Fixing Sixty Six

by Tim Flower

  Just as the fight referee had, Mrs Bolton intervened.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ she bawled. ‘Just tell him what it says woman and get off the line. My programme’s starting any minute.’

  ‘Okay, Mrs Bolton, we’re almost finished,’ Nell said, clearly disappointed I had been saved from further punishment. ‘What her note says, as you may recall Harry, is “Waiting for you in the toilet” exclamation mark. Then she’s signed it “R.”’

  ‘No, you’ve misunderstood.’

  ‘Have I now.’

  ‘Yes, completely. You see — ’

  ‘Oh, unless you’re going to tell me you’re a poof, please don’t say the note’s from Richard or Robert - or, God forbid, Roger.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘So, as I thought, it’s from Rita.’

  I momentarily wondered about inventing a Ruby, Rosie or Rachael, before deciding that adding another mystery girl to the mix would be unwise. ‘Yes. But she doesn’t mean that she’s waiting for me — ’

  ‘Time’s up!’ yelled Mrs Bolton, like a ringside timekeeper who had misplaced her bell.

  ‘One more minute,’ I pleaded. ‘I must just explain to Mrs Mullaly — ’

  Nell interrupted, ‘Harry, you don’t need to explain anything. It’s all crystal clear. I’ll return the car next weekend.’

  ‘What! Aren’t you coming back tomorrow?’

  Mrs Bolton screamed, ‘Isn’t that obvious? No, she isn’t! Now get off the phone, both of you.’

  I heard Nell oblige.

  After a brief silence, I said, ‘Do you like Jimmy Clitheroe, Mrs Bolton?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ she barked, ‘he’s one of my favourites and I don’t want to miss him. So put the phone down now.’

  ‘Will do. Although you’ve no need to rush, Mrs Bolton: he’s not on tonight now either.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe it!’

  She was right not to: it wasn’t true. The midget comic was starring with The Seekers. But I had to hit back at someone.

  In one respect, it was lucky Mrs Bolton ended Nell’s call when she did. For no sooner had I slammed down the receiver and shouted “You man-hating bitch” at the two-tone grey device staring defiantly at me from the wall, than I received another call. When the pips stopped, a familiar voice said, ‘Is that you, luv? It’s yer Ma.’

  ‘Hi Ma,’ I said, sounding like a loving son, whilst feeling like a raging bull.

  ‘It’s not too late is it?’

  ‘No, Ma.’ I checked my watch. It was gone ten. ‘It’s late for you though: the pubs will be chucking out.’

  ‘If a drunk bothers me, he’ll get what for. I’m in no mood for nonsense.’ She sounded angry - which made two of us. This was unlike her.

  ‘Is everything alright, Ma?’

  ‘Yes, luv. It’s just yer Da. He’s okay, but he can’t take yous to the football. They’re keeping him in for now.’

  ‘In the hospital, you mean?’

  ‘I’ve given the tickets to Diesel - as a treat like. Yer Da says he’s never been to an England match. Is that okay, luv?’

  ‘That’s fine, Ma. But England aren’t playing at Goodison now. I hope Diesel won’t be too disappointed.’

  I should have known better than to take the conversation off on a tangent like that. Ma was never relaxed on the telephone. “I like to see who I’m talking to,” she’d explain. Consequently, she didn’t always listen to what the other person was saying. And if there was something else troubling her, she was worse.

  ‘Don’t say we’ve been knocked out.’ Her tone was less angry, more frightened. ‘Oh Lord above. I’m not telling yer Da that. Not now, anyhow.’

  ‘No, Ma. England are still in it.’

  ‘Are they? Oh, thank the Lord.’

  ‘It’s just their semi-final has been moved to Wembley.’

  ‘Wembley? Oh, my: that’s a long way for Diesel to go.’

  In the interests of getting the conversation back on track, I ignored her comment.

  ‘How is Da? Have they finished doing the tests?’

  ‘Yes, luv. I got the nurse - the coloured one, but she’s very nice - to write it all down. Just a minute.’

  I heard her rummaging in what I guessed were the pockets of her trusty Bri-Nylon house coat, muttering to herself as she did so. Then the pips went.

  They soon stopped and Ma said, ‘I’ve got it ‘ere now.’

  ‘Shall I ring you back Ma - so you can save your change for the electric?’

