The Whisky Priest
A most significant and upsetting event has just taken place. It is Sunday night. Annie and I are in our London flat, having returned early from the constituency.
I had a mysterious phone call as I walked in through the door. I didn’t know who it was from. All the man said was that he was an army officer and that he had something to tell me that he wouldn’t divulge on the phone.
We arranged an appointment for late this evening. Annie read the Sunday papers and I read
The man arrived very late for our appointment. I began to think that something had happened to him. By the time he’d arrived my fantasies were working overtime – perhaps because of
‘Remember Churchill,’ I said to Annie. ‘During all his wilderness years he got all his information about our military inadequacy and Hitler’s war machine from army officers. So all the time he was in the wilderness he leaked stories to the papers and embarrassed the government. That’s what I could do.’
I realised, as I spoke, that I’d chosen inappropriate words to express my feelings. I felt a little ridiculous as Annie said, ‘But you’re in the government.’ Surely she could see what I
Anyway, the man finally arrived. He introduced himself as Major Saunders. He was about forty years old, and wore the
He was not a frightfully good conversationalist to start with. Or perhaps he was just rather overawed to meet a statesman such as myself.
I introduced him to Annie and offered him a drink.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Scotch?’
‘Thanks.’
I told him to sit down.
‘Thanks.’
I told him there was no need to keep thanking me.
‘Thanks,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘Sorry.’
Annie told him there was no need to apologise either.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I mean, thanks. I mean . . .’
Clearly my eminence was reducing this chap to a sort of jelly.
Annie offered to go and let us chaps talk in private, but for some reason he seemed anxious for her to stay. Can’t think why. Anyway, he asked if she could stay and of course I agreed.
‘I have no secrets from Annie,’ I explained. ‘I tell her everything.’
‘Several times, normally,’ she added cheerfully.
I do
I decided to establish whether the slightly cloak-and-dagger air about our meeting was, in fact, necessary. ‘Is this matter highly confidential?’ I asked.
‘Well, fairly,’ he replied, rather on edge. Clearly ‘fairly’ was a bit of traditional British understatement.
‘Shall I turn on the radio?’ I offered.
He seemed surprised. ‘Why – is there something good on?’
I don’t know what they teach these army chaps nowadays. I explained that I was suggesting that we play the radio to avoid being bugged. He asked if it was likely that we were being bugged. How does one know the answer to that? But then Annie reminded me that, as I am the Minister in charge of bugging politicians, it wasn’t awfully likely.
But Saunders was quite clear that he didn’t want our conversation to be on the record, even though I made it clear that I would take notes at the meeting if necessary (which indeed it was). He began by saying that what he was about to tell me he was telling me on a personal basis.
I asked him what he meant, precisely. I do like clarity in language.
‘I’m telling you personally,’ he repeated. ‘Not as Minister of Administrative Affairs.’
I could
‘Yes, I know you are,’ he said. ‘But I’m not telling you in that role. I’m telling you as a journalist.’
‘Are you a journalist?’ I was surprised. ‘I thought you were an army officer.’
‘No –
‘I’m a Minister.’
‘But – what were you before you became a Minister?’
‘Your starter for ten, no conferring,’ interrupted Annie facetiously. She’s always watched too much television and has always had a rather silly infatuation with Bamber Gascoigne merely because he’s charming and clever.
