Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  I didn’t know who this “Janus” was or how Forsyth could be so confident that the FA’s demand would not be met. I was just relieved that England’s midfield stalwart - the steel in its so far unbreached defence - would be taking the field in the quarter-final. ‘That is good news, Mr Forsyth.’

  At a nearby table, I spotted Tony Benn smoking his pipe. So I thought it safe to produce mine. I was mistaken.

  ‘Put that away, will you,’ Forsyth said with a disparaging wave of the hand. Then he clicked his fingers to get a waiter’s attention and signalled a command for him to bring over the restaurant’s box of cigars. ‘So you’re telling me that if Mr Ramsey has a nemesis, it’s Señor Rattin?’

  ‘Yes. Now that Brazil have been eliminated, that’s right.’

  He scanned the landscape beyond the restaurant’s curved glass and gestured with his head towards Centre Point. ‘Do you see that building, Miller?’

  Given the height and proximity of the towering stack of empty offices scarring London’s skyline, I could have hardly missed it. ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘Harry Hyams built that. Before going into property, he worked with me in advertising. Later he became a client. He attributes the whole of his business success to the basic tenet of The Art of War.’ He paused. ‘I take it you are aware of the treatise, Miller?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘Although it is a while since I read it.’

  ‘Then you will know it says that to ensure victory one must have an intimate knowledge of both oneself and one’s enemies.’

  I nodded sagely.

  ‘Everyone said that Harry would never be allowed to build a sky-scraping, single-occupancy office block on that site. But they didn’t know Harry. Harry knew Harry. He also knew the London County Council. In particular, he knew that they needed a new road junction at St Giles Circus they couldn’t afford. Consequently, as you can see, Harry won.’

  An obsequious waiter approached Forsyth and held open a large wooden box of cigars. ‘Would Sir care to choose?’

  He promptly picked one and handed it to me. ‘Here, you can smoke this.’

  It was matchstick thin. He was smoking a Churchill: he had given me a Belsen.

  After dismissing the waiter, the point of Forsyth’s story became apparent. ‘You’ve told me about Rattin, Miller: now we need detailed intelligence on all our Latin enemies. I want you to go up to Argentina’s base in Birmingham right away and find out all you can. By six o’clock tomorrow evening, I must have a full analysis of the team’s strengths and weaknesses and an up to the minute report on their preparations.’

  ‘Won’t they be moving their base now, so they are nearer to Wembley?’

  Forsyth frowned. ‘That’s for you to find out, Miller. But they won’t be staying close to Wembley, I can tell you that much.’

  Before I could digest his remarks, he leant over the table and said, in a grave whisper, ‘You must pull out all the stops, Miller: the PM and Mr Stewart are relying on you.’

  ‘Mr Stewart?’ The only public figure I knew by that name was the kilted Scot who sang Donald Where’s Your Troosers.

  Forsyth rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Michael Stewart, the Foreign Secretary?’

  ‘That Mr Stewart: yes, of course,’ I said, daring myself to ask the follow-up. ‘May I ask what his particular interest is in Argentina?’

  ‘The Falkland Islands, naturally. Talks between the Foreign Office and their government have stalled. The FO want to send a message to Argentina’s new military regime, that Britannia still rules the waves - quell any expansionist ideas they may have for our little windswept colony in the South Atlantic.’

  I didn’t know whether it was the cheap panatella I was now anxiously smoking or suddenly being made responsible for the future of a British territory I had never heard of, but I felt my earlier queasiness return with a vengeance.

  ‘The FO will monitor Wembley to ensure the Argentines don’t steal our home advantage.’ This seemed to trigger a new idea. ‘I should ask them to look out for the Portuguese as well, don’t you think?’

  In my bilious state, I couldn’t understand what he was driving at. ‘But Portugal aren’t playing their quarter-final at Wembley.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Miller. They will play the North Koreans in Liverpool and win. Correct?’

  He was right about the venue. And whilst I didn’t think the outcome of the match had also been pre-determined, I recognised that Portugal were very strong favourites and conceded the point with a resigned, ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘In which case, the Portuguese will then play England at Wembley.’

