it would these “right facts”, I was having too much trouble tackling an egg salad sandwich with a knife and fork to question it.
‘So, as well as keeping an eye on what our opponents are getting up to, I want you to pay the England camp some visits. Find some positive stories. Contrast our brave boys with those devious Mexicans and Frogs. And feed it all to your Fleet Street friends.’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Forsyth.’
‘I expect nothing less, Miller. And talking of the Frogs: what’s going on between them and that Jap referee? I’m told they want a meeting with him.’
I couldn’t think what or who he could be referring to. ‘Japanese, do you mean?’
‘Yes, Miller, Japanese. You know, the slanty-eyed ones who bombed Pearl Harbour. Those Japanese.’
‘Yes, I understand. It's just there aren't any Japanese referees. Well there are, presumably, but none of them are on the panel for this World Cup.’
‘Don’t be stupid. He's been allocated England's now vital game against France.’
‘Sorry, Mr Forsyth: I’m not sure who you mean. What's his name?’
‘Oh, I don't know: Kamikazi? Something like that.’
‘Yamasaki?’
‘That's the one.’
‘He's Peruvian, Mr Forsyth.’
‘He’s from South America!’
I pictured the world map that hung on the wall in the geography room at school. ‘Yes, I seem to remember that Peru is just to the right of Brazil.’
Forsyth threw his hands in the air in - I couldn’t help thinking - a rather Latin manner. ‘I know where Peru is! What I didn't know was that we had a South American refereeing such a vital game.’
Both he and I noticed some grey heads turn in our direction.
Forsyth snatched his matching cigarette case and lighter from different pockets of his suit jacket and lit one of his long Dunhills. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said, lowering his voice and shrouding my sandwich in smoke.
‘I didn’t know, Mr Forsyth, that… you didn’t know.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. If Mr Kamikazi is South American, it makes it all the more important that you do your job and discover, PDQ, what the Frogs want to say to him.’
I tried to recover some lost ground. ‘My guess if that they want to draw his attention to England’s tackling.’
‘Do they indeed,’ Forsyth said menacingly.
‘Their manager, Henri Guerin, believes his team’s greatest asset to be the speed of their attacks, especially over the slick Wembley turf. On more than one occasion, he has expressed concern that England’s defenders will unfairly nullify this advantage - particularly Nobby Stiles, who he calls “Le Pugiliste”.’
‘Bloody cheek,’ Forsyth blustered. ‘That’s slanderous. How can he possibly justify that?’
‘Well, in England’s first match, Stiles did tend to climb all over Rocha, Uruguay’s main playmaker.’
‘So what if he did? He didn’t punch Rocha.’
‘No, it was Silva, their winger, he punched.’ I said, reaching for my haversack. ‘It’s all in my report, Mr Forsyth. I’ve got it--’
‘Miller!’ Forsyth screamed through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t. You. Dare.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, 19th July 1966
The events of the week following our tea at the Reform Club would have done little to improve Forsyth’s mood.
England won their next match two-nil. However, their opponent - Mexico - was one of the tournament’s weakest sides and the home team’s performance, before another subdued, under-capacity crowd, was far from convincing. Whilst Fleet Street reported many “right facts” (rarely though, I suspected, because of my efforts), Hugh McIlvanney in The Observer was so unimpressed by England's play he suggested that those who were singing the team's praises ought to be dope-tested.
I had regularly reported on what I had learnt from spying on the Mexican and French camps. The best I came up with from hanging out at Finchley FC was that Mexico’s veteran, Carbajal, thought his protege, Calderon, was the best goalkeeper in the world. I couldn’t see how disseminating this delusion would help England’s cause. Nevertheless, I reported it to Number 10 and spread the word as best I could.
On one of my trips to Hertfordshire, I discovered that France’s manager - perhaps hoping or even expecting England’s match against his team to be officiated more strictly than their previous two - had required his players to spend an hour each day practising free-kicks. Whilst I considered it neither vital intelligence nor effective propaganda, this too I dutifully passed on to Forsyth and Fleet Street.
My efforts to illustrate how the England team were taking the world by storm were no more impactful. My top story was “Nobby Stiles: sporting all-rounder”. Besides his proven footballing and, latterly, boxing skills, I discovered - watching the squad play cricket and golf at Roehampton - that Stiles could not only bat and bowl but also sink a six-foot putt with remarkable regularity. Yet, in all honesty, the only remotely newsworthy aspect of this was that he could achieve it all without kicking anyone. I didn’t think for a moment it would ignite the nation’s passion for England’s World Cup campaign.
Fortunately, Forsyth had apparently been too busy firefighting in the Cabinet and concealing the real fact that the economy was going down the toilet to read my reports or judge my efforts at promoting the “right” ones. I knew, however, that if the British public hadn’t caught World Cup fever by the quarter final stage, I would be for the high jump, nonetheless.
