‘The government has no choice,’ I said.
Sir Humphrey tried a new tack. ‘We have not done the paperwork.’ I ignored this rubbish. Paperwork is the religion of the Civil Service. I can just imagine Sir Humphrey Appleby on his deathbed, surrounded by wills and insurance claim forms, looking up and saying, ‘I cannot go yet, God, I haven’t done the paperwork.’
Sir Humphrey pressed on. ‘The Palace insists that Her Majesty be properly briefed. This is not possible without the paperwork.’
I stood up. ‘Her Majesty will cope. She always does.’ Now I had put him in the position of having to criticise Her Majesty.
He handled it well. He stood up too. ‘Out of the question,’ he replied. ‘Who
I must say the last point does slightly worry me. But not as much as throwing away three marginals. I spelt out the contrary arguments to Humphrey. ‘There are reasons of State,’ I said, ‘which make this visit essential. Buranda is potentially enormously rich. It needs oil rigs. We have idle shipyards on the Clyde. Moreover, Buranda is strategically vital to the government’s African policy.’
‘The government hasn’t got an African policy,’ observed Sir Humphrey.
‘It has now,’ I snapped. ‘And if the new President is Marxist-backed, who better to win him over to our side than Her Majesty? Furthermore, the people of Scotland have been promised an important State occasion and we cannot go back on our word.’
‘Not to mention,’ added Sir Humphrey drily, ‘three by-elections in marginal constituencies.’
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ I said, and glowered at him. He said, ‘Of course not, Minister,’ but I’m not quite sure that he believed me.
Then the phone rang. Bernard took the call. It was from Martin at the FCO.
Bernard listened, then told us that the new President of Buranda had announced his intention to visit Britain next week, in line with his predecessor’s arrangements.
I was impressed. The Foreign Office was getting the news at last. I asked Bernard if the cables had come through from Mungoville. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘The Foreign Secretary’s driver heard a news flash on his car radio.’
The upshot is that it would now be up to the PM to cancel the visit on my recommendation or Martin’s. And I have decided it is on. Another policy decision. Quite a lot of them after all. Good.
Today was the first day of the long-awaited official visit. President Mohammed’s arrival was shown on TV. Bernard and I were watching in the office – I must admit I was slightly on tenterhooks in case he did turn out to be a bit uncouth.
A jumbo jet touched down, with BURANDAN AIRWAYS written on the side. I was hugely impressed. British Airways are having to pawn their Concordes, and here is this tiny African state with its own airline, jumbo jets and all.
I asked Bernard how many planes Burandan Airways had. ‘None,’ he said.
I told him not to be silly and use his eyes. ‘No Minister, it belongs to Freddie Laker,’ he said. ‘They chartered it last week and repainted it specially.’ Apparently most of the Have-Nots (I mean, LDCs) do this – at the opening of the UN General Assembly the runways of Kennedy Airport are jam-packed with phoney flag-carriers. ‘In fact,’ added Bernard with a sly grin, ‘there was one 747 that belonged to nine different African airlines in one month. They called it the mumbo-jumbo.’
While we watched nothing much happened on the TV except the mumbo-jumbo taxiing around Prestwick and the Queen looking a bit chilly. Bernard gave me the day’s schedule and explained that I was booked on the night sleeper from King’s Cross to Edinburgh because I had to vote in a three-line whip at the House tonight and would have to miss the last plane. Then the commentator, in that special hushed BBC voice used for any occasion with which Royalty is connected, announced reverentially that we were about to catch our first glimpse of President Selim.
And out of the plane stepped Charlie. My old friend Charlie Umtali. We were at LSE together. Not Selim Mohammed at all, but Charlie.
Bernard asked me if I were sure. Silly question. How could you forget a name like Charlie Umtali?
I sent Bernard for Sir Humphrey, who was delighted to hear that we now know something about our official visitor.
Bernard’s official brief said nothing. Amazing! Amazing how little the FCO has been able to find out. Perhaps they were hoping it would all be on the car radio. All the brief says is that Colonel Selim Mohammed was converted to Islam some years ago, they didn’t know his original name, and therefore knew little of his background.
I was able to tell Humphrey and Bernard
Bernard seemed relieved. ‘Well that’s all right then.’
‘Why?’ I enquired.
‘I think Bernard means,’ said Sir Humphrey helpfully, ‘that he’ll know how to behave if he was at an English University. Even if it was the LSE.’ I never know whether or not Humphrey is insulting me intentionally.
Humphrey was concerned about Charlie’s political colour. ‘When you said he was red-hot, were you speaking politically?’
In a way I was. ‘The thing about Charlie is that you never quite know where you are with him. He’s the sort of chap who follows you into a revolving door and comes out in front.’
‘No deeply held convictions?’ asked Sir Humphrey.
