AH Vignette: "Paint It, Black"
“Action Today - Satisfaction Tomorrow!”
The Prime Minister waved a hand dismissively, prompting his fresh-faced Private Secretary to turn the radio off. The Foreign Secretary signed inwardly, aware of the fact that many of the young man’s predecessors had been dismissed for a moment’s hesitation in failing to read their master’s gestures accurately.
Richard Austen Butler also knew that he was on the way out. The fact that the telephone call had not come from the Prime Minister, but a drone in the Cabinet Office had been the first give-away, to say nothing for the fact that he had been smuggled into No 10 through the back entrance on Horse Guards Parade, rather than via Downing Street. The slow pace of the meeting had, by now, become an exquisite form of torture, which was clearly the intention.
“...and, obviously, we shall have to hope that Warren adjusts to the pressures befitting his new office as soon as possible -” the Prime Minister continued, feigning ignorance at his colleague’s obvious discomfort, “the American public do not suffer weaklings gladly.”
There was a flash of cruel humour in the man’s eyes as he continued.
“They are clearly taking lessons from us, Rab.”
Butler nodded.
“I am, of course, glad that you made the time to come and see me,” Bevan continued, mouth curling into a grin of pure delight “considering the circumstances.”
Had he been a less resilient man, the Foreign Secretary would have probably stormed out at that point. As it was, he contented himself with maintaining his blank expression as the Prime Minister set out exactly why he was being asked to leave the Cabinet.
It had never had to turn out like this, Butler reminded himself. Twenty years ago, it had been he who was the rising star of the Conservative Party, whilst Robert had been - what? - a backroom boy (an excellent one, but a relative unknown nevertheless) at Bensons.
Then, of course, the balloon had gone up at Munich, and Rab had been the one forced to resign over the mess of potage that emerged from the Bavaud Affair. It had been so unjust that he had been he, rather than Anthony, who had been forced onto the backbenchers and forced to see his career rubbished by everyone bar the hapless Lansbury.
It had been the ensuing reshuffle that had brought Bevan into Cabinet, heading up the Ministry for Information - the ugly scenes at Edgbaston had proven an apt background to the young advertising guru’s lurid ‘Not One Inch More!’ posters (which referred to either appeasement, Bolshevism or the tide of Jewish refugees, depending who you spoke to.) They had - of course - been more than sufficient to destroy the ‘peace’ candidate’s campaign and any pretences of Old Labour’s unity.
Before the public had known what was what, The King had been addressing the nation, dressed in black, his countenance illuminated by a dozen spotlights as the bombers flew East.
Rab had fought back. A well-received speech during the Danzig Crisis and a harrying of his old allies had been enough to secure him an invite back into the Outer Cabinet, and as the Action Movement had arisen from the chaos of Lloyd George’s government, it had been Rab, not Stanley, who had been returned to the Foreign Office - neutered thought it had become. The elder Rab clearly did not want the younger one having too much influence.
The Prime Minister drained his glass.
“You’ve have been somewhat of a Cabinet Cincinnatus, I rather think Rab,” the Prime Minister continued, “and should you wish to leave the Commons come the dissolution, I am sure that we may be able to wrangle a spot for you in the Reformed Chamber.”
Doing his best to avoid Robert’s eye, Rab looked out across Whitehall at the cranes bustling away over the still-blackened ruins of the Palace. Nearby, Holden's masterpiece stood like a great incisor on Broadway - the terraces of the Foreign Office looming akin a Babylonian wedding cake over St James’s Park. Hideous though it was, he couldn’t help but feel wistful at thought that would probably never cross its threshold again.
“I shall be sorry to lose you, of course, Rab” Bevan lied, “but I’m quite confident that Chesterton will be able to continue your excellent work regarding the Baltics. I’m bringing in Enoch and Iain as well. They will - I’m sure - make a decent stab at things ahead of von Fritsch’s state visit.”
The bright young things and the braying jackal, Rab thought to himself. No wonder he was on his way out.
“I will, of course, be happy to continue to provide any advice in a private capacity,” Butler found himself replying, well-aware that the offer would never be taken up.
“I’m sure that I would be more than happy to make use of your recourse,” the Prime Minister said. A cigar was offered and politely declined.
“Tarry a while longer,” Bevan continued, lighting a cigar of his own, “it would be foolish of me to ignore your current reading of the Slavic situation.”