  ‘I’ve put a few bob in. That should last us.’ She gave a dry cough and then continued, ‘They said he’s got… as-bestos-is. I don’t know how you say it. Anyhow, you get it in your lungs. And it’s called that, they said, because it’s asbestos dust what causes it.’

  ‘Asbestos is a fire retardant. It’s what they make fire blankets from. Since when has Da been sniffing them?’

  ‘The doctor said nuttin’ about blankets, luv. It were the dusty cargoes at the docks, he said.’

  When I was a kid, Da would come home from work covered head to foot in dust and muck. Ma would insist he undressed by the front door and got straight into our tin bath, which she had filled from the kettle. If it was a Friday, I would have to bathe after him in the same water. If Ma had to chivvy him into the bath, Da would say, “Stop mithering me. It’s only a bit of dirt”. My reaction to the doctor’s diagnosis was similar.

  ‘Surely Ma, dust can’t do that much harm. Anyway, he hasn’t been humping dusty cargoes recently, has he? I thought they took him off those when he couldn’t shift his cough?’

  The Doctor said it wouldn’ve made no difference: once you’ve breathed the dust in, like, it’s there for good.’

  ‘So what’s making Da ill now could be dust he inhaled years ago?’

  ‘I suppose so. Does it matter? Whenever it were, they can’t get it out.’

  ‘How are they treating him then?’

  The tension in her voice gave way to tenderness. ‘They’re looking after him okay. The nurses on the ward seem kind and are keeping him as comfortable as they can.’ Then her tone hardened again. ‘That sister, though, is a right little Hitler. I know the doctor says yer Da’s got to give up his ciggies like, but the odd one won’t do him no harm. But she’s not having any of it — ’

  ‘No Ma, I meant what are they doing to get him well?’

  Ma didn’t respond.

  ‘Ma are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I heard you, luv.’ She paused. ‘They’re going to loosen what’s on his chest, like - get him breathing better.’

  ‘Is that all? Aren’t they giving him pills: something to deal with the dust in his lungs?’

  ‘I don’t know, luv: they didn’t say. But the doctor seems ever so good.’ Her voice brightened. ‘He looks like the one on the telly, you know…’

  ‘Doctor Who?’

  ‘No! The proper doctor.’

  ‘Finlay?’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘Cameron.’

  ‘Yeah, he looks like Dr Cameron and he speaks awful posh like. So he’s in good hands, yer Da. And me and the nice coloured nurse, we’re praying for him.’

  Ma’s words and manner were far from reassuring. I wanted to establish Da’s condition for myself. ‘I’ll come up and visit him early next week, Ma, Tuesday probably.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, luv.’ She said it as if I had suggested giving the evil Sister a dozen red roses. ‘He don’t want to have no visitors. Anyway, we’re coming down Saturday. He says you promised him a ticket for the Final.’

  ‘Only if England are in it. They’ve got to beat Portugal first.’

  ‘Yer Da says they’ll win easy.’

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ I said dismissively, annoyed with myself for getting side-tracked again. ‘Ma, I want to know Doctor Cameron’s opinion. What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t. To be honest, like, I don’t think his type watch football.’

  ‘No, listen: I meant about Da. I
s Doctor Cameron optimistic?’

  ‘Is he what, luv?’

  ‘Does he think Da will get over this okay?’

  ‘I don’t know, luv. He didn’t say. But yer Da said he’s coming home Thursday, ‘cause there’s no way he’s missing the Final.’

  ‘But, Ma, will he be well enough to go to Wembley? What did the Doctor say?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go. They’re queueing outside like it’s on ration. We can talk more on Saturday.’

  She put the phone down before I could reply.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Monday, 25th July 1966

  The following morning, I woke early, demanding to know what I had done to deserve Forsyth dismissing me, Nell deserting me, and Da being diagnosed with a serious lung disease, all in the space of twelve hours. Unable to answer the question, I buried it and all the associated pain and anger by throwing myself into my journalism.

  I interviewed Eusbéio, the African-born star of England’s semi-final opponents, and discovered that I, my estranged wife and members of defeated South American squads weren’t the only ones who believed that the tournament referees were favouring England. An exemplar of sportsmanship, Eusbéio repeatedly queried why Argentina’s Rattin had been sent off against England and passionately asserted that, “In that game, the referee always seemed to see only the worst faults of the Argentina players. He could not see the faults of the England players”.

