Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 16th August 2016

  I still had several contacts in the House of Lords, some of whom I got to know as MPs. Therefore, Plan A had been to go to the House when they were sitting, “bump into” Baroness Falkender and persuade her to agree to an interview. However, I soon discovered that, due to illness, she hadn’t attended the House since 2011.

  Plan B involved her solicitors, who had acted for her in The Lavender List libel proceedings. I contacted them and said that I would like their client’s take on Ludo Forsyth, “against whom some new and very serious allegations have been made”.

  I reckoned that getting the dirt on her former nemesis would be too tempting a prospect for the former Marcia Williams to decline an interview - and I was right. She agreed, via her solicitor, Gill, to see me at her home in Oxfordshire.

  Neither she nor her home were what I expected from my research and Harry’s description of their Downing Street encounters. She lived, not in a manor house, but a modest cottage. And her son Tim didn’t show me into the imposing study of a former political heavyweight, but a typical old person’s living room. There I was softly greeted by a white-haired granny figure, wearing a loose cardigan and comfortable trousers, sat in a well-cushioned, suede recliner.

  The only clue as to her prominent past was the framed photograph on the polished wooden table next to her. Rather than it being of her two sons (which, in the absence of a still-loved partner, one might expect), it was an image of her and Harold Wilson in their respective primes enjoying a light-hearted break from running the country. Although purportedly impromptu, as Wilson was clutching a pipe and she was sitting submissively beside him, I could only assume it was posed.

  Decades on, Marcia (as she permitted me to call her) now cut a frail and slightly distorted figure, which I subsequently discovered was mainly due to her suffering a stroke in the late nineties. Her vulnerable appearance initially made it difficult to envisage her intimidating members of Wilson’s Cabinet, as was her reputation. However, once I switched on my recorder and started the interview proper, I soon caught more than a glimpse of the first formidable woman at Number 10.

  ‘As I’m sure Gill has explained, I would like to ask you about events in 1966 involving Ludovic Forsyth. I’m particularly interested in those which comprised Operation Jules Britannia.’

  Marcia looked at me as if I had slipped into Swahili. ‘Operation what?’

  ‘Jules Britannia. That was the codename, so I’ve been informed, given to a series of measures taken to enable England to win the World Cup - which, in those days, was the Jules Rimet Trophy. I’m told Ludo Forsyth led the operation.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She thought for a second or two and added, ‘Did you say 1966?’

  ‘Yes, the first phase was from February until the General Election. The second was from April to, I suspect, shortly after the World Cup Final on 30th July.’

  ‘That’s football, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. It was the only time England won.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ she said, as if it wasn’t worthy of a place in her memory.

  This surprised me. It was well established that Harold Wilson had a keen interest in football, supported his hometown team, Huddersfield, and had hurried back from a meeting on Vietnam with President Johnson at the White House to attend the Final at Wembley. Surely, even if Forsyth had kept Operation Jules Britannia from her, England hosting and winning football’s most prestigious tournament, which (as Dick Crossman records) had changed the fortunes of both the Government and Harold Wilson personally, couldn’t have passed her by or been expunged from her memory entirely.

  Marcia listened with a blank expression, whilst I prompted her with, ‘More than thirty-two million people watched the Final on the TV. There were celebrations on the streets of Coronation magnitude, apparently, and there was an official banquet for the team at the Royal Garden Hotel, which Harold Wilson, James Callaghan and George Brown all attended. The Post Office even issued a special “England Winners” World Cup stamp. Does it still not ring a bell?’

  She didn’t respond to my question. Instead, she reminisced about the Wilson’s other successes. Although age and illness had weakened her voice, she still spoke assertively and articulately.

  ‘I recall us winning the March General Election… and fighting very hard that summer to save the pound.’ She pointed a contorted finger at me. ‘Fighting and succeeding. We maintained Britain’s role as a world leader by resisting devaluation for almost eighteen months.’

