The Complete Yes Minister (62 page)

In any event, to cut a long story short [
too late – Ed
.] I was standing in the Minister’s front hall chatting to Mrs Hacker, waiting for the Minister to finish dressing, when I saw the rosewater jar from Qumran, and commented that it looked awfully nice.

Mrs Hacker agreed enthusiastically, and added that a friend of hers had dropped in that day and had been frightfully interested.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ And then she dropped the bombshell. ‘Her name’s Jenny Goodwin – from
The Guardian
.’

‘
The Guardian
,’ I said, quietly stunned.

‘Yes. She asked me where it came from.’

‘A journalist,’ I muttered, aghast.

‘Yes. Well . . .
The Guardian
, anyway. She asked what it was worth, and I said about fifty quid.’

‘You said about fifty quid.’ My bowels had turned to water. I felt hot and cold simultaneously. I could hardly speak. I just tried to keep the conversation going somehow.

‘Yes. Fifty quid.’ She was looking at me strangely now. ‘Funnily enough, she thought it was genuine.’

‘She thought it was genuine,’ I repeated.

‘Yes, Bernard, you sound like an answering machine.’

I apologised.

Mrs Hacker then told me that the journalist, one Jenny Goodwin, had asked if she could ring up the Qumrani Embassy to ask what it was worth.

‘To ask what it was worth,’ I mumbled, hopelessly.

She looked at me keenly. ‘It
is
only a copy, isn’t it Bernard?’ she asked.

I managed to say that so far as I knew, and so I was led to believe, and so forth, and then the Minister hurried downstairs and my bacon was saved. For the time being. But I knew that the jig was up and that my career was on the line, my neck was on the block, and my next appointment was likely to be at the Jobcentre in the Horseferry Road.

My only hope was that the Minister would come to my defence when the facts came out. After all, I’d always done my best for him. I didn’t think I could expect much sympathy or help from Sir Humphrey. But I had no choice but to tell him the whole story as soon as I could.

[
The following morning Bernard Woolley made a special request for an urgent meeting with Sir Humphrey Appleby. Sir Humphrey made a note about it, which we found in the Departmental files at Walthamstow – Ed
.]

BW requested an urgent meeting. He asked for a word with me. I said yes, and waited, but he did not speak. So I told him that I’d said yes.

Again he did not speak. I noticed that he was sweating, but it was a cool day. He seemed to be in a state of considerable mental anguish, such as I had never observed in him before.

I asked the standard questions. I thought perhaps that Woolley had sent the Minister to the wrong dinner, given him the wrong speech, or – worst of all – shown him some papers that we didn’t mean him to see.

He shook his head silently, and I divined that the situation was even worse than that. So I told him to sit down, which he did gratefully. I waited.

It slowly emerged that the exquisite rosewater jar, given to the Minister in Qumran, was the root of the problem. Apparently the Minister’s wife liked it. Not surprising. BW had explained the rules to her, and she had looked terribly sad. They always do. Then she had asked if it was really worth more than fifty pounds, and said how marvellous it would be if it wasn’t. And BW, it seems, had agreed to ‘help’.

I understand his motives, but a seventeenth-century vase – well, really!

BW then explained that there was a ‘terribly nice Qumrani businessman’. And this fellow had apparently valued it as a copy and not as an original. For £49.95. A most convenient sum.

I asked BW if he had believed this man. He wavered. ‘I . . . er . . . he said he was an expert . . . well . . . he spoke Arabic awfully well, so I er . . . accepted his valuation. In good faith. After all, Islam is a jolly good faith.’

Not a convincing explanation, I felt. I told him that he had taken a grave risk, and he was fortunate that no one had asked any questions.

I was intending to let the matter drop, and merely record a reprimand in his report. But at this juncture he informed me that a journalist from
The Guardian
had seen the jar in Hacker’s house, that Mrs Hacker had said it was a copy, and that further questions were to be asked.

It is a great tragedy that the press are so horribly suspicious about this sort of thing. But I told BW that we had no option but to inform the Minister.

