by Tim Flower
‘The Battle of Stalingrad was a World War II conflict, in which it is estimated seven hundred and fifty thousand Red Army soldiers were killed, wounded or taken prisoner in Stalingrad itself, fighting Nazi Germany, and many more in the region as a whole.’
‘Oh, that Battle of Stalingrad. Of course,’ I said, desperately trying to salvage some dignity. ‘If Bahramov fought in that, I can see why he might not have many Germans on his Christmas Card list.’
‘It isn’t something to be flippant about, Harry.’ Nell gave me the look she gave Alison when she caught her being naughty, and threw me a tea towel. ‘Up to forty thousand Soviet civilians were killed during aerial bombing of the city by the German Luftwaffe. Did you know that?’
This time, I was more than happy to admit my ignorance. ‘No, I didn’t. That’s horrendous.’ I said, shaking my head solemnly. ‘Did he lose relatives or friends in the battle, do you know?’
‘I don’t. He wouldn’t talk about it. When Radford raised the subject and asked him whether he would be able to officiate the Final dispassionately, all he would say is, “They are different. That was war: this is a game. Now I’m an official not a fighter”.’
‘What did Rodman - I mean Radford - say?’
‘He said he knew he could rely on Bahramov’s professionalism, shook hands with us both and went off to talk to Herr Dienst.’
Gottfried Dienst was firm, fair and widely acknowledged to be the best referee in the world. He was also Swiss (so was on neither side in the war) and wasn’t one to be influenced by either West German theatrics or a zealous home crowd. He was the perfect referee for the Final.
‘Rodman needn’t have bothered: Gottfried Dienst is his own man. Nothing is going to sway him.’
‘Herr Dienst certainly seems confident and assured. And, according to Aston, both teams approve of his appointment.’
‘I’m not surprised: he’s the epitome of neutral,’ I said, whilst thinking both teams no doubt arranged his appointment.
‘Being neutral, though, isn’t the same as being indifferent as to who wins. Many neutrals are very keen for West Germany to win.’
‘Are they?’ I was totally unaware of this. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? Because of the chauvinism of the English powers that be. The FA - like the Government - behave as if they are natural leaders of the world. In truth, England play crude, soulless, second-rate football and have only reached the Final thanks to biased refereeing and home advantage. The neutrals want to see England put in its place - even if it is by the Germans.’
‘You don’t want them to win, surely,’ I said, unconsciously handing her the saucepan of chow mein.
Recoiling from the smell, Nell grabbed it and dumped its rancid contents in the bin, before saying tersely, ‘No, I don’t.’
‘I was going to say… ’
‘I want England to lose.’ She glared at me and plunged the soiled saucepan into the, by now, murky water.
Her response felt angry and spiteful. ‘Why? Is it to get back at me because you think I’m having an affair with Rita? You couldn’t be more wrong about that.’
Nell snatched a Brillo pad and attacked the saucepan with a vigour that bordered on vengeance.
‘I invited Rita over because her mum - who she lives with - is away and she had no one to watch the semi-final with. We didn’t even do that, as it turned out: the smell of the chow mein gave her morning sickness and she had to go home in a taxi.’
Nell thrust the washed, but undrained, saucepan into my midriff. ‘It takes more than chow mein to give you morning sickness.’
‘I know that,’ I said, before sensing the sting in her statement and adding, ‘and, I can assure you, all I did was provide the food.’
She looked unconvinced. ‘Anyway, it has nothing to do with you and Rita, Harry. I want England to lose because I won’t be able stomach the sanctimonious arrogance of the male establishment if they win.’
‘Don’t say that to Da. I’ve promised to take him to the Final, so he’ll be staying Saturday night. We don’t want a repeat of your Christmas fallout.’
‘You’ve no need to worry about that, Harry.’
‘Oh Good. I hope you didn’t mind me — ’
‘Because I won’t be here.’
‘What! Why? Where will you be?’
‘Travelling back to Bedford after the Final.’
‘You’re going to the Final?’
