by Tim Flower
‘What did Yamasaki say about it?’
‘Nothing. Although, according to Ken Aston, he told FIFA that he hadn’t seen any foul play and only became aware after England had scored that Simon was down injured.’
‘But it happened right under his nose. He couldn’t possibly have missed it.’
‘Clearly, FIFA believe he did. They have already dismissed the complaint against him.’
‘Yamasaki ought to get his eyes examined. England’s other goal was obviously offside - much as it pains me to say so - and he didn’t spot that either.’
‘He’ll need to do it quickly. He’s already been earmarked as one of the linesmen for England’s semi-final - assuming they get that far.’
‘You’re joking.’
The look on Nell’s face told me she wasn’t.
Whilst I hadn’t yet descended to Nell’s level of cynicism, my journalistic brain was now demanding explanations for the tournament’s mounting number of discomfiting features. Hoping she might help me find them, I followed her into the hall as she went to hang up her mac in the cloakroom cupboard, and casually asked, ‘Was Mr Radford at the briefing?’
‘Who’s Mr Radford when he’s at home?’
‘FIFA’s Referee Support Officer?’
‘I wasn’t aware they had one,’ she said, closing the cupboard door with a dismissive thud.
‘I’m told they do.’
She shot me a quizzical glance. ‘Now you mention it, there was one man there I recognised from previous briefings that could have been him.’
She perched on the upright chair we kept next to an entirely redundant (as far as I was concerned) umbrella stand and removed her high heels with a relieved sigh.
‘I’d like to find out more about him. Could you call FIFA headquarters for me and see what information they can give you?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything they can tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a nosey journalist.’
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘I don’t speak French, do I.’
‘I know. Your grammar school rather let you down in that respect, didn’t it,’ she said, as if I was a job applicant with a shaky CV. ‘But why does that matter?’
‘Because FIFA are based on the continent, in France, of course. I’ll have to get past the French operator and FIFA’s telephonist before I have any chance of reaching an English speaker.’
‘No you won’t. The Federation Internationale de Football Association are headquartered in Zurich, Switzerland.’
‘You’re an Italian-born linguist. Italy borders with Switzerland. Surely you know some Swiss?’ I said, feeling rather frustrated.
Her look left me in no doubt that, had she been a prospective employer, I wouldn’t have been offered the job. ‘No, I don’t. Because there’s no such language. In Switzerland, the majority speak a type of German.’
I tried to laugh off my embarrassment. ‘Can you place the call, anyway? The only German I know is “Sieg Heil”.’ As soon as I said it, I realised the humour would be lost on Nell.
She scowled at me contemptuously. ‘Bastardo ignorante.’
I got the insult - despite foreign languages not being my strong point. ‘Oh, come on. I was only being flippant.’
‘Yeah. Very funny,’ she said, with the face of a sullen undertaker, and got wearily to her feet. ‘How’s Alison been?’
Attempting to lift her mood, I responded cheerily, ‘Okay, I think.’
It didn’t work. ‘What do you mean, “I think”?’
‘She was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her to find out.’
Nell tutted and hurried up the stairs, armed with a high heel in each hand. I followed, hoping I wasn’t about to be confronted with evidence of neglect.
Fortunately, Alison was lying on the settee with her eyes shut, looking the picture of contentment. She must have woken up at one point, because Sindy was now lying on the carpet topless, her nightie having been swapped for the bottom half of her air hostess uniform.
Having established that her daughter was alive and not in need of emergency resuscitation, Nell’s focus quickly shifted to the England World Cup merchandise adorning the room.
‘What the hell is that?’ she said, pointing at the England supporters’ Union Jack that was concealing her mother’s painting. She paced towards it; but then the football ice bucket seemed to grab her attention. As if picking up something germ ridden, she lifted the lid by the small, silver-coloured footballer that formed the handle. She peered inside and pulled the same face she did whenever I made myself tinned spaghetti on toasted Wonderloaf.
‘I thought it time we got behind the England team, showed our support, waved the national flag,’ I said airily. ‘Well, hung it on the wall, anyway.’
