Fixing Sixty Six Page 16

  I steered Nell across the road, towards the polling station entrance. She removed my guiding hand from her arm and discretely pointed to one of three tellers, wearing their party colours, who were standing outside. He was sporting an over-sized amber rosette. ‘You could vote Liberal,’ she said mischievously. ‘Their candidate is the chap who challenged London Transport, by organising that bus service. Do you remember?’

  I gave a barely discernible nod.

  ‘In fact, thinking about it, the only way you can avoid actively encouraging a female candidate to relinquish her domestic responsibilities, is to vote Liberal.’

  We arrived at the entrance to the church hall and I stopped in front of the swing door - appropriately for that day’s purpose, painted a neutral green. I turned to Nell and made one final attempt to get her to see sense. ‘If Sieve is a girl, what’s the problem with voting for her?’

  ‘Come on, I want to go in,’ she said brusquely, easing me away from the door. ‘I’ve got shopping and all the house to clean after this.’

  ‘Okay!’ I glared at her. ‘It’s a big decision. I just want you to make the right one.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think it matters that much.’

  ‘It’s a General Election!’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said, with more than a hint of condescension. ‘But, you see, being women, both the Labour and Conservative candidates will work hard in the constituency. And, being women, neither will have the slightest influence at Westminster.’

  When I got home from work that evening, I had two surprises. The first was that the BBC was still intending to show the scheduled episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Forsyth, it seemed, had failed in his mission to postpone it. Whilst this did nothing to settle my General Election nerves, it did mean I would have something to occupy my mind for the best part of an hour, between finishing my tea and the polls closing.

  And at 7.30 pm, before UNCLE, was Top of the Pops. Unfortunately, it was Jimmy Savile’s turn to present it. But it had a good lineup, including “The Kinks” and “The Yardbirds”, and “Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich” singing their hit single “Hold Tight” - an appropriate imperative in the circumstances. This would take care of another half an hour.

  There was nothing I wanted to watch for the forty minutes between UNCLE finishing and the start of the BBC’s election results programme. Since I was likely to have exhausted my supply of Double Diamond by then, I decided I would fill the gap by nipping down to The Joiners Arms for a swift pint. So, by the time I sat down for my tea, I had the final hours of my wait to see if I might still be involved in England’s World Cup campaign, carefully planned out.

  The second surprise was tea itself. The Kinks were not the only dedicated followers of fashion. Nell liked to be, if not “with it”, not far behind “it”. Consequently, she was keen to try exotic, Indian food and had bought a box of Vesta beef curry and rice. According to Nell, it was very easy to prepare. The box contained two bags: one of rice and one of curry. All you had to do was heat the bags in boiling water and serve. You didn’t need a wife to cook a meal like that, I thought. I could have done with the English equivalent of it, when Nell was having Alison. As it was, I had to survive for a fortnight on a diet of toast and Heinz baked beans.

  Until Nell put the plate of glossy brown stew on top of luminous white rice in front of me, my experience of foreign meals had extended no further geographically than northern Italy. And my only encounter with spicy food had been when I overdid the mustard on a hot dog at Highbury. So, with a new bottle of Double Diamond at hand to douse the fire, I sampled the Vesta beef curry with some apprehension.

  But it didn’t live up to its billing as fiery foreign food. The rice had no flavour at all. And the beef - if that is what it was - was only “hot” in the sense that it tasted overwhelmingly of Worcester sauce. It wasn’t unpleasant (Nell wasn’t keen, but I wouldn’t have minded having it again); I just couldn’t understand all the fuss made over curried food.

  I assumed they ate less in India, because the portions we had were smaller than normal. Not sure of the appropriate dish to follow curry, Nell hadn’t made a sweet. However, as we were both still hungry after our main course, she opened a tin of pineapple chunks and Carnation milk for us to have. This not only removed the peppery aftertaste of the Vesta meal but provided additional sustenance for what was likely to be a long night.