Butler looked at the man opposite, as if for the first time. The pressures of office had not been kind to him. The boyish face of yesteryear had been replaced by a jowly mess of tobacco-yellowed skin and sagging jowls, but there was a clear brilliance in the eyes that shone as brightly as it always had done. There was no doubt why Powell continued to write rhapsodies of praise for him in the National Gazette, nor why MiniFo occasionally projected his face (artfully lit) on the posters at Piccadilly Circus.
“It would be foolish of us to ignore the threat of Moscow,” Butler said after remunerating, “Voroshilov is ageing and loath to provoke further international rebuke, but there are a lot of young men in a hurry around him.”
“A lot of young men in a hurry, with Kosmosbombs at their disposal,” the Prime Minister replied, darkly, “spare us from the wilfully ambitious, Rab,” he concluded, hypocritically.
And that was that. A handshake, a wave, and a flunkie escorting him outside the office and through the winding corridors.
Butler paused on the staircase. The portraits of the former Premiers had been removed years ago, replaced by a constantly changing gallery of the latest YBAs. It was a great honour to be selected for display, apparently.
He found his eyes resting on a modernist interpretation of the Malay Conflict, all bright colours and straight lines. An upturned smile on the face of the Colonial Rifleman and the Neu Schutztruppe officer, a grimace of pain on the Bolshie rebel.
It was ghastly.
What did it befit a man such as he to be removed from the picture, whilst the Prime Minister’s ascent continued, seemingly forever? Butler had gone over the question a countless number of times in the past fifteen or so years. It had been Baldwin, of course, who had first noted the value of the wireless, and dear Neville had always been a natural on the television - but it was Bevan who had - inexplicably - realised that you could sell politics as a commodity, rather than just present ideas for sobre reflection. He had felt stunned, way back in ‘40 when the foreword for the election address had been projected onto the side of the Bankside Power Station, but it had worked, to say nothing for the carefully orchestrated coupon campaign in the Rothermere press.
He was in the entrance hall now, looking at his increasingly gaut features in the mirror - realising that he probably was, by now, yesterday’s man. Perhaps he should have made use of those - what were those bohemian young men and women in the Cabinet Office called now - gander physicians?
It was too late now, Butler thought dismissively, far, far too late.
The mandarin handed him his coat and hat and - finally - he was alone, the famous black door shutting (for the last time?) behind him.
A Pericles staff car, windows tinted, pulled up. Blinking slightly in the watery sunlight, Rab Butler walked to it, into oblivion.
“Action Today - Satisfaction Tomorrow!”
The Prime Minister waved a hand dismissively, prompting his fresh-faced Private Secretary to turn the radio off. The Foreign Secretary signed inwardly, aware of the fact that many of the young man’s predecessors had been dismissed for a moment’s hesitation in failing to read their master’s gestures accurately.
Richard Austen Butler also knew that he was on the way out. The fact that the telephone call had not come from the Prime Minister, but a drone in the Cabinet Office had been the first give-away, to say nothing for the fact that he had been smuggled into No 10 through the back entrance on Horse Guards Parade, rather than via Downing Street. The slow pace of the meeting had, by now, become an exquisite form of torture, which was clearly the intention.
“...and, obviously, we shall have to hope that Warren adjusts to the pressures befitting his new office as soon as possible -” the Prime Minister continued, feigning ignorance at his colleague’s obvious discomfort, “the American public do not suffer weaklings gladly.”
There was a flash of cruel humour in the man’s eyes as he continued.
“They are clearly taking lessons from us, Rab.”
Butler nodded.
“I am, of course, glad that you made the time to come and see me,” Bevan continued, mouth curling into a grin of pure delight “considering the circumstances.”
Had he been a less resilient man, the Foreign Secretary would have probably stormed out at that point. As it was, he contented himself with maintaining his blank expression as the Prime Minister set out exactly why he was being asked to leave the Cabinet.
It had never had to turn out like this, Butler reminded himself. Twenty years ago, it had been he who was the rising star of the Conservative Party, whilst Robert had been - what? - a backroom boy (an excellent one, but a relative unknown nevertheless) at Bensons.
Then, of course, the balloon had gone up at Munich, and Rab had been the one forced to resign over the mess of potage that emerged from the Bavaud Affair. It had been so unjust that he had been he, rather than Anthony, who had been forced onto the backbenchers and forced to see his career rubbished by everyone bar the hapless Lansbury.
It had been the ensuing reshuffle that had brought Bevan into Cabinet, heading up the Ministry for Information - the ugly scenes at Edgbaston had proven an apt background to the young advertising guru’s lurid ‘Not One Inch More!’ posters (which referred to either appeasement, Bolshevism or the tide of Jewish refugees, depending who you spoke to.) They had - of course - been more than sufficient to destroy the ‘peace’ candidate’s campaign and any pretences of Old Labour’s unity.
