Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  I was pretty sure Harry had read the Sunday Mirror that day: from the plastic box in his shed, he produced a copy of the 31st July 1966 edition with the first line of his then address scrawled on it for the benefit of the delivery boy. He pointed out the message to “World Bankers” printed prominently on the front page, above a twenty-four-point headline, “GOLDEN BOYS”. It read “Britain’s reserves went up yesterday by one valuable gold cup”. I took it to be nothing more than a light-hearted, topical comment on England becoming world champions. Harry thought otherwise. In his view, it was Cudlipp’s mischievous hint at what England’s win had really been all about. That was why he had kept the paper.

  Whilst he made his last shorthand note on that Sunday, I discovered he had added an interesting postscript almost four years later. The day Brazil won the 1970 World Cup and a week after England had been knocked out in the quarter-finals by none other than their 1966 Final opponents, West Germany, he wrote:

  “England no longer hold the title of World Champions. The Jules Rimet Trophy is back where it should be: in Brazil. As three-times winners, they get to keep it permanently. Quite right too. It should never have left their hands in the first place.

  “Ramsey was right: we can’t match the Latin Americans or Latin Europeans. As this tournament has shown, nor can we match the best of our fellow Northern Europeans. The truth is, we aren’t good enough. And, unless and until the World Cup Finals return to our unlevel playing fields, I can’t see we ever will be.”

  Harry pointed out that - forty-six years and eleven tournaments later - he hasn’t been proved wrong.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Friday, 29th July 2016

  During that final month of meetings with Harry, finding a buyer for his story became increasingly urgent. Fortunately, his slashing his price to ten thousand pounds enabled me to widen my search to include TV producers. Among the proposals I submitted was one to the BBC for a documentary entitled Williegate, which I pitched as:

  “The never-before-told story of Britain’s Watergate. Like the notorious American scandal of the 1970s resulting in the President’s impeachment, Williegate started with a burglary. But whereas the White House wanted surveillance items installed without anyone being aware it had been done, No 10 wanted an emblematic item removed from public display and, crucially, for the whole country to know about it. This was because the aim of the Wilson administration in 1966 - in contrast to Nixon’s six years later - was not to undermine political opposition, but to manipulate public perception. Williegate was a spinning, not a spying, operation. And, unlike Watergate, it was successful.

  “Whereas in the summer of 1966, the nation was - both economically and as a world power - practically bankrupt, Forsyth used England’s hosting of the World Cup to create in the public’s mind a quite different reality: that the Labour Government had stopped the post-Empire rot and was making Britain 'Great’ again. First, he manufactured the myth that, just as the nation had proved its global power in the past by defeating foreign adversaries on distant battlefields in two world wars, it could do so in the present by England defeating its football adversaries on domestic playing fields in the FIFA World Cup. Then - leaving nothing to chance - he ensured England did triumph in the tournament by tipping the playing fields in their favour and nobbling their principal foes.

  “In his ‘Diaries of a Cabinet Minister’, Richard Crossman’s first post-World Cup Final entry, includes the following:

  ‘I must record a big change in Harold’s personal position. Luck was running against him till the end of the week; now it seems to have turned… It was a tremendous, gallant fight that England won. Our men showed real guts and the bankers, I suspect, will be influenced by this, and the position of the Government correspondingly strengthened.’

  “In the wake of England’s win, the FA’s then Secretary, Denis Follows, declared, ‘Everyone now looks again to England to lead the World.’

  “Sir Stanley Rous subsequently complained that the Prime Minister had, ‘Appropriated the World Cup as if it was his own or the Government’s achievement.’ Little did he know that it had in fact been ‘the Government’s achievement.’

  “On the Government’s recommendation, all three World Cup Final officials received golden whistles from the Queen for ‘Services to England’. In previous World Cups, such an honour had only been bestowed on the referee. Bahramov, the linesman who awarded England’s crucial third ‘goal’, additionally received a replica Jules Rimet trophy.”

