1、[Behind the Scenes] S00E00 Kiln-Fired ...
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[Behind the Scenes] S00E00 Kiln-Fired
The result of the May 1979 general election was, predictably, another hung parliament.
Perhaps ‘predictable’ is a touch too decisive. A more fitting description would be ‘not entirely unexpected’.
It was ‘not entirely unexpected’ because, after a strike season that the public had affectionately—or rather, through gritted teeth—dubbed the ‘Winter of Discontent’, a reduction in Labour's seats was well within the realm of possibility. The mild surprise was that the scale of this shrinkage was, in fact, rather decent. Regardless, the 301 seats Labour clung to were still short of a majority, and the galling political stalemate of 1974 was reenacted.
History, with its characteristic, faintly mocking flourish, wrote itself anew: the Conservative leader once again failed to persuade Her Majesty to form a government while holding fewer seats than Labour; thus, Labour once again formed a rickety minority government.
Only this time, its lifespan was far shorter than anticipated.
It failed even to survive that year's Christmas, finding itself forced to knock on the electorate's door once more in the biting winds of December.
The exquisite political wisdom of seeking a popular mandate at such a time of year was, frankly, baffling. It is not difficult to imagine the depth of gratitude welling in the hearts of the shivering voters queuing at the polling stations.
The result?
The result, naturally, was logical.
Labour’s support slipped further.
January 1980. The dust settled.
The Conservatives had secured 306 seats, while Labour had retreated to 285. For the third time since the smoke of the Second World War had cleared, Britain faced the familiar tableau of a hung parliament. Evidently, with the lessons of the past fresh in his mind, the newly ascendant Conservative leader, David Northcote, acted decisively, resolving to join hands with the Liberal Party, which had surged unexpectedly in this election to seize 27 seats.
On Friday, the 18th of January, with the fog yet to lift and the chill still biting, a coalition agreement was signed.
After a round of remarkably efficient negotiations—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, signed a coalition agreement.
A cabinet governed jointly by the Conservatives and the Liberals was born.
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The coalition's cabinet list was a game of meticulous balancing.
The core red boxes had to be held firmly in Conservative hands, primarily by the moderates, but the voices of the party's reformist wing also needed to be balanced. Simultaneously, it was necessary to appease and court their Liberal allies, especially that rising star of the Liberal Party—Charles Hyde.
Forty-one years old, energetic, his mind mercurial, and his reputation within the Liberal Party growing by the day. He even held a certain indefinable attraction for the Conservative moderates.
He needed a suitable position. Not so important as to threaten the Conservative foundation; not so shabby as to infuriate their Liberal allies; and preferably, it ought to look sufficiently prestigious.
And so, a new cabinet department was born:
The Department of Synergy Coordination.
Within the precise and antiquated machinery of the British government, the DSC's birth was initially seen by all civil servants as an exquisite political vase, offered by Prime Minister Northcote to the Liberal Party.
But, nevertheless—or rather, therefore—it was all the more necessary for it to be fitted out with the full accoutrements befitting a cabinet department.
And a capable Permanent Secretary is a standard fitting for every department.
With unusual speed, an unusually young name was nominated by the Cabinet Office Secretariat and placed before the Prime Minister.
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Number 10, Downing Street.
The room was veiled in the winter twilight, the sole source of light a heavy green-shaded lamp on the desk, casting a jaundiced halo upon the stacked red boxes.
Prime Minister Northcote’s fingertips tapped lightly on the thin file before him, the paper's edge rendered almost transparent by the lamplight.
Lord Alistair Cavendish, currently Deputy Permanent Secretary at the Department of Energy.
A paragon of an unimpeachable career. Though with only sixteen years of service as a civil servant, he had rotated through all the core departments as well as the Cabinet Office, held numerous key posts, and had even been seconded to No. 10. His performance reviews were uniformly stamped ‘Exceptional’, and his ascent through the ranks of the Civil Service had been disconcertingly swift.
Only…
"Young, Albert. Too young."
The Prime Minister’s voice was a mixture of fatigue and a cautious assessment of potential political risk.
"A Permanent Secretary of thirty-eight? I doubt Whitehall has had time to grow accustomed to that rhythm."
The coalition government was treading on thin ice; any appointment could upset the fragile balance.
The Cabinet Secretary, Sir Albert Sackville, sat nearby, his silvered temples glinting in the lamplight.