  At twenty-five past seven, I started warming up the telly. Nell’s parents had given us our set as a wedding present. The British manufacturer, KB, had marketed it as “portable”. But, in reality, they had merely attached a stout handle to a standard seventeen inch set that weighed about the same as a sandbag. Consequently, whilst I had often fancied watching Match Of The Day in bed, I had never moved it from its position above the radiogram in the lounge.

  Being a valve set, you had to turn it on approximately five minutes before you wanted to watch it. Initially there would be no sign of life at all. A minute or two later, it would start emitting just sound; then, eventually, a corresponding monochrome picture would emerge. But that wasn’t the end of the process. To get a decent reception, it was essential that the “rabbit ear” aerial was positioned on the top of our teak shelving unit, just so. I generally found putting the base directly in front of Nell’s well thumbed copy of Benjamin Spock's Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care, worked best, with the left hand antennae pointing straight up and the other at two o’clock. But she had an annoying habit of moving it when cleaning, which meant that, before I could watch a programme, I frequently had to adjust it.

  On this occasion, however, the picture was okay. This was fortunate since, by the time it had grown from the centre to fill the screen, the opening titles had finished counting down and a voice-over was announcing, “Yes, its number one - it’s Top of the Pops!”

  This, and The Man from UNCLE that followed it, combined with my pipe and the few remaining beers, kept my mind off the General Election virtually until the polls had closed. Then, as planned, I headed down to The Joiners Arms. I got back just in time to turn on for the start of the BBC’s Election Results 1966.

  Without having previously consulted the Radio Times, however, I wouldn’t have known this; because, when the picture eventually emerged, the programme’s title appeared lost in a blizzard. Hearing Nell upstairs, I called out, ‘Did you move the aerial? The reception’s dreadful.’

  Whilst standing on a dining chair, I tried adjusting the antennae and then the whole aerial. After each change, I had to step down off the chair to see the screen. I felt like I was back doing National Service. I called out again. ‘Can you come downstairs and give us a hand?’

  Nell shouted back, ‘Wait a sec: I’m seeing to Alison.’

  When she appeared, I challenged her again. ‘Earlier, the reception was fine. Did you do something whilst I was out?’

  ‘Only care for your daughter. She has toothache.’

  ‘You didn’t change anything to do with the TV?’

  ‘I moved the aerial to check in Spock when kids start getting their second teeth. But I put it back where it was.’

  ‘You obviously didn’t. Look!’ I pointed at the screen. The blizzard had stopped, but the picture was slipping vertically and Cliff Michelmore looked like he was presenting with his twin.

  It was with a distinctly bad grace that Nell agreed to tell me whether the picture was “better” or “worse”, whilst I stood on the chair and subtly moved the antennae like I was defusing a mine. By the time she said, sullenly, “there’s still ghosting, but it’ll do”, Michelmore was announcing the first result of the evening: Hull City had lost its FA Cup quarter-final with Chelsea, 3-1.

  Nell groaned, gathered her cigarettes and book and, having instructed me to call her when they started reporting the “proper results”, left to have a bath.

  Although a somewhat lame attempt at humour, the parallel Michelmo
re had drawn with the FA Cup, was not totally misplaced. Waiting for the election results to be declared, I was as nervous as I had been watching the Reds in the Cup Final the previous year. Whilst, like Labour, Liverpool were never behind in that contest, I feared throughout the match that the footballing gods would punish me for my unconfessed sins, by granting Leeds last minute salvation. Similarly, I dreaded Heath staging a miraculous comeback. Blackpool had done it in the 1953 Cup Final. With less than 25 minutes to go, Bolton were 3-1 up and the engraver could have been forgiven for starting to etch their name on the base of the famous trophy. But then Stanley Matthews, who had been largely anonymous in the first half, suddenly became unstoppable. He inspired his team to score three unanswered goals, the equalising and winning ones coming in the dying minutes of the match, to snatch the FA Cup out of Bolton’s hands.

  So miracles did happen - or so it seemed. And, within the first hour of the programme, my apprehension that I was about to witness one, was enhanced by participants drawing comparisons to 1964.

