【Behind the Scenes】S00E00 Kiln-Fired
The general election results in May 1979, predictably, delivered yet another hung parliament.
Perhaps "predictable" is a touch too assertive; "not entirely unexpected" would be a more precise formulation.
It was "not entirely unexpected" because, after a winter of strikes that the public “affectionately” – or, more accurately, through gritted teeth – christened the “Winter of Discontent,” a shrinking of Labour’s seat count was well within the realm of expectation; the slight surprise lay in the fact that their decline was, remarkably, still respectable. But in any event, Labour’s barely salvaged 301 seats ultimately fell short of a majority, and the teeth-grinding political deadlock of 1974 repeated itself once more.
History, with its characteristic, subtly ironic hand, wrote another chapter: the Conservative leader again failed to persuade Her Majesty the Queen to form a government whilst commanding fewer seats than Labour. Labour, therefore, once more cobbled together a precarious minority government.
This time, however, its lifespan proved far shorter than anticipated.
It couldn't even survive until Christmas of that year, finding itself compelled to knock on the electorate's door again in the biting cold of December.
The exquisite political wisdom in choosing such a time to seek the public’s verdict was, truly, baffling. One can only imagine the profound gratitude those shivering voters must have felt, queueing outside the polling stations.
The outcome?
The outcome, naturally, followed a logical trajectory.
Labour's support plummeted further.
By January 1980, the dust settled.
The Conservatives secured 306 seats, while Labour retreated to 285. For the third time since the smoke of World War II had cleared, Britain was presented with the familiar spectacle of a hung parliament. Evidently, learning from past misfortunes, the newly appointed Conservative Party leader, David Northcote, acted with immediate resolve, determined to join forces with the Liberal Party, which had unexpectedly surged to win 27 seats in this election.
It was Friday, January 18th. The fog had yet to lift, and the chill remained biting.
After a remarkably efficient negotiation – an efficiency that spoke more of necessity than zeal, or rather, no choice – The Right Honourable David Henry Northcote MP, leader of the Conservative Party, and The Right Honourable Richard Hugh Trevelyan MP, leader of the Liberal Party, affixed their signatures to a joint governing agreement.
A Conservative-Liberal coalition cabinet was thus brought into being.
---
---
---
The coalition government's cabinet list was a delicate balancing act, a precise exercise in political equipoise.
The core "red boxes" had to remain firmly in Conservative hands, primarily allocated to the moderate wing, yet also needing to appease the party's reformers. Simultaneously, the Liberal Party required placating and drawing into the fold, especially their rising star – Charles Hyde.
Forty-one years of age, brimming with energy, his mind remarkably agile and unconventional, he commanded rapidly growing prestige within the Liberal Party. Moreover, he possessed an indefinable allure for some Conservative moderates.
He needed a suitable position: one not too significant, lest he threaten the Conservative bedrock; yet not too paltry, lest he offend the Liberal allies; and ideally, one that presented a sufficiently prestigious fa??ade.
Consequently, a new cabinet department was brought into being:
The Department of Synergy Coordination (DSC).
Within the precise yet antiquated machinery of British government, the DSC’s genesis was initially regarded by all right-thinking civil servants as an exquisite political curio presented by Prime Minister Northcote to the Liberal Party.
But, nevertheless – or rather, therefore – it still needed to be fitting out with the full complement of a cabinet department's standard configuration.
And a capable Permanent Secretary was, after all, the standard fitting for any such department.
With unusual celerity, an unusually young name was put forward by the Cabinet Office Secretariat and delivered to the Prime Minister's desk.
---
---
---
No. 10 Downing Street.
The room was shrouded in the winter twilight, the only illumination emanating from the heavy, green-shaded desk lamp, casting a jaundiced glow on the mountains of red despatch boxes.
Prime Minister Northcote's fingertips tapped gently on a slim dossier before him, its edges almost translucent in the lamplight.
Lord Alistair Cavendish, currently Deputy Permanent Secretary at the Department of Energy.
His curriculum vitae was an exemplar of flawlessness; though possessing a mere sixteen years of civil service experience, he had rotated through various core departments and the Cabinet Office, holding numerous key positions, and had even been seconded to No. 10 Downing Street itself. All performance reports uniformly bore the commendation "Exceptional," and his ascent up the civil service □□ had been remarkably swift, attracting considerable attention.
But...
He frowned. "Young, Albert. Too young." The Prime Minister's voice mixed weariness with a prudent wariness of potential political risks. "A thirty-eight-year-old Permanent Secretary? Whitehall, I suspect, may not yet be accustomed to such a… pace."
The coalition government was treading on wafer-thin ice; any appointment risked upsetting a fragile equilibrium.
