by Tim Flower
‘I got yer paper too. You can read it first, before yer Da comes down.’
I was one of the five million who took the Daily Mirror. I used to enjoy a quiet read of it before work. But since Alison had started school last September, the morning peace had usually been disturbed by Nell’s efforts to ensure she was properly dressed, had eaten her breakfast, and had started her walk to school sharp at eight-thirty with everything she needed for the day.
Waiting until I could call Miss Davies, I was struggling anyway to concentrate on my paper. I must have re-read the front-page lead - about replacing National Assistance - several times. Having lost the breakfast battle and sent Alison to the bathroom to brush her teeth, Nell had resorted to vigorous tidying of the lounge. She pummelled the bold-patterned cushions on our bright red, G-Plan settee, and under one of them discovered a pink handled hairbrush. She tutted and shouted upstairs, ‘Have you done your hair, Alison?’
There was pause, before a sweet young voice, betraying just a hint of anxiety, replied, ‘Yes, Mummy.’
Nell called back, ‘Are you sure?’
There was no response.
‘Come down. Let me see.’
Alison reluctantly appeared in a grey pinafore dress, with her regulation bottle green socks at half-mast. She was a little below average height for a five-year-old and still had an infant’s tummy that stretched the green nylon of a school cardigan faintly stained with free school milk. She had long, dark, Mediterranean hair, like her mother; except hers looked like seaweed after a storm.
‘You haven’t brushed it.’ Nell sounded unduly annoyed.
‘I did!’
‘You’re lying. That’s very naughty.’
Ma couldn’t conceal a smile. ‘She’s only a kid, luv.’
‘I did do it!’ Alison pleaded.
Nell waved Alison’s hairbrush menacingly. ‘What with?’
‘My fingers.’ Alison clawed at her nest, to demonstrate.
Ma let out a shriek of laughter. ‘She were telling the truth, luv.’
‘Come hear young lady.’ Nell roughly set about her mop with the brush, causing Alison to grimace and whine. With equal zeal, she then wrenched up her socks.
Ma took pity on Alison. ‘Here you are luv. I’ve got something for yer.’ From a bulging handbag, she took out a packet of sweet cigarettes and gave them to her.
Alison slid open the packet, took out one of the thin, red tipped, sticks and mimicked her mother’s smoking of a Consulate.
‘What do you say?’ Nell prompted
‘Thank you, Grandma,’ She blew imaginary smoke towards her mother and giggled.
Nell grabbed her arm and her still newish looking leather satchel. ‘Come on, it’s gone half-past: you’re going to be late,’ she said and brusquely ushered her downstairs and out of the front door.
Whilst Ma started the washing up, I lit my pipe and tried again to settle down with the paper. But I had only searched the sports pages in vain for my byline, when Da announced his presence by coughing loudly and deeply. And this set Ma off.
Stood at the kitchen door, with her folded arms resting on her considerable bosom, she bawled at Da, ‘Michael Mullaly! I’ve said a hundred times: yer need to see the doctor.’ She turned to me. ‘He’s a stubborn so and so. I’ve said to him over and over like, “go to the doctors, you’re not right”. But he don’t listen.’
‘It’s just me smokes, Ma. I need to clear me lungs in the morning like - that’s all.’ He turned to me and, between stifled coughs, said, ‘Can I see what they say about the match?’ I obviously appeared reluctant. ‘Just gi’s the sport pages. You can keep the rest. It’s only fit for chip paper, anyways.’
Da took the Daily Worker at home, because it was “The only real working-class paper”. He thought the others - the Daily Mirror included - printed lies, “to keep the likes of us in line”.
This was one of Da’s many rigidly held beliefs. He was like a Scouse Alf Garnet: the father in the TV series Till Death Us Do Part. Except Da was a socialist, not a Tory; he supported Liverpool not West Ham; and his son was a “git” for no longer being “Scouse”.
When Ma came back in with his breakfast, I thought I could quietly retreat with the remnants of the Mirror. But Da spotted my withdrawal.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going downstairs to the toilet - if that’s alright with you?’