[
Hacker’s diary continues – Ed
.]

Humphrey had made a submission on Friday (sounds like wrestling, doesn’t it?). In other words, he submitted a paper to me, suggesting various methods of hushing up this bribery scandal.

Obviously I was not intending to go
out of my way
to reveal it. But equally I couldn’t see how I could allow myself to be put in the position of sweeping bribery under the carpet. So if questions were asked, I had every intention of announcing a full independent enquiry chaired by a QC.

I explained this to Humphrey at the start of our meeting this morning. He started going on about the contract being worth £340 million. ‘Get thee behind me, Humphrey,’ I said, and reminded him of the moral dimension of government. The contract may be worth £340 million, but my job’s worth even more to me.

But then Humphrey told me that Bernard had something to tell me. I waited. Bernard was looking very anxious. Finally he coughed and began to speak, rather haltingly.

‘Um . . . you know that jar the Qumranis gave you?’

I remembered it well. ‘Yes, we’ve got it in the flat. Most attractive.’

I waited. Clearly he was worried about something.

‘I told Mrs Hacker that it was all right to keep it,’ he said, ‘because I had it valued at under fifty pounds. But I’m not sure . . . the man who valued it was awfully nice . . . I told him Mrs Hacker liked it a lot . . . but he might have been er, being helpful.’

I still couldn’t see any problem. So I told him not to worry, and that no one will ever know. In fact, I was rash enough to congratulate him for being jolly enterprising.

Then came the bad news. ‘Yes, but you see, Mrs Hacker told me this morning that a
Guardian
journalist came round and started asking questions.’

This was horrifying! I asked to see the valuation. It was written on the back of the menu. [
The Treasury were never awfully happy about valuations written on the backs of menus – Ed
.]

I asked what the jar was really worth. Humphrey had the information at his fingertips. If it’s a copy, then the valuation is roughly correct. But if it’s an original – £5000.

And I had kept it!

If I’d had a day or two to consider the matter there would have been no problem. It would have been pretty easy to dream up some valid explanation of the situation, one that got both me and Bernard off the hook.

But at that moment Bill Pritchard came bursting in from the press office. And he brought even worse news!

The Guardian
had been on the phone to him. They’d been on to the Qumrani Embassy, telling them that my wife had said that this extremely valuable seventeenth-century thing presented to me by the Qumrani Government was a copy. The Qumrani Government was incensed at the suggestion that they insulted Britain by giving me a worthless gift. (Though I can’t see the point of giving me a valuable gift if it’s got to be stored in the vault forever.) The FCO then phoned Bill and told him it was building up into the biggest diplomatic incident since
Death of a Princess
.

I thought I’d heard enough bad news for one day. But no. He added that Jenny Goodwin of
The Guardian
was in the private office, demanding to see me right away.

I thought Annie had always described Jenny Goodwin as a friend of hers. Some friend! You just can’t trust the media! Despicable, muck-raking nosey parkers, always snooping around trying to get at the truth!

Bernard looked beseechingly at me. But it was clear that I had no choice.

‘My duty is clear,’ I said in my Churchillian voice. ‘I have no choice.’

‘No choice?’ squeaked Bernard, like Piglet confronting the Heffalump.

I made it clear that indeed I had no choice. My wife had not asked him to lie about the value of the gift. He admitted she hadn’t. I explained to Bernard that I fully realised that he had done this with the best of possible motives, but that there could be no excuse for falsifying a document.

He protested that he hadn’t. But of course he was hair-splitting.

But my trouble is, I never know when to stop. I then launched into a tremendously self-righteous tirade. I told him that I cannot have it thought that I asked him to do this. Then I turned on Humphrey, and told him that I cannot have it thought that I will tolerate bribery and corruption in our business dealings. ‘Enough is enough,’ I went on, digging my own grave relentlessly. ‘If this journalist asks me straight questions about either of these matters I must give straight answers. There is a moral dimension.’

