Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  I nodded.

  ‘The Tories couldn’t afford another sex scandal. The party was still reeling from the Profumo affair and a General Election was just around the corner. So they set the Handyman - the lawyer, Arnold Goodman - on us, who forced King to not only apologise, but withdraw the story and pay the podgy pervert a record out of court settlement.’

  ‘But I was told Goodman was Harold Wilson’s personal lawyer. Why would Wilson want to help the Tories?’

  ‘Because Labour’s got its own prominent perverts, of course.’

  ‘Do they?’ I said, while wondering if he had Forsyth in mind.

  ‘That story could have triggered a major political crisis,’ he said gravely. ‘And yours, Harry, would almost certainly have done so.’

  ‘How come? It mentions nothing about the Government’s involvement. I didn’t have that bit of the jigsaw until after I filed my copy. And I’m still not sure how or where it fits in.’

  He put a patronising hand on my shoulder. ‘This country is in the midst of the worst financial crisis since Suez. We are dropping down the league of economic prosperity quicker than Keeler’s knickers. Ted Heath - another one queer as a nine-bob note, in case you hadn’t guessed - is gagging to get into Number 10 and is already declaring a public crisis of confidence in the Government. How long do you think it would take, Harry, for the Tory press to join up the dots, eh?’

  ‘But all I’m doing is telling the public the truth. As journalists, don’t we have a duty to do that - without fear or favour?’

  He removed his hand from my shoulder and slapped it on the table. ‘Don’t give me that trainee, Prof Test bollocks. Stuff happens and people do stuff. You find the stuff that matters to Andy and report it as he’d want to have it. That’s your job. Andy doesn’t want to know the World Cup’s fixed. He doesn’t want to know the economy’s fucked. And he certainly doesn’t want his man Harold replaced by bumboy Heath. Okay?’

  I nodded. I don’t know why. It wasn’t how I saw my job.

  He pushed off from the table and started another slow circuit of the room. ‘Wilson and Jones have assured me they’ll be able to cover the remainder of the World Cup without your help. So you can have the rest of this week off.’ He gave me a greasy smile. ‘After that we think you could do with a break from football. Jack would like your help with racing and athletics.’

  ‘Until the new football season starts, you mean?’

  ‘We think you need a rather longer break than that.’

  ‘What for?’

  His whole body stiffened. It was obvious that the decision to relegate me had been his, and he didn’t like me questioning it. ‘The alternative is that we give you your cards,’ he said brusquely. ‘Would you rather that?’

  Whilst, at the start of the meeting, I was worried I would be sacked. By this point, I couldn’t care less. Anger had trumped my anxiety. First Cudlipp’s hectoring and condescension, then my summary demotion, had left me seething. My response to his dismissal invitation was, consequently, both impetuous and imprudent.

  I jumped up from my seat, knocking the table in the process and had to grab Cudlipp’s wine bottle to prevent it showering the wall display with red plonk. ‘No, I don’t wish to be sacked. Nor am I going to be sidelined,’ I said, struggling to appear calm and resolute, whilst my heart raced and blood rushed to my head. ‘Like Peter Wilson, I will not be gagged.’

  Wilson was the Mirror’s star sportswriter. With the benefit of a privileged background and a Harrovian education, he wrote opinionated pieces without fear or compromise and with an unassailable belief that he was right. Underneath his byline, he was described as “The Man They Can’t Gag”. Until I learnt my scoop had been spiked, I hadn’t appreciated that “They” could be the ones who published his and my copy.

  ‘I am resigning. My letter will be with your secretary this afternoon.’

  ‘I thought that might be your reaction,’ Cudlipp said, striding back in my direction. With a belligerent smirk, he said, ‘Once you’ve delivered your letter, consider yourself free to leave and join a paper more suited to your talents. You might want to see if the Buenos Aires Herald is recruiting.’

  Before handing in my notice, I had telephoned Norman and arranged to meet him for “lunch” (several pints with whisky chasers) in The Old Bell.

  As I approached the pub, appropriately enough, St Bride’s bells started pealing mournfully (or, more accurately, a tape recording of a funeral toll played, the church’s bells having fallen victim to German bombs in 1940). I assumed a Fleet Street icon had bitten the dust; but it felt like it was marking my professional demise.

