The Goalkeeper’s History of Britain. Peter Chapman

This put them on a level with the whirling dervishes I’d heard my nan refer to, those who had beaten Gordon at Khartoum. Once you overcame the shock of them, and confronted them firmly – preferably on your own turf where you could make them behave – they could be quelled.

      There was no doubt they were brought to Wembley for a lesson. Brazil’s ‘sudden spasms’ ran up against the ‘solid oak of England’. Like the resilient plane tree battling the London smog, so we were constructed of other stuff, too, that saw off the threat of flimsier foreigners. Our 4–2 victory was described as a triumph of old over new worlds. Then again, it couldn’t be said they were without their bit of plain, old-fashioned resistance at the back. England would have won much more comfortably but for Gilmar saving two penalties.

      In our goal the selectors had felt compelled again to experiment with a younger type. Wood had recently had another game, and Ron Baynham of Luton Town was brought in for three. All were victories but neither keeper was given the job permanently. Next the selectors awarded it to Coventry’s Reg Matthews, and it was he who played against the Brazilians. He was blamed for one of Brazil’s goals, though given another chance. With it, he proceeded to play brilliantly in Berlin a fortnight later.

      My family went to Italy again. I didn’t want to go and the Channel was as rough as the first time. After twenty-four hours on the international train, we stayed two days in a hotel near Milan station. We visited the Italian friend who had been a prisoner in Sandy in the war and my aunt Olive’s boyfriend. He was now married to a woman who was pale, quite square and solid-looking and came from Trieste, like he did. His family did not approve because hers was from across the border in Yugoslavia. They’d have preferred him to have married my aunt. We ate red peppers, cooked in the oven. They were like nothing on earth, smelt and tasted like they were going to be sweet but that someone might have mixed in something bitter with them, maybe gunpowder. I ate them and, in the end, thought it was worth it.

      For the three- or four-hour journey to Siena, the old train from Milan was very hot, with the sun blazing in on to the wooden-slatted seats. Fortunately we didn’t have to change in the pandemonium of Florence. We stayed with the family again behind the cathedral. At the communal meals I mastered spaghetti and was allowed to drink red wine mixed with water. Italian water was unsafe – hable to give you dysentery, we were told – but was miraculously all right if you put wine with it. I was expansively praised for eating and drinking everything. We had breakfast alone – as my parents explained, Italians didn’t really eat it – but Luciano, the boy of the family who was about my age, joined us. My parents had brought tea. When Luciano finished his cup, he scooped up the leaves with his roll and ate them. My sister and I gasped, though he didn’t notice.

      He took part in the marches for the Palio. Horses representing the districts of Siena raced each other round the main square, like Islington might have against Finsbury or Stoke Newington. Members of the family were bornin different areas and were rivals on the day. We had the best seats, wooden tiers put up at the base of the buildings of the square. We sat for three hours as the procession of the Siennese boroughs went around. We didn’t see or hear a British person anywhere. The race was over in a minute, many horses crashing into mattresses on the sharp corners. Jockeys who fell off were immediately suspected by their supporters of having been bribed and, if caught, were kicked and beaten up. The winning horse was from the area of the porcupine, Istrice. The jockey was feted, the horse the guest of honour at a banquet in the victorious part of town. But it didn’t matter if a particular area won the race, just as long as they’d beaten their neighbours. Victors of these tribal battles would walk around their vanquished rivals’ streets shouting and taunting. Everyone did this twice a year.