  When I met the BBC’s commissioning editor, “Damian”, for the first time to discuss my proposal, he told me that, whilst the Corporation wished to option Williegate, before they could do so, their lawyers required “independent corroboration” of Harry’s story. Apologetically, he explained that, in the light of their experience with the 2006 docudrama The Lavender List (when they were successfully sued for libel and ordered to pay £75,000 in damages and considerably more in legal costs) the BBC’s lawyers were nervous about any story involving Baroness Falkender, aka Marcia Williams.

  Consequently, following that meeting, I spent every free moment I wasn’t eating, sleeping or interviewing Harry, compiling a dossier of evidence to present to the BBC. In the time available, I could not verify every element of Harry’s story. Nonetheless, I did manage to gather material to substantiate all the key ones. By the time I met Damian again, on the last working day in July, I was confident I had not only ‘stood the story up’ but given him sufficient evidence to satisfy the BBC’s lawyers and enable him to option Williegate.

  So I was both surprised and disappointed when, over a drink in the oriental-styled Artesian cocktail bar at The Langham hotel, Damian said, ‘Jay darling, you know I love Williegate. We absolutely must tell that story. I’m afraid though, darling, the legal beagles are still rather wobbly about it,’ and pulled a clown-like sad face.

  Trying not to be irritated by Damian’s manner (like the bar’s leather and brass-studded furniture, it was much too showy for my taste), I quickly responded, ‘That’s not the end of the world. We can write Marcia Williams out. She’s only peripheral: we don’t actually have to even mention her.’

  ‘No, it isn’t just Lady Lavender, love: it’s the whole enchilada - or, should I say, avocado and feta smash.’ He giggled.

  ‘What?’ There had been no hint that the lawyers had concerns beyond Baroness Falkender’s litigiousness. ‘Are you saying they’re getting cold feet about the whole thing?’

  ‘A tad blue-toed, I’m afraid, yes.’

  ‘Why? What are they worried about?’

  Damian gave me the kind of look a gossip gives you before eagerly defaming a mutual acquaintance. ‘You know, don’t you, that the Charter is up for renewal this year?’

  I vaguely remembered hearing about it on Radio 4. ‘Yes. But how’s that relevant?’

  ‘Well, officially, it isn’t at all, of course.’ He carefully placed his mocktail to one side, leaned forward over the ritzy, glass-topped table between us and whispered excitedly, ‘But actually dear Auntie doesn’t want to upset the Government, who already think she’s politically biased - you know, too liberal lefty.’

  ‘The BBC can’t be that left wing: the Labour Party have complained it is anti-Corbyn.’

  ‘I know!’ Damian squealed. ‘Poor Auntie: she can’t win.’

  ‘She, they, it, could just ignore both of them and get on with being a world-renowned independent broadcaster.’

  ‘Well exactly,’ Damian said, placing his hand on my forearm. ‘In the meantime, though, we have to reassure the little darlings in Legal that Williegate is kosher. They’re wetting their knickers about it being just Harvey’s word against—’

  ‘Do you mean Harry’s?’

  ‘Silly me. Harry’s word against the world.’

  ‘Have they read the dossier I sent you? That contains a ton of supporting evidence.’

  ‘The dossier…?’ It was clear Damian hadn’t read it. ‘Oh, the dossier… Yes, I�
�m sure they have. Definitely. But they just want another source, who can confirm the juicy bits - preferably someone in Number 10.’ He said it like I had applied to the Corporation for a job and they wanted a third personal reference. ‘It’s a bore, I know. Would you mind?’

  In my head, I heard, “Yes, I sodding do”. But out of my mouth came, ‘I’ll see what I can do, Damian.’

  Accordingly, I left the Langham without an option on Williegate - and, consequently, any money with which to buy Harry’s story - and with a major additional obstacle between me and getting one. Fortunately, rather than driving, I had taken the train down to London for the meeting. So, travelling back, I was able to consider who could be the second source for the story, with the help of three small bottles of Pinot Grigio.

  Two bottles into the process, I had written down the names of all those who might have some relevant knowledge; struck through those - such as Wilson, Cudlipp and Goodman - who I knew were dead; and told a fellow occupant of my “Quiet Carriage” that, at the volume they spoke, their mobile phone was superfluous.