  Entering the dim yet cosy bar, lined with old wood and local history, I could see Norman was already propped on one of its unique, triangular stools supping a pint of Worthington, with three others in proximity.

  ‘You sounded like it was urgent, so I’ve lined us up a couple,’ he said, carefully passing me one of the brim-full pints.

  ‘Thanks, Norm,’ I said, snatching my smoking kit out of my jacket and smartly filling my pipe.

  ‘What’s up, like? Is it about us being wingless again against Portugal?’

  When packing up my desk, I had seen a report that Ramsey was intending to play the same stifling side that, with vital assistance from Herr Kreitlin, had scraped past Argentina in the quarter-finals. However, it hadn’t darkened my mood in the slightest. It couldn’t.

  ‘No, Norm, I wish it was.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  I lit my pipe and inhaled deeply. ‘Nell’s left me, my dad’s got a serious lung disease and I’ve just had to resign from the Mirror.’

  He put his beer down on the bar, as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold. ‘Jesus Christ, Harry!’ He looked both confused and concerned. ‘So you won’t be covering the rest of the World Cup?’

  His focusing on that particular aspect of my predicament took me aback. ‘Eh… yeah… Or rather… no, Norm, I won’t be.’

  ‘What the fuck did you quit for? The tournament finishes on Saturday. Why didn’t you wait until next week?’

  I resisted shouting at Norman, “Did you hear me? I’ve lost my wife and could well be losing my father”. Instead, I drank my first pint down in one and, armed with my second, proceeded to explain about my England and West Germany conspiracy piece (without, naturally, mentioning anything to do with Number 10), how Cudlipp had suppressed it and that he had intended to move me from football to racing and athletics.

  ‘Cudlipp’s a taffy cunt. We all know that. But alleging we’re in bed with the Krauts? Come on, Harry: that’s like claiming Vera Lynn rode Adolf Eichmann.’

  ‘I didn’t expect anyone to like it. I don’t like it. But it’s the truth.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘My sources. And, before you ask, they’re cast iron. But Cudlipp didn’t want to know. If I’d got it in writing from the Queen, he wouldn’t have run it.’

  ‘You know what he’s like: he does his pieces, kicks someone out and then thinks better of it. Wait for him to calm down and then ask for your job back.’ Norman said it like he was explaining how to change a fan-belt. ‘A smudger I know was sacked by him from the Sunday Pictorial. A photo of what he said was the Loch Ness Monster, turned out to be a decomposing log. He’d been set up by the “Screws of the World”. The next day Cudlipp not only took him back on, he gave him a pay rise!’ Norman gave a hearty laugh and drained his glass.

  Nevertheless, I was certain there was no going back. ‘Cudlipp won’t change his mind. Even if he did, I wouldn’t take him up on it.’

  ‘Why not? As soon as the new season gets underway, you’ll be back on Saturday afternoon duty. You mark my words.’

  ‘Sometimes, Norm, you’ve got to draw a line in the sand,’ I said, with far more conviction than I in fact possessed.

  From his expression, it was obvious Norman had never felt that need.

  ‘Two more and twenty Embassy, when you’re ready Jim,’ he said, waving
his empty glass at the barman. ‘On the bright side, at least you can go to the England match tomorrow night without having to work. Everyone thought we’d be playing our semi at Goodison, so there are still tickets to be had. We could meet up after for a beer.’

  ‘I don’t know, Norm. Right now, I’m not sure I want to go to Wembley to watch England.’

  ‘Oh, come on Harry. We’ve got a great chance of getting into the final. They’ve only got Eusebio, and Stiles will take care of him. Apparently, when Ramsey told him that his job was to stop Eusebio playing, Nobby said “This game, or the rest of his career”!’

  Norman briefly roared with laughter. Then, when he realised I hadn’t joined in, he turned to the barman and said, ‘Did you hear that, Jim?’

  Jim - built for trouble, with an anchor tattoo - grinned like “Oddjob” and gently placed our pints in front of us. ‘Them darkies go down like Sonny Liston. It’s about time we gave ‘em reason to.’

