《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, 21st January, 1980 | Pimlico, London | Bitingly cold, dense fog
　　After a frantic day, I finally have time to sit and collect my thoughts, and I hardly know where to begin.
　　Good Lord, today was… a baptism. Not even the winter winds of Whitehall could clear the buzzing in my head.
　　Speaking of wind, when I arrived at the Department of Synergy Coordination building nearly two hours early, the damp cold was bone-deep. The fog was so thick you could taste it, carrying the unique chill of the Thames, seeping right into your marrow. Even in a thick coat, it felt useless.
　　The building was still empty, my footsteps echoing in the corridors. The heating hadn't quite conquered the stubborn cold of the old building, so I quickly called facilities to turn the valves to maximum.
　　After re-checking the to-do list, it was nearly noon by the time I went outside to await the Minister. I stood at the entrance for less than ten minutes before my fingertips were numb, the white puffs of my breath torn to shreds by the wind. I regretted not wearing my overcoat, but it was too late to go back to the office for it. I just prayed the Minister's car would arrive soon so I could escape into the warmth. A civil servant from the adjacent department passed by, bundled up like an arctic explorer, and gave me a look of profound sympathy, probably thinking this young man was risking his life for the sake of appearances—or rather, for a good first impression on the new Minister.
　　The new Minister is The Right Honourable Charles Hyde, a rising star of the Liberal Party, always depicted in the papers as energetic, mercurial, and at times, dangerously unconventional. Would he be difficult to serve? My name was on the PPS candidate list from the Cabinet Office. I hadn't removed myself, and Sir hadn't either, but the final decision rests with him. This job... I hope it works out.
　　Being PPS to a minister of a newly established department is a mix of risk and opportunity. Succeed, and it’s a feather in my cap. Fail, and I’ll likely spend a few years in obscurity in some department’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 helms this new ship, is a rare opportunity.
　　With that thought, I suddenly felt a little warmer, likely a phantom sensation of re-warming after going numb.
　　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 appointee—alright, a new Minister's appointee, I'm still just a PPS candidate—and hurried forward to open his car door. I mentally rehearsed the procedure, praying I wouldn't shiver and make a fool of myself at a critical moment.
　　The Minister in person was more vibrant than his newspaper photos, dressed in a brown wool overcoat. His face bore a trace of fatigue and the solemnity of ceremony, but his eyes, when they swept over me, were sharp, assessing, and curious. My tentative pleasantry, "Good morning, Minister. Or rather, good afternoon?" didn't fall flat. The Minister smiled and extended his hand. A good start.
　　I introduced myself as planned. Perhaps because of the cold, my speech quickened… and he, of course, elided my name. The "Sir Lastly" misunderstanding almost made me laugh out loud, but I managed to keep a straight face. I quickly clarified, naturally explaining the "Sir" convention in the Civil Service, and took the opportunity to mention my status as PPS designate, expressing my hope to serve him. When the Minister said, "I trust we'll get along well," his eyes were serious. This felt good.
　　On the way up to his third-floor office, the Minister told me to call him by his first name. It was affable, but also showed the politician's savvy in quickly building rapport. I said I was more accustomed to addressing a Minister as Minister. Maintaining a respectful but not subservient distance—this was Sir's instruction, and a civil servant's duty.
　　Pushing open the door to the Minister's office, the huge map of Britain I had hung myself on the north wall loomed like a silent, slightly imposing observer, gazing upon this power vacuum yet to be filled. Over the past two days, Sir had led the few of us seconded to the team in a relentless push, barely managing to create the semblance of a department. The efficiency was astonishing, but exhausting.
　　I explained the spartan decor as instructed, mentioning that it could be adjusted to his liking. The Minister's gaze swept the room, assessing, with a touch of novelty. He had no airs, which was a relief. His only specific request was for a large whiteboard in the empty space by the desk. Did this suggest a visual thinker? A man of action? I agreed immediately. He said "a standard arrangement will be fine" for the rest, so not someone overly fastidious about details. Excellent.