‘Yer got an outside khazi? I thought this were a posh house.’
Ma placed a full English, two doorsteps of bread covered in thick butter and a large mug of sweet tea in front of Da. ‘Don’t be daft, luv. You know they’ve a privy downstairs.’
Da did: it was another gentle put down. ‘Why d’yer have two? You can only use one at a time like.’
I ignored his jibe and took sanctuary in our avocado “cloakroom”. When I tried reading the Mirror’s back page story about the biggest curb on public spending for more than ten years, I got distracted again thinking about No 10 and my impending phone call.
As soon as I returned upstairs, Da said, ‘You ain’t got nutting in the paper.’
Da was right. Both my critique of Ramsey’s team selection and tactics, and my piece proposing additional linesmen for the World Cup finals, had seemingly been spiked. I defended their absence by referring him to a piece containing quotes from both managers and from England’s Keith Newton. I explained that there was a saying in journalism that “News trumps views”. Although, privately, I didn’t think a few platitudinous quotes justified excluding an interesting and timely analysis of England’s World Cup prospects.
‘Who did you say should have played then?’ I sensed Da sought another opportunity to criticise.
‘John Connolly and Ian Callaghan,’ I replied, knowing what was coming.
‘John Connolly!’ He said it as if I had suggested Ena Sharples.
‘He can play for Man U and still be a first-rate winger. With him, Callaghan, and Jimmy Greaves in the middle, we could win the World Cup. But we’ve no hope playing without wingers.’
‘Bollocks!’
Ma, clearing away Da’s dishes, intervened. ‘Language, Michael Mullaly! May the Lord forgive you.’
Da winked at Ma - it was the nearest he got to repentance - and pressed on. ‘We beat the Krauts, didn’t we?’
‘Only because they had a perfectly good goal disallowed.’
‘Boll…’ Da stopped himself mid-profanity and winked again at Ma. ‘Anyways, we don’t need wingers. If we’ve Banks keeping ‘em out and Our Rog putting ‘em in, we can go all the way.’
Unwisely, I challenged him. ‘We’ll be lucky to get through the group stage.’
‘Want a bet, lad?’ From amongst a small fold of green and the brown banknotes, he pulled out the one blue fiver and slapped it on the table. ‘Five quid says the wingless wonders win the World Cup.’
I adopted my usual avoidance tactic. ‘It depends what you mean by wingless. He may play only one winger: does that still count as wingless? What if Ramsey plays a winger in some matches, but not in others?’
‘Don’t try to be smart, my lad. Wingless is wingless. If England don’t play with two wingers and they get knocked out, I lose. If they’re wingless and win the cup, I win. Got it?’
Overhearing us from the kitchen, Ma adopted her familiar role of mediator. ‘Come on, luv: you know our Harry doesn’t like betting.’
‘He does the Pools, don’t he?’
I liked to think I knew a good deal about the game; certainly more than the average man who, each week, would religiously complete and post a Pools coupon. But I had never once tried to predict the number of draws there would be on a Saturday. I neither wanted to waste my money nor have my weekend spoilt by inevitably discovering from the evening paper that I had got it wrong.
‘I’ve never done the pools, Da.’
‘Yer don’t do the pools?’
I sensed more stick was coming. I checked my watch: it was five to nine. ‘I’ve got to make a
call, Da.’
He ignored my diversion. ‘Yer a div, lad. Yer know Diesel at the docks?’
I nodded. All Liverpool dockers had nicknames. Apparently, “Diesel” got his because, finding things that had fallen off a load, he would say “Dees ‘ill do for our kid”. Da was known as “Dick Turpin”: as a union rep, he would tell the men, “Come on - get yer hands up”.
‘He won a bullseye last week.’
‘Yeah, and how much did he spend doing it?’
‘How should I know? Look, I’ll give yer evens. Or don’t you believe that stuff you write?’
‘Of course, I do. I just…’
‘Or does the gaffer tell you what to write?’
That hurt. ‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Shake on it then.’ Da thrust a large, tea-coloured hand towards me. I hung back. ‘It’s okay: I don’t need to see yer bluey, lad.’
