That reminds me

TABLE TALK DENIS BROGAN

Two or three weeks ago I was asked by an American periodical to write an appreciation of Mr Truman, with some estimate of his place in the roll of American Presidents. Inevitably, I was forced to quote the famous and true story of how President Truman kept on his desk a little plaque with the motto 'The buck stops here.' Whether President Johnson still keeps a plaque, 1 do not know : I am not on LBJ's visit- ing list. But there is no doubt that the American people know where the buck stops, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Where does the buck stop with us? At 10 Downing Street? At 11 Downing Street? In the Bank of England? In Treasury Chambers?

The irritation caused by Mr Peter Jay's article in The Times was quite natural, since Mr Jay in- sisted on pinning the responsibility on the inha- bitant of 10Downing Street. But after all it is one thing to run 10 Downing Street on a presidential basis as long as the going is good, but quite another to accept, as Kennedy did after the Bay of Pigs catastrophe, the responsibility for things going very badly indeed. So young Mr Jay is quite naturally odious to Downing Street. His story seemed to me extremely plausible, and when one remembers that he is the son-in-law of Mr Callaghan, one recalls the comment of President Grevy, whose son-in-law Daniel Wilson used the Elysee as a boutique for the sale of decorations and other government favours: 'What a misfortune it is to have a son-in-law!'

The captain and the pilot of our ship of state seem to have reacted in rather different ways. The Chancellor's reaction recalled to me a cele- brated Irish story which may appeal to someone of the name of Callaghan. An English ship was being brought into the harbour of Queenstown (now Cobh) by a pilot who, like all Cork men (cf. George Brown), was a vivacious and dashing character. The English skipper was getting more and more alarmed, but he was reassured, 'Don't worry, sor. I know every rock on this coast.' Bang, bang, bang. 'And, Glory be to God, that's one of them!'

The Prime Minister's reaction seemed to me to recall another and more cheerful Irish story. This tells how a spinster, annoyed as so many Irish spinsters have to be by the non-marrying proclivities of her countrymen, prayed, day by day, before a statue of Saint Antony of Padua

for the gift of a husband. II Santo, as they call him in Padua, did not play up. So in a fit of

rage the spinster threw the statue of the saint out of the window. It landed on the head of a male passer-by who naturally came up and, recovered from the shock, asked what was going

on. The situation was explained to him, and a month later he married the spinster. 11 Santo

had played up after all. I suspect the Prime Minister is an unconscious devotee of Saint Antony.

The reaction to the news of this great national humiliation, for surely it is that, has been rather remarkable. Just as people thought Dunkirk was a victory, many people seem to think, especially on the left of the Labour party, that devaluation in present circumstances is also a victory. We are told of the technical skill with which the operation was carried out. The tech- nical skill of the evacuation of Gallipoli was a masterpiece, but Gallipoli was a defeat. So was Dunkirk. And I wonder how soon it will dawn on the enthusiastic editors of two left-wing

weeklies that we have not got a free hand, we have not escaped from the rule of the gnomes of Zurich, Paris, Frankfurt, etc, and that if the

present rate of exchange is not held, we shall be very much worse off. And if it is to be held, it will have to be held. as the Chancellor pointed out, by cutting down the standard of living of the British people.

The resentment against our creditors and the solvent members of the international community recalls to me a story my father used to tell with a mixture of irritation and amusement. He went to a creditors' meeting (he was a creditor) which was presided over by the local bank manager. The manager began by asking the debtor, 'Well, Mr Clark, to what do you attribute your insol- vency?' To you.' Why me?' Because you wouldn't honour my cheques.'

To change to a less gloomy subject. I have had further adventures, all of them highly dis- concerting, with the refusal of people phoned up to indicate who they are, even if you yourself don't know who has requested you to phone them. I have had three experiences of this kind this week. Then I had to phone to make an appointment at the American embassy. I did not know the extension number, but did know the name of the official I wanted to speak to. I was put through to him in exactly a minute (again phoning from the Reform Club where I had had such a distressing experience with British institutions).

This reminded me of my favourite story of the efficiency and magnanimity of the admir-

able telephonists employed by the American Foreign Service. About twenty years ago I was in Oslo and wanted to get in touch with a girl whom I knew well and whose family I knew extremely well who had married a young man then in the Oslo embassy, but whose name I

could not remember. A baby had arrived and I wanted to see it as I would be seeing its grand- parents in a few weeks' time. I rang the embassy. A young American woman with a pleasant voice (not universal among American women) asked who it was I wanted. 'I want to get in touch with the wife of one of your First Secretaries, but I don't remember her married name. Her maiden name was Madeleine D. However, she is very beautiful.' All the wives of our First Secretaries are beautiful.' I didn't say beautiful : I said very beautiful."Oh, you mean Mrs P.' I did. I have never got such service, or such a magnificent example of female magnanimity, in dealing with any British Foreign Office department.