Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  Nell returned. ‘Unless you want a burnt roast, you’d better sort out Sindy,’ and thrust a drowned doll in my hand.

  ‘Listen! Someone’s nicked the World Cup.’

  “…Thieves removed the cup from the ‘Sport with Stamps’ display at the Stampex exhibition, but stamps worth £3m were left behind. Detectives and forensics experts are investigating the break-in and have appealed for anyone who was in Central Hall to contact Scotland Yard.”

  Whilst removing a spitting joint of meat from the oven, Nell said, ‘Are you going to telephone them then?’

  ‘I didn’t go into the hall: I told you, the exhibition was closed.’

  Leaning against our huge, tombstone shaped, Prestcold fridge, I pondered out loud, ‘Who would break in and steal the cup, but leave behind a hundred times the value in stamps?’

  Nell moved me out of her way, like a misplaced mannequin. ‘The England captain?’

  I perched on one of two white vinyl and chrome bar stools, which Nell insisted on calling “breakfast stools”, despite them never having served that - or indeed any - purpose. ‘What do you mean? Why would Bobby Moore steal the cup?’

  ‘Because he knows he’ll never get his hands on it honestly.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Monday, 21st March 1966

  During our family day out, I had chewed over what Our Rog had told me concerning Ramsey’s age. Since I prided myself on having more journalistic integrity than your average tabloid reporter (not a high bar, admittedly), I wasn’t about to sensationalise or misrepresent the facts merely to prove to Forsyth that I could come up with a front-page, World Cup splash - tempting though that was. At the same time, professional ethics demanded that I report the truth without fear or favour. If I was aware that the current England manager had furthered his footballing career and deepened his pocket by lying about his age, I was duty bound to write the story up and present it to my editor.

  By the time I had finished my Horlicks on Sunday night, I decided the first thing I needed to do was incontrovertibly establish in which year Alfred Earnest Ramsey was born. If it was 1922 - as Ramsey himself had maintained - I had no story. If, on the other hand, I discovered he was born in 1920, I potentially had an extraordinary, front-page exclusive.

  When I picked the Daily Mirror off the doormat the following morning, I could immediately see the banner headline, “WORLD CUP STOLEN - HUNT FOR THIN MAN”. Despite my failure to deliver what Forsyth had ordered, the World Cup had already hit the front pages. The “thin man” Scotland Yard were looking for was apparently five-foot-ten tall and had a scar. I did consider whether the man who almost bumped into me coming out of Central Hall fitted this description. He certainly had a scar; but so did lots of men, often due to their time in the armed forces. And the man I saw was distinctly taller than me, so had to have been more than five-foot-ten.

  I also considered whether, as far as Forsyth was concerned, this rendered any “Ramsey Birth Fraud” story redundant. However, Scotland Yard seemed confident they would quickly find both the culprit and the cup. Once the former had been arrested, the law of contempt would preclude even mildly interesting newspaper reports, let alone front-page leads. Since the Ramsey story, in contrast, was unlikely to be followed by criminal proceedings, it could run and run, thereby giving “legs” to the World Cup publicity. Forsyth, I concluded, would surely realise this and welcome my contribution.

  In order to obtain a certified copy of Ramsey’s birth certificate, I commuted to the Mirror Building via Somerset House. The Search Room for the “Register Office of Births, Marriages and Deaths”, just inside the arched entrance, had a solemn atmosphere, like a cross between a library and a church. Before I was permitted to access to the large, heavy, index books - red covered for births, green for marriages and, of course, black for deaths - I had to fill out a detailed form and pay a fee at the cashiers’ counter. From behind a brass grill, a grey looking man with a brutally tight white collar and sober tie, checked my form laboriously and my money suspiciously, before directing me to the indices.

  Since these were arranged in strict chronological order and the dates of birth and names were in large type, the search didn’t take me long. I inspected first the red tome for January 1920 and quickly found what I was looking for: “Alfred Ernest Ramsey, born 22nd January 1920.” I added the details from the index to my form and returned to the cashiers for a copy of the actual certificate.

