Work Text:
February 2nd
Honoured as I am to enjoy every aspect of my job as Prime Minister, I do quite enjoy the travelling. As much as I can enjoy it, at least, given that the chatter of government and politics follows me incessantly, unperturbed by my movement. But ignoring that, I do appreciate a change of scene from time to time.
However, I admit I find it decidedly harder to enjoy when it involves waking up at 4am, accidentally sleeping in until 4:30am (because such horrendous times should really not be allowed) and then having to rush off out the door without breakfast because breakfast time had been sacrificed, all to catch a train that ends up being half an hour late anyway. That was what had happened this morning, it may not surprise you to learn. By 5:30am, we were just about on our way and I was sat down in an ordinary, run of the mill compartment wondering if this transport was really the best that could be offered by the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Island to its Prime Minister. Humphrey came in a moment later and I voiced these thoughts to him.
“Unfortunately, Prime Minister, the arrangement of this affair was only a recent matter. Last night, you might recall.” He said, and it was like I was experiencing whiplash; I had only just zoned out, sensing a brewing slurry of words, when I was called back to.
“Well, quite.” I murmured. “Come in.”
While I had initially focussed on the fearsome amount of paperwork he has holding, I now glanced up at his face and realised that he was just as tired as I was. It was a funny thing, to be reminded that he was human – biologically speaking, at least. Being constantly thwarted by my Permanent Secretary made it easy to overlook that fact sometimes.
The man in question sat down next to me and shuffled with the paperwork and his briefcase for a moment. Human, no. I was always rather more wooed by the idea of describing Sir Humphrey as a puppet master. One who’d taken a rather abstract approach to such an appointment by obtaining some sort of flying machine and hovering over the first government building that took his fancy, probably equipped with a long and camouflaged piece of string. Lord, I was still half asleep.
I was still on this train of thought, feeling quite amused by it, when he gave me a folder and began telling me about it – presumably. It took me a moment to begin listening, and when I did I did not feel like my life was greatly improved by the decision. But, I suppose that that is life for someone like me, full of sacrifice and selflessness for the good of the country.
Once he was finished, we settled into silence. I bunkered down with my work and Humpy did the same next to me, in case I had any questions.
What I was getting at a moment ago, though I must admit not very well, was that he was always perfect. And proper. That is to say, he was perfectly proper. (If I were Sir Humphrey or, indeed, any member of the Civil Service worth their salt, I could probably make more of that alliteration.)
[Upon reading this extract from Hacker’s diary, Bernard Woolley responded to this challenge in conversation with the editors: “He was perfectly proper in every proper or indeed possibly improper potential position or predicament making him perpetually and applaudably prepared to provide place for productivity, if you would permit me to postulate such prose.” Whether such language could really be described as prose, one is compelled to question. Sorry: passed as prose, perceptive person… (com)pelled to ponder. That’s my best try, anyway. My fellow editor thinks he could do better but has refused to actually do so. -Ed]
What I mean is, he always knew everything; the man was effectively a walking copy of Who’s Who with added bonuses of persuasion abilities. He was on time even for arrangements that hadn’t been made – always on the other side of the right door. While it must not be said that he was limitless or without fault, he certainly seemed to be a lot of the time.
It had been a late night (or, rather, morning) and a horribly busy week, and on top of that was the dark and cold of the early English February, so seeing Humphrey tired on this particular morning hardly merited surprise. Bernard had looked the same while we’d waited for the train, and the feeling in my own eyes and body sympathised with them both. What did merit surprise, was when, fifteen minutes or so later, I was pulled from my commendable concentration by the awareness of a gentle weight on my shoulder.
I followed my senses and looked at the man leaning on me, his grip on his paperwork inattentive and his expression absent of scheming intent. My heart skipped a beat and settled into a different tempo as I took in the sight; it was not how I usually saw him – not how I had ever seen him before – and perhaps I wasn’t feeling the right things for the situation.
No, I thought as I noticed how tenderly and stilly his eyes were shut, I should have been at the very least impartial. I listened to his calm breathes, perhaps I should have been appalled or dissatisfied at this unprofessional behaviour. His lips were slightly parted, and I thought that maybe I should even feel disgusted; that a colleague was so… close.
I did not.
In the privacy of the compartment and this diary, I confess; I felt enamoured.
A few moments later, his pen slipped out of his relaxed fingers and fell to the floor, causing him to start with a quiet gasp. My eyes shot down to my work and I gave no reaction, pretending I hadn’t noticed any of it. He picked up the offending object, blinking a couple of times before resuming his task. He gave me one or two quick glances before dismissing the event, concluding that he'd gotten away with it. I concluded the same, and contemplated that if the subject were to ever come up again, unlikely though that was, then, clearly, I had simply felt guilty for not noticing how tired he had truly been.
The train rattled on until light could be seen on the horizon and neither of us spoke until the train arrived.