Like most people, I was ignorant about the civil service and prejudiced against it. Unimaginative and boring, I thought. Nine-to-fivers. Careful, conventional and Conservative! Nonetheless, I applied for every press officer’s job that came up and eventually secured a post as assistant press officer (science) at the Department of Education and Science. I was thirty-nine, and my knowledge of science stopped at School Certificate biology, but I soon discovered that I would be doing well if I took telephone messages accurately. Once again, at nearly forty, I was starting a new career – at the bottom. It was not exactly back to the typing pool, but not very much better.
The department was an unhappy union of the immensely grand and ancient Department of Education and the Science Research Council. On my first day I arrived in Curzon Street well before nine. I went to the public enquiry office because I had been given no instructions other than to ask for Dr Jacobson, the chief information officer (Science).
‘What office did you say?’
‘The science press office.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of that one … have we got a science office here?’ the smart young woman on the desk asked her colleague.
‘That’ll be those people on the first floor now. Ask the switchboard.’
A few minutes later, ‘Are you the science press office…? Well, there’s a young lady here for a job with you … Oh, all right … He says you’re to wait here.’
So I lit a cigarette (those were the days), and waited in the busy enquiry office while the public came in and out to ask about schools, teachers’ training, university courses and overseas opportunities, and the staff gave out information and leaflets with great efficiency.
When ten o’clock had been and gone, I asked if the very civil servant would ring Dr Jacobson again.
‘He says he’s coming, dear.’
Half an hour later, a tall, plump, dark-haired man, wearing big spectacles, a navy suit and a worried smile, hurried in. ‘You must be Barbara, I’m Geoffrey Jacobson. How do you do?’ he said, as we shook hands. He was softly spoken. ‘We’re in a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid,’ he went on, and handed me a couple of pound notes. ‘We’re having a leaving party for your predecessor at twelve. Would you buy some flowers for me to give her? My office is on the first floor; follow the signs to office number 104. Oh, and you’ll be in 109.’
As I walked along Curzon Street, looking for a flower shop, I felt like running away. It was many years since I had been treated like an office girl and I was angry and hurt. I was an ex-councillor, a possible parliamentary candidate on first-name terms with Cabinet ministers. Then I reflected that Geoffrey Jacobson didn’t know that. I had been recruited as an assistant press officer, and that was that; and, after jumping over all those civil service hurdles to get in, I was not going to get out – yet.
The flowers bought, I had a cup of coffee and wandered back through the immense entrance to my new life, past walls strong and thick enough to repulse a tank. Later I learnt that our building used to house M15 – or was it M16? Something pretty secret anyway.
I waved to the enquiry staff in the foyer and began the search for room 104 with my armful of flowers. On the way I passed room 109. The door was open; there was laughter and the clink of wine glasses.
At 104 I knocked, waited, knocked again and walked in. Dr Jacobson looked up from a desk piled with books and papers. ‘It’s a bit chaotic here I’m afraid, there’s a report I have to finish … Oh, the flowers, thank you. Come with me, I’ll introduce you. We’ll have a proper talk later.’
We returned to 109 – ‘my’ office – which I learnt was the general office where two typists and the assistant press officer – now me – lived, and where journalists waited for their appointments. There were three desks. Mine was in the middle, opposite the door. I met my predecessor, a pretty young woman who was getting married, and I was introduced to Charles, the principal information officer, Alan, the senior information officer, and the typists. Speeches were made, of both farewell and welcome. My flowers were presented. By two o’clock I was alone with the typists, and that was when my briefing began.
The typists soon became friends. One was a middle-aged widow named Maria. She explained that she had taken the job to be near Harrods because her ‘real’ work was cooking for rich families. After telephoning her client to discuss the menu, she spent her long lunchtimes shopping in Harrods’s magnificent food hall. When she staggered back, she delighted in showing me what she’d bought, and discussing cooking methods and the tastes of her clients. She had three regulars for whom she cooked dinner parties and sometimes lunch.
‘But what if they clash?’ I asked. ‘I can usually work something out. They all live fairly near each other in St John’s Wood, and I have a flat in Swiss Cottage and a little car. Sometimes I prepare the main course the day before.’ I loved our long conversations. I’d never seen such expensive food close up, the luxury-filled packages even leaning against my desk on occasion.
The other typist, Clare, was tall and dark with a fine, slim body and a beautiful, low voice. She had read English Literature at Durham, where she managed to achieve a 2:1, even though she spent most of her time acting. From university she had gone straight into rep theatre. Now in her forties, she explained that she had found theatrical life in the provinces just too tiring.
‘All those bed-and-breakfast digs, always on the move. The West End didn’t want me and, besides, I wanted a decent home and a cat, so when my mother died…’
Clare loved English literature and grammar fiercely, and was appalled by the work she received from Charles and Alan. Sometimes she read aloud from their drafts. ‘Barbara,’ she would say, ‘Why can’t science be described in decent English? Just listen to this!’
