Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  ‘Shh! They’ll be able to hear you in Number 11.’ She gave me an amiable “you’re a naughty boy” look and continued, ‘The Fox arranged with Mr Follows - the FA Secretary - to get a replica made, by a silversmith called George Bird.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘For security reasons, I assume.’

  ‘Didn’t he say?’

  ‘No. He just asked me to arrange with Mr Follows for the replica to be swapped for the original at the exhibition. They should have displayed the replica from the outset, but it wasn’t finished in time. So, fortunately as it turned out, they were swapped after the exhibition closed on the Saturday.’

  ‘That was fortunate.’

  ‘Come on. We’d better get back.’ Rita led me towards the grand staircase. ‘The Fox should be free now. You don’t want to miss your chance.’

  Climbing up, past the pictures of the PM’s predecessors, I realised Rita hadn’t solved my conundrum. ‘Sorry, I diverted you. I think you were going to tell me why the thieves stole the trophy, but not the stamps.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Well, according to one of Scotland Yard’s reports I saw, the stamps were guarded by four security men. Only one was stationed next to the cup, and he was given the Sunday off.’

  ‘What! Why? Was it assumed that trophy thieves would take Sunday off as well?’

  Rita laughed.

  As we entered her and Brenda’s office, a more likely explanation occurred to me. ‘Or was it because it wasn’t the real trophy?’

  Rita looked daggers at me and then shot her eyes towards Brenda, who had her back to us. She was removing graphite coloured box files from a tall metal shelving unit and tying them together with coarse string. I could see that her desk was clear and there were boxes of buff manila folders on the floor next to it.

  I mouthed “sorry” to Rita and rapidly changed the subject. ‘Are you moving office, Brenda?’

  She turned and looked at me. ‘I jolly well hope not.’

  ‘Mrs Williams wants us all to be prepared,’ Rita explained, ‘to move promptly out of Downing Street, should Labour lose the election.’

  ‘We don’t expect to have to do so,’ Brenda clarified. ‘But if the worst happens, she said she wants us to “meet defeat with dignity”.’

  Getting a glimpse of what vacating just one office involved, I recalled and marvelled at the apparently seamless transition eighteen months earlier, when yesterday’s man, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, moved out and the contemporary Harold Wilson moved in.

  ‘That meeting in Birmingham was horrendous for Mary.’ I recognised Marcia Williams’ strident tones resonating down the corridor. ‘And what did it achieve? Sod all!’

  ‘It raised Harold’s profile in this election at just the right time.’ Forsyth was defending his corner, as the two of them swept into their secretaries’ office. ‘It highlighted that he’s married with children. The public are concerned that Ted Heath isn’t and, therefore, doesn’t understand the problems with which families have to contend.’

  They faced off in the centre of the room.

  ‘Everyone knows Heath’s a poof,’ Mrs Williams said bluntly, ‘and that Harold isn’t. We don’t have to put Mary in the line of fire to prove it.’

  Forsyth looked up at the taller Mrs Williams, like an insolent boy challenging his teacher. ‘Mary wasn’t shot at. Something was thrown that scratched her neck. And, as a result of my leaking it, we got lots of positive press.’

  ‘Oh, that’s alright then.’ Mrs Williams words were drenched in sarcasm.

  ‘Don’t pretend you care two hoots for Mary’s welfare,’ Forsyth countered. ‘You just can’t stand me being one step ahead.’

  Mrs Williams glanced at us and then strode out of the door, throwing away the comment, ‘How would I know? You never have been.’

  I stood by as Forsyth cross-examined Rita about his remaining appointments and the progress she had made with his correspondence. Then, having issued his orders to her, he turned his attention to me.

  ‘Why are you here, Miller?’

  ‘I’ve got some good news, Mr Forsyth.’

  He marched out of the office with his head raised, making the most of his diminutive stature.

  I followed him, jabbering, ‘It’s about the World Cup story…’

  ‘That was very satisfactory. Front page of all the tabloids.’

  He breezed into his office and sat purposefully in his green leather swivel chair.

