【Interlude】S01E00.5 Cyril's Diary and Memos (1980.1.19-21)
January 19th, 1980, Saturday | London, Pimlico | Cold, foggy
A Saturday morning, meant for rare repose.
Yet, just past eight, the doorbell rang.
A Cabinet Office courier handed me a sealed document envelope, the seal bearing the unmistakable stamp of the Cabinet Office.
Inside was a secondment order. Concise, efficient, carrying undeniable authority:
"Mr. Cyril Astley, seconded temporarily to the Department of Synergy Coordination (DSC) Establishment Project, to assist in its framework establishment and initial operations. Effective immediately. Responsible Officer: Alistair Cavendish."
Department of Synergy Coordination... The name had already been quietly circulating in the Whitehall corridors for a day, a newborn of hung parliament compromise, its name as awkward as an academic thesis. And I, a young man who had only recently climbed to the rank of Principal on the civil service □□, was being directly seconded to its core establishment team, reporting directly to him.
Legends about him were already whispered among younger civil servants. Not just because of that prominent surname – though that was certainly a topic – but because of his dizzying speed of promotion and the widely circulated stories: how he had reversed an entire project's direction in an Energy Department budget review with a single, meticulously reasoned memo; how he had convinced several Permanent Secretaries, far senior to him, to concede gracefully during a tricky inter-departmental coordination; and his perpetually calm, precise, and seemingly mist-piercing... presence.
And of course, there were the discussions about how he "burnished his silver spoon." There were always those who sourly believed his ascent was due to his birthright, conveniently ignoring that every step he took was built on undeniable merit. I know he... didn't quite care for that title; I'd privately heard it was related to some subtle ostracisation he'd faced earlier in his career due to his aristocratic background. In Whitehall, a silver spoon, if not polished to gold by its owner, could become a burden. And he evidently knew this intimately, forging it into a weapon.
During a brief rotation at the Treasury, I had the privilege of working briefly in a sub-department within his team. I had observed him from a distance several times chairing meetings: quiet, sharp, devoid of superfluous words – like a knife placed steadily on a table, not overtly gleaming, but deterring casual reach. "A silver spoon must be perpetually burnished by golden reports lest it cast an unwelcome glare." From others' mouths, it was a sneer; from his, it sounded like a principle.
Actually, perhaps even earlier, at Balliol College, Oxford, when I was an undergraduate, I had witnessed his composure. He would have been a Treasury official then, responsible for reviewing education spending, visiting the college for an informal consultation, a hearing on the education budget. A small secret: it was that very attendance that ultimately convinced me to apply for the civil service.
But admiration aside, at this moment, I mostly felt apprehension. Seconded to build the framework of an entirely new department? This responsibility was far beyond my current grade.
But "effective immediately."
Weekend shot, pack up, report for duty.
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