January 21st, 1980, Monday | London, Pimlico | Biting cold, thick fog
After a busy day, I finally have time to collect my thoughts, and for a moment, I don't know where to begin writing.
God, today was truly... a baptism of fire. Not even Whitehall's winter wind could clear the buzzing from my head.
Speaking of the wind, arriving at the Department of Synergy Coordination building nearly two hours early, that damp cold was truly bone-chilling. The fog was thick and clinging, carrying the Thames' unique damp chill, piercing straight to the bone. Even wrapped in a thick overcoat, I felt helpless.
The building was still empty, footsteps echoing in the corridor; the heating seemed to have not yet fully conquered the stubborn chill within this old building, so I immediately informed logistics to turn the heating valves to maximum.
After rechecking the schedule, I managed to get outside just before noon to await the Minister's arrival, but after standing by the building entrance for less than ten minutes, my fingertips were already numb with cold, and my breath instantly torn apart by the biting wind. I regretted not wearing a thicker overcoat, but it was too late to go back to my office to retrieve it; I just prayed the Minister's car would arrive soon so I could get back inside to the warmth. A civil servant from an adjacent department walked past, wrapped like an Eskimo, giving me a look of profound sympathy, probably thinking this young man was risking his life for "decorum" – or rather, for a good first impression on the new Minister.
The new Minister is The Right Honourable Charles Hyde MP, a rising star of the Liberal Party. Newspapers always portray him as energetic, unconventional in his thinking, and at times even a little... dangerously unorthodox. I wonder if he'll be a difficult master? My name is on the Cabinet Office's PPS candidate shortlist; I didn't remove myself, and Sir didn't remove me either, but the final decision rests with him. This post... I hope it works out.
Being Principal Private Secretary to a Minister of a newly established department is a mix of risk and opportunity. Success means a feather in my cap; failure probably means I'll languish in obscurity for years in some departmental archive. But more importantly, it's a rare opportunity to work under Sir, especially in a new department from scratch, to learn firsthand how he will steer this new vessel.
Thinking this, I suddenly felt a little warmer – probably a post-numbness warmth hallucination.
At 11:08, the black Austin official car finally arrived, a little later than scheduled, but at least I hadn't frozen solid at the gates of Downing Street. I took a deep breath, suppressing the slight nervousness of a new appointment – well, the new Minister's appointment, I was still only a PPS candidate – and swiftly went to open his car door. I mentally rehearsed the procedure, praying not to shiver and embarrass myself at a crucial moment.
The Minister himself seemed more vibrant than his newspaper photographs, wearing a brown wool overcoat. His face showed a touch of fatigue and the solemnity of the ceremony, but that pair of eyes, when they swept over me, were sharp, scrutinising, and curious. My well-judged, tentative humour, "Good morning, Minister. Or rather, good afternoon?" seemed not to fall flat; the Minister smiled and even extended his hand. A good start.
I introduced myself as planned. Probably due to the cold, I unconsciously sped up my words... and he did conflate my names. The "Sir Relahstlee" misunderstanding almost made me laugh aloud; thankfully, I held it in. I quickly clarified, naturally explaining the civil service rules for the "Sir" appellation, then smoothly mentioned my status as a PPS designate, expressing my desire to serve him. When the Minister said "I trust we'll get along well," his eyes were serious. That felt good.
On the way up to his third-floor office, the Minister let me call him by his first name, very amiable, but it also carried that politician's distinctive knack for quickly building rapport. I said I was more comfortable addressing him as Minister. Maintaining a balanced demeanour – neither servile nor arrogant – was Sir's requirement, and a civil servant's duty.
Pushing open the Minister's office door, the large map of Britain I had personally hung on the north wall hung there, like a silent, somewhat stern observer, watching this power vacuum awaiting its filling. For the past two days, Sir had worked us, a small seconded team, non-stop, to merely get a semblance of a department. His efficiency was astounding, but we were utterly exhausted.
I explained the minimalist setup as instructed, mentioning it could be adjusted to his preferences. The Minister's gaze swept the room, scrutinising, yet with a touch of novelty. He was not pretentious, which was a relief. His only specific request was for a large wipe-clean board in the vacant area next to his desk. Did this suggest he was a visual, active thinker? A "man of action"? I immediately agreed. He said "a standard arrangement will be fine" for the rest of the layout, so it seemed he wasn't overly particular about details, which was good.
When introducing the two doors, I opened the annex door and explained its purpose according to the standard script. Reaching the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office, I paused, merely stating its purpose without opening it. The Minister's jibe of "Lunchtime?" carried a clear undertone of probing. I had to grit my teeth and explain that Sir had gone to collect his formal instrument of appointment – which was true, but it felt like making excuses for my superior's absence.
More problematic was the issue of titles. When the Minister pressed, "Is it Sir? Or Sir Alistair?" I knew there was no avoiding it. I chose my words carefully, but after speaking, I couldn't help but subtly shift onto the balls of my feet, a little nervous, afraid Sir would know I had used the "Lord" prefix, even while explaining his dislike for it.
