Fixing Sixty Six Page 4

  A steward led us towards the back of the box. Da perched on the backrest of his seat and looked down on the lush playing surface, which was glowing lime green under the stadium floodlights. He would never admit it, but I could see the viewpoint impressed him.

  ‘Ay lad: what sort of football supporter is he?’ Da announced, pointing several rows below us at a tall, impressive figure in an expensive suit, laughing heartily and smoking a fat cigar. He snorted, which made him cough again.

  Nobody had told me the Mirror Group Chairman would be in the box. ‘Shh! Don’t point, Da,’ I whispered urgently.

  His observation, although unsubtle, was sharp. Except for captaining a yacht, the Chairman reputedly had little time for sport. ‘That’s Hugh Cudlipp. He’s my ultimate boss.’

  ‘Oowee! He’s your boss, is he,’ Da said loudly, doing a poor imitation of Received Pronunciation. I shushed him again and he reverted to his vernacular. ‘You’re with yer Da. Yer don’t ‘ave to talk like a poof with me, lad.’

  Living in London, I had lost a good deal of my native accent and Da never missed an opportunity to ridicule me for it.

  The stadium tannoy crackled into life and announced the two teams.

  ‘Nobby Stiles: Centre-Forward?’ Da cried. He couldn’t have looked more astonished if the announcer had said Ken Dodd was playing. ‘He’s a defender. If he crosses halfway, he gets a fucking nosebleed.’

  Admittedly, Stiles was a most unlikely number nine. For Liverpool’s rivals, Manchester United, he played right half, number four. But numbers meant nothing in Ramsey’s set-up.

  ‘He’s got two left feet - and he only uses them for kicking “Our Rog”.’ Da gave a demonstration and accidentally kicked the rear of the seat in front with such violence that a steward asked to see his ticket again.

  ‘And who’s Geoff Hurst when he’s at home?’ Da had noted that the West Ham debutante was also in the forward line-up. ‘If we was here until the World Cup starts, them two ain’t gonna score.’ The sneer made him cough. ‘Don’t get me wrong: we’ll beat ‘em,’ he spluttered, and took some half-folded notes from his back trouser pocket and peeled off the outside brown one. ‘Ten bob says we win two-nothing - Our Rog scoring both.’ Da thrust his hand towards mine to seal the deal.

  As he knew full well, I wasn’t a betting man. Ten shillings was a significant sum of money. It could buy more than five pints of bitter. But what deterred me from gambling, was not the risk of losing money: I hated being proved wrong - particularly when it involved Da. This didn’t stop him offering me a wager or, when I refused to take it, questioning my masculinity. So over the years I had developed skills for avoiding the issue. On this occasion, I took advantage of two men joining Cudlipp below.

  ‘Do you know who that is, Da?’ I surreptitiously nodded in the direction of the thick set one of the two, in a tweed overcoat.

  ‘He ain’t another of your gaffers is he?’

  ‘That’s Denis Howell, the Minister of Sport.’

  ‘He were a ref, weren’t he?’ The Minister, perhaps catching what Da had said, looked over in our direction.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Da.’

  ‘Who’s the geezer with him?’ he asked hoarsely, and still too loudly for my liking.

  Howell’s companion - compared to Howell himself and certainly Cudlipp - was a petite figure with a black chevron moustache. He was immaculately dressed in a long, dark grey, velvet-collared overcoat and matching fedora hat.

  ‘No idea. Probably an official from the Ministry.’

  ‘He looks like Clark Gable.’

  ‘It’s unlikely to be him,’ I said. ‘He died a few years ago.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, my lad. I could still give yus a good hiding!’

  I told Da that I needed to nab myself a place in the press box and introduced him to Mike Grade, the young journalist who wrote the “Sportlight” column in the Mirror and had just taken the seat next to him. I wasn’t expecting the press box to be full, but wanted an excuse to leave before Da embarrassed me even more.

  I arranged for us to meet after the game at the entrance to the press room and left him offering Mike one of his Woodbines and his prediction of the result. It wouldn’t be long, I thought, before he was betting him ten bob that Our Rog would score both goals.

