Fixing Sixty Six Read online

  All this assumed that Harry still wanted to work with me, a subject on which he had not yet been forthcoming. In response to my assurance regarding the prospects of selling his story before 5th July, he had merely puffed on his pipe and looked preoccupied. In the circumstances, I thought it best to address the issue directly.

  ‘You seem doubtful. Are you sure you still want me to tell your story?’

  He looked quizzical.

  ‘If you’re having second thoughts, do say: I won’t be offended.’

  ‘Who says I’m having second thoughts?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t told me you’d like to continue the arrangement.’ I paused; but he still wasn’t being drawn. ‘Would you like to do that, Harry?’

  After taking a sip of tea, he nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just I’m feeling a bit… ’ He grimaced. ‘Grotty.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Are you in pain?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing.’ I must have looked worried, for he quickly added, ‘Don’t worry, you’re not about to lose your only source.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. You could… you know… put this off until tomorrow. I should feel better by then.’

  We could ill afford to lose any time; but cajoling him into pressing on that day, even if possible, would almost certainly have been counterproductive. ‘Of course: no problem. Have you got anything to take for it?’

  ‘I don’t need any more drugs. After a mug of… you know… that malty, milky drink…’

  ‘Horlicks?’

  ‘That’s the kiddie. A mug of Horlicks and forty winks, and I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Let me drive you back to your house, Harry. My car is just outside.’

  He didn’t baulk at this.

  When I pulled up outside the rusting wrought-iron gate to his cottage, he said, ‘I’d like to meet here in future, if that’s okay.’

  I readily agreed; and, having checked he would be okay on his own and confirmed he still wished to start at ten o’clock, I drove back to the hotel. On the way, I couldn’t help worrying whether I was destined not to hear his whole story.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Friday, 6th May 2016

  Breakfast the following morning was ruined by learning the election results. Whilst not disastrous for the Labour Party, there were no indications that they were on course to win the next General Election and set about restoring a welfare society (or even just a well one).

  As the day was fine and mild, I decided to take the scenic route to Harry’s house via the coastal path above Crosby beach. I hoped that breathing the ozone and absorbing the bright morning light would lift my mood, which they did.

  I suffered a setback, however, when Harry opened the front door in, what I took to be, his pyjama bottoms. They were certainly trousers made of red striped flannelette and had a thick white drawstring hanging down the front. Above them, as usual, he was wearing a cardigan over a twill shirt and his mop of white hair was neatly parted. I assumed I had interrupted him getting dressed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harry: didn’t we agree ten o’clock as usual?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘What are you sorry about?’

  ‘I thought you might not be quite ready for me,’ I said, pointing discreetly at his lower half.

  He looked down and scowled, as if his butler had let him down. ‘Come in,’ he snapped. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ and disappeared upstairs.

  I perched on the raffia dining chair he had offered me on my only prior visit and waited for him to return.

  I had remembered the house then as having the air of a modest, long-term rental about it: it was only sparsely and functionally furnished, yet there was evidence that Harry had tried to make it homely for himself and keep it clean and tidy.

  Over the last month, however, he had let the place go. There were dirty dishes crowding his typewriter on the drop-leaf table; newspapers, letters and envelopes littered the furniture and the floor; and a number of half-empty mugs and a full ashtray occupied the table next to his chair. What was more, the room stank like it had hosted a smokers party the night before.

  I got up and went to the back door. I could see that outside, on a worn and weedy patch of lawn, there was a rusty wrought-iron table and two equally rusty metal chairs. Since it was dry and reasonably warm outside, I decided that this was where we should work. Whilst it was no match for the terrace at the First Place Hotel, crucially it offered fresh, smoke free air.

  Moments later Harry re-emerged fully dressed.

  ‘Seeing as it’s such a nice, bright day, why don’t we sit outside,’ I said pointing at the rather sorry-looking garden furniture.

  ‘I haven’t got one of those… you know…’ he said, screwing up his face as he reached for the word. ‘Those… those fire things.’

  ‘Patio heater, you mean?’

  Rather than relieved by my prompt, he looked frustrated.

  ‘It’s quite warm outside. If you’ll be comfortable, I will be,’ I said, displaying my lightweight duster coat. ‘Anyway, I don’t like using those things.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, before seeming to have second thoughts. ‘I’d better get a… a… warm sheet, just in case,’ he said and shuffled upstairs again.

  Over the month we had been working together, Harry had struggled to find the right word with increasing frequency. Fortunately, however, he only seemed to experience any real difficulty when we were chatting in the here and now. Once we had travelled back to 1966, and he could refer to his shorthand notes, he was still able to communicate with reasonable fluency.

  So, when he returned, I was glad to see that, as well as a blanket, he had with him a carrier bag of shorthand notebooks, marked “Jules Britannia II”, which he proceeded to sort into piles on the garden table.

  Having placed the blanket on his chair, he sat down, opened the notebook I could now see was numbered one and diligently examined the dots and squiggles on the first page. ‘Ah yes. You’ll remember that, at the end of the last thrilling episode,’ he winked, ‘I had fallen asleep watching the BBC’s Election Results programme.’