‘Yes, as FIFA’s guest - by way of a thank you for my work with the referees.’
‘Why are you going to Bedford afterwards?’
‘Because Alison will be there. Mama and Papa are taking her out for the day.’
Nell snatched my sodden tea towel - which I had unwittingly twisted into a rope - and hung it up to dry.
‘So aren’t you coming back before then?’ I asked, trying to conceal my rocketing anxiety.
‘No. Once I’ve packed a few toys for Alison and my clothes for Saturday, I’m going back to Bedford. But I’ll leave you the car.’
‘So when do you plan to come home, may I ask?’
‘I don’t know, Harry. My job with FIFA is now finished and Alison doesn’t have school for another month. So I haven’t yet made any plans beyond Saturday.’
‘But you will be coming back, won’t you?’ My anxiety was now verging on desperation.
‘I don’t know, Harry,’ Nell said with resignation. ‘I really don’t know.’
I went to see the third place play-off at Wembley that evening, not because I was keen to see how Eusebio’s Portugal would fare against the functional USSR, but because it was something to do, it got me out of the house and I could meet Norman afterwards in The Torch for a much-needed beer and whisky session.
I had no difficulty getting a ticket for the match: as the kick-off approached, the touts were selling them at less than face value. The stadium was little more than two-thirds full and very few of those were partisan. Consequently, the atmosphere was reminiscent of the Tuesday of a Test Match that was heading inexorably towards a draw.
Inevitably, the match itself was as monotonous as it was meaningless. So, with only a couple of minutes left and the scores even at one a piece, I decided I’d had enough and headed for the exit. As Sod’s Law dictates, just as I was descending the stairs from the stand, the winning goal was scored - by Torres for Portugal. This seemed to please the neutral crowd who I had sensed favoured the team that had so entertainingly lost against England. In other circumstances, I would have retraced my steps and joined in the applause for the scorer and his teammates. On this occasion, however, getting a pint and a stool in The Torch took priority.
By the time Norman had found a runner to take his films and walked the half a mile to the pub, I had made every effort to drown my sorrows; but they were still fighting back.
‘Cheer up!’ Norman said, in that “jolly you out of it” way that invariably magnifies your misery. ‘You’ve only got to buy me a drink, not the whole pub.’
I bought him a pint of Double Diamond and another for myself. For once, it did seem to “work wonders”.
‘Harry, how do you fancy having a front-row seat for the Final on Saturday?’ Norman said, looking very pleased with himself.
‘Why, have you got a spare ticket?’
Norman grinned broadly and sunk half of his pint.
‘You haven’t got a pair, have you? You see, I’ve promised to take my dad.’
‘I said nothing about a ticket.’
‘How do you propose I get in then? I haven’t got a press pass anymore.’
‘I know, you divvy. But you will have.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ll see.’
Milking the drama, Norman gulped down the rest of his pint and shouted to the landlord, ‘Two more here, George, when you’re ready. And two large Johnnie Walkers to keep ‘em company.’
Having placed his order, he leant towards me and said, in a low voice, ‘You’ll never guess
who was sitting next to me at the game.’
Being doubtful whether responding to this would clarify matters, I said, ‘Has this got anything to do with me getting a press pass?’
‘Naturally,’ Norman said, sounding a little hurt.
‘Lord Beaverbrook,’ I said facetiously, the “Baron of Fleet Street” having died two years previously.
‘Close,’ he said, giving me a sarcastic stare. ‘Bronislav somebody or other. He’s a photographer with the Russian newspaper, Izvestia. He speaks very good English for a Ruski.’
‘Then he’s probably a spy,’ I said, now suspecting that Norman was playing a joke. ‘If he’s promised to set you up with that Romanova bird in From Russia with Love, I‘d run a mile if I was you.’
‘Don’t be soft. He was fed-up after the game and we got talking.’
‘Because Russia had lost a pointless match?’
‘No. He didn’t care a toss about that. He doesn’t want to go back to Moscow.’