She strode back towards our sleeping daughter, picked up one of the beer mats, tutted and tossed it back onto the table. ‘I hate all this faux patriotism.’
‘What do you mean? England are in the quarter-finals of the World Cup. Isn’t that something to be proud of?’
‘So what? So are North Korea.’
She grimaced as she spotted the pennants around the TV. ‘Are you aware that most of the toys, clothes, even electricals we buy these days are no longer made here?’
I gave a little shake of the head, uncertain where Nell’s question was heading.
She plucked Sindy off the carpet and thrust the doll’s half-naked rear in my face. ‘Look. What does it say there?’
By leaning back and delicately pulling Sindy’s skirt down, I could just make out the words embossed on her waist. ‘MADE IN HONG KONG,’ I said tentatively.
‘Precisely. That ridiculous ice bucket and all the rest of this nationalistic tat will be the same.’ She marched back over to the Union Jack and tore it down off the wall, almost bringing her mother’s artwork down with it. ‘Face it, Harry: this country is going to the dogs. Let’s not pretend otherwise.’
Expecting a post-mortem on my reaping and spreading of “right facts”, I was feeling more than usually apprehensive about my three o’clock meeting with Forsyth. Fortunately, I had a seamless journey into town and arrived at Number 10 early with plenty of time to compose myself.
Rita was away from her desk and Brenda was mechanically filing papers in the grey metal cabinets behind her desk, slamming the heavy drawers shut as she went.
‘Mrs S is outside, Brenda,’ I called over to her cheerfully. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
She paused mid-slam, thought for a moment and then said, ‘Thank you Mr Miller. I like it not too strong, with just half a teaspoon of sugar. And a garibaldi would be nice, if she has one.’
‘Is Rita on an errand?’
Brenda shook her head and, in a rather reproachful manner, said, ‘She’s gone to powder her nose.’
‘Do you think she would like a tea when she gets back?’
‘Definitely not.’
The abruptness of her response took me aback. ‘Oh. Okay. Tea for two then.’
I was halfway out of the door, before Brenda belatedly explained, ‘For some reason, she’s gone off it. She drinks that ghastly cordial instead.’
Whilst serving Brenda with an anaemic cup of tea and the last garibaldi biscuit, I asked her a favour in return. ‘I need to check something with FIFA’s head office in Zurich. Would you mind telephoning them for me, Brenda? I’m afraid I don’t speak Swiss German - or German German for that matter.’ I chuckled.
She looked like I had asked her to assassinate the PM. ‘We aren’t permitted to use office phones to make personal calls.’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t be a personal call. It relates to the work I’m doing for the Fox - Mr Forsyth.’ I said, stretching a point to almost breaking.
She seemed to buy it, but only just. ‘What do you need to know?’ she said reluctantly.
‘Whether they employ someone by the name of Dick or Dave Radfor
d - as a Referee Support Officer or something similar. That’s all.’
‘Who do I say wants to know?’
‘You can give them my name and explain that I’m an English journalist writing a feature on World Cup referees.’
‘And if they do employ this Mr Radford: what then?’
‘Just thank them and hang up. I don’t need to speak to him.’
Before she could accept or decline my request, the phone on Rita’s desk rang.
Having checked that Rita wasn’t about to return, Brenda crossed the room and answered it. ‘Mr Forsyth’s office.’
The caller was obviously someone important, for she rapidly circumnavigated Rita’s desk (deftly raising the receiver’s cord just in time to avoid spilling an almost full bottle of Ribena), plucked one of the assorted coloured biros sprouting from a “TENBY” souvenir pot and, with the handset expertly held between her chin and right shoulder, started scribbling manically on the back of the first piece of paper she could find.
Once she had finished her memo, she stood to attention with the receiver now firmly in hand and, staring into the middle distance, declared in her best telephone voice, ‘Yes, I’ve got that, Mr Forsyth. Quarter past three at the Post Office Tower restaurant, in Maple Street, on the thirty-fourth floor. I will let him know right away.’
