by Tim Flower
Sitting beneath the sign, appropriately enough, were four men, one of whom jumped up as I approached. He was short, round and baby-faced and I instantly recognised him from the telly. (The Avengers, I thought, or Dixon of Dock Green.) He thrust his arms out towards me and theatrically mouthed, ‘Johnnie, how are you.’
Before I could say, “There must be some mistake”, a rich, Shakespearean voice behind me said, ‘My dear Campari…,’ or that’s what it sounded like, ‘I was feeling desolate. But then I read your notices.’ I turned around and instantly recognised Sir John Gielgud.
I strode purposefully past that particular table, as if heading for the Gents, and then looked casually back at the others in the vicinity. Most were occupied, mainly by men. Some, judging by their exuberant dress and demeanour, were probably also theatre people. I was relieved to see that others, however, had chosen my sort of Sunday-smart attire and were behaving more conservatively, even discreetly. Probably clerks or civil servants, I thought; even perhaps the odd spy.
I was beginning to think the Nippy had misled me, when I spotted a lone male figure at a table in the corner. The two tables in front of his were empty and hadn’t been laid, as if they were out of service. As I walked tentatively towards that corner, a middle-aged man in a pinky-purple tie and lime green waistcoat turned in his chair to face me. He thrust his hand - which held a gold-tipped, black Balkan Sobranie - nonchalantly into my path and said, in a soft, aristocratic voice, ‘Would you be so kind as to do me the honour?’
I produced my lighter and, as I struck it and the colourful man put his hand on my arm to draw the flame closer to him, a familiar BBC-style voice, with a hint of Scottish burr, rang out, ‘Miller! Will you come over here. I haven’t got all day.’
Having exhaled the exotic-smelling fumes with a flourish, the smoker said ‘O, aren’t you in demand,’ and returned somewhat dismissively to the conversation at his table.
When the Nippy told me where “they” like to sit, I hadn’t registered who she meant by “they”. It was now obvious. As I acknowledged Forsyth and threaded my way to where he was sitting, I wondered, did she know him to be “One of Them”? Or, when I enquired about him, had she just assumed I had arrived for an assignation because that was usually why men met there on a Sunday? What was unquestionable was that Forsyth had positioned himself - albeit behind a barrier of empty of tables - at the queer end of the room.
‘Sit down there,’ he said pointing to the chair in front of him and looking me up and down with a grimace. He was wearing an immaculate double-breasted, navy blazer, starched white shirt, and a perfectly knotted mauve tie with matching pocket square.
Feeling under-dressed, I obeyed.
He pushed what looked like the remains of kippers and eggs to one side, leaned over the table towards me and said, in a menacing whisper, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miller?’
I hadn’t got a clue what he was referring to. Had I unwittingly committed some dreadful social howler? Were purple ties essential wear, at least at this end of the room? ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mr Forsyth.’
He didn’t enlighten me. ‘Are you deliberately trying to bring this country to its knees or are you just jaw-droppingly naïve?’
Whilst I could categorically deny the first, I couldn’t confidently dismiss the second without knowing what he thought I had done. As I hesitated to ask, he posed yet another question.
‘Do you know what I’ve been doing over the last eighteen hours - aside from salvaging the PM’s reputation?’ He didn’t give me an opportunity to answer. ‘Using all diplomatic channels to Buenos Aires to demand that General Onganía silence the absurd and hysterical accusations emanating from his country about the Wembley quarter-final. And do you know what their response was?’
I hazarded a guess. ‘They said they weren’t absurd and hysterical?’
‘Of course.’ He paused, and I cherished my first success in what felt increasingly like Twenty Questions. ‘But they didn’t stop there. They prayed in aid the opinion of an English, Fleet Street football writer. They said that, directly after the match, this reporter had told the Argentine team’s press officer that we hadn’t provided, and I quote, “A level playing pitch”. What do you say to that, Miller?’
Resisting the temptation to correct Carlos’ minor misquote, I attempted to stall Forsyth’s interrogation by adopting a tactic I had learnt at Number 10: deny knowledge of facts earlier asserted, regardless of their relevance, and thereby subtly change the subject.