It worried me that I would, not only lose a half-a-day’s wages, but gift Da a brand-new stick with which to poke me. But these fears were trumped by an urge both to defend my reputation with Da and use the hall telephone to call Miss Davies. First wiping my sweaty palm on the seat of my trousers, I therefore took his coarse, calloused hand in mine and shook it firmly.
‘See? That didn’t hurt, did it?’ Da smirked and winked. ‘Yer can give me the bluey at Wembley.’
‘At Wembley? When?’
‘On the day of the final, yer div - when our lads win it. Yer going to get us tickets, aren’t yer?’
‘I don’t know, Da. I expect I’ll be able to get my hands on a couple for one or two of the group games. But I’m not sure about the final - particularly if England are in it.’
‘I thought yer was a big shot, Fleet Street football reporter. It’s only one fucking ticket.’
From the kitchen, Ma screamed, ‘Michael!’
Da persisted. ‘Can yer get us it, lad, or not?’
‘Look, I’ll see what I can do.’
Da imitated the Queen’s voice. ‘Will you? Will you see what you can do?’ Reverting to his native accent, he snapped, ‘Don’t give us that bollocks. Do yer promise or not?’
‘Michael Mullaly!’ Ma was standing, like a double-handled teapot, in the kitchen doorway. ‘You’d better be seeing Father Anthony when we get back: you’ve a lot to tell him.’
Although I was far from sure that I could get Da a ticket, I was equally uncertain that England would reach the final. So, keen to make my telephone call, I made a tactical concession.
‘Okay. If England are in the final, I promise.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Friday, 25th February 1966
Whilst we lived on the Finchley side of the Dollis Brook, Mill Hill East - a Northern Line terminus - was just my closest station. Commuting into town from there, I could usually avoid the no smoking carriages at either end of the train, still get my preferred seat on the inside of one of the horizontal benches, and - away from domestic hubbub - be able to enjoy a my pipe and paper in peace.
But my commute that Friday was not my usual one.
When, the previous morning, I had phoned the number Cudlipp had given me, all the sweet-sounding Miss Davies could tell me was that I must be at Number 10 by 9.00 am the next day and I would be meeting Mr Ludovic Forsyth. When I sought further details, she firmly, but politely, told me that Mr Forsyth would explain everything when he saw me.
Therefore, when walking towards Mill Hill East that Friday morning, instead of looking forward to being on the train, cocooned in my daily newspaper, I felt like a teenager again about to sit my Higher School Certificate, but this time without having done any revision.
On the train, my anxiety level soon increased. It stopped for what seemed like an age outside Finchley Central. Eventually it staggered into the station, where - without explanation - we were all ordered to get off.
After another long wait, I managed to squeeze onto a train from High Barnet. Now, not only was I running late, but my preparation for the biggest event in my working life so far consisted of hanging from one of the sprung, black bulbed handles that dropped from the carriage ceiling, like a kipper in a smokehouse. Far from being able to ease my tension with a pipe and a read of the paper, all I could do was count the cigarette butts, sweet wrappers and other discarded rubbish that had collected on the slatted wooden floor.
I had allowed ninety minutes - and some injury time - for a journey which shouldn’t have taken much more than an hour. However, due to the delays at Finchley and the over-crowded train taking so long at each station to release and admit passengers, by the time we reached Leicester Square and I could check my watch, it showed twelve minutes to nine. I set it by the radio, each Sunday, and over the course of the week it would gain about two minutes. Even so, I reckoned I had less than a quarter of an hour to reach Number 10.
At Trafalgar Square I decided that, instead of changing at Charing Cross for Westminster, it would be quickest to trot the rest of the way. Having escaped from my sluggardly, littered confinement - in front of a poster exhorting passengers to “Keep Britain Tidy” - I weaved my way through the crowd on the platform and hurried up the wooden escalators to freedom and fresh air.
Well, freshish. Over one hundred years of chimneys - and more recently exhausts - producing smog, had distressed the capital’s buildings and monuments and covered them in soot. It had rained heavily overnight and, emerging out of the dry, stale atmosphere of the Underground, London’s most famous precinct smelt like a doused bonfire.