  I nodded and smiled at the thought that, despite us going back fifty years, it would still be the day after the polls. I also wistfully recalled the fortunes of Wilson’s Labour Party in that election.

  ‘Well, at dawn the following morning… ’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NINETEEN SIXTY SIX: Friday, 1st April

  I woke with a thick head, a stiff neck and a mouth like Southport beach. I mixed myself a cocktail of aspirin, Lucozade and Andrews Liver Salts and, with great trepidation, turned on the TV to find out the result of the General Election. I heard the voice of a newsreader announcing that keepers at Moscow Zoo had to use brooms to stop London Zoo’s panda sow, Chi Chi, fighting her Russian suitor, AnAn, when they were put into the same cage for the first time. Whilst I waited for a picture, I wondered whether Nell and I would soon need similar interventions.

  Michael Aspel emerged on our screen, as he ended the news bulletin and returned viewers to the election studio. Soon afterwards, I discovered to my delight and immense relieve that Harold Wilson and Labour had swept to a landslide victory, which the BBC’s computer had predicted would give them a hundred seat majority. To celebrate, I downed the rest of my “pick-me-up” and stopped fretting whether there would be a Phase II of Operation Jules Britannia. Instead, I started worrying whether Forsyth would still want me involved in it.

  By one o’clock, I was outside Number 10, as Forsyth had instructed. My head had cleared, which was just as well, because I had to weave my way through a dense crowd of well-wishers outside, without interrupting Alan Whicker and a BBC camera crew, who were broadcasting reaction to Labour’s re-election. Just as I managed to break through the cordon of photographers surrounding the front of the house, there was a ripple of applause from the crowd. Along with a battery of cameras, I turned towards Whitehall and saw the Pri
me Minister’s Humber Imperial draw up a few yards away. I moved forward to get a better look and found myself next to one of the uniformed policemen guarding the entrance, who gave me a suspicious look. However, he must have recognised me as a regular visitor, because he didn’t prevent me from standing between the car and him, and watching as first Mary Wilson, then Harold and finally a tired-looking Marcia Williams, alighted.

  As they passed by me, I couldn’t resist calling out, ‘Congratulations, Harold!’

  The newly re-elected Prime Minister looked back over his shoulder and, in his distinctive nasal voice, replied, ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Harry.’

  Harold was reputed to have an elephantine memory; nonetheless, I was impressed he could instantly recall my name, just from having played snooker with me in the Liverpool Press Club nine months previously.

  Mrs Wilson appeared to enjoy her husband's quip. As they posed on their front doorstep for photographs, she looked across at me and smiled. Camera shutters clicked and flash bulbs fired. At least one agency smudger must have captured that particular moment, because an image of a waving Harold, with an amused Mrs Wilson looking over at me, appeared in several of the next day’s papers.

  Before entering Number 10, Harold made a short statement in which he referred to the “tremendous problems” the country still faced and that the Government would deal with them, as they had over the previous seventeen months, “by telling the British people all the facts, by telling them what needs to be done and by not hesitating to take whatever measures may be needed, be they popular or unpopular”. He added that the Government would, “continue, as we have begun, making Britain a fairer and juster society”.

  Whilst I was aware that the country continued to face economic difficulties inherited from the Tories, I was surprised to hear the Prime Minister publicly describe the state of the nation in such frank, forthright terms. Although refreshingly honest, it did nothing to advance Operation Jules Britannia. Far from it. Harold gave the impression, not that Britannia’s rule would be restored, but that she had her back against the wall and the Government were doing all they could to defend her. I knew Forsyth would not be amused, and wondered if Harold had been speaking off the cuff, or whether Mrs Williams - looking on - had just won a battle in the kitchen cabinet war.

  Having posed on the steps for a few more photos, the Wilsons, with Mrs Williams hard on their heels, disappeared inside and, as the famous black door was being closed, I hurried in behind them.

  A gaggle of Number 10 staff had gathered in the entrance hall. I looked for Rita but couldn’t see her. They applauded Harold’s arrival back and the odd one or two cried, “Congratulations, Prime Minister”. Harold acknowledged the enthusiastic reception, before greeting his father, who I learnt subsequently had been proudly observing his son’s return to Downing Street from an upstairs window. Mary Wilson escorted Mr Wilson Senior into the lift and the staff dispersed, no doubt to return to what they had been doing before being rudely interrupted by the General Election.

  I waited for the lift to return and was soon joined by Harold and Mrs Williams. They paused their discussion as they approached me. To avoid possibly an awkward silence, I said to Harold, ‘Congratulations again, Prime Minister.’ He gave me a weary, yet courteous, nod. ‘I’m not at all surprised,’ I gabbled. Harold smiled modestly. ‘Just relieved and delighted you’re back.’

  Mrs Williams intervened. ‘We don’t wish to be rude, but the Prime Minister and I are very tired.’

  As I muttered, ‘I quite understand,’ Harold looked sternly at his political secretary and said, ‘I’m tired of politics, that’s all.’

  Coming from a political leader who had been in power for less than eighteen months, this struck me as an extraordinary statement. I didn’t appreciate then that politicians and their aides expend the most effort, not exercising power, but trying to hang onto it.