This worry was partially responsible for disturbing my sleep on the eve of the England v France game. The other contributor was a frightened phone call from Ma to say that Da had been taken to Birkenhead General Hospital in an ambulance.
Due to anxiety and a shortage of shillings for the phone, Ma had gabbled, which made it difficult to establish the facts. However, they seemed to be that Da’s neck and face had swollen up and he was having problems swallowing. The ambulance men didn’t know what was causing it; they just concentrated on reducing his blood pressure. Ma wasn’t allowed to travel with him in the ambulance or see him at the hospital later that day. Close relatives, she had been told, could visit him the following afternoon, between three and four o’clock.
Understandably, Ma wanted to seize this opportunity to see Da, and she asked me to accompany her. Although the Uruguay v Mexico match at Wembley was scheduled for that afternoon and I was due to report on it, I couldn’t possibly decline; nor did I want to. So, as the pips went - and hoping I could see enough of the match on the television to rustle up six hundred words of copy - I hurriedly agreed to meet her at the hospital.
Not surprisingly, I woke up the next morning late and in a mood. I got downstairs to find: the dining table bare; Alison slumped on the settee engrossed in her new Robin And Story Time comic; and Nell in her working suit, perched on the edge of her chair, adeptly applying an insipid coloured lipstick with the aid of her compact mirror.
‘Do I have to make my own breakfast again?’ I asked, although I was almost sure of the answer.
‘I have a briefing this morning, Harry,’ Nell replied, without averting her eyes from her reflection. ‘And I still need to take Alison round to Jane’s. So what do you think?’
I ignored her condescension. ‘Why do the referees still need a briefing? Don’t they all know the score by now?’
She finished painting her lips, before responding, ‘They only know the score - as you put it - so far. And in the light of Sir Stanley Rous’s film, some of them seriously question that.’
‘Film? Since when has the President of FIFA made films?’
‘I didn’t say he made it: the commentary is by him.’ Adopting a cynical tone, she elaborated, ‘Apparently, FIFA produced it to ensure referees share, what Ken Aston called, a “common understanding” of what is fair play and foul. The first half comprises clips of exclusively northern-European players tackling aggressively, even dangerously, which Rous, in his commentary, deems fair. Then it shows Latin players rolling around on the ground apparently in agony and remonstrating with officials, which Rous judges to be, quote, “play-acting”.’
Regardless of the merits, I found myself defending the FIFA President. ‘Rous was an international referee who, in the thirties, rewrote the Laws of the Game. If he says a tackle is fair, I for one am not going to argue with him.’
‘No. And nor are any of the referees who saw the film. That’s the point.’ She snapped her compact shut. ‘The Argentinian and Brazilian officials especially are very unhappy. They’ve complained to Ken Aston.’
‘About the film?’
‘Yes. They’ve alleged it incited the West German, Tschenscher, to referee Brazil’s first match unfairly and in a way that put the players safety at risk - especially Pele.’
‘I know Bulgaria’s wing-half, Zhechev, gave Pele a bit of a rough ride, but there was nothing unsafe about it.’
Nell shot upright, as if the arm of her chair had suddenly become red hot. ‘A bit of a rough ride?’
she said, glaring at me incredulously. ‘He brutalised him! You saw the highlights: Tschenscher should have sent him off. But he didn’t even book him, despite poor Pele being injured so badly he couldn’t play in Brazil’s next match. In fact, he might not even be fit to play today.’
Whilst England, West Germany and the other pretenders to Brazil’s crown would have been delighted to learn that Pele might still be unfit to play, I had distinctly mixed feelings. Overnight, I had decided that I would try to combine visiting Da with seeing Brazil play Portugal at Goodison Park in their final Group game. Since Brazil (without Pele) had lost to Hungary in their previous one, unless they beat Portugal comfortably, they would be out of the World Cup. Portugal were one of the stronger sides in the tournament. So, if Pele didn’t play, it was highly unlikely I would ever have another opportunity to see the world’s greatest ever footballer do his stuff.
‘Who says he might not play?’ I asked, hoping I could dismiss the source as unreliable.
‘Brazil’s coach.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He said so in a written complaint to FIFA.’
‘Feola has complained too?’
‘Yeah. They gave us a copy of it - and Rous’s response.’ I must have looked unconvinced, for Nell grabbed her handbag/briefcase and started rooting around in it. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’
After a few false starts, she picked out a two-page letter. ‘Here you are. See for yourself,’ she said, thrusting it into my hand.
All I recognised was the Brazilian team badge. ‘It’s in… Spanish,’ I said, offering it back to her. ‘For all I know, Feola could be congratulating FIFA on their smooth running of the tournament.’
Nell gave me her “how can you be that stupid” look that she often directed at Take Your Pick contestants on the TV. ‘It’s not Spanish, it’s Portuguese. And you’ll find it in English over the page.’