‘I know,’ Longson tells you. ‘Stuart was acting on my instructions.’
‘He was what? Why? What’s going on?’
‘You just get on with managing the team,’ he tells you and hangs up.
You put down your telephone. Slam it down. Break it –
Peter is sat on your sofa. Peter is crying –
It is Sunday 14 October 1973.
* * *
Under the stands. Through the doors. Round the corners. Down the corridor to the office. I unlock the door and I switch on the lights. The telephone is ringing. I pour a drink and I light a fag and I pick up the phone:
‘You best come up here,’ says Cussins. ‘The verdict’s in.’
I finish my drink. I put out my cigarette. I switch off the lights and I lock the door. Down the corridors and round the corners. Up the stairs and through the doors –
The Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains, the board silent and subdued, grim and stony-faced. The ashtrays filling up –
‘Both Bremner and Keegan have been fined £500 each and suspended from today until September the thirtieth,’ says Manny Cussins.
‘September the thirtieth?’ I repeat. ‘That’s over a bloody month.’
‘The viewing public were shocked and offended by what they saw,’ says Cussins. ‘The FA were let down. Mr Stokes and the Committee felt they had no choice.’
‘What about Giles?’
‘Both John Giles and Tommy Smith were giving a good talking to,’ says Cussins. ‘But no further action was taken against either of them.’
‘How many games will Bremner miss?’ asks Percy Woodward.
‘Eight,’ I tell him. ‘Including the first leg of the European Cup.’
‘Eight?’ repeats Cussins.
‘Not forgetting the three he’s already missed, so that’s eleven in all.’
‘We’ll survive,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s happened before.’
‘A hundred and forty-two days out of the last ten years,’ I tell them.
‘But this is the first trouble Bremner’s had in over four years,’ says Woodward. ‘Mr Revie worked very hard to improve discipline.’
I light a cigarette. I say nothing.
Then Sam Bolton says, ‘You should have been there.’
‘At the FA? Why?’
‘Paisley was there with his players.’
‘So bloody what?’ I tell him. ‘What Bremner did was nothing to do with me and I’ll not be associated with it.’
‘He’s your player,’ says Bolton. ‘Your captain.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any bloody difference whether I was there or not.’
‘Not to fine or suspension,’ says Bolton. ‘But it might have made a bloody difference to player himself and rest of his bloody team.’
‘Bollocks,’ I tell him, tell them all, and I leave the room. Through the doors. Down the stairs. Round the corners. Down the corridors. I unlock the door and I switch on the light. There is a note on the floor under the door to say Bill Nicholson called.
* * *
Peter comes out of his meeting with Jack Kirkland and says, ‘I don’t think there is any place for me here now. It’s Hartlepools all over again, trying to get at you through me.’
‘They think we’re too big for our boots,’ you say and hand Peter the letter –
The letter that arrived this morning. The letter from Longson –
First class. Recorded delivery:
Dear Mr Clough,
Henceforth each and every newspaper article and television appearance must be approved by the board. If you repeat or continue after receipt of this letter any breach of your obligations under your agreement with the club, the board will assuredly take the only course which you will thereby leave open to them. I should add that they will do so with some reluctance but without hesitation.
Yours sincerely, Samuel Longson
‘What are we going to do?’ asks Peter.
‘We’re finishing,’ you tell him. ‘That’s what we’re going to do.’
You pick up the phone. You call Longson –
‘You’ve got what you wanted,’ you tell him. ‘We’re calling a special board meeting tonight and we’re resigning.’
‘There’ll be no board meeting tonight,’ he tells you. ‘I’m not driving all the way into Derby just for you two buggers. Put your resignations in writing and give them to the board tomorrow morning.’
You put down the phone. You look round the office –
At Peter. At the journalists and the mates who’ve gathered here –
‘You’re a bloody journalist so you can type, can’t you?’ you tell the bloke from the Evening Telegraph, and Gerald Mortimer from the Derby Evening Telegraph nods.
‘Good,’ you tell him. ‘Then take this down:
‘Dear Mr Longson,
‘Thank you for your letter, which was delivered to me today. I have studied it carefully and have come to the conclusion that this, coupled with the other events of the past three months, leaves me with no alternative course of action. I wish therefore to inform you and the board of directors that I am tendering my resignation as manager of this club and wish this to come into effect immediately.
‘Yours sincerely, Brian Clough.’
Gerald Mortimer stops typing. The office is silent. The security grille locked –
‘Right, Peter,’ you tell him. ‘You’re next.’
* * *
I drive back down to Derby early. I kiss my wife and I kiss my kids. I lock the door and I take the phone off the hook. I have dinner with my wife and my kids. I wash the dishes and I dry them. I bath my kids and I dry them. I read them stories and I kiss them goodnight. I watch television with my wife and I tell her I’ll be up in a bit. Then I switch off the television and I pour another drink –
I get out my pens and I get out my papers –
The league table and the results. The league table and the fixtures –
But the results never change. Never. The table never changes –
Until it’s almost light outside. Again. Morning here now –
This won’t work. That big black fucking dog again –
‘Clough out!’ he barks. ‘Clough out! Clough out!’
Day Thirty
You’ve spent the whole night doing the rounds; house to house, pub to pub, club to club; gathering your support and rallying your troops, your heart already heavy with regret but your head still light with injustice and rage, injustice and rage, injustice and rage …
First you met with Phillip Whitehead, your friend and local MP –
‘Don’t give the board the chance to overthrow you,’ he told you. ‘Because that’s what they want, what they’re waiting for. Only resign if you genuinely don’t want the job and you’re satisfied that the sacrifice will be worth it …’
Injustice and rage. Injustice and rage …
Then off you flew again, off in your club car to meet Sir Robertson-King, the President of Derby, at his local pub in Borrowash –
‘Are you sure about what you’re doing?’ he asked you.
‘No, I’m not sure,’ you told him. ‘But I can’t carry on working in that atmosphere. Now, if you took the chair …’
‘Let’s see how it goes at the board meeting tomorrow then.’