Before the public had known what was what, The King had been addressing the nation, dressed in black, his countenance illuminated by a dozen spotlights as the bombers flew East.
Rab had fought back. A well-received speech during the Danzig Crisis and a harrying of his old allies had been enough to secure him an invite back into the Outer Cabinet, and as the Action Movement had arisen from the chaos of Lloyd George’s government, it had been Rab, not Stanley, who had been returned to the Foreign Office - neutered thought it had become. The elder Rab clearly did not want the younger one having too much influence.
The Prime Minister drained his glass.
“You’ve have been somewhat of a Cabinet Cincinnatus, I rather think Rab,” the Prime Minister continued, “and should you wish to leave the Commons come the dissolution, I am sure that we may be able to wrangle a spot for you in the Reformed Chamber.”
Doing his best to avoid Robert’s eye, Rab looked out across Whitehall at the cranes bustling away over the still-blackened ruins of the Palace. Nearby, Holden's masterpiece stood like a great incisor on Broadway - the terraces of the Foreign Office looming akin a Babylonian wedding cake over St James’s Park. Hideous though it was, he couldn’t help but feel wistful at thought that would probably never cross its threshold again.
“I shall be sorry to lose you, of course, Rab” Bevan lied, “but I’m quite confident that Chesterton will be able to continue your excellent work regarding the Baltics. I’m bringing in Enoch and Iain as well. They will - I’m sure - make a decent stab at things ahead of von Fritsch’s state visit.”
The bright young things and the braying jackal, Rab thought to himself. No wonder he was on his way out.
“I will, of course, be happy to continue to provide any advice in a private capacity,” Butler found himself replying, well-aware that the offer would never be taken up.
“I’m sure that I would be more than happy to make use of your recourse,” the Prime Minister said. A cigar was offered and politely declined.
“Tarry a while longer,” Bevan continued, lighting a cigar of his own, “it would be foolish of me to ignore your current reading of the Slavic situation.”
Butler looked at the man opposite, as if for the first time. The pressures of office had not been kind to him. The boyish face of yesteryear had been replaced by a jowly mess of tobacco-yellowed skin and sagging jowls, but there was a clear brilliance in the eyes that shone as brightly as it always had done. There was no doubt why Powell continued to write rhapsodies of praise for him in the National Gazette, nor why MiniFo occasionally projected his face (artfully lit) on the posters at Piccadilly Circus.
“It would be foolish of us to ignore the threat of Moscow,” Butler said after remunerating, “Voroshilov is ageing and loath to provoke further international rebuke, but there are a lot of young men in a hurry around him.”
“A lot of young men in a hurry, with Kosmosbombs at their disposal,” the Prime Minister replied, darkly, “spare us from the wilfully ambitious, Rab,” he concluded, hypocritically.
And that was that. A handshake, a wave, and a flunkie escorting him outside the office and through the winding corridors.
Butler paused on the staircase. The portraits of the former Premiers had been removed years ago, replaced by a constantly changing gallery of the latest YBAs. It was a great honour to be selected for display, apparently.
He found his eyes resting on a modernist interpretation of the Malay Conflict, all bright colours and straight lines. An upturned smile on the face of the Colonial Rifleman and the Neu Schutztruppe officer, a grimace of pain on the Bolshie rebel.
It was ghastly.
What did it befit a man such as he to be removed from the picture, whilst the Prime Minister’s ascent continued, seemingly forever? Butler had gone over the question a countless number of times in the past fifteen or so years. It had been Baldwin, of course, who had first noted the value of the wireless, and dear Neville had always been a natural on the television - but it was Bevan who had - inexplicably - realised that you could sell politics as a commodity, rather than just present ideas for sobre reflection. He had felt stunned, way back in ‘40 when the foreword for the election address had been projected onto the side of the Bankside Power Station, but it had worked, to say nothing for the carefully orchestrated coupon campaign in the Rothermere press.
He was in the entrance hall now, looking at his increasingly gaut features in the mirror - realising that he probably was, by now, yesterday’s man. Perhaps he should have made use of those - what were those bohemian young men and women in the Cabinet Office called now - gander physicians?
It was too late now, Butler thought dismissively, far, far too late.
The mandarin handed him his coat and hat and - finally - he was alone, the famous black door shutting (for the last time?) behind him.
A Pericles staff car, windows tinted, pulled up. Blinking slightly in the watery sunlight, Rab Butler walked to it, into oblivion.
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