  On the second floor, I found Brenda laboriously unpacking the contents of her half of the office, which seemingly she had spent most of the campaign packing up. ‘Isn’t Rita in yet?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s been in all morning, Mr Mill… Harry,’ she said, without breaking from her labours. ‘She’s having her tea break in the study, before Mr Forsyth gets in.’

  This meant that I too had time for tea. I walked smartly down the corridor where I could see Mrs S with her trolley. She appeared to be in a celebratory mood.

  ‘I’ve got Garibaldi biscuits for you today’ she said, as if the small rectangles of baked dough contained diamonds, not currants. I took two of what, as a kid, I called “squashed-fly biscuits” and a cup of Mrs S’s finest and walked downstairs to the study.

  Rita was lounging in one of the deep leather armchairs, below the portrait of Harold’s Labour predecessor, Clement Attlee, engrossed in a copy of Good Housekeeping. She had removed one of her black patent shoes and was sitting on her stockinged foot, twiddling a stray tendril of her chestnut hair. Attlee seemed to be looking down at her with approval.

  Having shared his appreciation, I asked, ‘Why weren’t you with the greeting party downstairs?’

  Rita tossed her magazine away, as if it had suddenly become red hot. ‘Oh! You gave me a start.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  She blushed and, whilst untucking her foot and replacing her shoe, explained, ‘The Principal Private Secretary organised it. The political staff didn’t get invited.’

  ‘Don’t let me interrupt your reading. I could see you were enjoying that magazine.’

  ‘It’s okay. I need to get back soon, anyway.’

  ‘Brenda said you’re on your tea break.’

  ‘I am. But the Fox doesn’t like me leaving my desk.’ Her face flashed from embarrassed to scared. ‘You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  ‘No, don’t worry.’

  Rita gave a relieved smile.

  Her Good Housekeeping, she had discarded on the occasional table in front of her, drew my eye. It looked somehow uncomfortable next to the ebony cigar box and chunky marble lighter. I picked it up and perched on the swollen arm of the chair next to Rita’s. The front cover promoted a supplement entitled, “What’s New About Babies?”.

  ‘So,’ I said cheerily, ‘what is new about babies?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. One of the girls lent me that: it’s got an interview with Julie Andrews. Did you know she’s got a three-year-old daughter called Emma?’

  I shook my head. I had refused to take Nell to see The Sound of Music, due to disliking Miss “Goody Two-Shoes” almost as much as Everton.

  ‘I don’t know how she does it: starring in all those wonderful films and bringing up Emma at the same time.’

  I didn’t let our conversation dwell on Julie Andrews. ‘So are you going to give up work, when you have kids?’

  ‘I’ve got to get married first,’ she exclaimed, then giggled.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I’ve already told Barry, I want two boys and two girls,’ she said excitedly. Her face switched to serious. ‘I know, in real life, you can’t pick and choose. I’ve said to Barry, I’ll be happy with whatever we get - as long as they’re healthy.’

  ‘Exactly.’ As I dunked my Garibaldi, I thought how Rita’s view of life was so beautifully conventional and uncomplicated. Barry was a lucky bloke.

  I was keen to know what Forsyth thought of my paper’s World Cup recovery piece. ‘Did The Fox see Tuesday’s Mirror? You know, with the “mystery over World Cup reward” story?’ In my enthusiasm, I didn’t allow her to answer. ‘It was all over the inside page, with a big photo of Pickles. Did you see it?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Pickles looked so sweet.’ Rita made the face girls make when they see a new baby.

  ‘Did the Fox like it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Labour won. So I’m sure he did.’

  I didn’t share her confidence. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘I do think Mr Mears should get some reward, don’t you?’

 
‘The FA Chairman? Why?’ I had read that, at Scotland Yard’s direction, he had put a £1 advertisement in the Evening News saying he was “willing to do business”, in an attempt to flush the extortionist out. To my mind, that hardly warranted a reward.

  However, Rita understood he had done a good deal more besides. ‘He directed all the negotiations. And, according to Scotland Yard, that’s what led to the trophy being abandoned and the blackmailer’s arrest.’

  ‘He did what? Joe was in charge of getting the cup back? He’s a football man. Surely they have experts to do that sort of thing.’

  ‘Mr Mears used to be a Royal Marine, responsible for the security of Churchill’s secret wartime bunker. So he’s been trained to work undercover.’

  ‘Are you seriously saying Joe Mears - Chairman of Chelsea and the FA - was a spy?’ I had interviewed Joe on several occasions. He knew his football; but James Bond he wasn’t.

  ‘All I know is what was in Scotland Yard’s reports. It referred to his wartime work and said they had been instructed that Mr Mears would lead all negotiations to recover the trophy.’ Rita stressed “the trophy” and gave me a knowing look.

  ‘Did he foil Goldfinger and kill OddJob in the process?’

  ‘Don’t laugh. It gave him a heart attack.’

  ‘Really!’ This was a shock. When I had seen Joe recently, he had looked hale and hearty. ‘Is he going to be alright?’

  ‘As far as I know.’