I had last been there with the family. We had marvelled at the height of Nelson’s column; Alison had fed the pigeons the world’s most expensive bird seed; and Nell and I had watched lovingly, as she also tried to feed the lions. This time, I could only glance up at the nation’s hero, as I dodged the circling traffic and rushed into Whitehall.
I checked my watch again, as I trotted briskly by the equestrian statue of Prince George on his strangely shrunken mount. It was five to nine. I broke into a canter at Horse Guards Arch; and, having passed by a long terrace of blackened government buildings, turned into Downing Street, puffing and perspiring.
When I reached the familiar gloss black door of Number 10, guarded by a police officer, I took a long deep breath and gave the heavy, lions-head knocker a tentative rap. Another officer answered it and ushered me into the black and white tiled entrance hall, where he told me to wait. I slumped in one of the hall’s grand, but rather tired looking, chairs, and checked my watch yet again. I was immensely relieved to see it showing one minute past nine.
Mercifully, I had a clean hankie to blot my face; and I was able to see my reflection in the glass protecting a photograph of Winston Churchill, to straighten my tie. By the time an attractive girl - I guessed in her mid-twenties - came to collect me, therefore, I had managed to regain some measure of composure.
The girl had brunette hair, tied back with a velvet ribbon; and, behind a pair of elegant, upswept glasses, was a fresh, classically pretty face. She wore a crisp white blouse which disappeared at her narrow waist into a modest, grey pencil skirt. A pair of navy court shoes completed her outfit and showed off her slender legs perfectly.
‘Not even the Prime minister is allowed to sit there.’ Although she said it with a touch humour and not at all reproachfully, I shot out of the chair like a rocket. ‘It’s okay. I promise I won’t tell anyone.’ She gave me a modest smile. ‘I’m Miss Davies, Mr Forsyth’s secretary. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Harry Miller.’
‘I know. Come this way.’
She took me in a small lift up to the first floor. On the way, in a warm, friendly voice, with just a slight Celtic lilt, she told me about the chair (it was Winston Churchill’s) and explained that she was taking me to one of the dining rooms where we could wait because Mr Forsyth wouldn’t be ready for me for another fifteen minutes.
The room was an imposing one, with a lofty ceiling, wood panelled walls and a fireplace that had a window above it, where the chimney breast ought to ha
ve been. We sat at the end of the mahogany dining table that occupied the centre of the room and chatted. I had soon relaxed sufficiently to ask her about Forsyth.
‘He’s a member of the PM’s political office. He was the Labour’s campaign manager for the sixty-four Election. The campaign was so successful, the PM wanted him as a full-time adviser.’
‘Was he responsible for, “Let’s go with Labour and we’ll get things done”.’ In the run up to the last election, I had a sticker with this slogan on the rear window of my car.
‘Yes, actually he was. He used to run his own advertising agency, so he knows all about that kind of thing.’ Miss Davies clearly held Forsyth in high regard. ‘I worked for him then too. We had the Sunsilk account: you know, “Gives your hair the Sunsilk look”?’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘What is there for him to advise on, when there isn’t an election?’
She leaned towards me and said, confidentially, ‘I asked him that, when he told me we were moving to Number 10. He said, with the Government having a majority of only three, his job was to prevent an election until the time was right, and then win it with a large majority.’
‘How does he do that?’
‘I’m not really sure, to be honest. But it was thanks to him that Labour won last month’s by-election in Hull. That was very important: the Government’s majority was down to one.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He persuaded Mrs Castle to promise the city a bridge over the Humber. That did the trick.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘What?’
‘Bribe the electorate.’
‘It wasn’t a bribe!’ She looked mildly offended. ‘We just promised to actually do, Mr Forsyth said, what had been talked about since the thirties.’
Sensing I might have stepped over the mark, I changed to a more lighthearted tack. ‘I’m due to meet a very important person then?’
‘Yes. He’s in charge of everything to do with communications - for the PM and the party,’ she explained proudly.