‘I’ve heard of General Onganía, but I know nothing about him or these accusations,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could. ‘Actually, that’s not quite true. I understand he doesn’t like Argentina’s squad getting up to any hanky-panky when they’re over here, if you know what I mean. But I don’t have a clue why.’
Forsyth tutted and shook his head. ‘Then I will educate you,’ he said, oozing condescension. ‘General Onganía is the new President of Argentina.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’
A weary-looking Nippie, whose best “nipping” days looked like they were behind her, placed a black coffee in front of Forsyth and removed his abandoned dinner plate.
‘Bring me the bill, would you?’ he said, without so much as glancing in her direction.
‘Yes, Mr Forsyth,’ she replied, nodding subserviently.
Before I could gauge the significance of her addressing him by name, Forsyth resumed his lesson.
‘You write for a newspaper, but you don’t read it, clearly.’ He produced his silver monogrammed cigarette case and drew the table’s ashtray close to him. ‘General Onganía is determined to stamp out what he calls “immoralism”. This, as far as he’s concerned, includes miniskirts, long hair on men and his nation’s football team having women smuggled up to their hotel rooms during the World Cup.’
Forsyth misinterpreted my show of astonishment at the General’s puritanism. ‘Didn’t you know that’s what they were getting up to?’
‘No, not at all.’ Of course, having heard Radford’s dossier threat, I wasn’t entirely surprised. And when Toto was managing A.S. Roma, and they played at Chelsea, there had been rumours about him, a few of his players and some King’s Road girls. But Carlos had said nothing about him sneaking Brummie girls into the Albany.
‘Well, you should have done,’ he said, clearly enjoying his mini victory. He lit one of his long Dunhills. ‘Anyway, the point is, being the head of the ruling military junta, General Onganía tends to get his way. Which is why we were confident that, if we convinced him that the Argentine accusations of bias were groundless and, therefore, were undermining the trust upon which future talks about the Falklands depended, he would put a stop to them.’ Forsyth leaned forward over his coffee and, in a low, menacing voice said, ‘But a certain journalist has put paid to that.’
Realising I hadn’t stalled the interrogation, just delayed it, I resorted to more direct resistance. ‘Like I said, this is the first I’ve heard about these accusations. And I still don’t know what they’ve actually said.’ For good measure, I added some indignation. ‘I don’t even speak Spanish, for God’s sake: how would I?’
The man in the lime waistcoat must have overheard me, for he turned to look and raised an eyebrow.
Forsyth frowned. ‘Shush! Keep your voice down - and mind your language.’
I pulled out the pipe I had part smoked on the train and hurriedly re-lit it. I was past caring whether it would annoy Forsyth. In fact, I was relieved when it appeared to force him back in his chair. I churlishly pulled the table’s ashtray in my direction.
The Nippy returned with the bill, retired a few steps and waited for Forsyth to cover it with a crisp ten shilling note. With a submissive “thank you”, she then shuffled (rather than nipped) off towards the cash register sitting tall nearby, leaving Forsyth glaring at me in silence.
After taking a long, slow draw on his cigarette and snorting out the smoke, he announced, ‘I know all about your de
fection, Miller.’
‘Defection!’ My exclamation triggered another eyebrow raise and flash of lime waistcoat. ‘I’m not a communist.’
‘That’s what Kim Philby said.’
‘But I’m not.’
Forsyth smirked.
‘No, really: I’m not!’
‘You’re raising your voice again, Miller,’ he said in a mildly threatening manner.
‘Who says I’m communist?’ I whispered anxiously.
‘No one, Miller.’ He smirked again. ‘But do you deny working for the Argentines?’
‘I did a bit of impromptu interpreting for Carlos, their press officer - that’s all. When the Rattin thing kicked off, he was struggling to understand people’s English. But that hardly makes me the “Third Man”.’
‘Are you sure that’s all, Miller?’ he said, strongly implying he knew otherwise.
I had no idea what he had in mind. So, after some hesitation, I said, ‘I don’t know what you’ve been told, Mr Forsyth: but, with that one exception, everything I’ve done in relation to Operation Jules Britannia has been in strict accordance with your instructions.’
