I told Bernard to bring her in. To my surprise (well, not
quite
to my surprise) Humphrey appeared at the door and asked if he could join us.
She came in, and I introduced her to Humphrey. She’s in her late thirties, quite attractive in a pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards Shirley Williams’ sort of way, and her slightly soft feminine manner disguises a hard-nosed opportunist. And she has the PM’s ear, of course.
There was something rather aggressive about her opening gambit.
‘Look here, Jim, what’s the British Chemical Corporation up to in my constituency?’
‘Well . . .’ I began.
Sir Humphrey interrupted. ‘They will shortly be announcing a very exciting project involving new jobs and new investment.’
She nodded, and turned to me. ‘Yes, but there are some very worrying rumours about this project.’
‘Such as?’ I enquired in my most helpful tone.
She eyed me carefully. ‘Rumours about dangerous chemicals.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, well,’ I began, ‘obviously all chemicals have some element of danger . . .’
Humphrey interrupted again. ‘The Minister means that the rumours are completely unfounded and there is no cause for alarm.’
I nodded. It was a good reply.
She didn’t seem to think so. ‘All the same,’ she persisted, ‘can I have your assurance, Jim, that first of all there’ll be a full public enquiry?’
This seemed, I must say, a perfectly reasonable request. ‘Actually,’ I began, ‘there’d be no harm in having a public enquiry, it might be . . .’
Humphrey interjected. ‘The Minister was about to say that there is absolutely no need for a public enquiry. The whole matter has been fully investigated already and a report will be published shortly.’
Humphrey, it seemed to me, was being a little high-handed. Clearly Joan thought so too.
‘Listen,’ she said forcefully, ‘I came here to talk to Jim.’
And Humphrey, as charming as ever, replied, ‘And indeed you are talking to him.’
‘But he’s not answering! You are!’
I could quite see her point. Humphrey’s helpfulness will sometimes achieve the opposite effect from what it is designed to achieve. Unfortunately, he is insensitive to this.
‘The Minister and I,’ continued Sir Humphrey complacently, ‘are of one mind.’
She was incensed. ‘Whose mind? Your mind?’ She turned on me. ‘Listen, I’ve heard on the grapevine that this factory will be making the chemical that poisoned Seveso and the whole of Northern Italy.’
‘That’s not true,’ I replied, before Humphrey could screw things up further. I explained that the chemical in Seveso was dioxin, whereas this is metadioxin.
‘But,’ she asserted, ‘that must be virtually the same thing.’
I assured her that it was merely a similar name.
‘But,’ she insisted, ‘it’s the same name, with “meta” stuck on the front.’
‘Ah yes,’ I agreed, ‘but that makes all the difference.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What does meta mean?’
Of course, I hadn’t the slightest idea. So I was forced to ask Humphrey.
‘Simple, Minister,’ he explained. ‘It means “with” or “after”, or sometimes “beyond” – it’s from the Greek, you know.’
[
Like all Permanent Secretaries, Sir Humphrey Appleby was a generalist. Most of them studied classics, history, PPE or modern languages. Of course you might expect the Permanent Secretary at the Department of Administrative Affairs to have a degree in business administration, but of course you would be wrong – Ed
.]
Then he went on to explain that metadioxin means ‘with’ or ‘after’ dioxin, depending on whether it’s with the accusative or the genitive: with the accusative it’s ‘beyond’ or ‘after’, with the genitive it’s ‘with’ – as in Latin, where the ablative is used for words needing a sense of with to precede them.
Bernard added – speaking for the first time in the whole meeting – that of course there is no ablative in Greek, as I would doubtless recall.
I told him I recalled no such thing, and later today he wrote me a little memo, explaining all the above Greek and Latin grammar.
However, I hoped these explanations would satisfy Joan Littler. And that, like me, she would be unwilling to reveal the limits of her education. No such luck.
‘I still don’t understand,’ she said disarmingly.
Humphrey tried snobbery. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, ‘I should have thought that was perfectly clear.’ It never works.
Her eyes flashed. ‘What I insist on knowing,’ she stated, ‘is what is the actual difference between dioxin and metadioxin.’