  Whilst, naturally, keen to see the Tories ousted, I had no personal interest in the outcome of the previous General Election. So, particularly since my then favourite TV programme, Steptoe And Son, had been postponed, I had no incentive to spend that polling day evening in front of the telly. Instead, I had stayed in the Mucky Duck until closing time; and, when I got home, I went straight to bed. Consequently, by the time I tuned in the next day, the “winning goal” had already been scored and the Reds were triumphant.

  Seventeen months later, the BBC’s analyst, Robert Mackenzie, was describing the drama I had missed. With the more remote, country constituencies being the last ones to declare, the Tories had apparently had a second-half surge, which almost, but not quite, overturned Labour’s earlier advantage. The message was clear: I could take little comfort from Labour taking an early lead.

  Having drunk all the Double Diamond, I initially took succour from a combination of a half bottle of Dimple whisky I had for Christmas and the polling companies’ prediction of a hundred and fifty seat Labour majority. To pad out the early part of their broadcast, the BBC had shamelessly repeated the latter, to the extent that I began thinking they couldn’t possibly be wrong. But it soon became apparent that they could and had been in the past. Enoch Powell reminded Robin Day that their 1964 predictions had been “wildly erratic and many hopelessly wrong”. So, it seemed, I couldn’t take any more comfort from the polls, than I could from Labour being ahead.

  This left me with just the whisky. Which meant that, by the time Nell had returned to discover that Cheltenham had won the race to declare the first result, I was - according to her - asleep in my chair and snoring loudly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TWENTY SIXTEEN: Thursday, 5th May

  Harry was due to meet me on the terrace of the First Place Hotel at ten o’clock, as usual. He was sometimes early, but never late. So when, at ten-fifteen, he had neither arrived nor telephoned, I called the landline number I had for him. I got an automated voicemail.

  I went inside the hotel in case he had left a message for me at reception. The desk was manned by a young, Eastern European sounding woman, who was struggling to register a party from Sunderland. Both she and the lead guest spoke a version of English, but not one that the other appeared to understand.

  Whilst waiting patiently for a comprehension breakthrough and then my turn, a Daily Express being read by one of the party caught my eye. “EU OPENS DOOR TO 79M FROM TURKEY - Britain faces fresh influx of migrants”, it screamed. I knew full well that the nation faced no such thing; not least because the EU proposal concerned related to the Schengen Area, which didn’t include the UK. And being a seasoned journalist, it was hardly a surprise to me that a Desmond paper had passed fiction off as truth. Indeed, what else would one expect from a former pornographic magazine proprietor? But this story was more than merely false: it was vile and pernicious disinformation, patently designed to pervert, not just the EU referendum scheduled for the following month, but a whole raft of local, mayoral and other elections taking place across the country that very day. It was a grim and grave reminder that, fifty years on from Operation Jules Britannia, shadowy power elites were still using the press to further their own political ends.

  Eager to banish this disturbing thought, I turned my mind back to Harry. It occurred to me that, going to the polling station on his way to the hotel might account for his tardiness. However, just as the Wearsider and the receptionist reached an understanding, and I was about to discover whether I had a message from Harry, I spotted a woman guide him into the reception and then promptly leave.

  He glanced around the reception, as if trying to get his bearings. I hurried over to greet him.

  Although it wasn’t particularly warm outside, he was perspiring heavily, and appeared tired and agitated. ‘Are you okay, Harry?’

  He slumped into one of the reception’s equally tired looking armchairs. ‘I’ve been halfway to the City and back,’ he said, sounding frustrated and annoyed.

  ‘Did you come via the polling station then?’

  ‘No.’ The look he gave me, I might as well have said “the space station”.

  ‘It’s just, I thought that might be why you’re…,’ I was going to say “late”, but thought better of it. ‘Why you were delayed.’

  ‘I told you,’ he bristled. ‘They’ve blocked South Road. I had to go all the way round.’ He wrenched his pipe and matches from his pocket.

  It must be one hell of a blockage, I thought, to make him almost forty-five minutes late.

  ‘Who was the lady who came in with you - if that isn’t a rude question?’ I said, trying to lighten his mood.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Just some busybody.’