  He made up my mind. I couldn’t stomach watching England play for a place in the final, surrounded by Jims, wondering whether - like the second Ali/Liston fight - what I was seeing wasn’t actually sport.

  ‘Thanks. But I’m going to give it a miss, Norm, and watch it on the telly.’

  ‘What on your little set, in glorious black and white?’

  ‘Yes, without Nell and Alison nagging me. Just me and a crate of pale ale.’ I didn’t say it to Norman, but another attraction of watching it on the television was I could turn it off.

  ‘You are going to go to the final, though, aren’t you? For the last year, you’ve been banging on about how England winning the World Cup would be even better than the Reds winning the FA Cup. You can’t risk missing that.’

  ‘We’ll see. They’ve got to get there first.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll get there: I can feel it in my bones.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. I had that feeling too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 26th July 1966

  The next morning, I woke with a colossal hangover to find I had been sleeping in yesterday’s underwear and had failed to set up the teasmade.

  When I checked the back pocket of my trousers, which I had conveniently left on the floor beside my bed, I was relieved to find my wallet; although the only paper it contained was a carbon copy agreement to rent a Bush twenty-one inch, dual standard television. According to the document, it was due to be delivered that day. This triggered a partial memory of going into Radio Rentals on my way back from the station the previous afternoon and demanding the largest-screen TV they had in the shop. The hammer in my head pounded harder, and I felt like being sick.

  Having made my way gingerly downstairs, I was soon feeling even worse. First, I discovered that, in the Goodison Park semi-final, the Russians had been reduced to ten men before half-time and ended up being beaten by West Germany, 2-1. This was the third time West Germany’s opponents had had at least one player sent off. ‘It was like they couldn’t be expected to beat an eleven-man team,’ I muttered to myself.

  Then I made the mistake of phoning Nell’s parents.

  ‘Hello Giuseppe, it’s Harry. Is Daniella there?’

  ‘She in London, Harry - with the referees.’

  In my brain-addled state, I had completely forgotten about the briefing. ‘Can you ask her to ring me when she gets back?’

  I could hear Rosa in the background screaming at him in Italian. I guessed she wasn’t asking after my well-being.

  ‘Si, I ask her,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Giuseppe, do you know if she’s coming home today?’

  ‘No. We take Daniella and Alison to Whipsnade Zoo tomorrow and eat dinner at Toni’s — ’

  Before he could finish his sentence, Rosa took over the receiver, screamed ‘Adultero!’ at me and slammed it down.

  Then hangover hunger struck. As Nell hadn’t bought food since Saturday, there was no bread to make toast. Fortunately, however, the milkman had been. So breakfast comprised tea, cornflakes and a cocktail of Anadin and Eno’s.

  Afterwards, over my first pipe, I telephoned Rita. We hadn’t spoken since Sunday afternoon and so she didn’t know that my life had since completely fallen apart. I instinctively knew she would be both understanding and supportive about Da’s diagnosis and my being on the dole, and she was.

  I also mentioned I would be on my own watching the BBC’s broadcast of England’s semi-final. (I didn’t let on it was because Nell had deserted me: Rita was bound to ask why, and I couldn’t tell her Nell thought I was having an affair with her.) Rita responded that she would be too, because her mother was caring for a sick relative in Wales. Before considering whether it was wise or appropriate, I said, ‘Why don’t you and I watch the match together? I’ve just rented a huge telly: it’s being delivered today.’

  ‘Come to your house you mean?’ Rita whispered, as if she was in a library rather than at her desk.

  ‘Yes. I’m not far from Mill Hill East tube. We could have something to eat while we watch it. I don’t cook, so it won’t be anything fancy. But I’m sure I could manage one of those TV dinners.’

  After what seemed like a very long pause - during which I felt both guilt and embarrassment and wished I could take back the suggestion - she replied, ‘Okay. That would be nice, Harry. Thank you.’