I was only too happy to listen. I also made sure that I translated the work which came my way into comprehensible and, if possible, simple English for my draft press notices. But the scientists who telephoned from their research laboratories, or sometimes even turned up in our office, complained.
‘It’s too broad a brush … you must explain that there are exceptions or modifications … what if my colleagues see this…?’
‘It’s pretty unlikely, unless they are journalists,’ I would reply. ‘This is for the general media. We’re arranging a special conference for you to talk to the scientific press, plus a meeting with Nature.’
‘Oh, all right, but there is another thing. Which paper should I buy to read about it?’
I was amazed. ‘There is no guarantee that any of this will be used. If there’s a big news story it might not get a line anywhere, though The Times or the Telegraph might give it a paragraph.’
‘But this is a government announcement!’ It was the turn of the scientists to be amazed, and some of them returned to their laboratories deeply disillusioned with the press office.
If Clare was in a good mood she would rewrite the worst transgressions, and Charles and Alan were amused and grateful. Our press releases had to be approved by Dr Jacobson, the only educated man there, according to Clare. He liked my work and soon began to trust me. He looked as if he should have been a jolly, easy-going man, but he was always in a state of extreme anxiety.
We were a small, quite vertical hierarchy. Our chief, Dr Jacobson, was a distinguished Cambridge physicist; Charles, a Glaswegian, had a MSc in Physics, while Alan had left school at sixteen and worked on local papers in Hammersmith. I was the junior addition to this triumvirate.
Charles and Alan would wander in and out of the general office to chat to Clare, gossip and check on what I was up to. My work came via Dr Jacobson and they were curious to see how I would do. I don’t think they ever really saw Maria, except to give her typing.
The first ministerial press conference after I joined the department was organised very differently from those at Transport House, where I had been used to great informality. The political journalists were often old friends of the politicians and the atmosphere was relaxed. At Curzon Street I checked the journalists in, made a note of their names and their newspapers or broadcasting companies, and handed them a press notice. Dr Jacobson and Charles escorted the minister to the platform and sat either side of him. A carafe of water and tumblers had been placed on the table earlier – by me – together with paper and pencils. The atmosphere was very formal. Charles identified the questioners by name and quietly told the minister whom to beware of.
After the minister and Dr Jacobson left, the journalists crowded to the back of the hall where Charles and Alan were opening bottles. Charles took me on one side. ‘Your job, wee Barbara, is to collect every bottle when the press have gone and take them to my room. Every last bottle, mind!’
He then explained to the journalists in more detail the ministerial announcement, translating the latest scientific breakthrough into demotic English.
When the last journalist had gone, I returned to the general office, borrowed Maria’s shopping bag and clinked my way to Charles’s office. He and Alan were waiting. ‘Put them down here … that’s right … no more phone calls to us today …’ As I left, I heard him lock the door! For the rest of the afternoon I took press calls. If they were too technical I asked Dr Jacobson to ring the caller back. Maria made us tea and Clare did the Times crossword or read one of her densely worded novels with long paragraphs. Soon after four o’clock, Maria left. I had often wondered how she fitted in her catering work with a nine-to-five job and the answer was she didn’t: she worked from ten until four. There was no supervision of the science unit at all.
My greatest excitement was when I wrote the first press notice on holography. Dr Jacobson explained the principle of laser beams to me. He was a great teacher, patient and clear. He illustrated on graph paper what he meant by a coherent light source and I wrote about it with patriotic pride. The somewhat lackadaisical attitude around the department worked to my advantage. Charles and Alan seemed deeply unengaged with work. They were amused at my interest and encouraged me to draft press notices.
Dr Jacobson was never too busy to explain our work to me. I started reading the New Scientist which, he told me, most scientists read because it was written in layman’s language and they didn’t understand work outside their own disciplines. Years later, I wrote a regular column on science broadcasting in the New Scientist, and even had a poem published in it once – the only time they had published a poem. I like to think Dr Jacobson would have approved.
One or two of the journalists we dealt with were science graduates and Charles went for long lunches with them. Alan lunched with journalists from the Mirror and the News of the World, and I doubt they discussed much science. They would return from their respective outings, happily mellow, and tell us about the restaurants they had visited. Maria was always interested but they really wanted to talk to Clare, who kept her distance as much as possible. They tried in vain to impress her. Charles invited her out to lunch, but he knew nothing of the arts, she told me, and so she turned him down.
As I grew more accustomed to the science office, I became aware that there were senior beings above us: not only the minister himself, but the permanent secretary, who had a knighthood and who sometimes lunched with Dr Jacobson. Late one afternoon when the others had gone, the phone rang.
‘This is Sir Richard. Can you come to my office?’
He gave me directions, and for the first time I took the lift which, until then, had been for Education staff only.
‘Come in. How do you do?’ We shook hands and I sat opposite him across an imposing desk. ‘What is your name? Ah, yes, you’re from Transport House. It must seem rather different here, I expect … Do you like it?’