  ‘You can collect it from here after three o’clock this afternoon,’ the cashier said dourly.

  ‘Can’t you do it while I wait?’ I didn’t want to be difficult, but I knew I wouldn’t get my editor’s attention without written proof of the England manager’s deception.

  ‘You can wait if you wish,’ he paused, ‘while a boy delivers the batch of forms containing yours to the archive clerk in the basement; he allocates yours to a strong colleague who searches the stacks for the volume containing the original certificate you have chosen; he sends it up in the lift, where it is collected and given to one of the copying girls; she reproduces it exactly and proof reads it to ensure there are no mistakes; and the true copy is then brought to us in cashiers on the next delivery. But you may wish to do something rather more productive with the next four or five hours.’ He gave me a condescending smile. ‘Up to you.’

  I decided to head on to the office and return for the copy certificate later.

  Walking back down the Strand and into Fleet Street, I imagined Forsyth seeing the Daily Mirror’s front page with my World Cup story on it and felt quietly smug. I was also excited at the prospect of breaking an important, national news story and started formulating it in my head. “Prior to becoming England manager, Alf Ramsey deliberately and repeatedly misrepresented his age, including in his own book, Talking Football, published while he was still at Tottenham Hotspur. Did he tell the First Division London club his true age, prior to securing his career enhancing and wallet inflating transfer to them from lower league, Southampton? Surely not, otherwise why did he have to mislead readers of his book?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thursday, 24th March 1966

  The verbose cashier at Somerset House had failed to mention the one detail I needed to know: his section closed at 4.30pm. This meant that I couldn’t collect the copy of Ramsey’s birth certificate until lunchtime the next day. Nonetheless, by late afternoon, the Daily Mirror’s Editor in Chief, Lee Howard, had approved the story as the main lead in Thursday’s edition and I had telephoned Rita to explain that I had something important to report to Forsyth. She did her best to be helpful, saying that, whilst Forsyth’s diary up to and including election day was “chock-a-block”, if I came to Number 10 the following afternoon, she would do her best to get me a few minutes with him.

  However, the story then hit a snag. Howard had wanted it both illustrated and evidenced by a photograph of the copy birth certificate I had obtained. When I saw a proof of the front page, I noticed that the photo showed the surname of the England manager’s parents as “Ramsay” with two “a’s” - not Ramsey with one. I didn’t know why I hadn’t spotted it when I had collected the certificate and had no alternative but to bring it to Howard’s attention. He immediately ordered the story to be pulled and me to “sort out this cock-up, pretty damn quick”.

  So, first thing Thursday morning, I was back at Somerset House, being served, unfortunately, by the same cashier.

  ‘The copying girls reproduce precisely what appears in the original, Sir. It is not within their purview, or indeed mine, to correct what the Dagenham Registrar saw fit to record in his register.’ I wanted to hit him but managed to resist. ‘On the contrary, it is our duty to make an exact copy of the register entry - supposed mistakes and all.’

  It was only when I eventually persuaded him to look at the relevant entry in the index, that he entertained the possibility - even then, reluctantly - that the mistake was the copying girl’s rather than the registrar’s.

  ‘Copying is a differ
ent section. All I can do is submit a new request form and refund your fee on the first one, if it transpires that this document, as you say, is not in fact a true copy of the original certificate.’

  ‘When will I be able to collect the correct copy?’

  ‘A delivery boy has to take the batch of forms containing yours to the archive clerk in the basement—’

  ‘Yes, I do understand: you explained it all before. Bearing in mind I first ordered the copy on Monday morning, when is the earliest you could have it ready?’

  The cashier clearly did not consider this delay justification for expediting the process. ‘I suggest you come back after lunch. We open again at a quarter to two.’