  I didn’t discover if Mike had bet with Da. If he had, it would have been at least some consolation for watching what proved to be a shockingly tedious match. England scraped a narrow victory, the only goal being scored by the dour defender turned centre-forward, Nobby Stiles. (Although, to be fair to Da, it was a tap in from a Hunt header.) Unprecedentedly, a large section of the crowd had jeered the England team as they left the pitch. This was not the preparation for the World Cup finals that the team, its manager or any of its supporters would have hoped for or expected.

  As I entered the press room - located in the corridor linking the stadium’s twin towers - a stench of negativity hit me. Fellow journalists were phoning in their match “on-the-whistle” reports, castigating both teams and predicting England’s failure at the forthcoming tournament.

  I overheard Ken Jones, the Mirror’s chief football writer, reporting ‘…the damning, derisive crack of the slow hand-clap that swept out from a 75,000 crowd…’; or at least he was attempting to do so.

  ‘No, not “defensive”, “derisive”.’ Ken barked his correction into the black, Bakelite mouthpiece. He clearly had one of our less competent copytakers on the other end of the line. ‘Spelt? There is only one way, darling.’ He smacked his hand on his forehead and looked to the ceiling.

  Ken eventually finished filing his report and passed the phone to me. ‘You won’t make your deadline with her, Harry.’

  My job was to write what were called “sidebars” or “colour pieces”. They ran alongside the match report and focused on particular aspects of the game, offered another perspective on it or provided reaction to what had taken place. I had two to file. The main one considered England’s World Cup prospects, in the light of that evening’s performance. When everyone else had been eulogising about Ramsey’s “wingless wonders” following a win in Spain the previous December, I had been the lone voice that exposed the limitations of playing without wingers; limitations that were all too apparent in the game that had just taken place. My sidebar predicted that Ramsey’s team selection and tactics, if left unchanged, would prove as ineffective in the World Cup finals as it had been unattractive that evening.

  A West German ‘equaliser’ being disallowed prompted my other piece. The linesman had controversially ruled that the whole of the ball had gone over the goal line before centre-forward, Sigi Held, crossed it to the substitute Alfred Heiss to score. I proposed that, to avoid similar controversy during the World Cup finals, there be an additional official positioned on the goal line.

  I had to dictate my copy to the same girl, Sandra, who had frustrated Ken. And my flow - and the background clatter of her sit-up-and-beg typewriter - was similarly interrupted. ‘Bear with me, Mr Miller: I’m new.’ ‘Just a minute, Mr Miller: I’m changing paper.’ And, with reference to an unfortunate German substitute, ‘I thought he was in prison.’

  I bellowed, ‘That’s Rudolf Hess. This is Alfred Heiss.’ I heard the few journos still in the room, snort and laugh.

  ‘All these foreign names sound the same, don’t they?’

  But Sandra also struggled with the English ones. ‘No, “a header by Hunt”, not Hunter. They are two different players: Roger Hunt and Ian Hunter.’

  ‘When all the names begin with “H” it makes it very confusing.’

  Ken was almost right. By the time Sandra had read my copy back and I had changed the name of England’s debutante from Heiss to Hurst, I was right up against my deadline. I hated being late - especially when it came to filing copy.

  I knew that Da would be waiting outside the press room that, by now, was occupied only by me and a stale, smoky fug. So, having finally finished on the phone, in one motion I
hung up the receiver, did a half-pirouette towards the door and, quite literally, ran straight into the imposing frame of the Mirror’s Chairman.

  I had never even met Mr. Hugh Cudlipp one-on-one before - way above my pay-grade - never mind had physical contact with him. ‘Mr Cudlipp! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Rushing to an exclusive with that pretentious little fucker Ramsey, are you?’

  Despite the lofty heights he had achieved, you could still hear a hint of the Welsh valleys in Cudlipp’s baritone voice. He brought colour to even the most banal statement by subtly trilling his r’s and through a liberal use of profanities.

  ‘No… Unfortunately, he isn’t… I was due to-—’

  Mercifully, Cudlipp interrupted by babbling. ‘It’s okay. I won’t detain you for long.’ He put his arm around my shoulders and led me away from the door.