I didn’t know, of course. Humphrey sailed into the rescue. ‘It’s very simple,’ he replied grandly. ‘Metadioxin is an inert compound of dioxin.’
I hoped that that would be that. But no.
She looked at me for help. I, of course, was unable to give her any. So I looked at Humphrey.
‘Um, Humphrey,’ I said, bluffing madly, ‘I
think
I follow that but, er, could you, er, just explain that a little more clearly?’
He stared at me, coldly. ‘In what sense, Minister?’
I didn’t know where to start. I was going to have to think of the right question again. But Joan said: ‘What does inert mean?’
Sir Humphrey stared at her, silently. And in that glorious moment I suddenly realised that he had no idea what he was talking about either.
‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘inert means that . . . it’s not . . . ert.’
We all stared at each other in silence.
‘Ah,’ said Joan Littler.
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Wouldn’t ’ert a fly,’ muttered Bernard. At least, I think that’s what he said, but when I asked him to repeat it he refused and fell silent.
And again, Joan Littler persisted.
‘But,’ she pressed me, ‘what does that mean in practical terms?’
‘You mean, chemically?’ I asked her. My degree is in economics.
‘Yes, chemically,’ she said.
Again, I turned to Humphrey. ‘Yes,’ I said, beginning to enjoy myself, ‘what does it mean chemically, Humphrey?’
His eyes spun. Bluffing magnificently, he said in his most patronising voice, ‘Well, I’m not sure that I can explain in layman’s language, Minister.’
I called the bluff. ‘Do you know
any
chemistry, Humphrey?’ I enquired.
‘Of course not, Minister. I was in the Scholarship form.’
[
At any English public school – ‘public’ meaning ‘private’, of course – the scholarship form would have meant the classics form. Indeed, if you went to a very good school indeed you might avoid learning any science at all – Ed
.]
‘And while we’re at it,’ continued Joan Littler, ‘what’s a compound?’
‘You don’t know any chemistry either?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Do you?’
Suddenly, this all seemed awfully funny. None of us knew
anything
about the matter we were discussing. Joan, Humphrey, Bernard and I, all charged with a vital decision on a matter of government policy – and you couldn’t have found four people anywhere in the UK who understood less about it.
[
It is significant that none of those present thought of telephoning Sir Wally McFarland. But then, he was merely the expert, and the chairman of the Nationalised Industry in question – Ed
.]
I grinned, embarrassed, like a naughty schoolboy. ‘We
ought
to know something about inert compounds, oughtn’t we?’
Humphrey had no sense of humour about this, and he made a brave attempt at bluffing us again.
‘A compound is . . . well, you know what compound interest is, surely?’ he complained. Joan and I nodded. ‘Compound interest is a jolly good thing to enjoy. Well, that’s the sort of thing a compound is.’
I stared at him. Did he really think that would do? I looked at Joan. She was staring at him too. But reduced to silence for the first time. So I plunged in hopefully.
‘Well,’ I said, trying it on in the hope of bringing the discussion to a close, ‘that’s about it, then. To sum up, I think we’re all of the same mind, basically in agreement, broadly speaking, about this. And we are happy to continue with its development.’
Littler spoke up. ‘I’ve said no such thing.’
We were getting nowhere. So I tried to sum it up again. I pointed out that we had established that the only similarity between dioxin and metadioxin was in the name. She didn’t seem to see it.
I searched desperately for an analogy, ‘It’s like Littler and Hitler,’ I explained. ‘We’re not saying that you’re like Hitler because your name sounds similar.’
I realised that I’d been less than tactful, but the words were out. She flared up. ‘That’s hardly the point,’ she said angrily.
‘Then what
is
the point?’ But I knew already.
‘The point is, this factory is in my constituency.’
Of course I could see why she was worried, but if Humphrey was telling me the truth she was worried unnecessarily. ‘It’s good for the constituency.’ I said. ‘More jobs. More money. The only people who could possibly be upset by this are a few cranky environmentalists. It can’t cost us more than, on balance, a couple of hundred votes.’