  I was left with the following candidates: Ludo Forsyth, Rita Davies, D.I. Rodman aka The Pole, Baroness Falkender and Brenda Britten. Of those, the only one I knew how to contact was Baroness Falkender; and, according to Harry, Forsyth had kept her in the dark about Operation Jules Britannia. I didn’t know the whereabouts of the others or even if they were still alive. I decided that, despite his saying at the outset that no one else would talk about it and “almost all” of those involved were dead, my only hope of finding a second source was via Harry.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Saturday, 30th July 2016

  Fortunately, I had already arranged to meet Harry the following day, to pay him for his story and tie up one or two loose ends. In view of the long spell of hot, dry weather Waterloo had been having, Alison had suggested that she bring him to my hotel and we have our last meeting on my hotel’s sunny terrace, where we had started almost four months ago.

  I had decided I wouldn’t mention that the BBC had yet to option his story, in case he felt awkward about my paying him from my own resources. I needn’t have worried. As soon as we had exchanged greetings and taken our seats, Harry said, ‘I hope you’ve brought your chequebook.’ Although he winked, I sensed he wasn’t being frivolous. Receiving his ten thousand pounds had become top priority.

  I had previously proposed doing a BACS transfer. However, he had insisted I give him a cheque. Fortunately, having turned my study upside down, I had managed to find a forgotten book of them.

  ‘I have indeed. I’ve got it here.’ I delved into my Mary Poppins handbag and, remarkably, found it with my first dip. I opened it on the table and, with pen poised, asked, ‘Should I make it out to Mr H Miller or Mr H Mullaly?’

  ‘Mrs A… ’ Harry paused and looked at his daughter.

  ‘Bonetti,’ Alison added. ‘Dad wants me to keep the money for him, don’t you Dad?’

  Harry nodded. ‘In case I spend it on fast… you know…,’ he said, struggling to find the noun.

  ‘Cars?’ I suggested.

  He shook his head and pointed at Alison and me.

  ‘Women,’ said Alison, looking at me and rolling her eyes.

  ‘Women,’ repeated Harry, ‘And slow horses.’ He winked.

  Although Harry was showing increasing symptoms of chemo brain, I was sure he could still manage his own money. I did wonder, therefore, why he wanted the cheque made out to Alison. However, since I was equally sure that he knew his own mind and this was his wish, I did as he directed.

  Alison folded the cheque and put it carefully away in the inside zipped section of her smart leather handbag. We ordered some drinks and, after discovering that Cezar, our waiter, intended to exercise his cherished freedom of movement by taking a job in Dublin, I sought Harry’s help in finding an additional source for his story.

  ‘These days, Harry, documentary films have to be produced more like fictional ones, with plenty of conflict, tension and drama. So the BBC have asked me to try to find one of the other characters in your story - preferably someone who was in Number 10 - who can tell it from the Labour government’s perspective. Forsyth would obviously be ideal - assuming he would talk to me. But I seem to remember you saying you’d heard he’d died.’

  Harry nodded. ‘That’s what… ‘ He paused and looked exasperated. ‘Oh, who was Nigeria’s coach for the ‘94 World Cup in America - the one we didn’t qualify for and Brazil won?’ Harry looked to Alison for help.

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I’ve no idea.’

  He shook his head in frustration. ‘Anyway, I met him out there then — ’

  ‘You were in America?’ I realised then I knew little about Harry’s life post July 1966.

  ‘I moved out there after my divorce. I wanted a new start. I know that’s a bit of a cliché, but it’s true.’

  Alison elaborated. ‘He was involved in the general management of several of their soccer clubs, weren’t you Dad?’

  ‘Yeah, their professional game was just getting going. It was a good opportunity.’

  From his face, I could see he was recalling that period in his life with some satisfaction.

  ‘Anyway, the coach knew Forsyth - he had been instrumental in his appointment by the Nigerian Ministry of Sport - and he told me he’d heard Forsyth had died of a… you know, when your…,’ he tapped the left side of his chest, ‘your thingy packs up…’

  ‘Do you mean a heart attack, Dad?’