  I gave a timid and pointless knock on the open door and waited for him to invite me in. Seemingly oblivious to my presence, he opened his signing book and started to read. I waited a few seconds and then, leaning into the room, I piped up, ‘I’ve actually found a — ’

  Without looking up, Forsyth silenced me by holding up his hand like a traffic policeman.

  I hovered in the doorway whilst he tutted and tinkered with his correspondence. I examined the huge painting of a stag, hanging behind his desk. I was sure I had seen something similar on a biscuit tin at Christmas. The beast also ignored me, looking proudly into the distance, as if to say, “You aren’t even in the same league”.

  Eventually, Forsyth waved me in. He immediately noticed the damp patch on my trouser leg. Judging by his face, he assumed I had wet myself.

  ‘Did you have an accident?’

  ‘No. Just a bit clumsy with my tea.’ I chuckled to make light of it.

  Forsyth looked condescending. ‘Well?’

  I shuffled towards the low tub chair in front of his desk, but he didn’t invite me to sit. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’ve got what you wanted - for Operation Jules Britannia.’

  Forsyth left his chair, as if ejected by 007. He shushed me angrily, marched to the door and slammed it shut.

  As he returned, he whispered through clenched teeth, ‘I’d remind you that the existence of Operation Jules Britannia is itself Top Secret. Walls have ears. As does that Williams woman - like Jodrell Bank.’

  What was the point of giving an operation a codename if the codename itself was sensitive? But I wasn’t about to risk dismissal by questioning him. ‘It won’t happen again, Mr Forsyth.’

  His cold, blue eyes glared at me. Through thin lips he said, hoarsely, ‘Well, what is it?’

  I considered sitting down but decided against it. I took a step forward, half bowed and, adopting my church voice, responded, ‘My paper’s front-page headline tomorrow will be, “ENGLAND MANAGER LIED TO GET PROMOTION.”’ My hand followed the words of an invisible banner in the air. ‘You see, I’ve got proof that, for his whole professional career, Alf Ramsey has been knocking two years off his age. When Spurs bought him for a record fee in 1949, they thought he was only 27 and in his prime. In truth, he was going on 30.’

  Forsyth stared at me stony-faced and my enthusiasm began to wane.

  ‘The story carries over onto the inside pages. There’s lots about the World Cup: Ramsey’s promise that England will win, the way he’s going about that — ’

  ‘Are you mad, Miller?’

  ‘It’s a hundred per cent true, Mr Forsyth. I got a copy of his birth certificate.’

  ‘I don’t care. Do you not have any comprehension of the consequences of such a story?’

  ‘Do you mean in terms of increasing the profile of England’s World Cup campaign?’

  ‘I am referring, Miller, to the near certainty that Ramsey will feel obliged to resign or the Football Association will feel obliged to make him resign.’

  ‘Why, Mr Forsyth?’ I tried not to sound challenging. ‘I appreciate that, when he applied for the England job, he must have lied about his age then too. But whether, as manager of England, he was aged 41 or 43 was immaterial.’

  ‘As your headline announces to the world, he lied to get promotion. That is dishonest. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t the FA that suffered. Fraud is fraud. Your story would inevitably lead to the FA replacing Ramsey, and a new manager having to fashion a world beating team in less than four months. Do
you know of a manager - or, more likely, a magician - who could pull this off?’

  I didn’t know who or what to suggest.

  ‘I thought not.’ Forsyth glanced at his watch, before snatching the telephone receiver from its desk-top cradle and stabbing an ivory button beneath the dial. ‘Get me Arnold Goodman. And don’t let that girl of his give you any nonsense. I need to speak to him now.’ He slammed down the phone and grabbed a cigarette from the silver box in front of him. He hurriedly lit it, then put the lighter deliberately back in its place on the desk. He drew on the king-size Dunhill, looked me up and down contemptuously and exhaled. ‘Miller, I presume you don’t want to undermine the Prime Minister?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Then stick to reporting on football matches. I will tell you when I need you here. In the meantime, we have an election to win and can do without you and the Williams woman, getting in the way.’