  ‘As I understand it, Operation Jules Britannia was also about maintaining the nation’s status,’ I said, returning the conversation to Harry’s story.

  ‘Forsyth can’t take credit for that,’ Marcia said with a sour grimace.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Did you say the operation was one of Forsyth’s follies?’

  ‘I’m told it was his baby, so to speak, yes.’

  ‘You’re told? By whom?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose my source.’

  ‘Is it him?’ Her contempt for Forsyth was palpable.

  I smiled. If only he could have been a source, I thought.

  ‘If he is, I would get yourself another one. I’ve never known a more prolific fabricator of the truth. And that includes Boris Johnson.’

  ‘No, Forsyth isn’t my source.’ Having been informed he had died many years ago, I thought I could properly admit that. ‘Although, if he had been alive today, I would have loved to have got his take on it,’ I volunteered, adding light-heartedly, ‘Even if I couldn’t believe a word he said.’

  Marcia’s tone didn’t lighten in response. ‘Has he died then?’ she said brusquely.

  ‘So I understand. In about 1994. Of a heart attack, apparently.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said dismissively. ‘I know for a fact that, in 2007, he was telling lies to the BBC.’

  ‘You do? How come - if I may ask?’

  ‘I brought some libel proceedings against the BBC - successfully, I might add - and, as part of their defence, they served a witness statement from him.’

  ‘Was that the court case about the so called “Lavender List”?’

  Her face darkened. ‘The proceedings were about a tawdry drama the BBC broadcast that repeated lies about Harold’s resignation honours list, if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘Err… yes… that’s what I… err — ’

  ‘And, as you are recording this,’ she said, interrupting, ‘I wish to place on record that my manuscript list - which I compiled exclusively from various notes of Harold’s - was written on lilac coloured paper supplied to Number 10, not - I repeat, not - my own, lavender notepaper. I have never possessed lavender notepaper.’ She gave me a modest, slightly lopsided smile and then added, ‘And you can quote me on that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said politely, without having any intention of doing so, and brought the subject back to the allegedly lying Ludo. ‘So Forsyth may still be alive then, as far as you know?’

  ‘I have no idea. I suggest you ask the BBC’s lawyers who found him in Abuja.’

  ‘He was still working in Nigeria?’

  ‘As an aide to the President, I think his statement said. And that small part of it might even have been true.’

  Marcia’s language was more polite than Harry had led me to expect, but no less acerbic.

  ‘Do you remember anything else about Forsyth in the spring and summer of ‘66 when, as you say, you were resisting devaluation?’

  After giving it very little thought, she said, ‘Nothing you could print,’ and gave me another crooked smile.

  ‘If you can remember the sort of things he was working on during that period, it would be helpful.’

  ‘It’s not a question of remembering: I didn’t know then. He was very secretive and, except when he was treading on my toes, kept an extremely low profile. Most people inside Number 10 assumed he was just another ci
vil servant.’

  ‘Why did he behave like that, do you think?’

  ‘Harold was already attracting criticism for having a “kitchen cabinet” and adopting a presidential style of government. I assume he didn’t want to add to it.’

  ‘But what about the press?’

  ‘In those days, one could keep things out of the papers if one needed to.’

  Like you having a long-standing affair and two sons with Tory political journalist, Walter Terry, I thought to myself. ‘Do you mean the Handyman could?’ I replied.

  She gave me a knowing smile and nod, and said, ‘I can see your source isn’t entirely uninformed.’

  After returning the acknowledgement, I took a different tack. ‘Didn’t Harold give you at least some clue as to what Forsyth was getting up to?’

  ‘Only in the broadest possible terms. Forsyth had convinced him, I seem to recall, that he and the Government could be sold to the people, like Persil or Andrex. Harold once said to me, “Our job is to devise and implement policies that will achieve what we want. His job (referring to Forsyth) is to persuade the electorate that our policies will achieve what they want”.’