　　When introducing the two doors, I opened the annex door and explained its purpose with the standard lines. When I came to the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office, I paused, explaining its function without opening it. The Minister's quip "Lunchtime?" was clearly a probing question. I had to bite the bullet and explain that Sir was collecting his formal letter of appointment—which was true, but it felt like making an excuse for my superior's absence.
　　Even trickier was the issue of titles. When the Minister pressed, "Is it Sir? Or Sir Alistair?" I knew I couldn't evade it. I chose my words carefully, but after speaking, I still couldn't help but shift on the balls of my feet, a little nervous, worried Sir would find out I'd used the "Lord" prefix, even while explaining his dislike of it.
　　And then… the door opened. Sir stood there, a thin file in his hand, his platinum hair unruffled, 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 cold silhouette. I froze instantly. Not because of his appearance, but because of the word the Minister uttered:
　　"Victor?"
　　Where did that name come from?
　　Sir gave me the slightest of nods—a signal for me. I understood at once, held my breath, and tried to melt into the background, to reduce my presence. My heart was pounding against my ribs.
　　The scene that followed was like a meticulously choreographed, yet utterly out-of-control play. The Minister's shock, his fury at being deceived, a volley of accusations 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 the exquisite tautology of "Protocol is the protocol that ensures the red tape is correct...", his posture as elegant as if conducting a high-minded debate, but every phrase silently drew a line of power in the sand.
　　He elevated the Minister's role as helmsman, while defining the civil servant's role as a "necessary part to ensure the carriage runs smoothly." Every sentence was unassailable, yet it was as if he were building an invisible wall between them. The phrase, "Ministerial command is Civil Service writ," sounded like absolute obedience, but in the atmosphere of that moment, it had a programmatic distance.
　　When the Minister angrily demanded 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 avoided a direct answer, instead explaining the department's objective was "Subtle Control," packaging bureaucratic shackles as the art of harmony, and political exile as a central stage, redirecting the Minister's anger from a personal slight to a question of authority.
　　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 Whiteboard & Accessories. To be completed by 14:00."
　　This gave me a direct understanding of what foresight meant. It wasn't about showing off; it was a kind of aesthetic of pressure, compressing uncertainty into the certainty of a foregone conclusion.
　　Before the Minister had even set foot in his office, before he had even made the request of me, Sir had not only anticipated the need but had already arranged for its execution. This level of foresight and control was stunning. The complex expression on the Minister's face as he stared at the schedule... I almost lost control of my own facial muscles.
　　At 13:45, the whiteboard was delivered and installed on time, gleaming and new.
　　I placed it in that reserved space, looked at it, and felt as if I had just lived through a miniature coup.
　　The Minister has shut himself in his office, scribbling something on the whiteboard. Sir is in his own office, processing files as if the morning's conflict 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's Sir. But did Sir deny it? Or is 'Victor' a pseudonym? Did they have a prior acquaintance? In what context? This explains the Minister's shock and sense of betrayal.
　　Sir's foresight, from the placement of the whiteboard to the Minister's every likely reaction, was precise. This isn't just experience; it's as if he has a deep understanding of the Minister himself. What exactly was their previous relationship? I have no idea. I can only observe.
　　But Sir and the Minister clearly have a private relationship, and a rather familiar one, which Sir has demarcated with the most professional—or rather, the most bureaucratic—of lines, even with a sense of deliberate severance. What does this mean for the future functioning of the department? A lubricant, or a landmine?
　　The Minister is no fool. His instincts are sharp, and his unwillingness to be manipulated is palpable. His anger when calling Sir 'Victor' was real. This suggests he will not easily accept being 'subtly controlled'.
　　Sir's control is profound. His anticipation of detail and his command of the situation 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 words, "It provides a stage, a... focal point," the metaphor is hard to ignore. I just don't know for whom it is a cage, and for whom it is a stage. Or perhaps, both?
　　The dust has settled—for now. My fingers are finally warm, but my head is still buzzing. Tomorrow, I have to assist the Minister with that meeting report. I hope this ship, the DSC, can navigate these initial turbulent waters under Sir's command. At least, with him at the helm, the ship won't sink. Of that, I'm confident.
　　I must now go and confirm the briefing materials for tomorrow's internal departmental meeting. The slightest oversight, in this delicate opening phase, could be magnified.