  I thought this a much more important issue and was certain he was incorrect ‘No, I think you’ll find their semi-final will be played at Goodison. England played a friendly there earlier in the year, in preparation.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, Miller, that the decision as to where the two semi-finals will be played hasn’t yet been taken and won’t be until Saturday, after the participating teams are known.’

  ‘But tickets have been sold for months on the basis that - assuming England get that far - their fans in the north-west will have a chance of seeing them in a World Cup semi-final.’

  ‘I don’t care what disinformation tickets-sellers may have been disseminating for their own financial gain.’

  ‘But as the decision hasn’t yet been made,’ I said seeking consolation, ‘there must still be a chance of England playing at Goodison?’

  ‘I certainly hope not. I pointed out to Stanley… err… Sir Stanley that, since the Portuguese will have played all their games in Liverpool, it would be unfair on England for the semi-final to take place there.’

  As I descended from the restaurant, Forsyth having sent me on my way to the Midlands, I reflected on the fact that the alternative arrangement would be equally unfair on Portugal. In fact, arguably, more so. The hosts had recently played an international match at Goodison Park. The only experience Portugal would have of Wembley’s unique playing surface, ahead of playing a World Cup semi-final there, would be the twenty-minute training session at the venue, granted under the FIFA rules.

  Nevertheless, fair or unfair, it would prove to be twenty minutes more experience than Argentina got.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday, 23rd July 1966

  Nell had been understanding, even sympathetic, in the past when work took me away overnight. Before we were married, it was something she occasionally had to do; so she knew it wasn’t a choice and that, even on a generous expense allowance, it was never much fun.

  Yet, when I returned home from the Post Office Tower to pick up my overnight things and told her I was going to Birmingham and wouldn’t be back until the following evening, Nell’s response was far from supportive. Admittedly, this particular trip precluded me having the supper she had already started preparing; and I wouldn’t be back in time to see Alison in her ballet class’s end-of-year production of Three Little Pigs. Still, I didn’t think my declaration deserved Nell staring at me, like one of the undead in a Hammer horror film, while she removed one of the pieces of fresh fish from their newspaper wrapping and theatrically tossed the rest in the bin.

  I apologised to Alison for my prospective absence, promised her a ballet outfit for Sindy by way of compensation and slipped out of the house, leaving Nell crashing around in the kitchen like a demented Fanny Cradock.

  The next morning, I was up with the larks: not because of bird-call, however; but due to my room at the Albany Hotel in central Birmingham being one of those vacated by members of the Argentinian squad because of the loud traffic noise outside.

  After an early breakfast (which the bilingual menu, specially printed for the hotel’s Spanish speaking VIPs, translated as “Inglés Completo”), I telephoned Rita and arranged to brief Forsyth at five o’clock that afternoon, giving me an hour’s leeway before my six o’clock deadline. Since I had already befriended Carlos Garcia, the Argentinian squad’s pidgin-English spea
king press officer, I was confident that, by then, I would have gathered the necessary intelligence on England’s quarter-final opponents and be back in London, ready to present my report.

  Rita took the opportunity to pass on a message from Brenda that FIFA knew of no one by the name of Radford. This was a blow. For the previous two days, I had been anxiously ruminating on Rous’s letter advising Forsyth that West Germany’s Rudolf Kreitlin would referee England’s quarter-final and our own Jim Finney, the one between West Germany and Uruguay. I needed explanations to quell what was an increasing unease. But all I seemed to get were more reasons to be fretful.

  Naturally, I expected to be back in the Smoke in time for my late afternoon meeting with Forsyth. As it turned out, however, I was in Welwyn not Westminster at five o’clock, helping to mediate a dispute between the Argentinians, a FA representative and the manager of the Homestead Court Hotel. The squad had expected they would be housed in central London and so had not been best pleased when they were deposited in the middle of Hertfordshire.

  When I telephoned Rita to rearrange the meeting, she said she couldn’t do this without speaking to Forsyth. She had sounded not only apologetic but fearful. So, when she telephoned back, I wasn’t surprised to hear that Forsyth was furious I had failed to keep my appointment with him and didn’t consider the Argentinians’ accommodation issues (of which he was already aware) to be any excuse. I was surprised, however - and relieved - when she told me Forsyth had granted me an audience the following morning, especially since he wanted me to come to his barbers.