  Later, sitting in my chair with my pipe and another cup of tea, I found myself musing on my motives and intentions for inviting Rita over. Was I merely being polite and considerate and wanting some genial company at what was a difficult time? I considered Rita a friend, as well as a former colleague, and she was easy and pleasant to talk to. Or, deep down, was I seeking a more intimate relationship? Rita was undoubtedly attractive; possessed the feminine charms that Nell had all but relinquished; and, having broken up with Barry, she was available. But I was married to Nell - albeit we were currently estranged. And, whilst I had on several occasions dreamt of having an affair with Rita, I had never once considered making it a reality.

  With these thoughts still tumbling in my mind, I got on with taking delivery of my new television set and buying Cinzano and other provisions for the evening. By the time I had installed the set and assembled a meal comprising a box of Vesta Chow Mein, a brick of Wall’s Dairy Raspberry Ripple and a tin of Libby’s fruit cocktail, my head had stopped pounding and I was no longer feeling sick; but I was no closer to knowing what I wanted from Rita. What I did know, however, was that I couldn’t wait for her to arrive.

  When she did, she looked like she had stepped out one of those glossy magazines for women - or rather women other than Nell. Although still wearing her office attire - a silky cream blouse and green tailored skirt - she had transformed herself from personal assistant to girl about town. She had taken off her upswept glasses, untied her hair, so it fell in soft curls on her shoulders and had applied a little more make-up than, I suspected, Forsyth permitted.

  Having shown her my writing room (particularly my framed photograph of me with Our Rog and the FA Cup), I led Rita upstairs into the lounge. ‘Oh, I love all your World Cup decorations,’ she said scanning the room. ‘Very patriotic.’

  I had intended to demonstrate my disillusionment with England by taking them down, but changed my mind when I knew Rita was coming.

  ‘Is that a real football?’

  ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’ I said. ‘It’s actually an ice bucket.’

  ‘Isn’t that clever.’

  I knew she would appreciate my World Cup merchandise - unlike Nell.

  ‘And this must be your latest acquisition,’ she said, stroking the new television’s walnut veneered cabinet. ‘I’ve never seen one this big.’

  ‘Yes, it gives a superb picture,’ I said proudly. I’ll turn it on: World Cup Grandstand will start in a minute.’

  After settling Rita down with David Coleman and a Cinzano and lemonade, I retired to the kitchen to make our food. I had already read the instructions on back of the Vesta box. It hadn’t looked that d
ifficult; not for someone who had assembled an Airfix kit of the “Golden Hind”. (Well, almost: I lost one or two of the small pieces and gave up on the rigging.) The first step was boiling some water in a saucepan. Easy. Except that it had to be eighteen and a half fluid ounces of water. How much, I wondered, was a fluid ounce?

  I found Alison’s maths book upstairs and smuggled it into the kitchen. According to the tables on the back, “4 Noggins” equalled one pint and weighed one pound four ounces. If sixteen ounces made a pound, a pint weighed twenty fluid ounces. So, I took an empty milk bottle, filled it almost to the top and called that good enough.

  Once the water had boiled, I added the contents of the first of the kit’s four packets. The result looked more like a concrete mix than the basis of a meal. Pressing on regardless, I left it to “simmer” - which I assumed meant bubble - for five minutes, as instructed, before adding the packet of soft noodles. Since it then needed to cook for further fifteen minutes, I noted the time on our hideous sunburst wall clock (one of Nell’s mail-order mistakes from Littlewoods) and took the opportunity to check on Rita.

  I found her standing on one of our butterfly dining chairs, by the shelving unit above the television. She was in her stockinged feet; although it wasn’t her feet that first caught my attention. She was reaching above her head towards the TV aerial and her long, slim legs up to her lower thigh were in full view. It was like the start of one of my dreams about her.

  She didn’t immediately notice my presence, and I briefly fantasised she was about to turn provocatively to face me, throw off her clothes and mount the chair Christine Keeler style. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, she moved the aerial to one side and pulled out from the row of books behind it, our copy of Spock.

  ‘Fancy a bit of light reading,’ I said chirpily.

  As she spun round in response, her stockinged feet slipped on the chair’s wooden seat. She yelped, lost her balance and would have fallen to the floor had I not stepped in and caught her.