《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

5、【Interlude】S01E00.5 Cyril's Diary and Memos (1980.1.19-21)

　　Monday, 21 January 1980 | Pimlico, London | Bitingly cold, with a thick fog
　　After a day of sheer chaos, I finally have a moment to collect my thoughts, though I scarcely know where to begin.
　　My God, today was… a baptism by fire. Not even the Whitehall winter wind could clear the buzzing in my head.
　　Speaking of the wind, arriving at the DSC building nearly two hours early, the damp cold was bone-deep. The fog was thick enough to chew, carrying that unique, grim chill of the Thames straight into one's marrow. Even in a thick overcoat, it felt useless.
　　The building was still empty, my footsteps echoing in the corridors. The heating had yet to fully defeat the stubborn cold of the old structure, so I immediately called estates to turn the valves to maximum.
　　After double-checking the to-do list, I went outside to await the Minister. It was nearing midday, but after standing at the entrance for less than ten minutes, my fingertips were already numb, and the white plumes of my breath were instantly torn apart by the wind. I regretted not wearing my heaviest coat, but it was too late to go back for it. I could only hope the Minister's car would arrive soon, so I could escape into the warmth. A civil servant from a neighbouring department passed by, wrapped up like an Arctic explorer. He gave me a look of deep sympathy, probably thinking this young man was risking his life for the sake of 'propriety'—or rather, to make a good impression on his new Minister.
　　The new Minister was The Right Honourable Charles Hyde, the Liberal rising star. The papers always portrayed him as energetic, mercurial, at times with a… dangerously unconventional streak. I wondered if he would be difficult to work for. My name was on the Cabinet Office's PPS list; I hadn't screened myself out, and neither had Sir, but the final decision was his. This job… I hoped it would work out.
　　To be Principal Private Secretary to a Minister of a new department was a case of risk and reward in equal measure. Succeed, and it's a fine addition to one's record. Fail, and I'd likely spend several years in obscurity in some ministry's records office. But more importantly, the chance to work under Sir, especially from the ground up in a new department, to learn at close quarters how he would captain this new ship, was a rare opportunity.
　　The thought warmed me slightly—though it was probably just the illusion of warmth that follows numbness.
　　At 11:08, the black Jaguar finally arrived, a little later than scheduled, but at least I hadn't frozen solid on the steps of Downing Street. I took a deep breath, suppressed the nerves of a new appointment—well, the Minister's new appointment; I was still just a candidate—and hurried forward to open his door, mentally running through the protocol and praying I wouldn't make a fool of myself by shivering at a crucial moment.
　　The Minister was more vibrant in person than in his newspaper photographs, dressed in a brown wool overcoat. His face showed a touch of weariness from the day's ceremonies, but when his eyes swept over me, they were sharp, assessing, and curious. My tentative pleasantry, "Good morning, Minister. Or rather, good afternoon?" did not, it seems, fall flat. The Minister smiled and extended his hand. A good start.
　　I delivered my planned introduction, perhaps a little too quickly, hurried by the cold. He naturally misheard my name, and the "Sir Relahstlee" misunderstanding almost made me laugh. I managed to keep a straight face, clarified, and explained the convention of 'Sir' in the Civil Service, smoothly mentioning my role as PPS designate. When the Minister said he was sure we would get along, his eyes were serious. It felt promising.
　　On the way up to his third-floor office, the Minister was affable, asking me to call him by his first name, but it had the politician's knack for rapidly closing distance. I demurred, saying I was more comfortable addressing him as Minister. Poised but not obsequious. That was Sir's instruction, and a civil servant's duty.
　　Pushing open the door to his office, the vast map of Britain I had hung myself on the north wall looked on like a silent, slightly imposing observer of this yet-to-be-filled power vacuum. Sir had worked our small seconded team to the bone for the past two days to get even this basic shell of a department in place. The efficiency was staggering, but so was the exhaustion.
　　As instructed, I explained the reason for the spartan decor and mentioned it could be adjusted to his liking. The Minister's gaze swept the room, assessing and intrigued. He had no airs, which was a relief. His only specific request was for a large wipe-clean board in the empty space by his desk. Did this suggest he was a visual thinker? A man of action? I agreed immediately. He was content for the rest to be 'arranged according to standard practice', so not a man to fuss over details, which was good.
　　When I came to the two doors, I opened the annex and explained its purpose. But at the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office, I paused, stating its function without opening it. The Minister's quip, "Lunchtime?", was clearly a probe. I had to steel myself and explain that Sir was collecting his formal instrument of appointment—true enough, but it felt like making an excuse for my superior's absence.
　　The issue of his title was trickier. When the Minister pressed, "Is it Sir? Or Sir Alistair?", I knew there was no avoiding it. I chose my words carefully, but even so, I found myself shifting onto the balls of my feet, nervous that Sir would find out I'd used the 'Lord' prefix, even in the context of explaining his dislike for it.