  At 1.40pm, I was back at the cashier’s counter waiting for the miniature mahogany doors, which prevented impatient customers peering through the brass grill, to open. When they eventually did, the now all too familiar cashier silently handed me a new copy birth certificate for Alfred Ernest Ramsey and a refund of the original fee. I felt he should also give me an apology for their error and an explanation. But since I still had to deliver the certificate, change into my wedding suit and get over to Number 10, I decided I had better surrender the irritating cashier to the queue of expectant searchers behind me and hurry back to the office.

  Back at the office, I gave the certificate to a relieved editor and headed to the Gents to change.

  The Mirror had a notoriously relaxed dress code. One of my colleagues invariably sported a double-breasted, brass-buttoned blazer, beige fedora hat and matching cavalry twill trousers. So no one turned a hair when I emerged from the toilets dressed as a bridegroom.

  I managed to jump on the platform of a Number 11 bus, as it moved off to cross Ludgate Circus into Fleet Street. Since the traffic was relatively light, I had no sooner lit my pipe, than the conductor announced, “Downing Street” and I was swapping the Number 11 bus for the Number 10 lift.

  I arrived on the second floor just in time to see a middle-aged women, in a white cotton drill overall, serving Rita with tea from a trolley.

  ‘Hello Harry.’ Rita seemed genuinely pleased to see me. ‘That’s good timing. Would you like one? Mrs S. makes a lovely cuppa.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs S (her surname was Spriggs, I later discovered) took a fine bone china cup and saucer, decorated with the Royal coat of arms, poured in a little milk out of a matching jug and then, from a polished chrome urn, carefully added her steaming brew.

  ‘I’ve got some rich tea fingers. Would you like one?’ she said, trying to sound as if she was born in Westminster, rather than merely worked there. She didn’t quite succeed. ‘You can have a couple, if you like.’

  I took two of the dainty biscuits and balanced them on my saucer.

  Teatime at Number 10 was very civilised compared to the Mirror. When Mavis shouted in the newsroom, “Last orders at the trolley!”, she would be enveloped in what can only be described as a scrum. One of the juniors liked to hide behind a pillar and mimic her call. He would then count how many subbies on the one hand, and reporters on the other, hurried desperately towards him, stained mug in hand. He ran a book on which was the more gullible group.

  As Rita and I exchanged pleasantries, and I nibbled the first of my biscuits - resisting the temptation to dunk it in my tea - I became aware of a shrill voice emanating from a room further along the corridor. The volume suddenly increased, and I clearly heard, “I don’t know why we have to put up with that nasty little queer”.

  Rita gave me an anxious look and said, ‘I know where we can drink this.’

  She led me briskly in the opposite direction, down the stairs to the first floor and into a grand room lined with books behind brass diamond grills and quietly closed the heavy, panelled door.

  ‘This is the study. It’s where the PM likes to come in the evenings. It’s empty during the day. So I sometimes hide away down here.’

  She gestured towards one of a pair of swollen armchairs, framing an ornate white marble fireplace, beneath a portrait of Clement Attlee. Deciding it unwise to place my hot drink on the highly polished mahogany side table, I lowered myself, somewhat inelegantly, onto the chair’s supple leather cushion, trying to ensure the tea stayed in the cup and the fingers on the saucer.

  Once we were sat comfortably, I had to satisfy my curiosity. ‘Was that Mrs Williams we heard upstairs?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Rita said apologetically. ‘She’s with the PM. This time though, she does have an excuse for being crabby: Brenda says she’s got shingles.’

  ‘I’ve had that: she has my sympathy. But I also feel sorry for whoever she was referring to. Doesn’t sound like he’s got much of a future here.’

  ‘She was talking about the Fox.’

  ‘Wow! Really? I can see why he doesn’t trust her.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s because of the influence, he says, she has over the PM. He thinks she manipulates him. And poisons his mind against those, like him, she sees as enemies.’

  ‘How? He’s the Prime Minister. She’s just a secretary.’ As soon as I said this, I wished I hadn’t. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that being a secretary isn’t — ’

  ‘I know what you meant. But the Fox says even Dr Stone - the PM’s own doctor - is worried about the hold she seems to have over him.’

