At this juncture Humphrey fished about at the bottom of his copious and now nearly empty Gladstone bag, and produced a box of photographs and press cuttings.
‘Hmmm,’ he said, and smiled and dropped his final bombshell. ‘Reports suggest your production and engineering staff are all holding champagne glasses, all accompanied by their wives – or other ladies of equal distinction – and all bearing a remarkable similarity to governors, directors and executives of the corporation and their friends. I’m wondering whether it is my duty to pass the evidence to the Department of Inland Revenue. What’s your view?’
And, with that, he handed over the box of photographs.
In silence, an ashen Francis Aubrey looked through them.
As he stopped at a splendid ten by eight portrait Humphrey leaned across, glanced at it, and observed, ‘You’ve come out awfully well, haven’t you?’
We fell into silence for some while. F. A. put down the photographs, tried to eat a little more of his Sole Meuniere, but clearly it was turning to dust in his mouth. He gave up. I just watched with interest. Humphrey’s performance was brilliant, and I had no wish to interrupt it or get in the way.
Humphrey was quietly enjoying his glass of Chateau Leoville-Barton 1973, a bottle of which he had carefully chosen to go with his roast beef. It tasted okay, though one glass of red is much like another as far as I’m concerned.
Finally Humphrey broke the silence. ‘Mind you, I think we may just be able to contain all this criticism of the corporation, provided the files don’t get any larger. That’s why I am urging my Minister that there is no need to take up the case of the Civil Defence programme formally.’
Francis was looking desperate. He turned the photo of himself face downwards on the pile. ‘Look, you do see my position. The BBC cannot give in to government pressure.’
‘Of course not,’ said Humphrey. This surprised me. I thought that that was precisely what we were trying to achieve. But I had reckoned without the hypocrisy of the Establishment. Or, to put it more kindly, Humphrey was devising some face-saving apparatus for Mr Aubrey.
And that’s how it turned out to be. He looked at me.
‘We wouldn’t want the BBC to give in to government pressure. Would we Minister?’
‘No?’ I asked, slightly cautiously, recognising a clear cue.
‘No, of course we wouldn’t,’ he went on. ‘But the Minister’s interview with Ludovic Kennedy did contain some factual errors.’
Francis Aubrey seized on that. He brightened up considerably. ‘Factual errors? Ah, that’s different. I mean the BBC couldn’t give in to government pressure . . .”
‘Of course not,’ we agreed.
‘. . . but we set great store by factual accuracy.’
‘Indeed,’ said Humphrey, nodding sympathetically. ‘And then, some of the information in the interview is likely to be out of date by the time of transmission.’
‘Out of date?’ he responded eagerly. ‘Ah that’s serious. As you know, the BBC couldn’t give in to government pressure . . .’
‘Of course not,’ we agreed in unison.
‘. . . but we don’t want to transmit out-of-date material.’
I saw that I could help Humphrey now.
‘And since the recording,’ I interjected, ‘I’ve discovered that I inadvertently let slip one or two remarks that might have security implications.’
‘Such as?’ he asked.
I hadn’t expected that question. I thought he’d be too well-bred to ask.
Humphrey came to the rescue. ‘He can’t tell you what they are. Security.’
Francis Aubrey didn’t seem to mind a bit. ‘Ah well, we can’t be too careful about security, I do agree. If the defence of the realm is at stake, we have to be very responsible. I mean, obviously the BBC can’t give in to government pressure . . .’
‘Of course not,’ we chorused enthusiastically one more time.
‘. . . but security, well, you can’t be too careful, can you?’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ I echoed.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ murmured Humphrey.
‘And in the end, it wasn’t a very interesting interview anyway. All been said before. Bit of a yawn, actually.’
F. A. – or Sweet F.A. as I like to think of him now – had brightened up considerably by this time. Colour had returned to his cheeks. His eyes were no longer lustreless and dead. He was now able to expound on the matter of BBC policy and practice with renewed confidence.
‘I mean,’ he explained, ‘if it’s boring, and if there are inaccuracies and security worries, the BBC wouldn’t
‘Completely different,’ I said happily.
‘Transmission,’ he went on, ‘would not be in the public interest. But I do want to make one thing absolutely clear.’