　　And then… the door opened. Sir was standing there, holding a thin document, his platinum-blonde hair immaculate, the charcoal herringbone three-piece suit looking as if it were moulded to him. The faint winter light from the corridor window behind him outlined his figure in a cool silhouette. I froze. Not because of his arrival, but because of the word that escaped the Minister's lips:
　　"Victor?"
　　Victor? Where did that come from?
　　Sir gave me the slightest of nods—the signal. I understood at once, held my breath, and tried to shrink into the background, my heart hammering against my ribs.
　　What followed was like a meticulously choreographed play that had spun completely out of control. The Minister's shock, his fury at being deceived, a volley of questions hurled at Sir. He called Sir 'my dear Observer', 'my dear Lord', 'Lord Cavendish', his words laced with gunpowder and sarcasm.
　　Sir's defence was watertight. He parried the attacks with that exquisite tautology of "Protocol is the protocol that ensures the red tape is correct...", his posture as elegant as if he were engaged in a high-minded debate, yet every syllable silently drew a boundary of power.
　　He elevated the Minister's role as 'helmsman' while defining the civil servant's role as a 'necessary part' ensuring the carriage stays on its path. Every sentence was impeccable, yet each one built another brick in the invisible wall between them. The phrase "Minister command is Civil Service writ" sounded like absolute obedience, but in that atmosphere, it carried the chill of programmatic distance.
　　When the Minister angrily demanded to know if the department was a 'gilded cage', something flickered in the depths of Sir's grey-green eyes, so fleeting I almost thought I'd imagined it. He skilfully sidestepped a direct answer, instead redefining the department's purpose as 'Subtle Control'. The shackles of bureaucracy were repackaged as the art of harmony; political exile was beautified as a centre-stage showcase. He had masterfully redirected the Minister's personal anger into a question of authority.
　　And when the Minister sarcastically suggested his authority might extend only to ordering a whiteboard, Sir produced the draft schedule. The first item: 'Finalise & Execute: Ministerial Office Layout Adjustment - Item: Ordering & Installation of Wipe-Clean Board & Accessories. By 14:00.'
　　I understood, for the first time, the true meaning of pre-emption. It wasn't a display of brilliance, but an aesthetic of dominance, compressing uncertainty into the certainty of fait accompli.
　　Before the Minister had even set foot in the office, before he had even made his request to me, Sir had not only anticipated the need but had already scheduled its execution. The foresight and control were breathtaking. I barely managed to keep my own expression neutral as I watched the Minister stare at the schedule, his face a complex mask of having been utterly seen through.
　　At 13:45, the whiteboard was delivered and installed, gleaming and new.
　　I placed it in the reserved space and looked at it, feeling as if I'd just witnessed a miniature coup.
　　The Minister has shut himself in his office, scribbling something on the board. Sir is in his own office, processing files as if the morning's confrontation never happened. I sit at my desk in the Private Office, sorting papers, my mind replaying their conversation.
　　Who is 'Victor'? The Minister clearly knows someone by that name and is convinced it is Sir. But did Sir deny it? Or is 'Victor' some alias? Had they met before? In what context? It would explain the Minister's shock and sense of betrayal.
　　Sir's foresight, from the placement of the board to every likely reaction from the Minister, was perfectly calculated. This is more than experience; it suggests a deep understanding of the Minister himself. What exactly was their prior relationship? I know nothing of it, and can only observe.
　　But Sir and the Minister clearly have a personal history, and a familiar one at that, which Sir has now cordoned off in the most professional—or rather, the most bureaucratic—manner possible, almost with a deliberate act of severance. What does this mean for the department's future? A lubricant, or a landmine?
　　The Minister is no fool. His instincts are sharp, and his refusal to be managed is palpable. His anger when he called Sir 'Victor' was real. It signals he will not easily accept being 'subtly controlled'.
　　Sir's command is profound. His anticipation of detail and his guidance of the scene are awe-inspiring. That whiteboard, that schedule—they were a silent declaration.
　　A gilded cage? Watching the Minister stand in the middle of his empty office, looking at that new whiteboard, and recalling Sir's phrase, "It provides a stage, a... focal point," the metaphor is hard to ignore. I just don't know for whom the cage, and for whom the stage. Or perhaps they are one and the same.
　　The dust has settled—for now. My fingers are finally warm, but my head is still buzzing. Tomorrow I have to help the Minister prepare for that briefing. I hope this ship called the DSC, with Sir at the helm, can navigate these initial stormy waters without hitting an iceberg. At least, with him in charge, the ship won't sink. Of that, I'm confident.
　　I must go and check the briefing papers for tomorrow's internal meeting. In this delicate opening, the slightest oversight could be magnified.