  Whilst I would anaesthetise the pain of a bad day at the paper by sinking a pint or six with Norman in the Bell or with other Mirror men in the Mucky Duck, the Official Secrets Act precluded both from helping me drown the humiliation of my session with Forsyth. Instead, I invited Rita for a drink after work. Whilst it was essential for journalists to fraternise in local hostelries, I was unsure whether it was the done thing for the Prime Minister’s staff. But, to my delight, she agreed to join me for a quick one in St Stephen’s Tavern.

  Rita was familiar with the Tavern, she explained, not through frequenting it, but because - going back to the days of Stanley Baldwin’s first premiership - it was the Downing Street “local”. Apparently, Marcia Williams was sometimes seen in there; consequently, Forsyth avoided it like the plague. Rita could, therefore, accompany me for a drink amongst the governing great and the good (and not so good), safe in the knowledge she wouldn’t run into her boss.

  If the sun had been shining, the pub would have been literally in the shadow of Big Ben. As it was, when we arrived for its half-past five opening, there was heavy cloud and drizzle. Inside the High Victorian bar, with its stained-glass windows and dark furnishings, it was even gloomier. But an array of glass lanterns bathed it in a soft light which made it feel warm and welcoming.

  I bought a pint, and a Cinzano and lemonade for Rita, and we nabbed a table for two in the corner. Before long, the bar was buzzing with earnest talk between men in dark suits, providing the perfect environment for a discrete moan.

  ‘It’s not that I wanted to undermine Ramsey. I don’t agree with all of his team selections and tactics. But that doesn’t mean I want to harm England’s chances. Quite the reverse. Ever since I heard we were staging the finals, I‘ve dreamt of England winning the World Cup at Wembley.

  Rita smiled sympathetically. ‘Then it’s lucky the Daily Mirror isn’t going to print your story.’

  ‘What!’ This took me completely by surprise. ‘Who says they’re not?’

  ‘Mr Cudlipp - so I understand.’

  As soon as I had left Forsyth’s office, I had thought about getting the story spiked, but had dismissed it as inappropriate and impractical. If Ramsey’s actions were sufficiently serious to warrant his resignation or removal, I would be failing in my duty as a journalist if I stifled the story. In any event, the paper was due to go to press imminently. Lee Howard wasn’t going to delay the edition - or, worse still, stop the presses - to kill a major news story because I had belatedly realised it would jeopardise England’s World Cup campaign. What hadn’t occurred to me, however, was that Cudlipp might take the matter out of both my and his hands.

  ‘How do you know they’re not going to print it?’

  ‘I overhead the Fox talking to the Handyman,’ Rita said nervously.

  ‘Who’s the Handyman?’

  She checked no one could overhear her. ‘Mr Goodman. He’s the PM’s personal lawyer.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name before. I wondered who he was.’

  ‘He’s called the Handyman because he fixes things.’

  I found this amusing, but Rita remained stony-faced.

  ‘What did they say?’

  After I assured her it would go no further, she had a swig of her drink and solemnly described what she’d heard. ‘The Handyman did all the talking. He said he had told Mr Cudlipp there was no evidence that Ramsey hadn’t disclosed his true age to Spurs. He warned him that, if the Mirror printed the story, Ramsey would be entitled to, what he called, “record damages” from the paper.’

  ‘Oh my God! They’d have given me my cards for certain!’

  ‘Lucky for you, the Handyman is very persuasive.’

  ‘But Ramsey did lie to Spurs about his age and the public are entitled to know,’ I said, somewhat pompously.

  ‘How do you know he lied?’

  ‘Through a source. He’s a hundred per cent reliable. He wouldn’t make it up.’

  ‘He actually heard Mr Ramsey lie, did he?’

  ‘Err… no. He didn’t.’ The prospect of explaining to a judge that my undisclosed source had heard it from Greavsie, who heard it from Ramsey’s teammate, flashed across my mind. ‘The Fox is right: I should stick to football reporting. It might not be as glamorous as news reporting, but at least I stand a decent chance of keeping my job and staying out of court.’

  Clearly keen to move the conversation on, Rita said jauntily, ‘I think football reporting is very glamorous,’

  No one had said that to me before. Hearing Rita say it gave me a warm glow. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Then I like football. Which is just as well because, otherwise, Barry would marry his captain, instead of me!’

