Interviewer: I wish youd said that before.
Sir Humphrey: Im sure you do.
[The tape ends at this point. Sir Bernard Wooley recalls the tapes progress Ed.]
The following day Sir Humphrey had asked me to obtain a cassette player, so that he could listen to a cassette that the BBC had sent to him. He was rather excited, because he felt that he had given a thought-provoking, dynamic and thoroughly exciting interview, albeit couched in his usual low-key language.
I had borrowed a ghettoblaster from one of the Garden Room Girls [the upper-crust members of the typing pool in the basement of Number Ten Ed.]. Sir Humphrey had not heard the word ghettoblaster, and enquired if it was used in the demolition industry. How true -- the demolition of hearing!
There had been a note attached to the cassette. [We reproduce it below Ed.]
BBC Radio 4
Sir Humphrey Appleby
Cabinet Office
70 Whitehall
London SW1November 27th
Dear Sir Humphrey,
Here is a copy of the off-the-record part of your radio interview. We found it particularly interesting. I will contact you shortly.
Yours sincerely,
Crawford James
(Producer, Talks)
The letter struck me as suspicious, for several reasons. First, it seemed to be less than straightforward. What could he mean by particularly interesting? Secondly, I have always had an instinctive distrust of people whose Christian names and surnames are reversible. But when I expressed surprise that his interview could be described as interesting, Sir Humphrey took umbrage -- though I dont know why, because his stated intention had been to say nothing, as always.
I had doubted his ability to say nothing on the radio, and the letter had prepared me for a surprise. But not for a surprise of the magnitude that I then encountered. For we switched on the ghettoblaster and I heard a voice that sounded horribly like Humphreys saying, My dear chap, no one tells the truth about unemployment.
Why not? came the question.
Because, said Humphreys voice, everyone knows you could halve it in a few weeks.
I looked at Humphrey in horror. He looked at me, poleaxed.
How? continued the implacable tape recording.
Cut off all social security to any claimant who refused two job offers.
Humphrey lunged at the ghettoblaster. I think he was trying to switch it off but he pressed fast forward by mistake. His voice mickey-moused forward at high speed until he let go of the switch -- at which point we heard the fatal words: And no politicians have the guts to do anything about it.
I leaned forward and switched it off myself. We gazed at each other for a long time, in total silence. For the first time I was aware of the distant hum of traffic on the Mall.
Finally I spoke. I had to be sure. Sir Humphrey, I asked quietly, that was you, wasnt it?
Yes, Bernard.
Not Mike Yarwood? [A well-known impressionist of the 1980s Ed.]
A faint ray of hope crossed his haggard visage. Do you think I could say it was?
I shook my head gloomily. No, they could prove it was you, I said. I could hardly believe that he had said those things. I asked if there was more. He nodded mutely.
As damaging as we just heard?
He nodded again. He seemed unable to speak. But I waited patiently and eventually he croaked, with the voice of a broken man: More damaging. I believe I referred to parasites.
I was incredulous. I asked him how he could have been so indiscreet. He explained pathetically that the interview was over -- so he thought! -- and that they were just chatting harmlessly. Harmlessly!
It was off the record, he said.
Maybe -- but its on the tape, I remarked.
Suddenly, uttering an anguished cry of My God!, Humphrey smote his forehead and leapt to his feet. Oh my God, oh my God! he moaned desperately. Ive just realised. Its blackmail! And he grasped the letter and shoved it into my hand.
I re-read the ominous document. It certainly looked like blackmail. My suspicions appeared to have been well-founded.
Humphrey stared at me, hollow-eyed, his tie crooked, his hair -- usually so immaculately brushed and neatly parted -- standing up on end as if he had been awoken at 3.41 am by the ghost of Stanley Baldwin.
What do they want of me? he moaned.
I pondered the question carefully. What did the BBC want of Humphrey? What did it want of anyone? This was one of the abiding mysteries of the twentieth century, not to be solved at such short notice by such a one as I.
I tried to think politically, always difficult for someone like myself who has spent a lifetime in the Civil Service. Perhaps, I wondered, The BBC wanted the licence up fifty per cent? Or maybe it was a private blackmail by the Producer/Talks, to ensure that the Producer didnt talk.
Humphrey was crumbling before my eyes. A piteous sight. He sank into a Chippendale armchair an leaned forward, his head in his hands. Doesnt he know Im a poor man? he cried.
I wondered. It occurred to me that the Producer/talks may not have read that Sir Humphrey lived n Haslemere in abject poverty on seventy-five thousand a year.
Whatll I do? Sir Humphrey, wide-eyed and terrified, was staring ruin in the face.
Keep your mouth shut in future, I advised him.
I mean now! he snapped, staring me in the face instead.
I didnt see what he could do, except wait and hope. Wait to see what they demanded. Hope that they hadnt yet distributed cassettes to every national newspaper. I had private visions and horrid imaginings of horrific headlines. CABINET SECRETARY CALLS UNEMPLOYED PARASITES, or GOVERNMENT HAS NO GUTS, SAYS SIR HUMPHREY.
I shared my visions with him. He sat there, stunned, begging me not to breathe a word about it to anyone.
I was perfectly willing not to spread it around Whitehall generally, even though I could have dined out on it for months. But Humphreys anyone appeared to include the Prime Minister, and I was forced to point out that my duty to him was paramount.
Humphrey tried to regain his authority. He stood up, and faced me squarely. Bernard, I am ordering you!
Very good, Sir Humphrey, I replied. I shall tell him that you have ordered me not to tell him.
Hoist by his own petard, he acknowledged defeat, sat down, leaned back and asked the ceiling what he was going to do.
Although he did not appear to be addressing me, hesitantly I offered the only suggestion that I could think of: that he put out a press statement expressing sympathy for the unemployed. After all, he was likely to be joining them at any minute.
[Hackers diary continues Ed.]
November 28th
I was sitting in the Cabinet Room, all alone, thinking, when Bernard interrupted me.
I asked him what he wanted.
Excuse me a moment, Prime Minister, but as you dont appear to be doing anything I wondered if I might have a word.
I gave him an unwelcome stare. As a matter of fact, I replied curtly, I am busy. Im wondering whether to tell the Cabinet about this bugging business. Do I tell them what I told the House, or do I tell them the truth?
Bernard did not hesitate. Prime Minister, may I venture to suggest that perhaps you should behave to the Cabinet as you would expect them to behave to you?
Youre absolutely right, I told Bernard. Ill tell them what I told the House.
I returned to the mass of papers on the table and was just starting to read an eighty-page briefing about possible replacements for the anti-missile missile when I heard Bernard cough. He was still there, obviously wanting to get something off his chest.
Whats the matter now, Bernard?
Yes, there is a matter, that you need to know.
Suddenly I was on the alert. Need to know?
I didnt quite gather what he said next. Why is it that both Bernard and Humphrey are pathologically incapable of making themselves clear whenever were talking about need to know matters? They seem bent on telling me things in such a way that they havent actually told me at all.