‘Let’s try and look at this situation logically, shall we?’ suggested Sir Mark.
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
Then he asked me a series of questions. At first I simply couldn’t see what he was driving at.
‘What has the PM been trying to achieve, in public expenditure?’
‘Cuts, obviously.’
Sir Mark nodded. ‘And why has there been so little success?’
Again the answer was obvious. ‘Because of Civil Service obstruction.’
‘And are all the Cabinet committed to this policy of cutting public expenditure?’
I wasn’t sure if this was an attack on me. ‘I think so, yes.
He stared at me. He seemed unconvinced. Then he said: ‘If that is so, why have virtually no Ministers achieved any real cuts?’
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.’
‘Wrong. It’s because the Ministers have gone native.’
‘Oh I don’t think . . .’ I paused again. I had been about to disagree. But what had I just said to Sir Mark? Rome wasn’t built in a day. The standard Civil Service answer when pressed for results. But surely
‘The Civil Service has house-trained the lot of you,’ he said with a little sad smile.
‘Well, some of us, perhaps. But I certainly haven’t been . . .’
He interrupted me. ‘Look, if a Minister were
‘Well, he’d, he’d er . . . oh!’ I realised I had no immediate answer. ‘It would depend on . . . er . . .’ I was stuck. So I asked him precisely what he was trying to say.
He didn’t answer. That is to say, he answered obliquely. ‘Do you know what the Civil Service is saying about you?’
I shook my head nervously.
‘That you’re a pleasure to work with.’ A rush of mixed emotions overwhelmed me. First relief. Then pleasure and pride. Then, suddenly, a dreadful realisation of the awfulness of what he had just revealed!
‘That’s what Barbara Woodhouse says about her prize-winning spaniels,’ he added.
I just sat there, struggling to grasp all the implications. My head was in a whirl.
Sir Mark continued destroying me, in that kindly voice of his. ‘I’ve even heard Sir Humphrey Appleby say of you that you’re worth your weight in gold. What does that suggest to you?’
It was only too clear what it suggested. I felt deeply miserable. ‘You mean . . . I’ve failed utterly,’ I said.
Sir Mark stood up, picked up my empty glass, and observed that I looked as if I needed another Scotch.
He returned it to me, I sipped it. Then he waited for me to speak again.
‘And now,’ I mumbled, ‘I suppose the PM is not pleased with my performance at the Select Committee because I failed to cover up the failure?’
He sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. He was becoming impatient. ‘On the contrary, the PM is not pleased because you’re covering up
This baffled me even more.
He explained. ‘You’re protecting the Civil Service. You’re protecting Humphrey Appleby. The PM and I are doing our level best to expose why cuts in public expenditure are not taking place – and you’re helping the Civil Service to defy the Government.’
‘Am I?’ My brain was reeling. How
‘You were wondering where Betty Oldham got the advance proofs of that book. And where Malcolm Rhodes got the inside information.’ He smiled at me. And waited. I just stared at him, blankly. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked eventually, with pity in his voice.
Suddenly the light dawned. ‘You mean . . . the PM?’ I whispered.
Sir Mark looked shocked. ‘Of course not . . . not directly.’
‘You mean,’ I whispered again, ‘
He sipped his drink and smiled.
So that was it. Whether wittingly or unwittingly, Malcom Rhodes and Betty Oldham had been put up to this by the PM’s special adviser. And therefore, in effect, by the PM.
Therefore . . . therefore what? What do I do at the Select Committee? What does Number Ten want?
‘There’s only one course open to you,’ Sir Mark added enigmatically. ‘Absolute loyalty.’
‘Ah,’ I said, and then realised that my worries were not fully answered. ‘But, er, who to?’
‘That’s your decision,’ he said.
I think I know what is expected of me. I
