The Complete Yes Minister

While I was considering my answer – or to be precise, wondering if I really had an answer – he turned the anglepoise lamp on the desk in my direction. He wasn’t exactly shining it in my eyes, but I did have the distinct feeling that I was being given the third degree.

And his next question did nothing to dilute the impression that I was under interrogation on account of suspect loyalty.

‘Are you happy in the Cabinet?’

‘Yes, of course I am.

‘You want to stay in it?’

My heart sank into my boots. I couldn’t speak. My loyalty was now in doubt. Oh my God! I nodded mutely.

‘Well then?’ He waited for me to say something.

I was sweating. And no longer thinking clearly enough. This was not the meeting that I had expected. I had expected to be on the attack. Instead I found myself fighting a desperate defensive. Suddenly my whole political future seemed to be on the line.

And I still stuck to my guns. I’m not quite sure why. I think I was confused, that’s all.

‘There is such a thing as duty,’ I heard myself say rather pompously. ‘There are times when you have to do what your conscience tells you.’

Vic lost his temper again. I could see why. Telling a Chief Whip that you have to follow your conscience really is like waving a red rag at a bull.

And this time it wasn’t a quiet irritable loss of temper. It was the Big Shout, for which he is famous throughout the Palace of Westminster. He leapt to his feet. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ he yelled, obviously at the end of his tether.

His face came close to mine. Almost nose to nose. His angry bulging eyes were so near that they were slightly out of focus. He was utterly contemptuous of me now.

‘Must you go around flashing your petty private little individual conscience? Do you think no one else has got one? Haven’t you got a conscience about the survival of the government?’

‘Of course I have,’ I muttered, when the storm seemed to have abated temporarily.

He walked away, satisfied that at least I’d given one correct answer. ‘Here’s the PM on the verge of signing an international agreement on anti-terrorism . . .’

I interrupted, in self-defence. ‘I didn’t know about that,’ I explained.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know,’ snapped Vic contemptuously.

[It is not surprising that Hacker did not know about a new international anti-terrorist agreement. So far as we have been able to find out, there was none. Vic Gould presumably invented this on the spur of the moment – Ed.]

He came and sat beside me again. He tried to be patient. Or rather, he looked as though he was trying to be patient. ‘Can’t you understand that it’s essential to deal with the major policy aspects, rather than pick off a couple of little arms exporters and terrorist groups?’

I hadn’t seen it like that. Furthermore, I realised that I’d better see it like that, and quickly, or else Vic would go on shouting at me all day. ‘I suppose it is only a couple of little terrorist groups,’ I said weakly.

‘They can’t kill that many people, can they?’

‘I suppose not,’ I agreed, with a little smile to show that I realised that perhaps I’d been a bit naïve.

But Vic had still not finished with the insults. He sneered at me again. ‘And you want to blow it all in a fit of moral self-indulgence.’

Clearly moral self-indulgence was the most disgusting thing Vic had ever come across. I felt very small.

He sat back in his chair, sighed, then grinned at me and offered me a cigarette. And dropped the bombshell.

‘After all,’ he smiled, ‘the PM is thinking of you as the next Foreign Secretary.’

I was astounded. Of course it’s what I’ve always wanted, if Martin’s ever kicked upstairs. But I didn’t know the PM knew.

I declined his offer of a cigarette. He lit up, and relaxed. ‘Still, if it’s martydom you’re after,’ he shrugged, ‘go ahead and press for an enquiry. Feel free to jeopardise everything we’ve all fought for and worked for together all these years.’

I hastily explained that that wasn’t what I wanted at all, that of course it is appalling if terrorists are getting British bomb detonators, but there’s no question that (as Vic had so eloquently explained it) one has a loyalty, the common purpose, and things must be put in perspective.

He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, making a concession to my original point of view, ‘if you were at the Ministry of Defence or the Board of Trade . . .’

I interrupted. ‘Exactly. Absolutely. Ministry of Defence problem. Department of Trade problem. I see that now.’ It’s just what Humphrey had been trying to say to me, in fact.

We fell silent, both waiting, sure that the problem was now resolved. Finally Vic asked if we could hold it over for the time being, so that we could avoid upsetting and embarrassing the PM.

I agreed that we could. ‘In fact,’ I admitted, rather ashamed of my naïvety, ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’