  ‘So “spin doctors” weren’t a 1980s American invention then?’

  ‘Not at all. Forsyth had been “spinning” for the Labour Party twenty years before Ronald Reagan employed one. We just didn’t make a song and dance about it.’

  ‘And I get the impression Forsyth was good at it. Is that right?’

  ‘Forsyth was/is an odious little man. But, much as it pains me to say it, he was a propaganda master. If he’d been born in the second half of the twentieth century, instead of the first, he could have got more buyers for Brexit than Dominic Cummings, Aaron Banks and the Daily Mail put together.’

  Marcia had resurrected Forsyth as a potential corroborator of Harry’s story. She had also confirmed Harry’s profile of him. And, given that it appeared Forsyth’s existence was unknown outside the Prime Minister’s inner circle, Harry could only have gained this knowledge by working, as he had claimed, at Number 10.

  This was all positive, not to say encouraging. But she hadn’t yet told me anything that supported Harry’s account of Operation Jules Britannia. Indeed, she hadn’t even heard of Operation Jules Britannia. However, it occurred to me that she could have been aware - either directly or through Brenda - of some circumstances of the operation without knowing that’s what they were.

  ‘A month or so before the 1966 General Election, do you remember a sports reporter being brought into Number 10, by the name of Harry Miller?’

  ‘A sports reporter? Why would a sports reporter be working at Number 10?’

  ‘According to my source, he was advising Forsyth in relation to Operation Jules Britannia.’

  ‘How old was this Mr Miller?’ From the way she asked, it was obvious this wasn’t an idle question.

  I remembered Harry was born almost exactly thirty years before me. ‘At the time we’re talking about, he would have been coming up to thirty.’

  ‘I thought so. Jay, what your source may not have told you is that Forsyth was what we called then - when it was illegal - a “queer”.’

  ‘Yes, I did know — ’

  ‘To my knowledge, he brought several young men to Number 10. Who they were and what he did with them, I knew not and cared less.’

  ‘I do understand. However, this Harry Miller wasn’t just visiting Forsyth, he was seconded to Number 10 by his newspaper, the Daily Mirror. I’m told the Chairman, Hugh Cudlipp, arranged it, with Harold Wilson’s full knowledge and agreement. Indeed, Mr Wilson had m et Harry previously when visiting his constituency.’

  ‘According to your source,’ she said, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

  I soldiered on regardless. ‘Yes, and the same source tells me you met him too and asked him to deliver a message about Concorde to Forsyth at the Wimbledon Championships.’

  ‘Are you seriously expecting me to remember a courier I may have used fifty years ago?’

  I didn’t see any point in pursuing the matter further. This response confirmed in my mind that it would take a cine film showing her, Harry and Forsyth with Alf Ramsey celebrating England’s World Cup triumph, for her to recall anything associated with Operation Jules Britannia. So, after thanking her for her time, I left the former Marcia Williams, hoping (but not expecting) that Forsyth would still be alive and prove more helpful.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 11th October 2016

  It took almost two months to locate Ludovic Forsyth, establish that speaking to him wouldn’t entail a medium and arrange an interview with him by video link. The delay was caused initially by the BBC’s right hand not knowing what the left hand had done. Even once I had been put in touch with the Nigerian journalist who had found him for them ten years previously, it took another six weeks to get Forsyth’s contact details and set up the interview via his personal assistant.

  The local journalist discovered that Forsyth still lived in Abuja; but, having retired in 2007 aged 82, had moved into a mansion in the exclusive Asokoro district. He had previously been working as a close aide to former President Olusegun Obasanjo, who had had to relinquish power that year following the failure of his campaign to be allowed a third term as President. Opponents of the ex-president had alleged that the campaign had involved millions of dollars in bribes being offered by Obasanjo aides. Obasanjo denied any knowledge of this. Forsyth and Obasanjo’s daughter were amongst those subsequently charged with the embezzlement of $4million in public funds. Apparently, the charges against Forsyth were later dropped.

