by Tim Flower
Carlos came up to me and I asked him to interpret Toto’s parting shot. From his mixture of English words and international gestures, I gathered that Argentina’s manager had informed Radford that his wife was unfaithful, and that he himself was an “English cunt”. I hoped - in the interests of not prolonging the hiatus in the match - “Mr Radford” hadn’t gone off to get his own translation.
In the event, he didn’t reappear. A minute or two later, Rattin, escorted by one of Argentina’s track-suited trainers, was traipsing along the side of the pitch, heading for the dressing room and the game was back underway. As he passed before spectators, they pilloried him like a medieval petty criminal. Although most confined themselves to hurling insults, one threw a full can of beer at him, another what looked like a half-eaten chocolate bar.
The engagement on the pitch, following the resumption, was equally bad-tempered and violent. At one point, Geoff Hurst launched himself feet first at the Argentinian full-back, Ferreiro, catching him just below the knee. Despite it being a far more egregious offence than any of Rattin’s I saw, Kreitlin allowed Hurst to play on.
This proved to be a game changing decision. Deep into the second half of the match, Argentina were still on level terms with England, despite playing with only ten men and without their inspirational captain. Both teams appeared to be toiling in the hot summer sun and neither looked likely to break the deadlock. But, with twelve minutes left, extra-time looming and the prospect (if the scores remained level) of the tie being decided by a toss of a coin, Hurst chose to sneak past his defender rather than kick him in the leg, and headed what turned out to be the only goal of the match.
If I had been watching from the stands (so oblivious of what had gone on near Argentina’s benches), I would have undoubtedly leapt to my feet and joined in the delirious celebrations taking place all around the stadium. As it was, however, I remained seated and subdued. Not out of respect to my hosts: I didn’t feel any desire to celebrate.
Kreitlin’s whistle fifteen minutes later brought an end to the match, but not the conflict. As England’s George Cohen was about to do the customary exchange of shirts with an opponent, Alf Ramsey raced on to the pitch to stop him, shouting, ‘George, you are not swapping shirts with that animal.’ When Kreitlin and his linesmen were confronted by several angry Argentinians, Aston, Cavan and senior police officers had to form a guard around them and escort them off under a tirade of Latin abuse.
After the melee had disappeared down the tunnel, I turned to Carlos and said, ‘Sorry. You deserved better.’
He looked at me with forlorn eyes. ‘All we de-serve is… What you say?’ He stretched his arms out wide horizontally, with the palms of his hands facing up. ‘A flat pitch?’
I knew what he meant. ‘A level playing field,’ I said, and I pointed to the lush turf in front us, which, after ninety minutes of football, was still like a putting green. ‘That’s no level playing field.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sunday, 24th July 1966
Shortly after the results of all the quarter-finals were known, Forsyth got his wish. FIFA announced that Portugal would play their semi-final against England, not at Goodison Park, but at Wembley.
Expecting a strong reaction from the Portuguese camp, I arranged a telephone interview with their manager, Otto Glória, for the following morning. I also spoke to Jack, my editor and promised him - besides my review of Uruguay v West Germany at Hillsborough - a hundred words on the relocation of England’s semi-final and (without, of course, disclosing my source) a four-column exclusive on how FIFA and the Foreign Office had forced the resumption of England’s battle with Argentina. However, while watching the BBC’s highlights of the Hillsborough quarter-final I had missed, accompanied by a few beers, I discovered a bigger, broader, even more sensational story I could tell.
Early in the second half of the match, Uruguay were one-nil down, but still very much in contention, when their captain and key player, Horacio Troche, clashed off-the-ball with the German forward, Emmerich. The referee, England’s Jim Finney, had his back to the incident. Nonetheless, seeing Emmerich’s Oscar-worthy impression of a crippled victim (whilst the South Americans had the reputation for simulating injury and agony when fouled, certain West German players had shown themselves highly skilled in the art and Emmerich was one of them) he promptly sent off Troche. The parallel between this dismissal and Rattin’s at Wembley was striking. First a German referee had reduced England’s South American opponents to ten men by sending off their captain and key player; then an Englishman refereeing West Germany’s quarter-final had returned the compliment. Predictably, as soon as Troche had left the pitch, Emmerich made a miraculous recovery.
