Do their best? It seemed that he did not expect the FO to get a good deal either.
He confirmed that this was his view. Im afraid they wont. But it will be better than you could get, Prime Minister.
Im afraid hes right. And yet, it made no sense. Humphrey, I asked, do we never get our own way with the French?
Sometimes, he allowed.
When was the last time?
Battle of Waterloo, 1815. Could he be right? While I pondered this question, delving into my encyclopaedic memory and knowledge of history, Sir Humphrey raised the vexed question of hijacking.
What if terrorists were to hijack a train? And threaten to blow up the train and the tunnel?
What a horrific thought that was! My God, I exclaimed. Lets give France jurisdiction over the whole thing. Then theyd have to handle it.
Sir Humphrey smiled a complacent smile. You see, Prime Minister? He was patronising me now. If you were handling the negotiations you would have just conceded everything to the French. In fact, I believe that the French will come up with some totally underhand ploy to regain the advantage. But no doubt you have anticipated that, Prime Minister.
The sarcasm was unmistakable. I had to concede that I could not possibly handle the negotiations. With some nations, yes. With the French, never. Also, I could see another, bigger advantage in staying out of it. If humiliating concessions have to be made, Id like the Foreign Secretary to be in charge.
Very wise, Prime Minister. At last we were in agreement. And we moved on to another matter that has been causing me the most profound ongoing irritation. May we now discuss the equally vexed question of your predecessors memoirs?
As if we hadnt had enough trouble with Chapter Eight, it seems that hed now started work on his final chapter, the one that concerns his resignation and my accession to the Premiership. And, to that end, he wanted access to certain government papers.
I asked if we couldnt find any way to stop these bloody memoirs before they ruin my career. Little did I know my wish was about to be granted.
Humphrey shook his head sadly. Memoirs, alas, are an occupational hazard. And he sighed deeply, like Eeyore.
I cant think why he was sighing. Im the one whos being skewered. And its not even what hes written that upsets me -- it's the betrayal! Until I read the first eight chapters of his book I thought he was a friend of mine!
For instance, in the draft that arrived this morning hed called me two-faced. Id shown it to Bernard.
Very wrong was Bernards gratifying comment.
I was grateful for the vote of confidence.
And unforgiveably indiscreet, Bernard went on.
Indiscreet? I looked at him, surprised.
And wrong! Bernard added emphatically.
How can he tell such lies about me? I asked rhetorically.
What lies? asked Bernard. Oh I see, he said.
Really, Bernard is sometimes remarkably slow on the uptake. How could he have thought Id changed the subject? But apparently he did.
Why has the former Prime Minister written this garbage? Simply so that hell increase the sales of the book by inventing stories? I think not. Some people lie not because it is in their interest but because it is in their nature. He is a vile, treacherous, malevolent bastard, I told Bernard, and if hes hoping to get any more honours or quangos or Royal Commissions hes got another think coming. He will not get one ounce of official recognition as long as Im here.
I regretted this outburst, because at that moment the phone rang. Bernard took the call.
Yes? look, this is important, because? Oh! Ah! Oh! Dead on arrival? I see.
Solemnly he replaced the receiver.
Bad news, Bernard? I asked.
Yes and no, he replied cautiously. Your predecessor, the previous Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, has just died of a heart attack.
What a tragedy, I said immediately. I know how to say the right things on such occasions.
Indeed, replied Bernard and Humphrey in chorus.
A great man, I said, for the record.
A great man, they repeated in unison.
He will be sorely missed, I said. After all, someones bound to miss him.
Sorely missed, echoed the double act on the other side of the Cabinet table.
And so will his memoirs, I added.
Which will never be finished, said Bernard.
Alas! sighed Humphrey.
Alas! I said.
Apparently, Prime Minister, said Bernard, he expressed a hope that he might have a state funeral, just before the end. But in view of your wish to give him no further honours
Bernard was quite wrong. A funeral was an honour that I was happy to arrange. I told Bernard that he had completely misunderstood me. I am sure, Bernard, that a tremendous number of people will want to attend his funeral.
To pay him tribute, you mean?
Of course, I said. That was certainly one reason. And to make sure hes dead is another.
[Working funerals are the best sort of summit meeting. Ostensibly arranged for another purpose, statesmen and diplomats can mingle informally at receptions, churches and gravesides, and achieve more than at ten official summits for which expectations have been aroused. This is presumably why Hacker immediately agreed to a state funeral for his late and unlamented predecessor Ed.]
September 4th
A splendid list of acceptances for the funeral already. Theyre all RSVPing like mad. So far we have seven Commonwealth Prime Ministers, the American Vice-President, the Russian Foreign Minister, and six European Prime Ministers -- excellent. And I am the host! I shall be there, among all these great statesmen, at the centre of the world stage. Bearing my grief with dignity and fortitude. Dignified grief goes down terribly well with the voters. Especially when shared with other world leaders. Marvellous thing, death. So uncontroversial.
However, there was one interesting query on the list. The French Prime Minister. I asked Bernard and Humphrey about this when we met to discuss the pleasurable matter of the funeral arrangements.
I imagine thats what the French Ambassador is coming to see you about tomorrow, said Humphrey.
I was more immediately concerned with the placing of the TV cameras. There will be plenty of room, wont there? I wanted definite assurances. We want them outside Number Ten, along the route, outside the Abbey [Westminster Abbey], inside the Abbey, and one looking straight at my pew.
Humphrey looked doubtful. That would mean putting the camera in the pulpit.
Will that be all right? I checked.
It wont leave a lot of room for the Archbishop, said Humphrey.
I understood the problem. So where will he preach from? I asked.
I think he will need the pulpit.
This was a bigger problem than Id thought. So where will my camera be?
Humphrey thought for a few moments. Well, theres always the High Altar. But the Archbishop may need that too.
Hell just have to do without it. [Apparently the Archbishop was under the impression that the funeral was a religious ceremony. Nobody had told him that it was a Party Political Broadcast Ed.]
September 5th
Today I saw the French Ambassador. Its all worse than I thought.
But first I saw Bernard. The French Ambassador is on his way. But I know what his news will be: the French Prime Minister isnt coming, the Presidents coming instead.
The President? I was overjoyed. Thats wonderful.
No, no, Prime Minister. Its terrible!
Humphrey had heard the news too and, flustered, he hurried in to join us.