Fixing Sixty Six Page 6

  ‘So is he a civil servant?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s the PM’s private office that’s staffed by the civil service. His political office are Labour Party members, like his Private Secretary, Mrs Williams.’ I nodded knowingly, although I didn’t really understand the distinction.

  When I asked what my job would be, Miss Davies looked at her watch, rose to her feet and announced, with a mysterious smile, ‘You’re about to find out.’

  Miss Davies escorted me up another floor and knocked on a heavy, panelled door. After a long pause, and an impatient “Yes” from inside, she respectfully checked with the occupant that I could enter, before ushering me in and leaving, closing the door almost silently behind her.

  I immediately recognised the man I assumed to be Forsyth, as Cudlipp’s diminutive guest at Wednesday’s match. He was sitting at a green leather topped, mahogany desk, on a matching swivel desk chair, reviewing a typed letter in a signing book. He didn’t so much as look up.

  I surveyed the scene. The room was similar to the previous one, except there was no eccentric fireplace and the walls were hung with huge mirrors and Old Masters. Forsyth’s desk was immaculately tidy, with a silver calendar, writing set, desk blotter, cigarette box and table lighter, highly polished and precisely placed. Forsyth himself was equally well turned out. His brilliantined hair was neatly parted and his moustache newly manicured. He wore a charcoal flannel suit, a white double-cuffed shirt fastened with silver monogrammed cufflinks, and a crested navy-blue tie. A perfectly pointed white linen handkerchief protruded from his top pocket.

  I tried to find a natural, if not comfortable, standing position - and failed. Eventually, compelled to break the silence, I stepped forward with my hand out-stretched. ‘Harry Miller. You must be Ludovic Forsyth.’

  Without looking up Forsyth responded, ‘Sit down, Mr. Miller.’

  There was one low, green leather tub chair at exactly ninety degrees to the desk. I sat in it, trying - but almost certainly failing - to appear relaxed. Forsyth continued to read, on one occasion tutting loudly. I noticed that Forsyth’s chair and desk were on a six-inch platform. This combined with me being in a low chair, possibly in need of re-springing, made me feel at a distinct disadvantage.

  When he had finished signing his letters, he pressed a button next to his telephone. Miss Davies promptly appeared, and he gave her the signing book, with the instruction to retype the letter to Arnold Goodman, as there was a semi-colon where there should have been a comma. Then, at last, he turned his attention to me.

  ‘Do you know why we have summoned you here, Miller?’ he said, in the voice of a BBC Home Service announcer.

  His question wrong-footed me: I had been expecting him to tell me. I heard myself relate - not in my usual soft, slight Liverpool accent, but a posh, southern one and in a higher than normal register - how I was approached by Hugh Cudlipp after the West Germany game. ‘He just said that I would be involved in England’s World Cup campaign.’ I sounded like Marjorie Anderson. ‘He didn’t really say what —’ Mercifully, Forsyth cut me short.

  ‘Let me help you, Miller,’ he said with some condescension. ‘You’re a rising star in the world of football journalism, with a thorough knowledge of the English game and insight into how it could be improved, who writes astute and perceptive copy for a newspaper sympathetic to the Government.’ He emphasised the last consonant of a word, as if ensuring he finished it properly and precisely. ‘In addition, you have caught the eye of the Prime Minister.’

  I tried to turn Forsyth’s speech into a conversation. ‘Oh, did he tell you we met at the Liverpool Press Club? And went to the same school: Wirral Grammar School for Boys?’

  He ignored the bait. ‘He believes you are the best man to help us with our World Cup campaign.’

  Forsyth’s use of “our” puzzled me. ‘Do you mean England’s?’

  ‘I meant what I said.’

  ‘I see.’ I didn’t. ‘What’s your World Cup campaign all about?’

  ‘All in good time.’ He unlocked a drawer in his desk, removed a buff cardboard folder and opened it. ‘First you must sign this.’ He handed me a crisp document bearing the Royal Arms. ‘You have had Secret Service clearance. So it remains for you to undertake to abide by the terms of the Official Secrets Act.’