  When I returned to the newsroom, I eagerly wrote up the interview in two hundred and fifty words and presented it to my editor. Although our newspaper boy had failed to deliver that day’s Mirror, I assumed it contained my exposé and thought the Eusbéio piece would help give it “legs”.

  ‘Here you are, Jack: icing on the World Cup conspiracy cake,’ I said enthusiastically.

  His blue pencil paused, and he glanced up, avoiding my eye. ‘You need to go to Howard’s office right away,’ he said to the copy in front of him.

  The only Howard I knew of who had an office was the Editor-in-Chief; but I couldn’t think why he would want to see me. ‘Do you mean Lee Howard?’

  Still looking stubbornly down, Jack snapped, ‘No, Frankie Howerd. Who do you think?’

  It was unlike him to be testy. ‘What’s the problem? Why does he want to see me?’

  This time Jack met my gaze. His eyes were troubled, even frightened. ‘Just go to his office, will you?’

  Doing as I was told, I passed several colleagues with whom I had spent many a happy hour in the Mucky Duck or the Stab who, when they saw me approaching, suddenly had to make a phone call or search the contents of their desk. Being ordered to see the Editor-in-Chief was enough to unsettle any staffer’s nerves; having colleagues “send you to Coventry” en route was downright disturbing. As I approached Lee Howard’s office, my heart was racing, my palms were soggy, and my shoulders were up to my ears.

  I knocked on his door as if it was made of paper.

  From inside, a voice with a slight Celtic lilt hollered, ‘If that’s you Harry, stop tapping on the door like a pansy and come in. If it’s anyone else, fuck off!’

  Responding to the slight on my manhood, I grabbed the door’s satin-chrome handle, twisted it sharply and strode into the Editor’s office, only to find his sleek, paper-strewn desk unoccupied.

  Behind me the same voice said, ‘Where do you hide your booze Howard, you tight bastard?’

  I looked around but couldn’t see the said bastard anywhere. What I could see, below a wall display of Daily Mirror and Sunday Mirror front pages, were the open doors of a low, teak sideboard and, between them, a navy suited backside belonging to Hugh Cudlipp.

  ‘Ah, here it is.’ Cudlipp got up awkwardly, like an elephant from kneeling, with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a large, balloon-shaped goblet in the other. He inspected the label on the bottle, identified it as, ‘Mouton Cadet ‘62,’ and gave a disappointed sigh. ‘He must keep the decent stuff elsewhere.’

  Whilst examining a ‘65 front page on the wall, carrying the headline, “HERE HE’LL LIE, WHERE HE WANTED TO BE”, he took a folding corkscrew from his suit pocket and, with an expertise that only comes from years of practice, he sliced off the bottle’s red foil, pulled its cork and poured into the goblet almost half its contents.

  Pointing to the front page that had caught his attention, he said, ‘We had a unique perspective on Churchill’s death. At the same time, we captured the mood of the people. That’s great journalism, Harry. That’s why the Mirror is Britain’s biggest selling paper. The day we stop listening to Andy Capp and start following our own agendas, is the day we’re fucked.’ He swigged his wine. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’

  Before I could respond, he motioned towards one of the teak upholstered chairs surrounding a small matching table and said, ‘Sit down, Harry.’ He didn’t wait for me to do so before continuing, ‘Lee was going to take you to the Stab for a drink.’ This made my palms leak more. ‘But, since he doesn’t know about our little arrangement, I thought it better we meet here and I explained the position myself.’

  ‘The position?’ I said, trying to sound curious rather than anxious, whilst wiping my hands on my trousers. ‘If this is about Mr Forsyth cancelling my secondment, I ought to explain that — ’

  ‘Ludo Forsyth is a cunt?’ Cudlipp interjected. He stared expectantly and, without breaking eye contact, took another large gulp of wine.

  I giggled out of discomfort. ‘That’s not quite what I was going to say.’

  ‘But it’s what you think, isn’t it?’

  This was true. Not knowing where it might lead, however, I wasn’t about to admit it. So I just grinned.

  ‘Yes, I thought so. But we aren’t here to discuss Forsyth. This is about your journalism - and my newspapers.’ He held up the wine bottle. ‘Do you want some of this?’