  ‘Who’s Barry?’

  ‘My boyfriend. He plays for London Welsh. He’s only amateur; but it’s a good standard - or so he says.’ She grinned and her eyes twinkled. ‘He’s mad about it. I say to him, “Sometimes I think you love that club more than me”.’ She chuckled and quaffed her Cinzano. ‘We’re getting engaged in the summer,’ she continued earnestly, ‘and married in the New Year - in the church, in Merthyr, where I was christened.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said lamely. I never knew what to say when girls talked about boyfriends. ‘So, do you support England or Wales?’

  ‘Both. I’d love to see England win the World Cup. But don’t tell Barry!’

  ‘He supports Wales, I take it.’

  ‘Not half. He’d rather Brazil won than England.’

  ‘Then he’ll probably get his wish.’

  ‘Mum’s more like me. She bought one of those little lions with the Union Jack shirt for me as a present.’

  ‘World Cup Willie?’

  ‘Yes, he’s so cute. When Barry comes to collect me, I have to hide it.’ She gave an embarrassed titter and swallowed what remained in her glass.

  ‘Oh, I’ve drunk that far too quickly.’

  ‘I’ll get you another.’

  ‘No, I’d like to stay, but I’d better not. Mum will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘You live with your parents then?’

  ‘Just my mum. My dad died in the War.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rita.’

  ‘It’s okay. I never knew him. I was only a baby when he died.’

  I didn’t want our chat to end. So, pointing to a payphone by the toilets, I said, ‘Look that phone over there’s free. Why don’t you call your mum?’

  As she got up, she gave me a “You’re leading me astray” look and said, ‘No more after this.’

  I winked.

  She wagged her finger at me playfully. ‘I mean it.’

  When I returned with our drinks, I was surprised to see Rita opening a packet of ten Embassy. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘I only have the odd one - after a bad day.’

  ‘Has the Fox been giving you a hard time?’

  ‘He’s very busy with the election and gets annoyed when things don’t go right. He doesn’t mean it though. He’s okay underneath.’

  ‘Is he?’ I scoffed. ‘I obviously haven’t dug deep enou
gh.’

  She half smiled. ‘Seriously, I know he can be a bit rude and difficult sometimes. But it’s because he cares so much.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The Labour Government. He’s desperate for it to succeed. He really believes that the Tories are the past, and the PM is leading us into a bright, new future.’

  I took the opportunity to discover why the PM’s Private Secretary thought otherwise. ‘So Mrs Williams is wrong, is she?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He isn’t “a nasty little queer”?’

  She gave me a wry smile. ‘As I said, he can be a bit off sometimes. And he is little. But that’s okay: Barry’s only five foot eight.’

  ‘But he isn’t a queer?’ I persisted. ‘The Fox, not Barry?’

  I expected a giggle. Instead Rita’s face fell. She stared into her drink and then lit the cigarette she had been toying with, expelling the smoke high into the now thick air. She leaned towards me and said softly, ‘Do you want your paper’s version or the truth?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her forest-green eyes shot right and left.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I reassured her. ‘The suits are all too busy braying and guffawing to overhear.’

  ‘It all started when the Sunday press discovered that the PM had unelected advisers in what they called his “kitchen cabinet” and began investigating who they were,’ she explained gravely. ‘According to the Handyman, Fleet Street was soon gossiping that the Fox was one of them and that he had, what they described as, “a fondness for the theatre”.’

  I recognised this as the euphemism for being queer favoured by Sunday paper hacks. ‘What was that based on?’

  ‘They said he’d been seen at posh parties where… ,’ she looked embarrassed, ‘you know… lots of young men are invited.’

  ‘Then they must have been there too!’ I was trying to lighten the mood, but Rita remained sombre.

  ‘With Labour’s tiny majority, there could be an election any day. At campaign headquarters they were worried that, if people heard about the Fox, Labour could easily lose their majority.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette, followed by a large gulp of her drink. ‘So the Handyman gave the Daily Mirror a story that the Fox wasn’t a member of the PM’s kitchen cabinet. The reason he spent so much time at Number 10 was because he was advising Mrs Wilson on marketing her poetry — ’