They will be found, in the majority of cases, quiet and deferential men, but without the quality of speech (and I speak only of speech) which among the English people is known as “gammon”, and among Irish people as “blarney”. This manner is common to many: to the established trainer of racehorses for instance, who is in constant communication with persons in a very superior position in life to his own, and to whom he is exceedingly deferential. But the trainer feels that in all points connected with his not very easy business, as well, perhaps, as in general turf knowingness, his royal highness (as was the case once), or his grace, or my lord, or Sir John, was inferior to himself: and so with all his deference there mingles a strain of quiet contempt, or rather, perhaps, of conscious superiority.
Henry Mayhew
CHAPTER 38 THE PRESENTATION IN MAIN BUILDING
Harold Lattimer, The Secretary of State for Defence, strode down the corridor in what he knew was a purposeful and decisive manner. “Ummmm” he looked at the flunky, following just behind his left shoulder “So what is it now?” Hopefully the flunky would be impressed by his carefully coiffed silver temples.
“You're meeting with Charles Damant in your office before going to the Aurora presentation Sir.”
“In the Pepys?” Lattimer meant the conference room next to his office with light beige walls and the portrait. Samuel Pepys himself looking petulant. As though he wanted to leave the gold frame, and tidy papers on the blond wood table.
“No Sir. It's in one of the historic rooms, the...”
“Ah yes, um..” He had forgotten the Flunky's name “Thank you.”
When Harold Lattimer became Secretary of State for Defence, he fondly imagined an office on the top floor of Main Building. From here he'd look down on Parliament and plan his next move up the greasy pole.
But Security said he had to have an office much lower down. Some nonsense about people looking through windows or dropping mortar shells on the roof. Of course, people had once tried to mortar Number Ten. Anyway, he was at the south end of the building. He could look left over the Thames towards the London Eye Ferris wheel. He could look right over Whitehall, and Horseguards Parade to where trees hid Buckingham Palace.
Those views were OK. But all he could see of Parliament was Big Ben above the pinnacles of Old Scotland Yard.
It seemed however high you climbed there were always rules to follow. Set by some committee long ago, but still followed, just in case.
Another flunky opened the outer office door and his PA stood up with a file in her hand, as though she wanted Harold Lattimer to look at it. But she was ignored as he strode past, into his own office.
“Right Charles. I've seen the PM and it seems all the spin doctors and focus groups and old women with crystal balls all agree it has to be the Aurora.”
“Good God.” The Minister of State for the Armed Forces, Charles Damant tried to be surprised, though it was rumoured for months. Hadn't Harold heard them? Did it show he was out of touch? It happened. Once you had enough authority and influence, people didn't want to upset you. They said what they thought you wanted to hear, not what was really happening.
“Yes. Good God indeed.” said Harold. “Bloody daft. But it seems it will provide loads of jobs up north. And jobs mean votes.”
“But there could be trouble with the Defence Staff,” said Charles “if they don't get a decent working system.”
“The PM knows that. Of course he does.” said Harold “But by the time this lot comes to success or failure we will be long gone and someone else can pick up the pieces. And buy American off the shelf. Any way, be nice to this lot, We have to work with them. I've got their photo's here. That is Sir James Walter, the chairman. This is Joe Hebron of course, and this is Alex Holder who invented the thing. The rest don't matter.”
“Do they know they have it in the bag?”
“God no. Nothings definite. Even if Edith Presbury says it is. She's as mad as that bloody dog of hers.”
“She won't be bringing her dog will she?” asked Charles.
“God no. She'll have some sycophantic little girl with her. Research assistant or something.”
“Ah. Is that what they call it now.”
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