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The Department of Economic Affairs was set up in 1964 by Harold Wilson, with the express purpose of frustrating the Treasury. Humphrey Appleby, therefore, is an ideal employee - he enjoys frustrating the Treasury, and devotes great amounts of time and energy to this end. The moribund department’s real purpose is not, and as far as he’s concerned has never been, economic planning. The fact that it was run by George Brown should show that much. No, the D.E.A hasn’t the faintest idea what it’s doing, and its main purpose in the heady days of 1969 is attempting to thoroughly confuse anyone who tries to find out. Which is just how Humphrey likes it.
He sits in the stuffy little office he shares with three others, staring out of the window at the street below. It’s a breezy spring day, early afternoon, and Humphrey is soon to turn forty years old. He wears a blue suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie with pocket square, which is about as daring as it gets for him. He’s a cynical man, as he frankly admits - his only loyalties to himself and to that wonderful institution, the Civil Service. It’s his one great love, beside which even that for his wife pales in comparison.
He sits, not moving a muscle. Suddenly, however, a change, from seeming inertia to sudden purpose. He stands up abruptly and leaves the office, stepping into a corridor busy with similarly suited men. A few nod and smile at him as he passes. Although not a very senior civil servant, Humphrey’s influence is considerable.
He walks past offices staffed by people with titles. Assistant Secretary, Deputy Secretary. Permanent Under-Secretary. Through an open door, he glimpses the department’s Permanent Secretary talking to an Under-Secretary whose own Under-Secretary is present. He nods at the last, bored man, the youngest of the three, who grins and immediately mars the notes he’s meant to be taking with a large blot. Nice man, Bernard Woolley, but perhaps not the most competent in the Department. Humphrey smirks to himself and moves on.
On the ground floor, a large number of civil servants mill around in the D.E.A’s reception area. Some are taking phone calls, some chatting to each other - one, sitting by the wall, is even reading a newspaper. The effect is that of an ant’s nest. Humphrey weaves his way through to the front desk, where a young woman sits in front of hundreds of pigeonholes below the curve of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Miss Smith.” he says. “Any messages for me?”
Miss Smith checks the pigeonholes, then returns with a piece of paper. It’s thick, cream-coloured, and even without completely unfolding it he can see the Downing Street letterhead.
“It’s from the Prime Minister. He wants you to come to his office as soon as it’s convenient.”
Humphrey’s eyes widen. This has never happened before, certainly not at such short notice. What could the man want to talk to him about? Surely he’s far too junior to be of interest. But he slips the piece of paper into his pocket nevertheless.
Within the hour he’s sitting in an anteroom outside Wilson’s office in Downing Street, waiting to be admitted. He still doesn’t know what the Prime Minister wants to see him for, but presumably it concerns his future in some way. Perhaps his long record of frustrating Treasury initiatives has been found out, and he’s being sacked - but it would be very unusual for the PM to sack him personally. It must be about something else, such as the future of the D.E.A, which it’s rumoured is on the brink of being closed down and its workers subsumed into another department.
He waits for his name to be called. He’s only met Wilson a few times, never on his own, and certainly never inside Number Ten. When the Secretary leads him towards the office, his stomach turns a little, but he tells himself firmly not to be so silly. Fear, he reminds himself, is the enemy. He walks into the office.
The man in charge of the country sits behind his desk, puffing on his famous pipe. He is, of course, a Prime Minister unlike any other, not least because of the social stratum he comes from. He gestures Humphrey to a chair in front of the desk, and Humphrey sits. For a moment they regard each other silently, Wilson’s expression giving nothing away. Then he removes the pipe from his mouth, and speaks.
“Now, then.” says Wilson. “Humphrey - if I may call you that - you’re an under-secretary in the D.E.A, that’s correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Been there since 1964?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how…” Wilson leans forward a little, regarding him with a level gaze. “How would you characterise your time there?”
There’s danger here. The wrong word could ruin everything - even the wrong expression could be lethal. Humphrey decides to play it safe. He studies the Prime Minister.
“I would describe my time at the Department as… satisfying.”
“Satisfying in what way?”
“I… I believe that my abilities and experience have been utilised and my contributions valued.”
“I’ll say they have.” says Wilson, taking another puff of his pipe. “I’ve heard - confidentially - that you’re one of the biggest thorns in the Treasury’s side.”
Humphrey is somewhat impressed. He’s also somewhat perturbed by the fact that, although this sounds like a dismissal, it doesn’t feel very much like one. Wilson’s expression isn’t nearly grave enough.
“Humphrey.” He discards the pipe, at least for the moment. “We’re both men of the world, aren’t we? Both from humble backgrounds, but we went to Oxford straight from the grammars, got firsts and tried to make something of ourselves. In fact, you remind me a great deal of myself.”
He’s not sure what Wilson expects of him here.
“I should be flattered…”
“And I think we both know,” Wilson interrupts, “that I very possibly haven’t got much time left in office. So it’s vital that when I go, there’s people left to carry on what I’ve started.”
“I understand, sir.” says Humphrey. The PM is obviously setting him up for something big. The only question is what.
“I suppose you also know,” says Wilson, “that the D.E.A’s on its last legs?”
“There are rumours...”
“Well, the rumours are entirely true. We’re going to create a new Department of Administrative Affairs that performs all the functions of the D.E.A, with civil defence and administration thrown in. Most of the people at Economic Affairs now will either be transferred to the new department or to elsewhere in the Civil Service. Or, of course, fired.”
Fire - the most terrifying word in the civil servant’s language. Humphrey feels suddenly nervous.
“May I ask, sir, what my role in all this is to be?”
“You’ll be going to Administrative Affairs.” The Prime Minister smiles. “We haven’t worked out all of the details yet, but you can expect a more prominent position than the one you currently have.”
Humphrey has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling. His career is safe - more than safe, it’s apparently going to be significantly advanced. “Thank you, sir. That is… excellent.”
“And another thing. I really appreciate your work at the D.E.A, and all you’ve done for it. I’m sure you’ll do great things in the future. So when I leave office, whether I get forced out,” - there’s a flicker of paranoia here - “or resign, or lose the election, you can expect a knighthood.”
He’s stunned. Prime Ministers come and go, but a knighthood is a knighthood. A permanent, very visible sign of his prestige and importance. That can’t be taken away.
“I -”
“Sir Humphrey Appleby. Doesn’t it have a nice ring to it?”
Humphrey can only nod.
“I am… most gratified, Prime Minister. And humbled. I have done my duty, nothing more.”
“If more men did their duty,” says Wilson, “then the country would be in a much better state than it is today.”
He leans back on his chair, puffing again on his pipe.
“That’ll be all. You may go. And good luck.”
Humphrey bows his head and leaves the office.
He’s beaming as he walks down the corridor. This will change a lot of things. More money, more prestige, more influence - and a knighthood. His mother- and father-in-law will no longer be able to imply that he’s not worthy of their well-bred daughter. The “Sir” next to his name will put paid to that. And in that moment, despite the constant jokes levelled in the Department at his gullibility and incompetence, Humphrey really loves Harold Wilson.
Everything has changed. He’s probably smiling like an idiot. And why wouldn't he? In the space of an hour, everything seems to have opened up to him. A knighthood, a more prominent position in this new Department of Administrative Affairs - why, he’ll be unstoppable. With his acumen, he could even end up being Permanent Secretary in due course. Stranger things have happened.
So Humphrey returns to his office. And British government will never quite be the same again.