His expression darkened. He leaned forward and whispered angrily, ‘You’ve just given the lie to that statement.’
‘How? I don’t know what you mean.’ The meeting had become a John Le Carré type nightmare.
With the tone of a Victorian patriarch, he enlightened me. ‘Didn’t I expressly tell you that the very existence of the operation you’ve just announced in a crowded Corner House, is Top Secret?’
‘I was only trying to — ’
‘Well, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’
Then, through gritted teeth, he went in for the kill. ‘Conversely, did I ever ask you to contact FIFA in Zurich?’ he said, as if contacting FIFA was a war crime.
‘No,’ I muttered, with a defeated shake of the head.
‘Nonetheless you did,’ he fumed. ‘You enquired about Dick Radford, didn’t you? Or rather you made Miss Britten do your dirty work for you.’ He spat the word “dirty” and grimaced, like he could taste the filth.
I was puzzled as to why, compared to my other alleged misdeeds, he was so furious about this one. Was it because he thought I had corrupted Brenda? ‘Mr Forsyth, I didn’t make — ’
‘It’s no good denying it, Miller. Miss Britten’s account of your perfidious actions is unimpeachable.’
He left me in no doubt that he considered me guilty of a serious charge. Worn down by his interrogation and unsure what “perfidious” meant, all I could muster in response was a feeble, ‘But I have done nothing wrong.’
‘Disloyalty, deception, insubordination: they’re all perfectly acceptable in your book, are they Miller?’
‘I didn’t say that. But it’s not like I’ve sold secrets to the Soviets.’
‘No, Miller, you haven’t.’ He extinguished the long stub of his cigarette by slowly, firmly, screwing it into the ashtray. ‘And neither did Profumo. Unlike you, he was only guilty of deceit. Yet it ruined him.’ He grinned, as if he had just announced something joyous.
‘You are more fortunate, Miller,’ he continued. ‘I am merely terminating your secondment forthwith. Tomorrow morning, you may return to newspaper reporting as if nothing has happened. Except, of course, you remain subject to the Official Secrets Act until the day you die. If you ever breathe a word about… you know what, or so much as hint that you were seconded to… you know where, I will have you in Her Majesty’s Prison Wormwood Scrubs quicker than you can say Nobby Stiles. Understood?’
I hadn’t seen this coming. ‘Are you saying, you don’t want my services anymore?’ Nor had I seen the man in the lime waistcoat passing behind me on his way to the exit.
‘Have you two fallen out?’ he said to me, as if breaking up a primary school squabble.
Forsyth interjected, ‘Don’t let us detain you, Jeremy.’
Jeremy nudged me. ‘No need to worry,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘There are plenty more fish where he comes from.’
I exited the Corner House in a daze and found myself wandering away from Piccadilly Circus tube and down Coventry Street, staring absent mindedly at its shops, restaurants and nightclubs.
During daytime, Soho had a strange atmosphere, particularly on a Sunday. Most of the businesses seemed to be sleeping off the night before. The neon signs advertising “Nonstop STRIPTEASE” and - more modestly - “BOOKS & MAGAZINES”, weren’t lit, the front doors were closed, even shuttered, and the large plate-glass windows dark and dingy.
I stopped outside a record shop, one of the few establishments in the street where I could look in the window without embarrassment. I was aware it contained a dim display of album covers, hung at jaunty angles; but, although I stood gazing at them for some minutes, I couldn’t say which ones I saw. For I wasn’t actually looking at them: just giving an impression of doing so, as I struggled to assimilate what I had just experienced.
I had been sacked from Number 10. That much was clear. But I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. On the one hand, Forsyth was a devious, deceitful, domineering bastard, who made Fleming’s Dr No seem considerate and trustworthy. I was well shot of him. Rita, on the other hand, was decent, dependable and - there was no getting away from it - desirable. With her warmth and affection, she had all but filled the frigid vacuum that Nell had created over the last several months.