  When I first telephoned “David”, Forsyth’s assistant, I had expected him to be a stubborn gatekeeper, whose duties included heavily restricting, if not entirely denying, journalist access to his boss. So I was pleasantly surprised when - in soft, educated English, with barely any accent - David readily agreed to put my request for an interview to his employer.

  So as not to risk scaring Forsyth off, I didn’t mention Operation Jules Britannia. I told David I was writing a fifty-year reflection on Harold Wilson’s second term in office. As an enticement for Forsyth, I added that I had already interviewed Baroness Falkender. She had given me her perspective on it; “however, the views and insights of the former Prime Minister’s top political adviser would be even more valuable”.

  I expected Forsyth would instruct David to do background checks on me. I hoped he would be reassured by my track record as a political journalist and wouldn’t be too put off by my obviously left-of-centre, anti-establishment viewpoint.

  My hopes proved well founded. Two days later, David telephoned back and informed me that Forsyth had agreed to an interview on condition it didn’t stray from 1960s Britain. In particular, his employer would immediately terminate the interview, he said, if I asked any questions about subsequent events in Nigeria. Much as I would have liked to have known how Forsyth found working for a born-again Christian who had criminalised same-sex relationships, I was happy to assure David that I wouldn’t leave the subject of Wilson’s first premiership. He gave me his Skype ID, and we arranged the video call for the following morning.

  When I called at the designated time, a young West African face with dark-rimmed glasses appeared on my screen, smiling politely. After we had exchanged greetings and pleasantries, he asked me to hold and disappeared from the screen, leaving me with a view of a Sheraton style, leather desk chair and, behind it, a lavishly furnished sitting room. A minute or two later, this view was suddenly blocked by two torsos. One was long and lithe: the other, short and frail. Both were suited.

  I heard David say firmly but kindly, ‘Give me your cane and take my arm,’ and, after a beat, add, ‘Sir.’

  The hunched torso was lowered into the chair and I could see, for the first time, that above it was a pale, crinkled, spider-veined face, decorated with an incongruously dark, chevron moustache and topped with a thin head of carefully arranged and similarly coloured hair. Whe
n the face peered into the webcam and a pair of watery, cold blue eyes fixed me in a stare, I knew I was in the virtual presence of the infamous Forsyth.

  Before I could offer a greeting, he turned away from the camera, to look towards where I assumed David was now standing, out of shot. I noticed he was wearing a discreet hearing aid. ‘Where’s this Jay Phillips?’ he whispered loudly. ‘All I can see is a coloured woman in a Hawaiian shirt.’

  David leaned into frame and muttered into his employer’s ear.

  Forsyth nodded sharply, turned back to his webcam and announced, ‘Mr Babangida here, my P.A., will be listening and recording our conversation. I take it you have no objection? I’m sure you’re recording it too.’

  ‘None at all,’ I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. It had been a few years since I had gone head to head with a heavyweight political operator and I was actually feeling rather ring-rusty. ‘I was about to ask you for your permission to record the interview. I assume then that’s okay?’

  Forsyth didn’t respond. ‘Speak clearly and directly into the microphone, will you? As a place to live and work, Nigeria has many advantages, but first class Internet reception isn’t one of them.’ It was obvious that, for whatever reason, he was intent on concealing his age-related deafness as well as his grey hair.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now then: what do you want to know about the Wilson governments of the sixties?’ Before I could respond, he continued. ‘You will appreciate that, whilst I haven’t worked for a British government since Wilson left office in 1970, I am still bound by the Official Secrets Act. So, if I don’t answer a question, it will be because I’m disinclined to swap the comfort of my house here for a cell in Wormwood Scrubs - not because I’m being evasive. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said jovially. ‘I wouldn’t want to be responsible for landing you in jail,’ and chuckled, hoping it would break the ice.