Personal column
Humphry Berkeley
t have never found it possible to like Edward Heath or even, hitherto, to admire him. I have often criticised him, in public, in terms which some have considered over-harsh. It is, therefore, in some ways ironic that I should praise him after he has been deposed. On Tuesday February 11 Margaret Thatcher was elected as Leader of the Conservative Party. This was not, I imagine, Heath's most happy day. On that evening the Queen gave an evening party at Buckingham Palace to which almost all my journalist friends seem to have been invited. Mr Heath was invited as well although, when he accepted the royal invitation, he could hardly have foreseen what a significant day February 11 would become in his life. Royal protocol would doubtless forbid a last minute refusal, especially from the Queen's former first Minister. Many people would have invented a last minute illness in order to spend the bitter moment in private. Heath turned up. I hope that I would have had the courage to do the same.
Who governs?
The matter of the Crossman diaries and the recent leakage of discussion within the last Conservative Government about the Queen's private fortune have drawn attention to the disturbing power of civil servants. It was Sir John Hunt, the Secretary to the Cabinet, and not the Prime Minister or any politician, who attempted to prevent the publication of extracts from Crossman's diaries until they had been suitably censored. I am delighted that Harold Evans decided to defy this attempted ban but why should Sir John try to act as censor at all? On the question of the Queen's money the Prime Minister was unable to confirm or deny the accuracy of the leak because the Labour Administration is forbidden access to the Cabinet papers of its Conservative predecessor. I was once told by a Permanent Secretary of a government department that, on a change of government, the civil servants quickly withdraw all papers connected with political decisions before the incoming minister arrives. Since there is no tradition of an outgoing Prime Minister briefing his successor, this task it left to the civil servants in the Cabinet Office and at Number 10. The open warfare between civil servants and political advisers was vividly described by Lady Falkender in her book Inside No. 10. I have a nasty feeling that the civil servants have remained on top as anonymous manipulators of their temporary political 'masters'. Certainly, everything that has appeared in Dick Crossman's diary so far suggests that this is so.
Business lunches
Luncheon ought to be a civilised meal but seldom is. As a managing director of an overseas investment company, I find myself committed almost every day to what is called a 'working lunch'. On the face of it I appear to be fortunate. I go either as host of guest to one of a number of restaurants where I could not afford to eat regularly if I had to pay the bill myself. We have (my host or guest and I) a ritual gin and tonic or another aperitif. We then eat a rather larger meal than either of us needs, accompanied by a ritual bottle of wine. We have an obligatory fifteen minutes of social chitchat before we can bring ourselves to talk about the business that we need to discuss. Then it is business all the way until we part an hour and a half after we have met. Some would call this a perk but I would rather have a sandwich and read a newspaper.
American lunches
All meals in the United States are unpredictable but none more than lunch. I have had board room lunches where the dry martinis have been such as to put you under the table after the second glass. One lunch I particularly remember in Washington in August. It was in 1965 when I was a Member of Parliament. I spent the morning in the Pentagon and the Department of State discussing, for the most part, the increasing and alarming involvement of the United States in the war in Vietnam. The climate in Washington during August is worse than that of Lagos, Khartoum, Jeddah, Kuwait or anywhere else where I have ever been. Soaked to the skin in sweat and dry in the mouth, I arrived at the private dining room of the Secretary of State, where 1 was to lunch alone with the Under Secretary of State for African Affairs. He received me cordially and asked me to sit down at a large table laid for two. His words of greeting were most welcome: "Will you have a cocktail?"
My mind roamed fleetingly but lovingly around various enticing concoctions (the Americans make the best cocktails in the world). Should I have a dry martini on the rocks, ice-cold and fortifying, a Manhattan; a richer, sweeter brew but no less refreshing, or an Old Fashioned — I was brought back to earth. "We can offer you" said my host reading from a menu, "a lobster, oyster, or prawn cocktail." I mumbled an indifferent reply. My spirits temporarily rose when he said "what about a beverage?" Perhaps this was a Americanism with which I was unfamiliar, I hopefully said "That would be lovely." "We have coffee or tea, and, being English, I know that you will want tea." I was too weak to refuse. I returned home at 3 p.m. demanding a large whisky and soda and the Washington correspondent of the Observer and present Editor of the New Statesman, Anthony Howard, with whom I was staying, most understandingly and hospitably obliged.
Gower street
My favourite .place for lunch is 99 Gower Street. It is an experience that I both relish in advance and savour, and happens about three times a year. When invited I make sure that I have no serious work to do later in the afternoon. I arrive and have a drink upstairs. People drift in and out, some stay for lunch. Then we go downstairs to have good homely food and lashings of wine. I forget to say in advance that I am a vegetarian but nobody seems to mind and omelette is produced. Everybody shouts — but this is usually necessary to drown George Gale's whisper (he is a frequent guest). Harry Creighton seems to be carrying on two conversations at the same time. Patrick Cosgrave's quiet logic makes other Conservatives by comparison seem positively common. I am suddenly asked to write 'Personal Column' for the next two issues. This is what a luncheon ought to be — relaxed, unexpected, leisurely, and rewarding. But what will happen when The Spectator is at 99 Gower Street no more?
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