Mrs Hacker was the only woman present. They’d made her a sort of honorary man for the evening. And while Hacker was off getting one of his refills, she remarked that the rosewater jar would look awfully good on the corner table of her hall in London.
It fell to me to explain to her that it was a gift to the Minister.
At first she didn’t understand, and said that it was his hall too. I had to explain that it was a gift to the Minister
She wanted to know if they were supposed to give it back. Clearly not. I explained that it would have been a frightfully insulting thing to do. So she observed, rather sensibly, that if she couldn’t keep it and couldn’t give it back, she couldn’t see what she
I explained that official gifts become the property of the government, and are stored in some basement somewhere in Whitehall.
She couldn’t see any sense in that. I couldn’t either, except that clearly it is not in the public interest for Ministers to be allowed to receive valuable gifts from anybody. I explained that one might keep a gift valued up to approximately fifty pounds.
She asked me how you found out the value. I said that you get a valuation. And then she flattered me in a way that I found irresistible. She asked me to get a valuation, said that it would be ‘wonderful’ if it were less than fifty pounds, because it was ‘awfully pretty’, and then told me that I was absolutely wonderful and she didn’t know what they would do without me.
Regrettably, I fell for it, and promised that I would see what I could do.
Meanwhile I was being sent on errands by Hacker. He returned from one of his many trips to the temporary Communications Centre which we’d set up, telling me loudly that there was a message for me from Mr John Walker. From the Scotch Office. Aware that we could easily be overheard, I asked if he meant the Scottish Office.
As I left very much in need of some whisky, Mrs Hacker asked if there was a message for her.
‘Of course there is, darling,’ the Minister replied hospitably. ‘Bernard will collect it for you if you give him your glass.’ I shot him a meaningful look and he continued, ‘if you give him your glass he’ll get you some orange juice too.’
I stayed close to the Minister’s side for most of the evening which was just as well because he continually made tactless remarks. At one point he was looking for Sir Humphrey and I led him across to where Sir Humphrey and a man named Ross (from the FCO) were talking to Prince Mohammed.
Unfortunately both Ross and Sir Humphrey looked like Qumranis when approached from behind, as they were both dressed in full Arab robes and headdresses. In spite of Prince Mohammed’s presence, Hacker was unable to disguise his shock as Sir Humphrey turned. He asked Humphrey why on earth he was dressed up like that.
Sir Humphrey explained that this was a traditional Foreign Office courtesy to our hosts. Ross confirmed that this was spot on, and Prince Mohammed said that indeed he regarded it as a most warm and gracious compliment. Nonetheless Hacker took Sir Humphrey aside and, in a voice that had not been lowered sufficiently, said: ‘I can’t believe my eyes. What have you come as? Ali Baba?’
I really did find it most awfully funny. Old Humphrey began to explain that when in Rome… and so forth. Hacker wasn’t having any truck with that.
‘This is not Rome, Humphrey,’ he said severely. ‘You look ridiculous.’ This was undeniably true, but Humphrey found it rather wounding to be told. Hacker didn’t let it go at that, either. ‘If you were in Fiji, would you wear a grass skirt?’
Humphrey replied pompously that the Foreign Office took the view that, as the Arab nations are very sensitive people, we should show them whose side we’re on.
Hacker remarked: ‘It may come as a surprise to the Foreign Office, but you are supposed to be on
I decided that their conversation should continue in private, so I interrupted them and told Sir Humphrey that the Soviet Embassy was on the line — a Mr Smirnoff. And then I told Hacker, who was looking distinctly thirsty, that there was a message for him from the British Embassy Compound. The school. A delegation of Teachers.
He brightened up immediately, and, hurrying off, made some dreadful pun about going to greet the Teachers at once, before the Bell’s goes.