The termination of my secondment almost certainly ensured that, even if England were to beat Portugal and reach the final, I wouldn’t be there to see it. I stood more chance of getting sex that day than the Mirror granting me one of their precious press passes. And since the FA had only offered final tickets as part of a tournament package, I assumed they would be equally scarce.
Not that I really minded. I no longer dreamt of watching England raise the Jules Rimet trophy: Forsyth, Nell and what I had seen for myself during the previous five months had seen to that. Even if England went all the way, I wouldn’t share the nation’s triumph and jubilation, nor experience the elation, the ecstasy, the unbridled joy of my team becoming champions. I was destined for the celebratory sidelines: to be a spectator not a participant and pestered by “what ifs”. What if Pele hadn’t, literally, been kicked out of the tournament? What if, in England’s last group match, Mr Yamasaki had done his duty and sent off Stiles? And what if England v Argentina hadn’t been refereed by a trigger-happy German with a preconceived mistrust of South Americans?
When a passing mod stopped beside me to examine the record shop display, I felt an urge to vent my thoughts to him. But he looked the type of lad who might well spend every other Saturday afternoon, from May to August, on the terraces at White Hart Lane and now be yearning for Jimmy Greaves to win the World Cup for England. I didn’t want to - as Norman liked to put it - “piss in his scran”. So I left him ogling the Small Faces album sleeve, to telephone the one person I could talk to and who I knew would understand.
I spotted an empty phone box and hurried inside, only to discover bubblegum stuck to the handset’s earpiece and a thruppenny bit jammed in the coin slot. So, abandoning it, I turned left, towards the heart of Soho. I eventually found another, which - although it had two of its small panes of glass kicked out and smelt like yesterday’s ashtray - was both vacant and working.
In fact, it appeared to be working in more ways than one. For the wall, above the telephone and hanging directories, was almost entirely covered by “tart cards” that had been tucked into the metal frames of the information displays. “Fifi” urged me to call her for “French Lessons”; “Fufu” offered “Advanced French”; and an unnamed illiterate provided a “French Made Service”. Since all their telephone numbers had a local, “GERard” prefix, it occurred to me that a naïve reader might have wondered why the immediate area wasn’t swarming with bereted women in stripey tops with onions round their necks.
I dialled the number and, after putting thruppence in the slot, was relieved to hear a ki
ndly voice on the other end.
‘Mr Forsyth’s Office. Good afternoon.’
‘Rita, it’s Harry.’
‘Harry, where are you?’
‘In a sordid phone box in Soho.’
‘Poor you. How did the meeting go?’ Her tone was relaxed and upbeat. Clearly, Forsyth hadn’t even given her a clue as to his intentions.
‘It’s fair to say, it had nothing to do with the economic crisis.’
‘Didn’t it? What was it about then? What does he want you to do?’
‘He doesn’t want me to do anything. That’s the point.’
‘Nothing? But he said it was urgent.’
‘Yes. Well, according to him, I’ve been guilty of disloyalty, deception and insubordination.’
‘What!’
‘So he urgently wanted to give me the sack.’
‘Oh Harry, that’s terrible!’ She sounded genuinely dismayed. ‘I don’t understand. What did he say you’d done?’
As I described the whole affair in more detail, I found myself making light of it, so as not to add to Rita’s upset. Nonetheless, she made it plain that she considered Forsyth’s criticism of my aiding Argentina’s press officer grossly unfair; and she called his condemnation of my mentioning in public, Operation Jules Britannia, “silly” and “petty”.
However, when I described Forsyth’s charge concerning Brenda’s FIFA enquiry and expressed my bewilderment at the seriousness with which he had treated this particular offence, Rita fell silent.
‘Hello, Rita? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘You went quiet. Are you okay? I haven’t got Brenda in trouble, have I?’
‘No Harry, you haven’t,’ Rita said in a distracted voice.
‘Is Brenda there? Just say “yes” and I’ll know you can’t talk.’
‘No, she’s still at lunch. It’s not about her.’
‘What is it, Rita? You’ve gone all quiet. What have I done?’
‘It’s not you, Harry, it’s — ’ The pips interrupted her.
‘Hang on, Rita,’ I shouted. ‘I’ve got a shilling here somewhere.’