However, it doesnt look hopeful at the moment. Humphrey informed me politely that the Foreign Secretary doesnt think that we have to do anything. Well, obviously not hes been told what to think by the Foreign Office, and the officials there do not know or care what the electorate wants.
Humphrey gave me the official view. The Qumranis are good friends of Britain. They have just placed a huge defence contract with us. They tell us what the Soviets are up to in Iraq. They even sabotage OPEC agreements for us. We cant afford to upset them.
I know all that, Humphrey, I said wearily. Sometimes he talks to me as if Im a complete idiot. But the point is, a British citizen is facing a barbaric punishment for a trivial offence in a foreign country. And the Foreign Office is there to protect British subjects.
He shook his head and smiled sadly. They are there to protect British interests.
Its not in her interests to be flogged, I said.
Its not in our interests to prevent it, he replied with sudden firmness.
I did not and do not accept this view. I have refused to accept it for days now and I still refuse. [The Foreign Office would have been perfectly content for Hacker to refuse continuously to accept their view, for his refusal appeared to satisfy him emotionally, so long as this did not result in his forcing the FO to accept a change in policy Ed.] Humphrey argued that this is one of those little bush fires that flares up and dies down in a few days. The only mistake we can make is to put fuel on it. Statements, actions, ultimata, sanctions -- they would only make it The Foreign Office wants me to sit back and do nothing.
He claims that the FO is doing something. Tomorrow, apparently, we are to deliver a strongly worded note of protest to the Qumranis.
Why cant we do it now? I asked.
Because we havent got their agreement yet, he explained. Were talking to the Ambassador privately now. When they have approved the wording we shall hand it to them. Then, he remarked smugly, well have done all we can.
It seems like a pretty odd way to protest. Its a purely diplomatic protest, for public consumption only. No teeth at all. And Humphrey thinks that this would be sufficient action to take on behalf of that poor girl. I suppose the Foreign Office thinks Pontius Pilate did all he could.
To my surprise, Humphrey agreed enthusiastically. Yes indeed, Pontius Pilate would have made an excellent Foreign Secretary. You cant put the nations interests at risk just because of some silly sentimentality about justice. If we took moral positions on individual injustices and cruelties wed never have been able to hand Hong Kong over to the Chinese, or put Mugabe in power in Zimbabwe. Morality was what fouled up the Foreign Offices plans for a quiet handover of the Falklands to Argentina -- they dont want to take any moral positions for a long time now.
I sighed. He seemed to be right, in purely practical terms. There seems to be nothing we can do. Its very heartless, I said gloomily.
Humphrey leaned forward encouragingly. Its safer to be heartless than mindless. The history of the world is the triumph of the heartless over the mindless.
Hed won and he knew it. We all fell silent for a moment, then Humphrey rose and asked if he might leave as he had a dinner engagement. As he walked to the door I called after him that the Foreign Office will never get the Cabinet to agree to this policy.
He turned in the doorway. The Foreign Office never expect the Cabinet to agree to any of their policies. Thats why they never fully explain them. All they require is that the Cabinet acquiesce in their decisions after theyve been taken.
And he was gone.
I stared morosely at Bernard. Bernard, is there anyone else in public life who is quite as spineless as our Foreign Office officials?
Bernard was surprised. Theyre not spineless, Prime Minister. It takes a great deal of strength to do nothing at all.
Id never thought of it that way. Does it? I asked.
Yes, Prime Minister, thats why people regard you as a strong leader.
Was this a compliment or an insult? It seemed that Bernard wasnt too sure either because he continued hurriedly: I mean, because you resist pressures. Then he reminded me that I should get ready for the Reception tonight.
I asked him to give me a rundown of the list of significant guests. The most significant tonight were representatives of the Synod of the Church of England. There is a vacancy in the diocese of Bury St Edmunds, and I have to make the choice between two names which they will be submitting to me.
But although, by tradition, they have to submit two names, they will be anxious that I dont pick the wrong one. I asked Bernard how I will know which to pick.
Its like any Civil Service option, Prime Minister. Itll be a conjuring trick. You know, Take any card -- you always end up with the card the magician forces you to take.
It was very bold of Bernard to admit this. So I asked, What if I dont take it?
He smiled confidently. You will.
Well see about that, I thought to myself. Who are these clerical cards theyre going to offer me, Bernard?
With the church, he grinned, youre usually given the choice of a knave or a queen.
[Sir Humphrey Applebys dinner engagement that evening was at the High Table of his alma mater, Baillie College, Oxford. There, by chance, the subject of Sir Humphreys retirement impinged unexpectedly on the Prime Ministers forthcoming choice of a bishop. The conversation at High Table, which Sir Humphrey reports in his private diary, was of course not known to the Prime Minister Ed.]
We had the usual adequate dinner. As always the claret was better than the food, the port was better than the claret, and the conversation was better than the port.
The serious conversation, as always, began as we reached the port and walnuts. After the customary courtesies, the Master thanking me for coming to dine with them and my replying that it is always a pleasure to dine with old friends, the Master came to the point. He told me that he would be retiring in four or five years, roughly when I shall be retiring from the Civil Service.
The juxtaposition could hardly have been coincidental. So I was alerted for his next remark: The Bursar and I think you could be just the chap to succeed me as Master of Baillie. Sweet words. Music to my ears.
However, it soon became apparent that there is an obstacle. This obstacle is known as the Dean. Somewhat reluctantly, but without pulling any punches, the Master revealed that the Dean does not like me.
This astonishes me. Why should he dislike me, Ive never done anything that he should be grateful for?
Nevertheless, it seems to be a fact. The Bursars theory is that the Dean believes that Im too clever by half. One would have thought that, at Oxford, to be called clever might be rather a compliment.
Apparently, the Dean also thinks Im smug. I got that from the Bursar too, who seemed to be enjoying the whole conversation a little too much for my liking.
The Bursar may have realised that I wasnt appreciative of his candour, because he told me that in his opinion it did not matter. I thought he was saying that it didnt matter what the Dean thought -- but no, he was saying that it didnt matter that I am smug!
And he went on and on about it. He told me that it was perfectly obvious, and that furthermore I have a lot to be smug about. If he had 75,000 a year, a knighthood, an index-linked pension and a bunch of politicians to take blame for all his mistakes, he informed me, he would be pretty smug too.
This remark was very revealing. Envy is at the root of the Deans dislike for me, and the Bursars belief that I am smug. There can be no other explanation. It is yet another cross to bear. But I shall do my best to bear it with grace.