Five minutes later, Finney went one better than Kreitlin by also sending off Uruguay’s Héctor Silva. The winger had done nothing more than clumsily challenge Helmut Haller; but, judging by the blonde German’s reaction, you would have thought Silva had taken out a gun and shot him. With both Troche and Silva out of the way, West Germany proceeded to overrun their nine-man opponents and win their quarter-final four-nil.
In the light of Nell’s and George McCabe’s reports of FIFA’s referee briefings and my first-hand experience of the mysterious Mr Radford’s intervention, I could only conclude that England and West Germany were indeed in cahoots to oust their South American opponents, just as Brazil’s manager had claimed. I quelled a feeling of shame that England were in a World Cup semi-final other than on merit and embarrassment that I had so recently dismissed the claim as ridiculous, by calling Jack again and promising him - instead of my four columns on what went on at Wembley - a double-page exposé of a World Cup conspiracy.
In bed that night, I was eagerly anticipating a hard, but potentially career-defining, Sunday’s work, when Nell reminded me I had promised her and Alison that we would spend the day with her parents. In other circumstances, I would have insisted on a postponement. But her words and tone made it clear she would treat anything other than strict performance of my promise as evidence of cruelty, desertion or incurable insanity and, therefore, grounds for divorce. So the next morning, well before David Nixon had invited listeners to the BBC’s Light Programme to Start the Day Right, I was in my room downstairs urgently producing all my copy for Jack before being dragged off to Bedford.
In the sober isolation of that early Sunday morning, I might have had second thoughts about breaking the conspiracy story, had I not been under a Nell deadline and had Portugal’s Otto Glória not made it clear (during my rather hurried telephone interview with him) that he too thought the English FA and the FIFA were in league together.
‘Wembley is England’s home ground,’ he had told me despairingly. ‘We have not played there. England and Portugal have played at Goodison, so it is fair. Why have FIFA changed their plans, if not to help England?’
Why indeed, I’d thought.
I had completed my other copy and was finishing by double-page exposé, when Nell burst into my room, clutching a badly folded newspaper.
‘Have you seen this?’ she said, thrusting it in my face.
‘No. I’ve been busy working, so we can then go out.’
She withdrew the paper, slapped it with the back of her hand and read out, ‘For the first time since 1934, the World Cup semi-finalists are all European.’ Then she fixed me with a superior stare.
‘I know that. So?’
‘Do you remember who the hosts were in 1934? And who won?’ Her tone was close to the one she used to prompt Alison.
I couldn’t instantly remember and attempted to conceal the fact. ‘Yes, of course. In 1930… the year of the first World Cup, it was held in… Uruguay. And Uruguay were the winners. So 1934 would have been the second tournament, and that was held…’ I suddenly recalled Nell claiming that Mussolini had fixed the outcome that year. ‘Okay, it was held in Italy and they won it.’
Nell nodded smugly.
‘And your point is?’
‘Isn’t it ob
vious? The only times that neither Brazil nor Uruguay - two of the World’s strongest footballing nations - have failed to reach the semi-finals is when the tournament has been held in Europe and the referees have been… let’s say persuaded not to allow those nasty South Americans to frustrate the host nation’s plans.’
Whilst my instinct was to challenge her Latin-centric slur, I reminded myself I had just spent over two hours alleging something very similar. So, I ignored it and said, ‘Look, I need another thirty minutes - forty, max - to proof this copy and file it. I’ll come up as soon as I’m done and we can go straight off.’
Nell didn’t take the hint. Instead, she lit a Consulate and said, ‘And that’s not the only outrage.’ She refolded the newspaper to reveal a different article, ran her finger to about halfway down it and said urgently, ‘These are Ramsey’s comments after the Argentina match.’ In a remarkably good imitation of his elocutionised Dagenham, she read out, ‘We still have to produce our best football. It will come against the right type of opposition, a team who come to play football and not act as animals.’