  It was almost eleven o’clock and, therefore, practically opening time and I could have done with some alcohol to steady my nerves. But I only drank wine with Christmas dinner (and then it was Blue Nun, not French red) or when Nell’s father wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘I won’t, thanks,’ I said, hoping I wouldn’t lose points for not joining him.

  ‘I don’t blame you: it’s plonk,’ he said, topping up his glass.

  Then he stood up and, whilst wandering contemplatively around the room, produced a fat cigar from a tan leather case, smartly cut off its cap with a pocket guillotine and carefully lit the other end, sending plumes of chocolate-scented smoke up to the suspended ceiling. I wanted to light my pipe, but feared Cudlipp wouldn’t appreciate my polluting his Havana’s expensive aroma with my Gallagher’s Rich Dark Honeydew. So I fidgeted in my pockets instead, while I waited to discover what the Chairman of Mirror Group Newspapers wanted to say about my journalism.

  Eventually, he returned to the table, had another chug of wine and, taking up a position behind my left shoulder, close enough for it to catch his ash, he said, ‘Harry, your so-called exposé: who are you trying to roger?’ The way he rolled his R’s made his question particularly menacing. ‘Mirror Group Newspapers? The Labour Government? The whole fucking country? Tell me, Harry, which is it? Who are you trying to screw?’

  ‘I’m not trying to… screw anyone,’ I said, straining to look back at him. ‘I’m just reporting what — ’

  Cudlipp interrupted and set off around the room again. ‘On the eve of the biggest football match in England’s history - one that has every working man from Carlisle to Penzance wanking himself senseless - you want to use my paper to tell Andy Capp that the World Cup is a fix. If that isn’t sticking a big fucking cock up someone, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘That’s not what I wrote, Mr Cudlipp.’

  He strode up to me, put one arm on the table to prop himself and thrust his reddening face so close to mine the smell of alcohol, aftershave and tobacco made me recoil. ‘You wrote that the English FA and the Kraut’s got their referees to manipulate the outcome of matches, to clear their teams’ paths to the
final. Correct?’ His eyebrows shot up his deep forehead and he glared at me with wide, combative eyes.

  ‘Well… yes, sort of. I — ’

  ‘Did you seriously expect us to publish that?’

  ‘It comes from impeccable sources, Mr Cudlipp, including one of the tournament referees. And that’s not all. I’ve since discovered that Mr Forsyth and the Special Branch are involved in it.’

  ‘If you think I would let you run that story, Harry, you must be out of your fucking mind.’ As he spat the expletive, I felt beads of moisture hit my cheek.

  His eyes shot in the direction of the Mirror front pages on the wall. ‘All our biggest stories since the Sunday Pic became the Sunday Mirror are up there - with one exception. Do you know what the missing one is?’

  I scanned the wall. I could see, “PROFUMO QUITS”, “BRADY AND HINDLEY GO TO JAIL FOR LIFE” and, following the jailbreak by the “Great Train Robber”, Ronald Biggs, “YARD PROBE THE GREAT ESCAPE”. There were headlines proclaiming the toppling of the Tories and Wilson’s re-election and an unprecedented front and back page fashion spread declaring 1964 as “THE YEAR THAT CHANGED OUR LIVES FOR EVER”. As far as I could determine in my agitated state, the display covered all the major stories of recent years.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mr Cudlipp.’

  ‘Two years ago, when I was away on holiday, the Sunday Mirror front page announced a Scotland Yard investigation into a homosexual relationship between, quote, “a prominent peer” - who was in fact Lord Boothby - and “a leading underworld thug”, Ronnie Kray.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember it.’ I should have noticed the omission: the story had been a hot topic the day I moved to Fleet Street. Although Boothby hadn’t been named, rumours were rife that the “prominent peer” was the flamboyant Tory politician.

  ‘A month later the front page carried Cecil King’s unqualified apology to Boothby, despite the fact that both he and I and others in this building knew, not only that he’d had a sordid relationship with Kray, but that he buggered boys kindly supplied by the vicious thug.’

  I didn’t know about the boys. My face must have betrayed my disgust at this and astonishment that King apologised in these circumstances; for Cudlipp continued, ‘Shocking, isn’t it? Do you want to know why King apologised?’