‘Can’t say I blame him. According to Nell, not only is it freezing cold and bleak as a bomb site over there, the food is awful. She said there are permanent shortages that would make what we used to have on ration here look like a Christmas feast.’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him,’ Norman said unconvincingly. ‘Anyway, he was lucky enough to get a photographers pass for the Final - you know, in the draw.’
‘That is lucky.’ I had heard that, because there were insufficient accreditation passes to go around, they had been allocated by lot and several Fleet Street smudgers had missed out. They were going to have to smuggle in their cameras and shoot photos from the stand. ‘Were you a winner, Norm?’
He gave a conceited nod.
‘Good for you. Monte wasn’t, by all accounts.’
‘Are you going to drink your drinks and let me tell you the good news?’
‘Go on then,’ I said, and downed my whisky.
‘Well, Bronislav was planning two more nights of Western decadence on the back of shooting the final, you see. But his paper has said that, what with it being the end of the road for the Ruskis, he’s got to go straight back to Commieland. He’s hopping, as you might imagine!’
‘How is that good news?’
‘I meant for you, not him!’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Just listen,’ Norman said, sounding exasperated. ‘When I told Bronislav you’d been unjustly dropped from the team covering the Final — ’
‘I wasn’t unjustly dropped. I unwisely quit.’
‘I know that. But if I’d told him the truth - that you’re a stubborn, short-sighted twat - he wouldn’t have offered to help, would he?’
‘What can he do, smart-arse?’
‘What he has done is give me his press pass and badge to give to you. He also gave me this.’ Norman opened a bulging camera bag and held up a navy blue, zip topped sweater with white stripes down the sleeves and “CCCP” emblazoned across the chest. ‘He said the Ruskis had given it to him as a memento. He didn’t want it and tried to exchange it for a Portugal shirt. But he couldn’t find a taker.’
‘You’re not suggesting I try to get into the Final by pretending I’m a Russian photographer, are you?’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t speak Russian for a start.’
‘We’ll go in together. Leave it to me. I’ll do all the talking.’
I remained far from convinced that this would work and would have continued to express my scepticism, had the ringing of a ship’s bell and George bellowing, ‘Last orders at the bar,’ not prompted me to get in a final round of bitter and whisky and shift my focus to getting Da in to see the Final.
‘Okay, Norm. Let’s assume the stewards believe I’m Boris Karloff or whatever his name is: what about my Dad?’
‘What about him?’
‘I told you, I promised to get him a ticket. I’ve tried all my contacts; they said any spares were snapped up within hours of England’s semi-final win.’
‘Can’t you just explain to him that there aren’t any tickets to be had?’
‘I promised him, Norm. He’s been in hospital. Ma rang earlier to say they’ve discharged him today so he can attend the Final. I can’t just tell him, “Bad luck, Da: there’s only one Russian smudger’s disguise and I’m wearing it”, can I?’
‘Have you tried Our Rog?’
‘Yeah. He told me Martin Peters did have two spare, five pound tickets, but he’d just sold them to that tout, Flashman.’
‘To Fat Stan? Get one from him then.’
‘Where will I find Fat Stan? It’s not like he’s got an office.’
‘He’s standing over there,’ Norman said, pointing surreptitiously at a huge man in dark glasses operating the one-armed bandit.
Even from a distance he looked like he could put the fear of god into the Kray brothers. So I didn’t immediately rush over and introduce myself.
‘Go on: he won’t bite.’
I wasn’t so sure. But since he was the only hope I had, I sunk the rest of my pint and sidled unsteadily over to him.
The way he was gripping the one-armed bandit’s only limb, with a fist the size of a boxing glove and snarling as a plum broke his line of melons, he looked like he was torturing the machine.
‘Excuse me. Mr Flashman?’ I said with excessive politeness. ‘Have you got any tickets for the final on Saturday?’
He wrenched the arm down again. This time he won. He scooped up his winnings before turning to me and saying, ‘What are you after?’ He had the voice of a bored Max Bygraves.
