AIDEZ MOT!

Oliver Knox on what it was like to be asked for

an opinion on Germany, on M Chirac, or indeed on any foreign topic, by Mrs Thatcher

I DON'T know about Charles Powell's demons and George Urban's obsessions, but it was certainly awesome to stand near a diamond-eyed Mrs Thatcher in her hey- day, in full flow about the menace of Ger- many.

At one of the parties in Downing Street to which a few of us from the Cen- tre for Policy Studies were invited, our chairman, Hugh Thomas, took it upon himself to bring me up to the prime min- ister. This was rather brave of him, I thought. I am inclined to mumble, which may be why Mrs Thatcher, normally so good at remembering names, took to calling me Mr Um. This was not to tease me. It was just that she may have associat- ed me with an unintelligible hum in the background.

A small circle was standing round her before lunch, half-empty glasses of white wine discreetly in their hands. George Urban, author of Diplomacy and Disillusion at the Court of Margaret Thatcher, (reviewed by Sir Charles Powell in last week's Specta- tor)•was one of them, looking suave but politely distressed, drawing the toes of his beautifully polished shoes across the car- pet. The prime minister addressed the cir- cle about the perils of Germany's economic power. George cleared his throat. He tried some mild, well-mannered remonstrance After a few drinks he could be quite amusing. I'm always sorry I didn't videotape him.' about her fears. But the fight was on. 'I don't know about you,' she said generally to the half-dozen around her. 'Are you frightened about Germany? Are you? I know I am. Aren't you?'

One or two nervously drifted a little to one side, out of the immediate line of fire. Too late, I saw she had fixed on me as her temporary victim. 'Well, aren't you?' she repeated. What should I say? None of the great thoughts that have since occurred to me swam into my mind. No grand references to the land of Goethe and Schiller and Beethoven, no allusions to Germany's splendid, civilised achievements of the 19th century. No words about her eclipse in our century — but surely not for ever — by the swastika and the concentration camp. No nod to the great traditions of German scholarship. Even had I thought of such fine sentiments I should not have been able to make myself understood.

Still I had to say something. But what? How? Here I am grateful to George for capturing what may well have been my ipsissima verba. Foolishly, while continuing to glance down at those highly honed shoes, I rallied to the support of the prime minister, deserting George in his half-hour of need. It seemed so much easier to agree. I was never much of an adviser of any sort.

`I think we should certainly watch Ger- many.'

That was all. It hardly paid for my lunch. At least it ought to keep me out of trou- ble. I should not be called on to defend my words. Nor, afterwards, did I suppose that anyone was likely to remember my sage, seminal comment. I had not realised that Urban could summon up the uncanny powers of a Boswell. Now for ever these few words are immortalised in George's book.

On one other occasion I failed even more spectacularly. Sadly, George was not nearby to record it.

It was entirely reasonable for Mrs Thatcher to assume that anyone brought by Hugh Thomas (whom she once called her 'favourite historian') was familiar at least with a few rudiments of foreign poli- cy, was a man whose brains might usefully be picked on the great questions of the day. What was entertainment for?

This time the prime minister did, I think, recognise me. `Ah, Mr Urn,' she said with courteous empressement. I smiled, and even felt relaxed enough to take a modest sip of my white wine. There seemed enough people around us for me to remain a polite cipher in the back- Do you see what can be accomplished when you stop working at cross-purposes?' ground. It was unlikely I would be called upon to offer advice again. Had I not done my duty by my earlier advice that Germany should be watched? Had I not earned my place at the lunch table?

It was not to be. She was asking me a question — not exactly at full throttle, but her eyes seemed unnervingly bright. Also, some of the others in the circle seemed to have drifted a little away. Worse, they were laughing. So I was able to hear only the first part of her question: `Tell me, Mr Urn, what do you think Jacques Chirac meant when he said . . . ?' Said what? To whom? When and where? Why? Not indeed that I would have been any the wiser had I caught the remainder of the sentence, but it might have given me a fragment on which to build something. I suppose with hindsight I could have adapt- ed my stand-by soundbite and said, 'I think Chirac should be watched.' But I didn't even think of that. Panic.

Anyway, who was Chirac? Wasn't he the mayor of Paris now? How should I know what the mayor of Paris said or thought? Or was there some question of higher office beckoning him?

Some other great Frenchman would have to come to the rescue. That was my only straw. I had lately read a few speeches of General de Gaulle. Also, his great appeal many years ago, in the Algerian crisis (`Francais, Frangaises, aidez-moi') has always stayed somewhere at the back of my mind. A pity he had made the speech so long ago. A pity, too, that I could not remember anything he had said in any of his subsequent speeches. Some general comment about his style would have to suf- fice.

`I am a great admirer of General de Gaulle's prose style,' I said.

This may not have had quite the preg- nant wisdom of my earlier Downing Street contribution. Even as I uttered it I realised it was hardly an adequate response to the prime minister's penetrating question about Chirac's real meaning. Nor was she likely to be interested in my views about the finer points of the General's prose style — even supposing that I could have articu- lated them. Too late, too late! The winged words were out, and nothing could retrieve them.

Mercifully, she turned away. It would have been even worse, I afterwards thought, if I had been asked to expand on my comment.

I offer this memory since it is the open season for confessions of policy advisers.

At least my sum total of 18 words (if I have counted them right) reflect on nobody but myself. They are certainly less important, but possibly a shade more becoming, than some of the subsequent, tetchy remarks of more distinguished advisers.

Oliver Knox was Director of Publications at the Centre for Policy Studies from 1984 to 1992.