The Complete Yes Minister

‘Let me make one thing quite clear,’ I said, ‘Sir Humphrey is not God. Okay?’

Bernard nodded. ‘Will you tell him, or shall I?’ he replied.

Very droll. But again I asked him how Humphrey knew where to find me.

I am fortunate that my dictaphone had been left running. I noticed it some minutes later. As a result I am able to record his reply for posterity in this diary.

‘Confidentially, Minister, everything you tell me is in complete confidence. So, equally, and I’m sure you appreciate this, and by appreciate I don’t actually mean appreciate, I mean understand, that everything that Sir Humphrey tells me is in complete confidence. As indeed everything I tell you is in complete confidence. And for that matter, everything I tell Sir Humphrey is in complete confidence.’

‘So?’ I said.

‘So, in complete confidence, I am confident you will understand that for me to keep Sir Humphrey’s confidence and your confidence means that my conversations must be completely confidential. As confidential as conversations between you and me are confidential, and I’ll just get Alex Andrews as he’s been waiting to see you, Minister.’

There it is. Word for word. What was I supposed to make of that? Nothing, of course.

My meeting with Alex Andrews of The Mail was today. I’d been very keen to fit him in at the earliest opportunity. I’d been hoping for a Profile, or something of that sort, but no such luck. Still, I’ve done him a good turn today, it’s no skin off my nose, and perhaps he’ll do the same for me one day.

He asked for my help in a fascinating story that he had just come across. ‘Did you know that your government is about to give away forty million pounds’ worth of buildings, harbour installations, a landing-strip, to a private developer? For nothing?’

I thought he was having me on. ‘Forty million pounds?’

‘Scout’s Honour.’

‘Why ask me?’ I said. Suddenly I had a dreadful moment of panic. ‘I didn’t do it, did I?’

[You may think that Hacker should have known if he had done it. But a great many things are done in a Minister’s name, of which he may have little or no awareness – Ed.]

Alex smiled, and told me to relax. Thank God!

Then he told me the story. It goes back a long way. Almost thirty years ago the Ministry of Defence took a lease on a Scottish island. They put up barracks, married quarters, an HQ block, and the harbour and airstrip. Now the lease has expired and they all become the property of the original landowner. And he is turning it into an instant holiday camp. Chalets, yachting marina, staff quarters – it’s all there. He is going to make a fortune.

I listened, open-mouthed. ‘But he can’t do that!’ I began. ‘The law says that . . .’

Andrews interrupted me. ‘You’re talking about English law. This contract was under Scottish law and some idiot didn’t realise the difference.’

I was relieved that at least I am in the clear. Even The Mail can’t blame me for a cock-up in the early fifties. Though I’m sure they would if they could. And I couldn’t at first see what he wanted from me. He already had the story. Thirty years late, as quick with the news as ever – still, not bad for Fleet Street!

They are running the story tomorrow. But apparently they don’t want to leave it at that. The Editor wants Alex to follow up with an investigative feature. He wants him to go through the files, and find out exactly how it happened.

I couldn’t see the point, not now.

‘Well,’ he explained, ‘there may be lessons for today. And we might find who was responsible.’

I asked why it would matter? It would, in any case, have been handled by quite a junior official.

He nodded. ‘Okay, but that was thirty years ago. He could be in a very senior position now, even a Permanent Secretary, running a great department, responsible for spending billions of pounds of public money.’

A very unlikely eventuality, in my opinion. These hacks will do anything to try and find a story where there isn’t one.

He agreed it was pretty unlikely. But he asked to see the papers.

Naturally I had to be a bit cautious about that. I can’t just hand files over, as he well knows. But I advised him that, as it was a thirty-year lease that was in question, he would be able to get the papers from the Public Record Office under the Thirty-Year Rule.

He was unimpressed. ‘I thought you’d say that. I’ve asked for them already. But I want a guarantee that I will get them. All of them.’

I hate being asked to guarantee anything. I don’t really think it’s fair. And anyway, was I in a position to? ‘Well,’ I said, carefully feeling my way, ‘Defence papers are sometimes . . .’

He interrupted me. ‘Don’t come that one. It’s not top security. Look, you made a manifesto commitment about telling voters the facts. This is a test case. Will you guarantee that no papers are removed before the files are opened?’

I could see no reason not to give him that guarantee. ‘Fine,’ I said, throwing caution to the winds. ‘No problem.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Journalists are suspicious bastards.

‘Sure,’ I said with a big reassuring smile.

‘A real promise? Not a manifesto promise?’

Some of these young Fleet Street fellows can be really rather insulting.