‘My majority,’ she replied quietly, ‘is ninety-one.’
I hadn’t realised. She certainly had a point. I don’t want to be responsible for jeopardising a government-held marginal, especially if the sitting MP is PPS to the PM.
She pressed home her argument. ‘And don’t forget that there are three government constituencies bordering onto mine – all marginal, all with majorities of well under two thousand.’
I didn’t know what to say. While I considered the position, Sir Humphrey spoke up again. ‘Miss Littler,’ he began, ‘may I intervene once more?’ She nodded. ‘The case for the BCC manufacturing Propanol is overwhelming – am I right, Minister?’
‘Overwhelming,’ I agreed.
‘It will create jobs,’ continued Humphrey fluently, ‘it will increase income for the Local Authority, and it will secure profitable export orders.’
‘Export orders,’ I agreed.
‘Furthermore,’ he continued, ‘the chemical has been declared safe by the FDA in Washington.’
‘Washington,’ I agreed.
‘We are having,’ he went on, ‘a report prepared here
as well
. The Minister regards this scheme as being wholly to the advantage of your constituency and the country.’
I chimed in. ‘And if the stuff is dangerous, I
promise
you I’ll stop it being made here. But if the report shows it’s harmless, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it?’
She sat still for a moment, staring at me, then at Humphrey. Then she stood up. She said she wasn’t satisfied. (I can’t blame her. If it were my constituency, I’m not sure I’d be satisfied either.) She advised me to remember that the party made me an MP – and that I certainly can’t go on being a Minister if our party loses the next election.
She’s got a point there too.
Also, I have a nasty feeling that the PM will hear her point of view before the end of the week.
Humphrey looked at me after she left, obviously asking for a go-ahead. I told him that I would consider the matter further, and told Bernard to put all the relevant papers in my box to take home and study. Then the decision should become clear.
June 8th
I’ve studied all the Propanol papers and I still don’t know what to do.
So I called a meeting with Humphrey to discuss the report on Propanol that we have commissioned. I’ve been wondering if it really will be conclusively in favour of Propanol, as Sir Humphrey and Sir Wally predict.
I asked if I should meet Professor Henderson, who is chairing the report, or writing it himself or something.
Humphrey said that there was no need for such a meeting. He is apparently a brilliant biochemist and was chosen with some care.
Naturally he was chosen with care. But to what end: to produce a report that backs Sir Wally and Sir Humphrey? Naturally he was. But surely none of them would be foolish enough to cook up a report saying that metadioxin were safe if, in fact, it were dangerous. Naturally not. I think I’m going round in circles.
There was another possibility that I could raise though. ‘Suppose he produces one of those cautious wait-and-see reports?’
‘In that case,’ said Sir Humphrey cheerfully, ‘we don’t publish it, we use the American report instead.’
I was completely torn. On the one hand, the scheme is a wonderful one – the jobs, the income etc. – if it works out safely! And I’m assured it will. But if there’s an accident after I have given the go-ahead . . . The consequences would be too awful to contemplate.
‘Is there any chance he’ll produce a report saying the stuff’s dangerous?’ I wanted to know.
Humphrey was plainly baffled. ‘No. No chance. It isn’t dangerous,’ he said.
He clearly is totally sincere on this issue. And yet he’s suggesting we don’t publish a cautious wait-and-see type report if that’s what Henderson writes.
‘Why would you consider suppressing the Henderson report?’
He was outraged. ‘I would never suppress it, Minister. I merely might not publish it.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘All the difference in the world. Suppression is the instrument of totalitarian dictatorships. You can’t do that in a free country. We would merely take a democratic decision not to publish it.’
That makes sense. But what would I say to the press and to Parliament, I wondered? That we had hoped the Henderson Committee would show we’d made the right decision but instead they’ve said we cocked it up, so we’re pretending the report doesn’t exist? I offered this suggestion to Humphrey.
He was not amused. ‘Very droll, Minister,’ he remarked.
So I asked Humphrey, ‘What
would
I say, if I decided not to publish it?’
‘There is a well-established government procedure for suppressing – that is, not publishing – unwanted reports.’