‘A seat in the stand for my Dad. He’s just come out of hospital, you see,’ I explained unnecessarily, ‘so he won’t be well enough to stand on the terraces.’
Fat Stan gave me a broad, and somewhat sinister, grin and said, ‘It’s your lucky day, my friend. Earlier, I done a bit of business with one of the players. He couldn’t use his two comps, so I helped him out.’
‘Oh, are they from Martin Peters?’
‘You don’t need to know that,’ he said with a glare. ‘But I can assure you they’re the best you can get. Your old man will be very comfortable.’ He pulled what appeared to be the tickets from the inside breast pocket of his expensive looking, steel blue suit. ‘And for a pony they’re yours.’
‘A pony?’
‘Pony. Macaroni. Twenty-five nicker.’
‘Twenty-five quid! They only cost a fiver.’
‘I don’t know who told you that,’ he said, ensuring his fat thumb was covering the ticket price. ‘These are seats in the Royal Box - almost next to Her Majesty herself. At a pony, I’m doing you a favour,’ he said with a greasy smile. ‘Because I don’t want yer old man to miss the match like.’
‘So that’d be twelve pound ten then? I only want one, you see.’
His smile became a scowl. Pointing to a rather brassy barmaid collecting glasses from a nearby table, he said, ‘The tickets are like her tits: you get the pair or nuffing.’
At that moment, the bell rang again and George called time. Although I knew I only had three fivers and two ones in my wallet, I took the hint. ‘Then I’d better have the pair.’
‘Good boy.’
‘But I don’t have that much in cash. Would you take a cheque?’ I said, betraying my level of intoxication.
‘Who do you think I am: Billy Muggins?’
‘No, no. Not at all. It’s just—’
‘You haven’t got the readies, I know. Sadly, I can’t take your cheque: not with the current state of the economy, you understand. And, in case you’re wondering, I don’t do the “never-never” neither.’
Fortunately, despite my emphasising that I didn’t know when I could repay him, Norman lent me the extra tenner I needed. So I bought the tickets and eased the pain of parting with what would have been (had I still had a job) half a week’s wages by telling myself I could give the second ticket to Ma. She could look after Da, whilst I was watching pitchside - or detained
for impersonating a Russian photographer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Saturday, 30th July 1966
Thirty-eight hours later, the day of the World Cup Final, I was back at The Torch. This, I hasten to add, was a more sober affair - at least as far as I was concerned. I had arranged to meet Ma and Da in the saloon bar there to give them their tickets. Back in February, when I took Da to the England v West Germany friendly game using Mirror tickets, I hadn’t risked incurring his republican wrath by telling him we would be sitting in the Royal Box. And I took the same approach this time. However, I did tell Mum in advance, both because I wanted to reassure her that Da would be okay (he wouldn’t have to stand and could use the facilities if he needed to) and I knew she would want to be looking her best.
The saloon bar was packed. I had to prise open the door and weave my way through a dense forest of boisterous, beer-swilling fans wearing England caps and rosettes and carrying Union Jack flags. I eventually found Ma and Da sat at a small table near the bar itself, behind a huge World Cup Willie cut-out.
Immediately I thought discharging Da from hospital had been a mistake. He was coughing almost constantly; his face and neck were red and swollen; and he was breathing like he had run all the way from Birkenhead. What was more, he had a half a pint of bitter in front of him. I had only ever seen him drink pints.
Ma - who was dressed for a summer Saturday night at the Old Colonial, in a sky-blue mac and a yellow turban hat - looked uneasy: she was fiddling with her glass of port and lemon and kept anxiously glancing at Da. When he went to the Gents, I asked her if she was okay. She said she was worried about him. The hospital had told them he should stay at home and watch the Final on the telly; but he wouldn’t have it.
Walking up Empire Way was a slow process: we kept having to stop for Da to catch his breath. I noticed a crackling sound whenever he inhaled. When I commented on it, Ma gave me a horrified glare and Da nearly bit my head off. I took the hints and, from then on, pretended everything was fine.
