So we looked again at the Dean of Baillie. I listed the arguments against him. Hes not really up to it. Hes said to be lazy, vain, and totally uninterested in Christianity.
Yes, said Humphrey, but hes not against it! I think hed make a thoroughly suitable British bishop -- cricket, steam engines, and a complete ignorance of theology. Theology can seriously damage your faith.
My problem was that he was basically unqualified. The submission said that he has never done a real church job. Hes spent his whole life in Oxford. On the other hand, he did very well in Qumran, and so his appointment might be a very popular choice with the voters.
Then Humphrey dropped a bombshell. There is a problem, he said. I gather that he is telling the press that the Qumran visit wasnt your idea. I gather he has a letter from the Bishop of Banbury dated some time before your involvement.
This was dreadful news! It would be an incredible embarrassment. It would look as if I were trying to take the credit for something I didnt do! I can just imagine the headlines. PRIME MINISTER TAKES CREDIT FOR DEANS MERCY MISSION. Or JIM DIDNT FIX IT!
So the question was, how could we stop the Dean from making this embarrassing revelation? It seemed, according to Humphreys information, that the Dean is peeved because he felt that he hasnt been given enough recognition for his role in Qumran. Or the Church hasnt. Or something!
On the face of it, there was an easy answer. I told Bernard to invite the Dean here for drinks this evening. Itll be a very nice photo opportunity for the press, too.
Humphrey, however, said that this would be improper: whilst I am considering two candidates for the vacancy in Bury St Edmunds I can hardly, in his view, invite just one of them here for drinks.
I saw his point. But I had to do something to stop him blabbing to the press.
Then Humphrey, thank God, had a brainwave. If you had already given him the job, then it would be perfectly proper.
And then, the more I thought about it, the more I began to feel that the Dean might be rather a good choice of bishop. After all, he is an enterprising chap. And, as I explained to Bernard, eccentricity can be a virtue: you just call it individualism.
Bernard agreed wholeheartedly. Its one of those irregular verbs, isnt it? I have an independent mind, you are eccentric, he is round the twist?
We discussed it further, and agreed that we need people in the House of Lords who understand the Arab world. And cricket. And steam engines. So, after mature consideration, I made the Rev. Christopher Smythe, Dean of Baillie College, Oxford, my choice. I told Bernard to convey my recommendation to the Palace, fast! I wanted the appointment announced by lunchtime, the Dean informed at once, and I wanted him round here for drinks, with a photographer, by six oclock this evening.
And thats what happened. The crisis was averted. We have a new Bishop of Bury St Edmunds, the nurse was freed from Qumran, and I got the credit all round.
Humphrey was delighted too. He told me that the appointment of the Dean was an act of wisdom. In fact, he was so pleased that I began to wonder why.
I suddenly remembered that Baillie was Humphreys old college. Perhaps that was why he knew so much about the Dean and why he was so pleased. So I asked him if this was another case of jobs for the boys.
He denied it indignantly. On the contrary, Prime Minister. I hardly know him. In fact, I know he dislikes me. You can ask him this evening, if you like. I dont like him much either.
So you have nothing to gain from this appointment?
How could I have? he asked.
I couldnt see how. But it all seemed a little coincidental. So while we were having our photos taken by the press in front of the fireplace in the White Sitting Room, I asked the Dean if he liked Humphrey Appleby. Cant stand him, quite frankly, the Dean whispered to me. I think hes smug.
So Humphrey was telling the truth. I am really very grateful to him, for giving me helpful, impartial advice in the best traditions of the Civil Service.
ONE OF US
June 20th
I had an absolutely sensational Prime Ministers Question Time in the House this afternoon. Members were attacking me from all sides about my controlling expenditure on defence, but I really made mincemeat of them all.
So after I finished work I hurried upstairs to the flat to see the TV News. Annie was watching it, it had started already. I asked her if it was the lead story, but they hadnt mentioned it.
Typical BBC, I said.
Its not the BBC.
Typical 1TV, I said.
Its Channel Four, she said.
Oh well, I said, What do you expect?
I watched what was left of the news, which was entirely devoted to the fate of Benjy, an Old English Sheepdog who has somehow got under the wire and on to a Ministry of Defence artillery range on Salisbury Plain.
According to Channel Four News, Benjy belongs to an eight-year-old orphan called Linda Fletcher. Linda lost both her parents in a car crash last year, a crash that only she and Benjy survived.
The artillery range where Benjy is lost is full of unexploded shells and is highly dangerous except for one fixed road through it. Benjy is a long way from the road. The News showed shots of Danger signs, telephoto shots of the dog running around and sitting down, and a tearful little orphan girl looking through the wire fence and being comforted by relatives.
The story ended with the Army expressing their regrets but saying that there is nothing they can do unless the dog comes to the wire of his own accord. It seems inevitable that Benjy will either starve to death or be blown up.
That was the end of the news. I couldnt believe it -- there was nothing about me at all! I asked Annie if she could have missed it.
I watched the whole news, she said, en route to the kitchen to dish up dinner, but you know how it is when one watches it -- one sort of mentally tunes out the boring bits.
Thanks, I said, and got myself a Scotch.
She was instantly apologetic. No, not you, darling. Youre not boring, not to me, even if you are to the rest of the country. She doesnt mean me personally, of course, she just means that some people are bored by politicians.
I was a bit fed up, though. Instead of showing the viewers a significant triumph in the House of Commons they given them a pathetic story about a kid and a dog.
[Although Hacker regarded the debate in the House as a significant triumph, it is possible that Channel Four News took the view that the debate merely consisted of some juvenile rowdies bickering with each other Ed.]
I thought that the story about the dog was interesting, said Annie, slicing tomatoes for the salad.
But its totally unimportant, I explained, as I struggled with the tray of ice cubes.
Why is the story about Parliamentary Question Time more important? she wanted to know.
Quite simply, I said, with all due modesty, because it was about me. I am Prime Minister, after all. Doesnt that impress anyone in the media?
You seem to be quite impressed enough for all of us, said Annie. I couldnt understand why she was taking this attitude.
Annie, I remonstrated with her, the future of Britains defence was being thrashed out in the great forum of the nation and what do the viewers get offered? Lassie Come Home.
But what was decided in the great forum of the nation?
Annie sometimes asks the stupidest questions. Obviously nothing was decided. You cant leave decisions to MPs. She was just being silly. The real importance of the debate is that I won it! And I think that the media should let my people know. [Hacker was apparently developing a Moses complex after five months in Number Ten Ed.] I told her that the media people dont live in the real world, and that Id like to drop the subject.