  So, early on the Saturday of England’s quarter-final match, I arrived at the premises of the exclusive gentlemen’s hairdressers, Geo. F. Trumper of Mayfair. Inside, I was met by two ranks of polished mahogany and glass display cases containing a dazzling array of gentlemen’s products. Tending the expensive-looking display, was a well-groomed man wearing a plain white shirt and sober tie and waistcoat. He was the spitting image of “Jeeves” as played on the TV by Dennis Price. He even had the same cool, considered delivery that bordered on condescension.

  ‘Good morning, Sir. Can I help you?’

  I scanned the rows of velvet curtained cubicles extending into the rear of the salon, but couldn’t see Forsyth.

  Before I could respond, he continued, ‘Does Sir have an appointment?’

  Intimidated by the salon’s high-Victorian ambiance and Jeeves’ stiff formal demeanour, again I hesitated too long.

  ‘Or does Sir wish to make a purchase? Something for the weekend perhaps?’

  I finally found my voice. ‘Actually, I’m here to meet one of your customers: Mr Ludovic Forsyth. Is he here?’

  Jeeves gestured towards an oval of studded leather armchairs and said, ‘If Sir would care to take a seat, I will enquire.’

  In the centre of the oval was a coffee table displaying pristine, folded newspapers and a fan of men’s magazines, including Motor and The Cricketer. I had just picked up the former, attracted by the blonde draped Alpha Romeo on the cover, when Jeeves returned.

  ‘Sir, this way if you would.’

  I followed him as he glided to the rear of the salon where, like a music hall magician, he drew back a pair of red velvet curtains to reveal a mahogany and marble vanity cubicle. In its large mirror I could see the upper half of Forsyth, semi-reclined in an olive leather barber’s chair, raised a yard off the floor. Stood on his right was a swarthy man in his thirties, wearing the same uniform as Jeeves. He held a steaming hand towel in his upturned palms, in which he proceeded to wrap Forsyth’s face.

  The now mummy-like figure instructed me to stand on his left, address him via the mirror and not impede “Tony” (who, I suspected, was actually “Antonio”). At least, that’s what I thought he mumbled through his Egyptian cotton muffler.

  As I began to introduce my briefing, however, he held up his hand like a traffic policeman. Only when Tony had unwrapped him, smothered his face with shaving lather and was ready to remove it with a glinting cut-throat razor, did he lower it, allowing me to proceed. When I rehearsed my introduction, he almost immediately interrupted with, ‘The match is this afternoon, Miller. There’s no time to waste. What did you discover?’

  ‘Argentina wanted to prepare for today’s game by training at England’s base in Lilleshall. They complained that the Birmingham Police’s ground, where they’ve been practising, is like a ploughed field compared to Wembley. They said, when they first trained there, it didn’t even have any goalposts. They had to get a carpenter to build them some using two borrowed crossbars.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. So what?’

  ‘They couldn’t have a proper session at Lilleshall because the team’s coach driver was given the wrong directions, and it took them over two hours to travel the thirty miles to get there.’

  Forsyth beamed - which interrupted his shave - and said, ‘How unfortunate. And I understand they weren’t able to practice at Wembley either?’

  ‘No, officials there told them it would interfere with the evening’s greyhound racing. Although they only wanted the twenty minutes FIFA had allowed. And they were willing to fit it in anytime yesterday, morning or afternoon.’

  Forsyth held his hand up as before, but this time to stop Tony, just as he was about to remove the last vestige of throat stubble. ‘Preparing the stadium’s track for greyhound racing, Miller, is a considerably more complex and time-consuming process than one might imagine.’

  Could it really be so extensive, I thought, as to preclude just twenty minutes’ use of the entirely separate pitch? But before I could articulate the point, Forsyth moved the interrogation on.

  ‘What other intelligence did you gain?’