‘Animals,’ she screamed. ‘Can you believe it?’ In case I didn’t, she shoved the newspaper in front of my face. ‘That’s how Mussolini described the Jews!’
The telephone on my desk rang. “Saved by the bell”, I thought. In fact, it proved quite the contrary.
‘Finchley double three nine one?’
A sweet, apologetic voice said, ‘Harry, I’m so sorry to phone you at home - and on a Sunday. It’s Rita.’
‘Err… oh, hello,’ I replied, trying not to give Nell any clues as to the caller’s identity. ‘It’s no problem. I’ve been up and working for some time.’
‘Oh, have you?’
‘What can I do for you?’
Rita hesitated, no doubt puzzled by my unusually brisk, business-like manner. ‘Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your work, Harry. It’s just the Fox wants to see you urgently.’
‘Really?’
‘Afraid so. In the Lyon’s Corner House in Coventry Street - you know, the main one in Soho. Today at noon.’
‘Why?’ I said, worrying whether I’d be able to file my copy and get up there in time.
‘The Fox has a flat that’s just a short walk from Coventry Street. He’s been working late a lot recently and staying there rather than going back to Cranleigh. He slept there last night.’
With Nell hovering behind me, I had to choose my words carefully. ‘What I meant was, why the urgency?’
Rita gave an embarrassed giggle. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. It’ll probably be to do with the economic crisis and keeping, what the Fox calls, “Wilson’s New Britain” alive. It’s all he’s talked about recently. There’s a meeting about it this afternoon: I have to be at Number 10 by two o’clock.’
Consulting me about economic matters seemed unlikely. Forsyth was all too aware that the only inflation I knew about was the ball pressure specified by the laws of association football. ‘How can I help with… err… that issue?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Harry.’ Rita sounded a little impatient. ‘I’m sure he’ll explain when you see him.’
‘Okay. Fair enough.’
‘So, noon at the Soho Corner House. Okay?’
‘I’ll be there.’
I didn’t have time to replace the handset before Nell snapped, ‘Was it that Rita women?’
The foreboding I felt when Leeds equalised in the Cup Final returned with a vengeance. ‘Rita? Why do you ask?’
‘I detected a high-pitched tone.’
‘You did?’ Clearly, I thought, I hadn’t pressed the handset sufficiently firmly to my ear to prevent her overhearing.
‘Or was another strange woman phoning you on a Sunday morning?’
Whilst talking to Rita, half my mind had been working on my explanation for the call. But I hadn’t at all anticipated Nell’s particular line of attack.
‘No… it wasn’t another strange woman,’ I gabbled. ‘Nor was it Rita. Not that she’s strange. In fact, it wasn’t a woman at all.’
‘One of the castrati was phoning you, was he?’
Whilst I wasn’t entirely sure who the castrati were, I got her general drift. ‘No, it was Jack, my editor. He’s got a throat infection.’
‘They make your voice go deeper.’
‘Then it must be the medicine he’s taking for it,’ I said, trying to sound authoritative whilst talking nonsense. ‘Anyway, he wants me to do a piece about the refereeing bias in the Argentina and Uruguay quarter-finals.’ I hoped that latter would mollify her. It didn’t.
‘Jack’s calling you on a Sunday?’ she said incredulously. She checked her dad’s old watch, which she had taken to wearing instead of the ladies one I’d given her. ‘It’s only just gone ten.’
‘It’s going to be a major exposé - an exclusive. He’s very excited about it.’
‘Is he now? He should be careful: he doesn’t want to strain his throat.’ She drew on the remains of her Consulate, tossed her head back and expelled a strong stream of smoke high into the air. ‘You said, “I’ll be there”. Where’s there? Buenos Aires? Montevideo?’
‘No, just Fleet Street,’ I said, offhandedly, whilst dreading the follow up.
‘And when did you say you would be there?’ She grabbed from my desk the World Cup Willie ashtray she had banned from the lounge upstairs and screwed the butt of her cigarette into it.
I searched for my pipe and, having found it, took my time lighting up, whilst I struggled to think of an acceptable answer.