  After apparently checking we were alone, he asked in a disconcertingly intimate tone, ‘Tell me Harry, how would you feel if today had been the 30th of July and the match you’ve just watched had been the World Cup final?’

  Since I hadn’t the faintest idea what was behind the question or why my ultimate boss had left the comfort of the VIP suite to ask it, I could only take it at face value. ‘Although it wouldn’t have been the spectacle we - I mean, England supporters - would have hoped for, I think I —’

  ‘I didn’t say what would you think: I asked you how you’d feel.’

  I surveyed the cigarette burns in the room’s grubby nylon carpet, whilst I considered my reply. Ever since I read about England’s shock 1-0 defeat by the USA in the 1950 World Cup - the first we had played in - I had dreamt of England winning the World Cup. If I had just witnessed it an hour or so earlier, I would no doubt have…

  Cudlipp impatiently interrupted my silent deliberations. ‘Bloody hell! Don’t you know?’

  His badgering overwhelmed my conscious censor. ‘Like I’d died and gone to heaven, Mr Cudlipp.’

  ‘I thought so.’ He gave me a patronising smile. ‘We’re able to do many things, but I’m afraid transporting a football match forward through time, isn’t one of them. Although that’s not to say that, in a little over five months’ time, you can’t experience heaven.’ He looked me straight in the eye and grabbed me by the triceps and squeezed. ‘And we’re going to give you the opportunity to do just that - and without having to die first.’ He briefly guffawed, before unhanding me.

  I stood awkwardly, while he lit a cigar and gently released a thick cloud of luxurious smoke. Then he dropped the bombshell.

  ‘On Monday, you will be seconded to Number 10.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I heard perfectly well: I just couldn’t take it in. ‘You want me to… go to… Downing Street?’

  ‘Unless you’d prefer Rillington Place.’ He gave another mini guffaw.

  Questions flooded my mind. “What will I be doing?”; “How long will I be there?”; and “What has Number 10 got to do with England winning the World Cup?”. I didn’t ask any of those.

  ‘Will I still get to report on the matches?’

  ‘You’ll be doing better than that. You’ll be at the fucking heart of England’s World Cup campaign.’

  His manner suddenly turned from bright to grave. ‘Your role was described to me as an important one. After the events of this evening, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was now considered critical.’

  ‘But why me, if I may ask?’ I couldn’t help sounding pompous. ‘Why not Ken Jones? He’s our chief football writer.’

  ‘Ken’s Welsh, like me,’ said Cudlipp, exaggerating his valley’s accent. Then he smiled mischievously. ‘You wouldn’t want England’s fate in the hands of a sodding Welshman, would you?’ He chortled, drew on his cigar and released more lush smoke before adding, ‘Besides, I’m told that, unlike Ken, you have met Mr Wilson.’

  This took me aback. How did he know about me and the Prime Minister?

  ‘Yes, one Friday, at the Liverpool Press Club. He popped in for a game of snooker after his constituency surgery. We got talking about pipe smoking. We discovered we both smoke Gallagher’s Rich Dark Honeydew.’

  I was about to add that he had later confessed to preferring cigars to a pipe (taking the familiar, straight stemmed Billiard from his pocket, he had said with a wink, “But this is what they want to see”) when Cudlipp signalled his disinterest in the detail by furtively checking his expensive looking watch.

  ‘Make a note of this number, would you? WHI 0192.’ I scribbled it down on my shorthand pad. ‘Telephone nine o’clock tomorrow morning and ask to speak to Miss Davies.’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ I said, as if acknowledging an order. Then I asked, ‘Who’s she?’

  Cudlipp ignored my question. Instead, he leaned towards me and whispered, ‘This is very hush-hush, Harry. You are not to tell a soul about it - not even Nell. If you do, I’ll have your balls for marbles.’

  I was astonished he knew my name, let alone my wife’s. I hesitated and then responded quietly, but with as much sincerity as I could muster, ‘Understood.’

  ‘You’ll still work most of your time at the paper. But you’ll need a cover story, for when you go to Number 10.’