  Seemingly realising he couldn’t smoke in the reception, he clambered out of the chair, gestured towards the front entrance and said, ‘I need to go outside.’

  ‘We can sit on the terrace,’ I said, trying to be helpful. ‘We’ve got our usual table.’

  I waited for him to lead the way. But he didn’t. He shuffled this way and that and then barked, ‘I want to smoke.’

  ‘I know. We can get outside this way,’ I said and guided him towards the rear exit.

  I wondered what had upset Harry to such a degree. It couldn’t just be due to his long and frustrating journey to the hotel. Maybe his palliative treatment wasn’t now meeting his needs? Whatever it was, I didn’t think it was a subject I could raise with him.

  It was an inauspicious start to what was a critical day for Williegate. It had been a month, exactly, since I had begun interviewing him. So, before we finished that afternoon, I had to commit either to writing his story or passing it on to someone else. Similarly, he had to either confirm me as his scribe or find himself another one.

  Given his unsettled state, I thought it best to defer what, potentially, was a delicate conversation until after he’d had a smoke and a cup of tea. So, having got him sat down in his chair and ordered our drinks from Cezar - our regular waiter - I attempted to make small talk.

  ‘Will you be heading off to the polling station later?’

  Harry stared at me blankly.

  ‘Or did you arrange a postal vote? I did that this time.’

  ‘Vote for what? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The council elections - and for mayors and police commissioners - are being held today. I don’t know exactly which ones are taking place here — ’

  ‘I don’t vote,’ Harry snapped. ‘There’s no point.’ He tamped the contents of his pipe with unnecessary vigour. ‘No-one tells the truth anymore. Either lot will say anything its…’ His face crumpled in frustration. ‘Not disc jockeys. What do you call them?’

  ‘Spin doctors?’

  ‘Spin doctors! They’ll say anything the spin doctors tell them will trigger the right response. I’m not going to be exploited like that.’ He lit his pipe and briefly shrouded himself in smoke.

  Clearly, he was
convinced that Machiavellians were at work. And, especially in the light of that day’s Daily Express headline, I couldn’t blame him.

  Just as I was about to try changing to a less emotive subject, Cezar arrived with our drinks. And, as soon as he had said his usual “Enjoy” and left us, Harry cut to the chase.

  ‘So, do you want Williegate or not?’

  His abruptness momentarily took me aback. ‘Well… that’s the question - or, rather, one of them. The other is, do you still want to sell it to me?’

  ‘I asked you first,’ he said with a blank stare.

  I had no need to be coy. I had made up my mind already that I wanted the story. It exposed one of the most shocking and shameful chapters in the nation’s modern political history. And since it also concerned, what had become, an iconic sporting event of the century, I was confident it would have popular appeal and sell for at least the amount needed to provide Harry with his care home fund.

  I promptly answered, ‘I would be delighted to, Harry,’ and added cheerily, trying to jolly him out of his grump, ‘But only if you still want it told by a black “blunt nib” in a loud frock and jeggings.’

  Whilst not expecting effusiveness, or even enthusiasm, I did anticipate a broadly positive response from Harry. What I got, however, was tentative, matter of fact and worryingly non-committal.

  ‘We agreed you’d have three months to sell it, didn’t we?’ he said.

  ‘Err… yes, we did. If I haven’t found a buyer by then, you’re free to approach another writer.’

  ‘So you haven’t as yet?’

  ‘Found a buyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. But, knowing the story so far, I’m confident I will do.’

  In saying that, I was being economical with the truth. I was confident of selling the story: but I wasn’t at all sure I could do so by July.

  Progress over the first month, whilst steady, had been slower than I had expected. Working methodically through his shorthand notes, hadn’t been the most time efficient way of him relating his story. With a third of the allotted days spent, we were little more than a quarter of the way through his notebooks. Whilst I was working on the material as we went along, his method of storytelling meant I couldn’t even begin to produce a synopsis for potential buyers until I knew the contents of all his notebooks. I could only hope that, having laid the foundations for the story and got used to his way of us collaborating, the next two months would be substantially more productive.