‘Well?’
‘He wants to run it on Monday. So it has to be this lunchtime, I’m afraid.’
She plucked out her one remaining Consulate and took out her obvious frustration on the empty packet. ‘Of course it does,’ she said, saturating her words in sarcasm. ‘And you couldn’t possibly have told him, “I have promised to take my family to see my in-laws. I can’t let them down again”, could you?’
‘I would have done if I had thought for a moment it would have made any difference.’
She lit her cigarette and snorted-out plumes of mint-tinged smoke like an angry dragon. ‘Why do you have to go into the office? You could work on it at Mama & Papa’s house and phone it in.’
Whilst I knew I shouldn’t rise to her challenge, the frustration and resentment I had accumulated over recent months drove me to be St George. ‘Because I do. It’s my job. And my job is essential: it keeps the three of us off the streets.’
‘You pompous pig!’ she shouted disdainfully. ‘My job is essential to me. Do you know why?’
‘It can’t be because it makes you easier to live with.’
She made her offensive thumb and fingers gesture in my face. ‘It gives me something to live for though Harry.’
After Nell had left, slamming my door with hurricane force, and I had completed and filed my copy for Monday’s Mirror, I realised that my wedding suit was in the office. Whilst I had taken refreshment in a Lyons Tea Room on several occasions (and had submitted the receipts to prove it) I had never frequented one of the reputedly posher, Corner Houses. I didn’t know, therefore, whether I could get away with not wearing a suit. But since I didn’t have one available and only had an hour to get to Soho, I decided to go in what I was wearing - a roll neck shirt, navy slacks and a sports jacket - and just hope I wouldn’t find Forsyth in top hat and tails.
Despite the Underground’s Sunday service, I arrived in Coventry Street, a short walk from Piccadilly Circus Station, just before noon. I passed Scott’s restaurant, where Ian Fleming was said to be a regular patron. It wasn’t until I paused outside the Prince of Wales Theatre, where Barbara Streisand was starring in Funny Girl, to get my bearings, that I saw “LYONS CORNER HOUSE” emblazoned across the rounded corner of Coventry Street and Rupert Street, bookended with subsidiary signs for “THE WIMPY”.
The exterior of the building itself was rather incoherent. The metal and glass entrance, beneath the neon signage, wouldn’t have l
ooked out of place in a new Woolworths. However, above it, was a classically styled, white tiled, wedding cake of a building topped with an onion-shaped dome. Reaching up three or four stories, it could have housed a grand hotel or a branch of Bourne & Hollingsworth.
Inside, I discovered that the establishment comprised several, differently styled, eating places, on more than one floor. Not knowing in which one Forsyth would be waiting, I started my search on the ground floor and planned to work upwards.
There were only a handful of early diners in the lush, marble-floored “Brasserie”, with its Palm Court trio, and none of them were Forsyth. So I scurried up the stairs to the first floor, where I found a less pretentious looking eatery, offering more everyday fare. Whilst I doubted it was the sort of place that a senior member of Her Majesty’s Government would frequent, I thought I should check inside just in case.
The large rectangular room was furnished with smart, cafe-style tables and chairs and a more informal air than its sister restaurant downstairs. It was also busier and noisier, with some patrons chatting freely over full ashtrays and empty cups and saucers and others digging into an early lunch.
As I scanned the room, a “Nippy” (one of the Lyons waitresses, who wore a maid-like uniform complete with monogrammed cap) approached me and said, ‘Would you like a table for lunch?’
‘No, not exactly. I’m due to meet a gentleman here,’ I replied, continuing to sweep the room hoping to spot Forsyth. ‘Actually, I’m not sure whether it’s here or in one of the other restaurants in the building. His name’s Forsyth: I don’t suppose you know — ’
‘He will be at the far end,’ she said, interrupting me and seeming to suppress a smile. She pointed towards a distant finger-sign hanging down from the ceiling. ‘If you go to where it says, “Gentlemen’s Cloakroom”, they like to sit at the tables down there.’ Whilst wondering what she meant by “they”, I did as she directed.