  I felt like Bond being briefed by “M”.

  ‘You are visiting clubs and grounds around the country and writing a special guide to the World Cup.’ Cudlipp did a teacher’s finger-point. ‘So you had better produce one! You’ve been told you can’t say more in case the competition get to hear about it. Do you understand?’

  At that moment, the semi-frosted glass door to the room swung open and I could see Norman Smith. Norman was one of “the competition”, a smudger at the Evening Standard. He too was a son of a docker, and we had grown up together in Birkenhead.

  ‘He’s in here, Mr Mullaly,’ said Norman.

  I had completely forgotten that Da would be waiting for me outside. Norman ushered him in.

  ‘Look what I got.’ Da proudly displayed a new, blue flight bag with World Cup Willie striding across it. ‘It were only 17/6.’

  Norman caught sight of Cudlipp. ‘Oh, we didn’t mean to interrupt…’

  Cudlipp reassured him. ‘You’re not. I need to rejoin my guests now, anyway.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘We’re clear, aren’t we Harry?’

  I was shell-shocked and, consequently, as clear as smog. But I said, ‘Yes, thank you Mr Cudlipp,’ nonetheless.

  As soon as Cudlipp had disappeared from sight, Norman said, ‘What did yer boss want?’ He sounded both intrigued and concerned.

  ‘Have yer got given yer cards Harry?’ Da drew on a Woodbine and gave a chuckle that became a cough.

  I wanted to respond to the effect that, far from being sacked, I had been offered a job with the Prime Minister. But, in view of Cudlipp’s edict, I couldn’t. Anyway, Da didn’t think much of Harold Wilson. ‘He’s no more Red than I’m a Blue’, he’d say (“The Blues” being Liverpool’s arch rivals, Everton).

  ‘I can’t tell you, Norm.’ I winked at him. ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Who are you? James fuckin’ Bond?’ Da snorted, coughed and then added, in a stage whisper, ‘Who’s it a secret from? The Reds under the bed?’

  Norman grinned.

  ‘It’s worse than that, Da: the Evening Standard.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thursday, 24th February 1966

  It took some hours for the adrenaline generated by my encounter with Cudlipp to subside and allow me to sleep. When the alarm on our teasmade - a wedding present from Ma and Da - buzzed at seven thirty the following morning, it felt like it had woken me in the middle of the night.

  Nell was already up. I could hear her coaxing Alison out of bed and into her primary school uniform. By the sound of things, Ma was downstairs in the kitchen preparing breakfast. It was just as well she was: it was only the irresistible aroma of frying bacon, in addition to a second cup of tea, that got me upright and starting my morning ablutions.

  We lived in a three-storey town house, which - with the cons
iderable aid of the Co-operative Permanent Building Society - I had bought new when we moved down to Finchley in 1964. It sounds grander than it was. With my Ma and Da staying with us, we filled all three bedrooms at the top. The ground floor comprised nothing more than a toilet, a small writing room for me and a long thin garage, just wide enough for our modest Triumph Herald. Above that, on the first floor, was a modern, open plan lounge/diner and - connected by a serving hatch - a galley style kitchen, not quite large enough to accommodate a mother and daughter-in-law without friction.

  When I got downstairs, I could hear them battling for control.

  ‘If you go round the other side of the hatch, Mary, I can pass it through to you.’ Although she was little over five feet tall, with a gamine, waif-like figure, Nell could be scary when provoked, and had the steel of a survivor. But she was no match for my mother.

  Ma was of Irish extraction - like Da - and Donald McGill proportions. Whilst she was the most loving mother you could wish for, she knew exactly what was what and was not to be messed with.

  ‘It’s all right, luv. I can still take me lad his breakfast.’ Ma waddled into view, carrying a full plate, a newspaper under her arm and a fresh cup of tea. ‘Here you are. Come and sit down, luv. I did yer the works - a fried slice and all. I told her, it ain’t a full English without it.’

  This was a real treat. In recent mornings, I had rarely got anything but Corn Flakes and toast. And on the odd occasion Nell had done a cooked breakfast, it hadn’t been more than bacon and egg.