As she ended the call, Rita came in carrying a large chocolate eclair balanced on a small tea plate.
‘Is that for me?’ I said by way of a light-hearted hello.
‘You’ve no time for eating,’ Brenda interrupted. ‘You need to get a taxi right away to take you to the Post Office Tower.’
I realised then that the “him” Brenda had referred to was me. ‘Why the Post Office Tower?’
It was Rita’s turn to interrupt. ‘The Fox was having lunch there with Sir Stanley Rous. It must have run on.’ With a slender, manicured forefinger she lifted the sleeve of her pretty, primrose coloured cardigan and checked her wristwatch. ‘It’s almost three o’clock now. He wouldn’t be back in time to see you here.’
‘I didn’t know he was on lunching terms with Rous.’ In fact, Forsyth hadn’t even intimated to me he knew Rous. My journalistic instinct kicked in. ‘Do you know what the lunch was about?’
Brenda thrust her telephone memo in my hand. ‘Never mind about that: you need to get to Fitzrovia. I’ll be in trouble if you’re late.’
Rita gave me a look, which said, “I’m afraid you must do what Matron says”.
As I left, she called out, ‘Enjoy the ride!’ At the time, I thought she meant my taxi ride. It was only when I reached the top of the tallest building in the country, I realised she had been referring to the restaurant lift.
Most people would have been thrilled to have travelled at high speed, over five hundred feet off the ground and been afforded an uninterrupted, gradually changing, panoramic view of Swinging London. But not me. I never had a head for heights.
The year war broke out, Ma and Da took me up the Blackpool Tower. On reaching the top, I took one look down at the “ants” crawling along the promenade below and promptly regurgitated fish, chips and candyfloss all over Ma’s Sunday best. And the floor I was standing on then didn’t move an inch.
After my stomach dropping ride to the Top of the Tower, I found myself gazing at the circular navy carpet beneath my feet. Printed with the restaurant’s red cog-wheel emblem, it was rotating slowly but surely clockwise. I remembered Da telling me as a kid that you could counteract queasiness by keeping your eyes on the horizon. So I tore my eyes away from the carpet and stared fixedly through the curved wall of windows that surrounded me, out into the distance.
Just as St Paul’s cathedral crept into view, it was obscured by the substantial, white haired figure of Sir Stanley Rous entering from the left. With his Eden-like moustache, he resembled a bleached, bumper-sized version of Forsyth. I thought about greeting him and maybe trying to lead him into a short, impromptu interview. However, Rous was notoriously pompous and tended to treat any question he didn’t wish to answer - and the questioner - with utter disdain. In any case, I had yet to find my sea legs and wasn’t going to risk soiling the sixth President of FIFA’s suit with my lunch. So I let him pass with a smile and a nod - which he ignored.
I stepped off the roundabout and followed a sign for cloakrooms pointing upstairs. In the gents, I took several deep breaths, splashed my face repeatedly with cold water and tamped it dry it with one of a pile of thick navy towels. Feeling a little less groggy, I spotted a numberless, cog-wheel clock on the wall, from which I guessed the time was almost half-past three. I searched for Brenda’s telephone memo to confirm that my appointment with Forsyth was at three-thirty, and found I had unwittingly stuffed it in an inside pocket of my suit jacket. As I took it out and unfolded it, I discovered she had written it on the back of a letter from Rous to Forsyth.
It had been typed on FIFA letterhead and was dated that day. Although marked “By Hand: Strictly Private & Confidential”, I couldn’t help reading it.
