The Complete Yes Minister (50 page)

Therefore, as he knew only too well, Sir Humphrey’s claim that Ministers make policy applies – at most – to two years out of every five. This Select Committee enquiry took place, of course, during the first year that Hacker was in office.

There is one further interesting question raised by this discussion. If the Minister makes policy for two years out of five, who makes policy in the other three years? Obviously, we in the Civil Service used to fill the vacuum. And this created serious problems during the Minister’s two years of ‘serious government’ – which were therefore frequently absorbed in a war between the Minister’s policies and the Ministry’s policies.

The only time that this eighteen-month vacuum did not occur at the start of a government was when a government was re-elected for a second full term with a working majority. In the early 1980s this had not occurred in Britain for a quarter of a century. This is why it was always absurd to categorise the Civil Service as either Conservative or Labour – we always believed in, and hoped for, regular alternation of governments. This gave us the maximum freedom from control by Ministers who, if they stayed too long in office, were likely to begin to think that they knew how to run the country.

Today I read in the papers the reports of Humphrey’s appearance before the Select Committee. He’s been a big help!

And we’ve both been called back to make a joint appearance, to sort out the mess that he made.

I called him in and gave him a bollocking.

He said he’d done his best.

I told him: ‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps. But you’ve solved nothing. The day after tomorrow we’ll be sitting there, side by side, getting the third degree from the Committee. We must have proper answers – or, at the very least, the
same
answers.’

Humphrey said that we must begin by establishing what our position is.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘What are the facts?’

He got very impatient with me. ‘I’m discussing our position, Minister – the facts are neither here nor there.’

Fair enough. So I asked him to outline our position.

He suggested that we choose one of the Civil Service’s five standard excuses, to deal with each of their allegations. A different one for each if possible.

I had never before heard of the five standard excuses. Humphrey must be quite anxious about the situation if he’s prepared to reveal his techniques to me so openly.

I made notes. I have called each excuse by the name of a famous example of its use.

There is a perfectly satisfactory explanation for everything, but security prevents its disclosure

It’s only gone wrong because of heavy cuts in staff and budget which have stretched supervisory resources beyond the limit

It was a worthwhile experiment now abandoned, but not before it provided much valuable data and considerable employment

It occurred before important facts were known, and cannot happen again

(The important facts in question were that Hitler wanted to conquer Europe. This
was
actually known; but not to the Foreign Office, of course)

It was an unfortunate lapse by an individual which has now been dealt with under internal disciplinary procedures

According to Sir Humphrey, these excuses have covered everything so far. Even wars. Small wars, anyway.

I finished making notes, and contemplated the list. It seemed okay, if we could carry it off. But I knew I couldn’t manage it without Humphrey.

I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘so it’s real teamwork from now on, eh, Humphrey?’

‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ he replied, with a distinctly optimistic air.

I was about to start going through the list to see which excuse we could apply to which allegation, when Bernard reminded me that I had to be at the House in ten minutes for a committee meeting. ‘And,’ he added nervously, ‘Number Ten’s been on the phone. Sir Mark Spencer [
the Prime Minister’s special political adviser – Ed
.] wonders if you could pop in for a drink sometime tomorrow. I suggested 5.30.’

I pointed out to Sir Humphrey that this was
not
a good sign. Clearly the PM wants me to account for our feeble explanations to the Select Committee.

‘Perhaps it
is
just for a drink,’ said Sir Humphrey, with more optimism than sense.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You don’t get invited to drinks at Number Ten because you’re thirsty.’ I agreed to meet Humphrey tomorrow, and cook up a story.

‘Agree our position, Minister,’ he corrected me.

‘That’s what I said,’ I replied, ‘cook up a story.’

I am very confused this evening.

At 5.30 I went to see Sir Mark Spencer at Number Ten.

Going to Number Ten is a very weird experience. From the outside it just looks like an ordinary terraced Georgian house – big, but not
that
big. But when you step inside the front door and walk along a big wide hall that seems a hundred yards long, you realise that you’re actually in a palace.

It’s so English, so extremely discreet on the outside. The secret of the house is that it’s three or four houses knocked together, and built onto at the back as well. As a result it’s pretty hard to find your own way round Number Ten. You go up and down funny little stairs, crossing from one house to another, and in no time you don’t even know which floor you’re on.

This, according to the drivers’ grapevine, is put to creative use by the civil servants, who know the plan of the building inside out and who therefore situate their own offices in the key rooms from which they can monitor and control all comings and goings within the building. Also these are usually the nicest rooms. In fact, there is a persistent rumour that the battle for rooms goes on through every administration, with political staff fighting for the rooms nearest to the PM’s office – and fighting also to get the civil servants further away. But it seems that as soon as the government changes, the civil servants move swiftly and smoothly to reoccupy all the lost ground before the new Prime Minister’s staff arrive.

I was escorted up to Sir Mark Spencer’s office. It was a small, poky, sparse little room, under-furnished, exactly the sort of office in which the permanent civil servants would put a temporary part-time adviser.

[
Sir Mark Spencer was the Managing Director of a well-known and popular multiple chain-store, a byword for efficiency and productivity, who had been brought into Number Ten by the PM to advise personally on economies and increased administrative productivity. So far, it seems, he was still struggling with the problem of getting a decent office. Presumably, if it were not for the PM’s personal interest in his work, he would have been found an office in Walthamstow – Ed
.]

I’d only met Sir Mark once before. He is a big fellow, highly intelligent and with a kindly soft-spoken manner. He welcomed me warmly.

‘Ah, come in, Jim. Scotch?’

I thanked him.

‘How are things going?’ he enquired gently, as he brought me my drink.

I told him things were fine. Absolutely fine. I told him that it was a bit of a shock, having Rhodes’s book thrown at us out of the blue, but that now the whole situation was under control. ‘Humphrey and I will be getting together this evening. We’ll be able to explain everything. Nothing for the PM to worry about.’

I hoped that I was being sufficiently reassuring to Sir Mark. As I heard myself speak, however, I rather sounded as though I were reassuring myself.

I paused. But Sir Mark said nothing. He just sat still, looking at me.

I found myself continuing, and making more excuses. ‘What beats me is how Malcolm Rhodes got all that information. Most of it happened outside his division. And I wouldn’t mind knowing who got those advance proofs to Betty Oldham. The PM must be livid. But it’s certainly no fault of mine.’

I paused again. In fact, I had really nothing left to say on the subject. Sir Mark obviously sensed this, because he finally spoke.

‘What makes you think the PM is livid?’ he asked, in a slightly puzzled tone.

I hadn’t expected this question. I thought it was obvious. Why else was I there at Number Ten? I stared at him.

‘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.
I
certainly am.’

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
I’ve
not gone native?

‘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
really
trying to cut expenditure, how would he react to a book exposing massive government waste?’

‘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
too well
.’

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
could
I be doing that?

‘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, ‘
you
?’

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
think
.

Today we met the Select Committee and I really put the cat among the pigeons.

They started with the plastic-coated copper wire in the heated sheds. Humphrey gave the answer that he and I had agreed he would give when we met earlier today. He said that the error actually occurred before some important facts were known and that he was able to answer the Committee that no such oversight could possibly occur again.

He asked me to agree.

My answer surprised him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sir Humphrey’s reply is absolutely correct. The correct
official
reply.’ He glanced at me quickly. ‘But I’ve been thinking very deeply since our last meeting’ (which was true!) ‘and really there is no doubt that this Committee is on to something.’

Humphrey turned and stared at me in astonishment.