  Although I couldn’t begin to comprehend how a World Cup campaign could be that secret, I took out the blue biro I always kept with a shorthand pad in my pocket and looked for the signature block.

  ‘You can’t use that thing.’ He took a pen from his silver writing set, dipped it in ink and handed it to me.

  I got as far as the down stroke for the ‘H’ - noticing that the ink was dark purple - when Forsyth added, ‘In case you are unaware, anyone communicating information in contravention of the Act is liable to imprisonment - with or without hard labour.’ He looked down at me like a black-capped judge.

  At this point I realised I was about to expose myself to the risk of incarceration and worse, without knowing what job I was being employed for that necessitated it. ‘Sorry, Mr Forsyth: I’m not clear exactly what it is you want me to do?’ This was a gross understatement. I hadn’t the faintest idea.

  ‘You will be when I tell you.’

  He seemed to be assuming that I would do whatever I was told. I wasn’t entirely happy with this. ‘Could you perhaps give me a clue now - before I sign?’

  Forsyth looked at me as my Latin master used to do, when I couldn’t conjugate a verb. He would say, “You’re a horrible little man. What are you?” I was obliged to reply, “A horrible little man, Sir”. Forsyth was content with the look.

  I persisted. ‘You see, I can’t be sure whether I’ll be right for the job - or whether the job will be right for me.’

  ‘Let me help you. Cudlipp was kind enough to share with me the schedule showing how your Editor has allocated the World Cup matches between his reporters. I seem to recall that you will be covering the Group Four games, in Middlesbrough and Sunderland. Your first game, I believe, will be a communist derby - is that what you call it?’

  I gave a tentative nod. ‘Between the Soviet Union and North Korea.’

  ‘Precisely. If you are seconded to us for the duration of the tournament, your first game will be England v Uruguay at Wembley, in front of the Queen, and you’ll be at every England game up to and including the Final.’

  I chipped in nervously, ‘Assuming they get that far’, and almost immediately regretted it.

  Forsyth rehearsed his horrible little man look. ‘Yes, I am.’ He paused and then smiled smugly. ‘It’s entirely your choice.’

  It wasn’t, of course: it was Hobson’s.

  As I scratched my name in purple at the foot of the document, I felt like I was doing it in blood.

  ‘In case you think that is a mere formality, I will tell you now that the operation in which you will be involved - codenamed “Jules Britannia” - is Top Secret.’

  ‘But why is anything to do with the World Cup, top secret - if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Clearly Forsyth did; but, to my relief, he deigned to answer. ‘We’ve already had the African and Asian teams boycotting the tournament and North Korea’s participation, which resulted from it, is still causing considerable diplomatic tension. Particularly against this background, there can’t be any suggestion of political interference in the tournament. Consequently, only those at No 10 who have to be, are even aware that Operation Jules Britannia exists.’ He glared at me. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Completely.’ I nodded vigorously for emphasis.

  ‘Let me be clear: Top Secret means you must not mention a word about it to anyone other than me and my Personal Assistant, Miss Davies - not your wife or even the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Doesn’t Harold… Mr Wilson know about it?’

  ‘You are to refer to him here as “the P.M.”.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘He knows the nature of the operation, naturally. But he’s
got enough on his plate with Callaghan, Brown and the economy, without worrying about the detail.’

  I quickly responded, ‘Yes, of course’, although I had no idea to what he was alluding.

  ‘What’s more, as far as the outside world is concerned, I don’t exist.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘The vast majority of the press, and therefore the public, don’t approve of Harold… the P.M. having unelected, personal advisers in what they call his “kitchen cabinet”. Currently, Marcia Williams is the sole target of their ire in that regard and that’s the way I’d like to keep it. Is that clear?’

  I nodded.

  This didn’t satisfy Forsyth. ‘Is that clear, Miller?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’

  I was now very aware that the little I had learnt at No 10 was top secret. But I still didn’t know what is was Forsyth wanted me to do. And he kept me in suspense a while longer.