  ‘That’s the one. I remember joking with the coach:’ Harry smiled at the thought. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t die of AIDS, I said.’

  Harry’s flippancy about AIDS annoyed me and I could see that he had embarrassed Alison. Although tempted to rebuke him, after exchanging glances with Alison, I just moved hastily on.

  ‘What about Rita: did you, by any chance, stay in touch with her?’ I asked.

  Harry snatched up his pipe and rammed the contents of the bowl with his smoker’s tool like a landscaper compacting earth. Then he looked at Alison. I could see his grey-blue eyes were filling. She looked back at him fondly and her mouth puckered. Maintaining eye-contact, she got up out of her chair, leaned over to him and gave him a long, silent hug.

  After Alison had gently released him and sat back down, Harry lit his pipe, took a long draw and said quietly, ‘Yes, we did stay in touch. Her and Barry got married and had kids and grandkids - she loved being a granny. Then she got ill - it was her heart, like Forsyth - and, during the London Olympics, I heard from one of her girls that she’d gone into… not hospital… What’s the other one that’s like it?’

  ‘Hospice?’ I offered.

  ‘Yes, hospice.’ He drained what was left of his tea, carefully replaced the cup on the saucer and, whilst absent-mindedly prodding his pipe continued, ‘Then, Christmas time, I got a phone call to say she’d… she’d… you know.’ He paused and his voice quavered, as he added, ‘All the family were there, apparently. And it was quick and peaceful like.’

  Alison placed her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Painfully recalling how Parkinson’s had slowly destroyed my mum, I said, ‘That’s a blessing.’

  I called a “comfort break” and asked Cezar to bring us another round of drinks, before moving onto the other two candidates with whom I wanted Harry’s help.

  ‘Do you know what became of Brenda?’ I asked with little optimism, not least because I had calculated that, if alive, she would soon be expecting a telegram from the Queen.

  ‘She’s no longer with us either. Rita saw her name in the obits. I don’t know when she passed - but it was years ago.’

  ‘So that leaves D.I. Rodman. You don’t get a Christmas card from him, do you, by any chance?’

  Harry gave me a weak smile and shook his head. ‘Nell always did our Christmas cards. I could never be bothered with them.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Even if I could find him, I don’t suppose for a moment he’d talk to me.’
>
  ‘You’ve got more chance of finding Shergar,’ Harry scoffed. Then, turning to Alison, he said ‘Why can I remember the name of a racehorse stolen in the eighties, but not what this is called?’ he said, pulling at his light cotton cardigan.

  ‘Beats me Dad. I wouldn’t have remembered Shergar. But I’m pretty sure you’re wearing a cardigan.’ Alison gave him a warm grin. ‘So, between us, we should be fine.’

  ‘Memory, Harry - as they say - is a funny thing. You’ve done remarkably well to remember all that you have.’ I said it to reassure him, but meant it nonetheless.

  ‘So that just leaves Marcia Williams. She’s definitely alive, although you wouldn’t know it from her presence in the House of Lords. She’s been a peer for forty-two years and is yet to make her maiden speech.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your time with her,’ Harry said, flicking his hand like he was swiping a fly. ‘I told you, Forsyth made damned sure she didn’t know what he was getting up to.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But at least she met Forsyth and can give her impression of him.’

  ‘There’s no point. I’ve told you what he was like.’

  ‘But it would give the BBC another perspective. And, thinking about it, she may be able to tell me what Wilson knew about Operation Jules Britannia.’

  ‘Wilson wouldn’t have given anything away, not even to her: Forsyth would have seen to that.’

  Harry’s tone was insistent. But I wasn’t so sure approaching Baroness Falkender would be a waste of time. Although, I didn’t imagine for one moment she would prove to be a star witness; if she were to corroborate any material part of Harry’s story, it could just settle the nerves of the BBC’s lawyers sufficiently for them to allow Damian to option it.

  I didn’t debate the issue further with Harry. I acknowledged what he said and privately decided that, although the Baroness was a tricky customer with whom it was notoriously difficult to get an audience, I would attempt to discover what she knew.