I told him I liked it very much and had had no idea of the tremendous work of British science, especially in the field of lasers. Sir Richard smiled, and held up a piece of paper which I recognised immediately – a piece on British scientific achievements that I had been drafting for Dr Jacobson. ‘Did you draft this?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Ah … it’s not bad, but you really must mention Dragon. It can’t be complete without that. Why did you leave it out?’
‘Well, I felt I couldn’t put everything in,’ was my off-the-cuff reply. I could hardly say I’d never heard of Dragon.
‘What did you say your name was?’ Sir Richard asked, with a piercing look. ‘Thank you. We will meet again.’
I went back to my office and wondered how to find out about Dragon. There were a few dog-eared reference books from which I chose Whitaker’s as a start … Sadly, neither the reference books nor my colleagues appeared to have heard of Dragon, and I never did find out.
Gradually, my press notices became more professional: broad-brush in the first paragraph with more detail in the subsequent text. Sometimes I was allowed to write eye-catching headlines, something that reminded me of my cinema publicity days and that I particularly enjoyed – for example, ‘How’re They Going to Keep Them Down on the Farm?’ announced a scheme to encourage agricultural workers to attend a scientific festival in Paris.
My favourite memory of my early days in the civil service is of the first time I was given responsibility for taking science correspondents to Scotland. By then I was on firstname terms with most of them, and there were two whom I particularly liked, Colin Riach at the BBC, and Angela Croome with the Daily Telegraph and the New Scientist. They were both extremely good at their work and asked some very difficult questions. At least I now knew whom to put them in touch with, and they were patient with me as I learnt my way around the great world of British science.
I had been greatly looking forward to flying to Edinburgh with my group, staying at a smart hotel in Princes Street and accompanying them to Scottish science laboratories. All went well until we arrived at the hotel. ‘Where is the bar?’ asked the Times journalist. The bewhiskered receptionist looked amazed. ‘There is no bar here, sir. This is a temperance hotel.’ The journalists roared with laughter. ‘That was a wonderful joke, Barbara. Now where IS our hotel?’
I was appalled and mortified. I had never heard of a temperance hotel. I had certainly never met one in Cornwall, and I didn’t know what to do. It was too late to find another hotel for eight people that night.
Colin comforted me. ‘Don’t look so upset Barbara, the doorman is most obliging. He is used to this problem and he’s already quietly making arrangements in our rooms. See him separately about the bill – and for God’s sake do it quietly.’ The situation was thus saved, and the story of Barbara’s temperance hotel preceded me back to Curzon Street, where it did me no harm at all.
The work of the Science department, an arm of the Department of Education, occasionally overlapped with the newly created MinTech, the Ministry of Technology, where Barbara Castle was the minister, and which had its own information officers. Dr Jacobson told me there was to be a joint press conference, ‘And it has to be held here, not at Millbank.’ He seemed quite excited about it.
We worked most happily together on the preparations. Much time was spent on the composition of the top table: two ministers, two senior information officers, who else …? (‘Perhaps not you, Charles.’) On the day all went smoothly. There were enough copies of the press handouts, the microphones worked, the ministers and the press were pleased, and I met my opposite number from MinTech. There was one mildly awkward moment for me when Barbara Castle said, ‘Hello Barbara, what are you doing here?’ and wished me good luck, which raised a few eyebrows.
The chief information officer at MinTech was Harold Winterbourne, a relaxed character with a ready smile and a kindly manner. He was coming up for retirement and had seen it all before.
‘How do you like it here?’ he asked me. ‘Rather different from your last job, I imagine?’
‘Not so very different, same cast list of ministers at the moment. Very different ways of working though.’
‘I’m sure.’ He looked around him with an expression of disapproval. ‘This isn’t the real civil service, you know; don’t be deceived by first impressions. It’s nice to meet you, Barbara. I hear good things about you.’ My surprise showed and Mr Winterbourne smiled. ‘From the press.’ I hadn’t realised until then that the same group of journalists also covered MinTech.
Not long after that joint press conference, I had a phone call from Harold Winterbourne. ‘There is a vacancy in my office for an assistant press officer. You could apply for a sideways move if you’d like to, and you’ll be promoted within four months.’
I thought about it. I really liked Dr Jacobson and I was learning a great deal about science, but I couldn’t help him with his management problems. Charles and Alan were wholly disaffected and there was a sad feeling around the office.
Where was the personnel office? I asked Clare. ‘You mean Estabs. We hardly ever speak to them. They are, of course, Education.’
I spoke to Dr Jacobson. ‘Typical Harold, he’s poaching! Can’t blame him. I can’t get you promotion here, though you deserve it.’ His voice sounded hopeless. ‘I’ll miss you, but of course you must go.’
Flowers were produced at my farewell party – I don’t know who bought them this time. Charles and Alan made for the bottles. I promised to keep in touch with Maria and Clare, but I didn’t. And on to my next chapter I went.