He leaned forward slightly, his tone steady. "A young department, a young man. It creates a certain symmetry, Prime Minister."
"Furthermore..." Sir Albert paused, his fingertip resting on the evaluation section, his grey-blue eyes lifting from behind his spectacles, "Cavendish possesses extensive experience in assessment, strategic planning, and efficient execution. He is particularly adept at coordination and mediation. This Department of Synergy Coordination requires precisely such a helmsman, one who can erect the framework and, at the very least… ensure it appears to function."
The Prime Minister’s gaze swept over the surname ‘Cavendish’, and the understated title of ‘Lord’ that followed. An aristocratic background was a double-edged sword in the Civil Service: it brought intangible resources, but it could also invite invisible barriers.
"His background? Might it not be..."
"A silver spoon..." Sir Albert's gaze returned to the file. "...must be perpetually burnished by golden reports lest it cast an unwelcome glare. Alistair Cavendish is well versed in this art. His promotion, every step of it, has been founded on the bedrock of merit, not the shifting sands of lineage."
He picked up his fountain pen and tapped it lightly on the nomination paper. "To be safe, perhaps we might add the word 'acting' before his appointment as Permanent Secretary? With a six-month evaluation period, to be reported in writing."
Sir Albert had deftly provided a respectable buffer for this promising young man, which served as both protection and probation.
Outside, the glow of Whitehall's streetlamps flickered in the gap of the curtains.
The Prime Minister considered for a moment, his gaze seeming to pierce the night beyond the drapes. Finally, he took his pen and signed his name at the bottom of the document.
The ink bled into a full stop on the paper.
And Alistair’s file, along with his political fate, was thus cast into the kiln that fired that exquisite vase.
"Then... let him have a try, Albert. Let us hope this vase can, at the very least, hold a few flowers... that are not too thorny."
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A sitting room of cool, minimalist style.
Clean lines, the only colour coming from a shelf of handsomely bound classical literature by the fireplace and several abstract prints on the wall.
Alistair, dressed in a dark green velvet dressing gown, stood at the window, gazing at the hazy lights of the South Bank across the Thames. He had just concluded a patched call with Brussels, discussing the technical details of an emergency crude oil reserve coordination and information-sharing mechanism. A trace of weariness lingered on his brow.
The ring of a telephone shattered the silence.
It was the direct line from the Cabinet Office.
"Lord Alistair Cavendish." The voice on the other end was businesslike. "Sir Albert Sackville instructs that you are to be temporarily seconded to the Cabinet Office, effective immediately. You will spearhead the establishment of the framework and initial operations for the newly created Department of Synergy Coordination, and are appointed Preparatory Unit Head. The relevant briefing has been dispatched via secure channels."
The line went dead.
Alistair did not move immediately, his calm face reflected in the windowpane.
Head of a new department's preparatory unit. On the unspoken □□ of Whitehall, this was usually the antechamber to the throne of that department's Permanent Secretary.
The Department of Synergy Coordination.
A vaguely defined vase?
A gilded cage?
Or… a blank canvas to be shaped?
He returned to his desk and sat down, picking up a fountain pen. The deep emerald ring on his fourth finger caught the lamplight with a reserved gleam.
The nib touched the memo pad, dating it—18 January 1980.
Then, in a fluid script, the letters flowed:
"Appointed PUH for the new Dept. of Synergy Coordination.
"Remit: Establish framework and oversee initial operations.
"A sop to the coalition? A sinecure for Hyde? A potential gilded cage?"
Its initial remit was vague, its budget constrained, easily marginalised. Yet vagueness also implied high plasticity in its definition; its potential as an information nexus was immense; its marginality offered operational latitude. The key to seizing the opportunity lay in establishing initial credibility and an information network...
The nib paused for a beat, then continued downwards:
"Priority: Establish operational credibility. Build information nexus. Survive the initial phase of political irrelevance..."
The elegant cursive gradually filled two pages, finally concluding:
"The kiln is fired. The vessel's form is yet clay. Opportunity resides in perceived uselessness."
The final full stop was a fraction darker.
Alistair raised his right hand, reaching for the telephone beside him—
He needed to consider his seconded staff with care, starting with…
In the deep London night, the gears of Whitehall quietly engaged another cog, bringing with it a new, unknown friction and potential.
The kiln fire burned, silent.
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第1章 [Behind the Scenes] S00E00 Kiln-Fired