Sir Albert Sackville, the Cabinet Secretary, sat beside him, his silver-grey temples gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
He leaned slightly forward, his tone even, unruffled. "A young department, young personnel – it forms a certain symmetry, Prime Minister."
"Moreover..." Albert paused, his fingertip resting precisely on the assessment column as his grey-blue eyes looked up. "Lord Cavendish is highly experienced in evaluation, strategic planning, and efficient execution, particularly adept at... coordination and mediation. This Department of Synergy Coordination requires precisely such a helmsman capable of establishing a framework and ensuring it at least... appears to function."
The Prime Minister's gaze scanned the surname "Cavendish," and the lightly appended title "Lord." An aristocratic background was a double-edged sword in the Whitehall civil service: it brought invisible resources but could also invite invisible barriers.
"His background? Will it not..."
"A silver spoon," Sir Albert's gaze remained on the dossier, his tone still unruffled, "must be perpetually burnished by golden reports lest it cast an unwelcome glare. Alistair Cavendish knows this intimately. His advancement, every step, was founded on merit, not the shifting sands of lineage."
He picked up a fountain pen, tapping it lightly on the nomination document. "For prudence' sake, perhaps we could preface the Permanent Secretary's appointment with 'acting'? With a six-month probationary period and a written report."
Sir Albert discreetly provided this promising young man with a dignified buffer, which was also an escape route. It was both protection and probation.
Outside, the glow of Whitehall streetlights flickered through the heavy curtain gaps. The Prime Minister pondered for a moment, his gaze seeming to pierce the night beyond the drapes, then finally picked up his pen and signed his name at the bottom of the document.
The ink bled into a tiny dot on the expensive paper.
Alistair's dossier, and with it his political fate, was thus cast into the kiln firing the exquisite curio that was the "Department of Synergy Coordination."
"Then... let him try, Albert. I hope this 'curio' can at least hold a few flowers that aren't... too prickly."
---
---
---
A cool, modernist living room.
Lines were clean, the sole splash of colour provided by a bookcase of finely bound classical texts by the fireplace and a few abstract prints on the wall.
Alistair, clad in a dark green velvet dressing gown, stood by the window, gazing at the hazy lights of the South Bank across the Thames. He had just concluded an encrypted call with Brussels, discussing the technical details of North Sea oil extraction quotas, a trace of weariness etched on his brow.
The telephone rang, its shrill note slicing through the quiet.
It was the direct line from the Cabinet Office.
"Lord Cavendish." The voice on the other end was dispassionate, official. "Sir Sackville instructs that you have been temporarily seconded to the Cabinet Office, effective immediately. To lead the establishment and initial operations of the newly formed Department of Synergy Coordination. You are appointed as Establishment Project Director. A briefing has been dispatched via secure channel."
The call ended.
Alistair did not move immediately; the windowpane reflected his composed face.
Establishment Project Director for a new department... in the unspoken hierarchy of Whitehall, this was typically the antechamber to the department's Permanent Secretary's seat.
The Department of Synergy Coordination.
A vase of vague duties?
A gilded cage?
Or a... blank canvas, ripe for shaping?
He walked back to his desk and sat down, picking up his fountain pen. The deep emerald ring on his fourth finger glinted with a subtle, reserved light under the lamp.
The pen point dated the memo – 18 January 1980.
Then he fluently wrote out the letters:
"Appointed EPD for the new Dept. of Synergy Coordination.
"Remit: Establish framework and oversee initial operations.
"A sop to the coalition? A placement for Hyde? A potential gilded cage?"
Initial remit vague, budget restricted, susceptible to marginalisation. But vagueness also meant high definitional plasticity, immense potential as an information hub, and marginality offered operational latitude. The key to seizing opportunity lies in establishing initial credibility and an information network...
The pen paused for a breath, then continued:
"Priority: Establish operational credibility. Build information nexus. Survive the initial phase of political irrelevance..."
The elegant script gradually filled two pages, finally concluding:
"The kiln is fired. The vessel's form is yet clay. Opportunity resides in perceived uselessness."
The final period was a little darker, a deliberate blot.
Alistair raised his right hand, reaching for the telephone beside him—
He needed to carefully consider the seconded civil servants...
In the deep London night, Whitehall's gears quietly meshed another cog, bringing with it new, unknown friction and possibility.
The kiln fire, burning softly.
Machine translation apology.
作者有话说
显示所有文的作话
第1章 【Behind the Scenes】S00E00 Kiln-Fired
梦远书城已将原网页转码以便移动设备浏览
本站仅提供资源搜索服务，不存放任何实质内容。如有侵权内容请联系搜狗，源资源删除后本站的链接将自动失效。
推荐阅读