And then... at that moment, the door opened. Sir stood there, holding a thin document, his platinum-blonde hair perfectly in place, and the charcoal herringbone three-piece suit fit him as if it had grown on him. The weak winter light from the corridor window behind him cast a stark, cool outline around his figure. I froze instantly. Not because of his presence, but because of the word that burst from the Minister's lips:
"Victor?"
Victor? This appellation? From where?
Sir nodded almost imperceptibly at me – that was my signal. I immediately understood, held my breath, and shrank into the background, trying hard to fade into the background. My heart pounded beneath my ribs.
The ensuing scene was like a perfectly staged play that had gone utterly off-script. The Minister's shock, his betrayed anger, a barrage of questions like hailstones pelting Sir. He called Sir "my dear Observer," "my dear Lord," "Lord Cavendish," his words laced with venom and sarcasm. I had never seen anyone dare speak to Sir like that.
Sir's response was a textbook example of civil service artistry: calm, precise, and watertight. He deflected the attacks with his exquisite tautologies – "Protocol is the protocol that ensures the red tape is correct; red tape is the red tape that ensures the protocol is observed" – his posture as elegant as if engaged in a high-minded debate, but between the lines, he was silently delineating the boundaries of power.
He extolled the Minister's role as "helmsman," then defined the civil servant's role as "necessary parts" ensuring the carriage runs smoothly. Every sentence was unassailable, yet seemed to build an invisible high wall between them. That line, "Minister command is Civil Service writ," sounded like absolute deference, but in that atmosphere, it carried a cold, programmatic distance.
When the Minister angrily questioned if the department was a "gilded cage," something seemed to flicker almost imperceptibly in the depths of Sir's grey-green eyes, vanishing instantly; I almost thought I'd imagined it. He skilfully sidestepped a direct answer, instead explaining the department's goal as "Subtle Control." Bureaucratic shackles packaged as the art of harmony, political exile glorified as centre stage, diverting the Minister's anger from personal affront to a questioning of authority.
When the Minister sarcastically suggested his authority might extend only to ordering a whiteboard, Sir... he produced that draft schedule, and the first item: "Finalise & Execute: Ministerial Office Layout Adjustment - Item: Ordering & Installation of Wipe-Clean Board & Accessories. By 14:00."
I had my first direct, intuitive understanding of "pre-emption." It wasn't a display of prowess, but an aesthetic of oppression, compressing uncertainty into the certainty of "fait accompli."
Before the Minister had even entered the office, before he had even made his request to me, Sir had not only anticipated the need but had pre-arranged its execution. This foresight and control... it was awe-inspiring. Watching the Minister's complex expression – a mix of shock, absurdity, and being utterly seen through – as he stared at the schedule, I nearly lost control of my facial muscles.
At 13:45, the whiteboard was delivered and installed precisely on schedule, gleaming like new.
I placed it in the reserved empty space. Looking at it, it felt like a miniature coup d'état.
The Minister had shut himself in his office, sketching something on the whiteboard. Sir, meanwhile, was in his own office, processing documents as if the morning's conflict had never occurred. I sat at the Private Office desk, sorting documents, but my mind kept replaying those dialogues.
Who is "Victor"? The Minister clearly knows someone by this name, and is convinced it's Sir. But did Sir deny it? Or is "Victor" some... alias of Sir's? Did they have prior interactions? In what capacity? This explains the Minister's shock and sense of betrayal.
Sir's prescience is impenetrable. From the whiteboard's placement to the Minister's every possible reaction, he anticipated it precisely. This isn't just experience; it's more like a deep understanding of the Minister himself. What is their past relationship? I know nothing, I can only observe.
But Sir and the Minister clearly have a private acquaintance, and quite a familiar one, yet this relationship has been delineated by Sir in the most professional – or rather, most bureaucratic – manner, even with a hint of deliberate severance. What does this mean for the department's future operation? A lubricant or a landmine?
The Minister is no ordinary man. His sharpness, intuition, and fierce unwillingness to be manipulated are very apparent. His anger when he called Sir "Victor" was genuine, indicating he wouldn't easily accept being "subtly controlled."
Sir's control is unfathomable. His anticipation of details and his orchestration of the scene are awe-inspiring. That whiteboard, that schedule, is a silent declaration.
A gilded cage? Watching the Minister stand in the middle of the empty office, looking at the brand-new whiteboard, and recalling Sir's line, "It provides a stage, a focal point"... this metaphor is truly hard to ignore. I just don't know for whom it is a cage, and for whom a stage? Or both?
The dust has settled – for now. My fingertips have finally warmed up, but my mind is still buzzing. Tomorrow, I still have to assist the Minister with that meeting report. I hope this ship named DSC, under Sir's helmsmanship, can navigate the choppy waters of its maiden voyage, and not... collide directly with an iceberg. At least, with him at the helm, this ship won't sink. I still have that much faith.
I need to quickly confirm the briefing materials for tomorrow's internal departmental meeting. The slightest oversight, in such a delicate opening phase, could be magnified.
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