  ‘Whilst not Top Secret as such, what I’m about to tell you is, for the time being, strictly confidential.’

  ‘I understand.’ I began to worry that I wouldn’t remember all the things I couldn’t tell anyone.

  ‘We will be calling a General Election for Thursday, 31st March.’

  ‘So soon?’ I knew that the Government had a very slender majority, but was surprised, nonetheless, that they were going to the country only eighteen months after being elected.

  Forsyth gave me the look and continued. ‘No-one outside Number 10 will know until the PM announces it in the House of Commons on Monday evening. So, until then, what I’ve told you is not to be repeated.’

  ‘Of course.’ I had noticed that, every now and then, Forsyth pronounced the odd word or syllable with a very slight accent. I had been unable to place it. But when he said “repeated”, I put the slightly tapped “r” together with the pasty complexion and the name Ludovic Forsyth and made “Scottish”. I wondered why Number 10 wouldn’t have Ken Jones involved in their World Cup campaign on behalf of England, on the grounds he was Welsh, whereas they appeared to have no problem with it being led by a Scot.

  I watched as Forsyth took a Dunhill International from the monogrammed silver cigarette box in pride of place on his desk and smoothly and efficiently light it with the gleaming, Queen Anne table lighter.

  ‘Are you thrilled at the prospect of a General Election, Miller?’

  I realised, with a start, that I had momentarily tuned out. I sat to attention. My first thought was that TV scheduling would be ruined again by party political broadcasts. I then wondered what answer Forsyth wanted.

  ‘I thought so. It doesn’t excite you in the least, does it Miller?’

  ‘No, Mr Forsyth.’

  ‘That’s because, in recent years, we’ve had the Profumo debacle, the Prime Minister resigning, several high-profile by-elections, deadly dull Douglas-Hume come and go, a Labour Party leadership election, and - less than eighteen months ago - a General Election. As a result, you’re fed up with politics and had enough of politicians. Correct?’

  I mumbled in the affirmative and nodded.

  ‘You’re not interested in hearing what the Labour Party has achieved since it entered Government, are you? What you want to know is which soccer match will be on Saturday night television. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’ There was no disputing that Match of the Day was essential viewing, and I avoided Panorama like the plague.

  ‘The ordinary man in the street is the same. As a consequence, he will be taking an ignorant, uninformed, uneducated approach to the election. He won’t ascertain the facts, apply an ideology and form a reasoned decision about who should govern. Where he puts his cross on polling day will be determined instinctively and irrationally, and be the product of subconscious, emotional processes over which he has no control whatever.’ Forsyth stood up, sauntered around to the front of his desk and, staring down at me from on high, said, ‘Do you understand, Miller?’

  By implication, he was associating me with the village idiots. So I was keen to assure him that I had fully grasped his disturbing description of British democracy at work. ‘Completely, Mr Forsyth. You have made the situation very clear.’

  ‘So, you see Miller, we won’t secure the vote of the man on the Clapham omnibus through rational, evidence-based rhetoric. We must adopt different, deeper, less direct techniques of persuasion - ones that appeal to his gut, not his head. We have to tap into his underlying voter motivations. And that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me? I don’t know anything about err… voter motivations.’ In truth, I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Very few people do - fortunately. But, apparently, you do know about soccer and can write a good story.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘That’s all that matters.’

  I was relieved but puzzled. How could my “soccer” reporting skills help in a General Election?

  I wanted to light my pipe. The prodding and fiddling, as well as the smoking, would have helped to calm my increasing nerves. But with Forsyth looking down at me like a seasoned team manager to an errant apprentice, lighting up was inconceivable.

  ‘Once the typical working man has got a pound in his pocket, so to speak, do you know what is most likely to motivate him to support the Government, Miller?’

  I guessed “Making Diana Rigg the Minister of Sport” was not the answer he was looking for. So I plumped for, ‘Taking threepence off cigarettes?’