  An honest answer would have been, “not a lot”. The truth was, I hadn’t gained a new insight of any sort. But I couldn’t admit that. So, having pulled out my notebook and rapidly searched its pages for the previous day, I announced, ‘They think England’s long ball attacks are easy to defend against. So they are confident - especially with Jimmy Greaves being injured - that they can stop England scoring, just as Uruguay did. And they believe that, unlike their fellow Latins, they have the forward talent to score themselves.’

  I was about to comment on this unremarkable information, when Tony, standing back to assess his work, allowed Forsyth to interrupt.

  ‘So they’re feeling confident are they?’ He ran his hand over his freshly shaved chin and nodded at Tony in approval. ‘Well confidence can become complacency. And complacency can lead to catastrophe. So that’s one weakness, Miller: what others did you discover?’

  Aside from them sharing my sensitivity to traffic noise and lacking discernment in appointing coach drivers, over the previous twenty-four hours I hadn’t identified any significant shortcomings. However, watching the highlights of their Group game against West Germany (when they had a player sent off and suspended for one match; their manager was reprimanded for running on the pitch; and the whole team received an official warning about unsporting behaviour) they had struck me as hot-tempered. So I used this.

  ‘Having seen how they reacted to being put up in Welwyn, I would say temperament is their Achilles heel. When decisions aren’t to their liking, they can become rather… well, truculent I would say.’ Actually, I would have said “stroppy”, if I hadn’t been in a very posh hairdressers, talking to Forsyth.

  A satisfied smile spread across his glowing face. ‘Their temperament, you say. Of course. It would be. They’re Latin.’

  Having, for once, hit the target with my temporary employer, I was keen to prolong my success. ‘In South America, they can get away with disputing decisions. Players there argue with the referee all the time. Over here though it could get them into a lot of trouble.’

  After a long reflective pause, he responded, ‘Yeees. I can imagine it would.’

  Although Tony was standing by with a cold towel to finish his customer’s shave, Forsyth didn’t give him a chance to apply it. He leapt up out of his chair, tore off his
protective gown and said, ‘No time for that. Bring me my coat.’

  Tony gave a subservient nod, tossed the towel into the basin and relieved Forsyth of his gown. As he did so, Forsyth caught sight of a fancy bottle with a pink label which paradoxically read, “West Indian Extract of Limes Cologne”. Pointing to it, he said, ‘And arrange for one of those to be delivered to 25B Jermyn Street.’

  Tony nodded again and disappeared from view.

  Turning to me, Forsyth said, ‘Have the Argentines left Welwyn yet?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘Well, Miller, you ought to be. Find out where they are PDQ. Once you’ve located them, don’t let them out of your sight until they’re safely tucked up in their Wembley dressing room. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘Being a bunch of insubordinates, who knows what they could get up to if we’re not careful. We don’t want them getting into trouble, now do we?’ he said with a smarmy grin. ‘Not before they have taken to the pitch.’

  All four quarter-final matches were due to kick-off simultaneously, at 3pm. Without consulting me - or, seemingly, Number 10 - Jack, my editor, had assigned to me Uruguay v West Germany at Hillsborough. The previous day, in between monitoring or mediating in the Argentinians’ transport and accommodation disputes, I had managed to knock-out a two-hundred-word preview of the match. However, clearly, I couldn’t both be travelling to Sheffield that morning and minding the Argentinian team as they travelled in the opposite direction.

  Fortunately: a) Jack only wanted a brief piece on the Hillsborough match for Monday’s edition; b) highlights of it were to be broadcast that evening; and c) a reporter who owed me a favour from Deepdale agreed to cover the match and had promised to pass on to me anything important that the TV hadn’t shown. This enabled me to both carry out Forsyth’s latest instruction and, subsequently, provide Jack with the copy he needed.

  I reached the Homestead Court Hotel just in time to see the Argentinian team onto the coach taking them to the Empire Stadium. Although Carlos Garcia had checked that the driver knew the way to Wembley (to avoid a repeat of the Lilleshall fiasco), the stout, middle-aged press officer asked me if I would travel with them, in case they needed local knowledge or a native speaker. I agreed. As a “thank you” for this and helping resolve the team’s accommodation issue, he also invited me to watch the match with him. Recognising I could exceed Forsyth’s expectations by tracking the team beyond the dressing room door and out onto the pitch, I gratefully accepted.