  I was going to ask about Marcia Williams’ choice of epithet for Forsyth, but Rita changed the subject.

  ‘The Fox is in a meeting at the moment. But they should finish quite soon, and I’ll try to get you in to see him before he has his session with the PM,’ she said in a business-like, but nonetheless engaging, manner.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll like hearing my news. I’ve got him the big World Cup story he wanted.’ I sounded like a kid with a new train set.

  ‘It will be on the front page of the Mirror tomorrow.’

  I expected Rita to, if not share my excitement, at least sound positive and encouraging. But she didn’t.

  ‘That’s nice. But I don’t think we need it now, Harry. As a result of the trophy being stolen, Monday’s papers were full of the World Cup. The Fox said he couldn’t have bought better advertising.’ She leaned forward and, in a hushed voice, added, ‘And there’s more to come.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Rita got up, came over and stood next to my chair. Bending down and pointing to the portrait of Attlee, she said in my ear, ‘I must be careful what I say. The Fox reckons this room is bugged.’

  I turned to Rita and - distracted by her physical proximity and a whiff of her scent - repeated far too loudly, ‘Bugged!’

  She pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’

  ‘Who by?’ I asked, as quietly as I could. ‘The Russians?’

  Rita shook her head, before no more than mouthing, ‘MI5.’

  I mouthed back, ‘Why?’ and emphasised my puzzlement by raising my right hand up, palm to ceiling. In so doing, I spilt the cup of tea in my left hand and sent the remaining rich tea finger cartwheeling through the air. ‘Damn!’ My eyes darted to the floor. ‘Did I get tea on the rug?’ It looked Persian and expensive.

  ‘No, it’s okay. But you’ve got some on your trouser leg, I’m afraid.’

  I stood up cautiously and could see, on the light grey flannel, what looked like the shadow of a hand just above my knee.

  Rita took a white embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her navy cardigan. ‘Here, blot it with this - it’s clean.’

  ‘That was very clumsy of me.’

  ‘Don’t worry: it will soon dry,’ she said, picking up my acrobatic biscuit.

  ‘I hope so - or the Fox will send me home to change.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said with a giggle. ‘What I was going to say, before you started shouting and spilling tea on yourself, was that…’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘Scotland Yard send the Minister of Sport, Mr Howell, special reports on their investigation of the theft. They get copied to the Fox. The latest said that the thief has demanded fifteen tho
usand pounds from the FA for the trophy’s safe return.’ She pulled away and continued in a normal tone, ‘Once the press get hold of that, it’ll be all over the papers again.’ Then, seemingly remembering she was talking to the press, she gabbled, ‘Sorry, I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs. You won’t say anything until it’s official, will you?’

  ‘You may have noticed, when I come here, I leave my trilby with the press card in it at the front door.’ I winked.

  Rita gave me a warm, appreciative smile. ‘I’m sure the Fox will still be pleased you found the story. After all, you can’t have too much good publicity, can you?’

  ‘No, I’ve heard many criticisms of the press, but never a complaint about that.’

  She giggled. I liked her giggle: it was sweet - and just a tad mischievous.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, keen to hear any more interesting information Rita had about the theft, ‘is why the thieves, having broken into the exhibition, didn’t take the £3m worth of stamps? They’re worth far more than the cup.’

  She put her hand on my arm, murmured, ‘I do.’ and guided me towards the door. ‘We had better go back upstairs. The Fox could be ready anytime now.’

  She had led me halfway along the burgundy carpeted corridor back towards the stairs, when - as if she’d had second thoughts - she stopped. Having checked she couldn’t be overhead, she whispered, conspiratorially, ‘If I tell you, you mustn’t tell a soul.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act - in purple ink!’

  Her face showed momentary amusement before returning to deadly serious. ‘The Jules Rimet trophy they stole is a replica.’

  ‘A replica!’ My astonished words resonated off the high ceiling.