I should have realised, since Humphrey was looking so thoroughly unflappable, that he had an ace up his sleeve. I didn’t guess. And he played it.

‘I agree with you, Minister. I see now that there is a moral dimension to everything. Will I tell the press about the communications room or will you?’

Blackmail. Shocking, but true! He was clearly saying that if I laid the blame for (a) the bribery and corruption, or (b) the rosewater jar –
neither
of which were my fault – at his door or Bernard’s door or
anyone’s
door (if it comes to that) then he would drop me right in it.

I think I just gaped at him. Anyway, after a pause he murmured something about the moral dimension. Hypocritical bastard.

I tried to explain that the communications room was not the same thing at all. Completely different, in fact. Drinking is nothing to do with corruption.

But Humphrey would have none of it. ‘Minister, we deceived the Qumranis. I am racked with guilt, tormented by the knowledge that we violated their solemn and sacred Islamic laws in their own country. Sooner or later we must own up and admit that it was all your idea.’

‘It wasn’t,’ I said desperately.

‘It was,’ they chorused.

I would have denied it, but it was their word against mine. And who would ever take the word of a mere politician against that of a Permanent Secretary and a Private Secretary?

Sir Humphrey piled on the pressure. ‘Is it fifty lashes or one hundred?’ he asked Bernard, who seemed to be brightening up a little.

In what seemed like an interminable pause, I contemplated my options. The more I contemplated my options the more they disappeared, until I didn’t seem to have any at all. Finally Bill said that I had to meet the journalist or she would write something terrible anyway.

I nodded weakly. Humphrey and Bernard hovered. I knew that only one possible course was open to me. Attack! Attack is always the best form of defence, especially when dealing with the press.

And after all, dealing with the press is my stock-in-trade. That is what I’m best at.

[
That is what Ministers had to be best at. At that time the Minister’s main role was to be the chief public relations man for his Ministry – Ed
.]

I sized her up in no time as she came into the office. Attractive voice, slightly untidy pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards sort of look, trousers, absolutely what you’d expect from
The Guardian
– a typical knee-jerk liberal, Shirley Williams type.

As she came in a rough strategy formed in my mind. I was charming, but cool, and gave her the impression that I was fairly busy and didn’t have too much time to spare. If you don’t do that, if you let them think that you think they are important, it confirms their suspicions that they are on to something.

So I adopted a brisk tone like the family doctor. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ I asked in my best bedside manner.

‘Two things,’ she said, ‘both of them rather worrying to the public.’

How dare she speak for the public, who know nothing about any of it? And never will, if I can help it!

She started with the French allegation of BES corruption in getting the Qumrani contract.

‘Absolute nonsense,’ I said categorically. If in doubt, always issue an absolute denial. And if you’re going to lie, then lie with one hundred per cent conviction.

‘But they quoted reports of payments to officials,’ she said.

I pretended to lose my rag. I fixed her with a piercing gaze. ‘This is absolutely typical. A British company slogs its guts out to win orders and create jobs and earn dollars, and what do they get from the media? A smear campaign.’

‘But if they won by bribery . . .’

I talked over her. ‘There is no question of bribery – I have had an internal inquiry and all these so-called payments have been identified.’

‘What as?’ she asked, slightly on the retreat.

Humphrey saw his opportunity to help.

‘Commission fees,’ he said quickly. ‘Administrative overheads.’

He’d given me time to think – ‘Operating costs. Managerial surcharge,’ I added.

Bernard chimed in too. ‘Introduction expenses. Miscellaneous outgoings.’

I thundered on. ‘We have looked into every brown envelope,’ I found myself saying, but changed it to ‘balance sheet’ in the nick of time. ‘And everything is in order.’

‘I see,’ she said. She really didn’t have a leg to stand on. She had no proof at all. She had to believe me. And I’m sure she knew only too well the risk of incurring the wrath of a Minister of the Crown with false allegations and accusations.

[
We get the impression that Hacker, like many politicians, had the useful ability to believe that black was white merely because he was saying so – Ed
.]