Further to our Wembley meeting of 20th inst, I confirm that referees from England and West Germany (and the six other nations contesting the final phase of the current FIFA World Cup) remain qualified to officiate at one of the quarter-final fixtures. Naturally, this is subject to the overriding regulation that a referee from one of the two nations participating in a particular fixture may not officiate at that fixture. Pursuant to these and other World Cup Regulations pertaining to the appointment of match officials, referees drawn from the full twenty-two nation panel have been allocated to the quarter-final fixtures, as follows:
England v Argentina - R. Kreitlin (W. Germany)
West Germany v Uruguay - J. Finney (England)
USSR v Hungary - J. Gardeazabal (Spain)
Portugal v North Korea - M. Ashkenasi (Israel)
Fuelled by Nell’s cynicism, journalistic questions invaded my mind. Why had Rous written to Forsyth on the subject? What had they discussed at Wembley the previous evening? When the refereeing panel included fifteen officials from nations not involved in the quarter-finals, why were two of the four appointed referees drawn from the remaining seven, interested nations? Above all, what possible justification could there be for choosing a West German to referee the England quarter-final and an Englishman to referee the West German one?
Then I remembered why I had wanted to refer to the piece of paper I had in my hand and turned it over.
‘Not three-thirty: three-fifteen!’ I exclaimed sufficiently loudly that an elderly gentleman stood cleaning his spectacles in front of the furthest mirror from me, dropped them in his basin of water.
The wall clock now appeared to read about twenty to four. I raced back downstairs to the Top of the Tower and, remembering from where Rous had crossed my eye line, went left and started an anti-clockwise search of the by now mostly vacant tables. Although the terror of being late for Forsyth had instantly cured my motion sickness, I was at about “nine o’clock” before I recalled what the uniformed lift attendant had explained on our way up: the restaurant rotates clockwise, three-sixty degrees every twenty odd minutes. On that basis, I calculated that Forsyth should be at about “three o’clock” - if he hadn’t got fed up waiting and left.
I hurried on around the restaurant, like a race walker on a stadium lap. After narrowly avoiding a collision with a mess-jacketed waiter pushing a flambé trolley, I spotted Forsyth at a generous table for two, drawing on a Churchill cigar and impatiently checking his watch.
‘You walked up from the street, did you Miller?’ he said, with a sneer.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Mr Forsyth.’ This was true. ‘I couldn’t find a cab.’ This, of course, wasn’t.
‘Sit down, Miller.’
I obeyed, in the process clearing from the section of table in front of me a crumpled navy serviette, a half cup of black coffee and an empty port glass.
Forsyth took the sole remaining petit four from a stand between us and said, pointing at the now redund
ant silver, ‘You can dispense with that as well.’ He popped the chocolate morsel in his mouth and proceeded to examine me visually, like a doctor with an unsavoury patient.
However, he didn’t share his diagnosis with me. Instead, out of the blue, he asked, ‘Who is the Pele in the Argentinian team?’
Relieved that he appeared not to have called the meeting to review my recent performance, I said brightly, ‘They don’t really have one. Not in the sense of an exceptionally gifted, world class goalscorer.’
‘They must have at least one star player. They can’t have got to the quarter-finals of the World Cup by fielding a bunch of average Joes. Or should I say Juans.’ He grinned smugly.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong: they have some outstanding footballers. I’ve watched their captain, Antonio Rattin, on television and he’s one of the most accomplished half-backs I’ve ever seen. He’s so composed on the ball. He sweeps in front of the defence - very little gets past him - and is the fulcrum of every attack. Not only that, he’s a strong, inspirational leader. Under him, Argentina play to win like their lives depend on it.’
‘Is that so?’ Forsyth savoured his cigar smoke as he watched Centre Point - an eyesore of a skyscraper - pass slowly beneath us. ‘If this Rattin plays against England, you’re saying they will be formidable opponents?’
‘Yes, under his captaincy, England will find them a very difficult team to beat. Especially since we’ll be without our best player, Jimmy Greaves.’ It occurred to me Forsyth might not know about Greaves’ injury. ‘You’re aware he had to have four stitches in his shin after the France game, are you?’
‘I am and there’s nothing we can do about that.’
‘Are you also aware, Mr Forsyth, that Nobby Stiles is at great risk of receiving at least a one match ban?’
‘I’m not. Because he isn’t. Sir Stanley has agreed to limit FIFA’s action to threatening noises. There’ll be a Janus-like pronouncement by our own FA calling on Ramsey to drop Stiles “for the good of the competition”. However, I can assure you Ramsey will refuse and Stiles will play.’