  ‘That would be a rational motive. But we’ve already established that the typical working man is irrational: he’s at the mercy of his emotions. At least he is when it comes to voting - or consuming, for that matter.’

  I wondered if Diana Rigg was the right answer after all.

  ‘Don’t know? I’ll tell you. According to the latest research, it is his soccer team winning the previous Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ was all I could think of to say.

  ‘Do you want to know why? Because, once essential needs are met, the game we invented is one of the strongest determinants of national mood.’

  I wasn’t wholly surprised. Britain was a nation of football fans.

  ‘If, on 31st March, each working man was to cast his vote in the warm glow of a soccer triumph, the government would be returned in a landslide.’

  There appeared to be a flaw in Forsyth’s logic. Half of the electorate weren’t men - working or otherwise. ‘What about the girls?’ I said light-heartedly, so as not to sound as if I was challenging him. ‘In my experience, a lot of them don’t like football.’

  ‘We don’t have to motivate them, Miller,’ Forsyth replied, po-faced. ‘Generally speaking, they spend most, if not all, of their time at home, doing housework, caring for children. Consequently, they are in no position to form their own view on matters in the public sphere. When it comes to voting - as with most other decisions not concerning washing powder or nappies - they invariably follow the head of the household’s preference. So, by appealing to his gut, we get her vote too.’

  I thought, Nell would have something to say about that. Besides, on any given Saturday, only half of the nation’s teams could possibly win. So there could be as many disgruntled voters, as delirious ones. ‘Doesn’t it work the other way as well, though?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Won’t the losing teams’ supporters - and their women - be more inclined to vote for the opposition, with the result that the election ends in a draw?’

  Forsyth gave me a supercilious grin. ‘We’re concerned with a General Election, Miller, not a cup final. Your postulate is invalid for many reasons, not least because research shows that the majority of men support the successful teams.’ I felt firmly put in my place. ‘In any event, when it comes to the World Cup, I think we can safely assume that most, if not all, the nation’s men will be supporting the same team, don’t you?’

  At this point, I completely lost the thread. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr Forsyth. You said the election’s on 31st March.’<
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  ‘Indeed I did. And it is.’

  ‘But the World Cup doesn’t even start until July.’

  Forsyth slowly completed the circuit around his desk and extinguished his cigarette in a substantial marble ashtray as he sat back down. ‘Nonetheless, we can ensure that voters enter the polling stations next month full of national pride and joy that their country is about to host the greatest soccer tournament in the world, and one that Mr Ramsey has promised them their team will win.’

  Forsyth was alluding to the England manager’s announcement to the press, not long after he was appointed (and repeated on several occasions), that England would win the World Cup. Knowing the man, most in the football world considered the prediction more patriotic than prescient. It certainly wasn’t going to excite the British electorate, months before the tournament had even started.

  ‘How can we arouse those sorts of feelings?’

  ‘That’s for you to tell me.’

  I must have betrayed what I was thinking.

  ‘You look horrified. Do you consider that impossible?’

  After England’s performance on Wednesday night, and the crowd’s reaction to it, the honest answer was, “Too right”. But I wasn’t about to trade in being at the centre of England’s World Cup campaign, for a second-class summer in the communist North-East. ‘No. Not at all. It’s a challenge, but I’m up for it.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Forsyth, unconvincingly. ‘We have already laid the necessary foundations. This government was the first ever to invest public money in hosting the World Cup. We have spent half a million pounds, improving stadia up and down the country, so that home supporters have facilities they will be proud to share with their foreign counterparts.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’ It certainly was good to hear that the Government was supporting the national game. Nonetheless, to take such a large sum out of the public purse to host a FIFA football tournament was astonishing.

  ‘The FA’s Organising Committee, however, have spent nothing on advertising. We have persuaded the Royal Mail to issue a set of World Cup stamps. However, that hardly constitutes a publicity campaign. The truth is, in terms of delivering our World Cup message to the general public, we are almost totally reliant on newspapers.’