It was Barry — not his real name — who arrived first. The security guard at the desk, while not looking at him, put a hand over one of the buttons on his uniform. “Conference room three, then,” thought Barry. Armed with this information, Barry walked through the door and down the stairs into the underground bunker. It had been Churchill’s during WWII, but was now a sports and social club for London’s Civil Servants.

Barry worked at the Cabinet Office. He had started his working life at the Department of Work and Pensions, though when he had joined, it had been the Department of Employment and Productivity and had been run by Barbara Castle. In those days it had been better known by its junior employees as the Department of Enjoyment and Promiscuity. While the promiscuity was still as widespread as it had ever been, other types of enjoyment certainly weren’t, times being as they were.

Barry, and some of his colleagues from the other Departments of State, met at the bunker regularly to steer their ships through what in recent years had become choppy seas. Though it no longer ruled the waves, nor indeed much of anything else overseas, their Kingdom still needed a firm and consistent hand on the tiller to ensure its smooth running. Barry’s retirement date had been set and was only a couple of months away. He sought, before he walked into the sunset, to appoint a successor to carry on the work that had been the purpose of his life thus far. He had a name in mind and would be recommending it to his colleagues. Barry was prepared to bully and bluster and even threaten as much as necessary to get his way. It was the final battle of his public service career and he was determined to win it.

He walked slowly along the dim corridor till he reached conference room three, one of the suite of secure rooms in the bunker. Only really senior staff could book them. He used his security pass to open the door and then entered the room. It was set out for four attendees and one chairman, whose seat was at the head of the table. Being the chairman, Barry headed for that seat.

Lowering himself slowly into the standard Civil Service chair, Barry found it a tight squeeze and reflected that the years of good living had made the uncivil term ‘Fat Cat’ rather too accurate. Perhaps it really was time to start going to one of those gyms that all his younger colleagues frequented these days.

Barry checked around the table, ensuring that all the place settings were correct. All five of the most important departments of state would be represented. Barry himself from the Cabinet Office, Larry from the Home Office, Harry from the Foreign Office, Carrie from the Treasury and Garry from the Ministry of Defence. In this committee they were all known by these pseudonyms as had those who had gone before them. It was traditional and this committee valued tradition above almost anything else. The rhyming pseudonyms dated back to the committee’s founding. None of the names indicated gender and indeed, previous holders of the name Carrie had all been male, unlike the current one.

Recent developments at No. 10 had tempted one junior member of the committee to suggest that Barry and Larry swap names, but common sense had prevailed. However, there was the suspicion that the naming of No. 10’s new cat might indicate that somebody there had wind of this secret committee.

Barry was busy reviewing the approach he would take at this meeting when the door opened and the other four walked in together. A bad sign, perhaps? Had they all been preparing for this meeting together? No matter, Barry was sure he had all his bases covered.

‘Well now,’ said Barry in his deep, comforting voice, “Have you all been preparing at the Treasury Tap?”

It was Carrie who answered. “You know very well that that was closed last year, Barry. The sight of a junior Treasury minister blind drunk in the House put paid to it and to the junior minister.’

Barry did indeed know this well. It had been he himself who had plied the unfortunate minister with drinks just before an important Commons debate. The man was too clever by half and had had to be removed.

Barry sat back in his seat and watched his colleagues settle down around the table. Carrie was the biggest danger to his plans. She was the sharpest and the most ambitious of the four and the fact that she was a woman made no difference. Carrie had learned to survive by adopting the same armour as the men around her: bluntness, gamesmanship, and impeccable timing. In short, at work she had become just like all the alpha males jockeying for position. As Barry realised, the claim that the world would be a kinder and fairer place with women in charge had been shown by experience to be incorrect. His experience had shown him that once a human being attains power they fight to retain it, whatever their gender. In addition he knew that only those who seek power ever get it.

“All the bars in all departments have also been closed,” remarked Larry. “The Civil Service Commissioners thought it best. Didn’t want such bad optics at a time such as this.”

Larry was the quintessential ‘safe pair of hands’. He never had to be told what to do, he just knew and did what was necessary. A very useful man to have at your side. He was also Barry’s nephew.

‘Sir George has had to repair to the Goat and Compasses around the corner,” added Harry. “Which means that he has to watch his words, wining and dining foreign visitors in public, and it costs him more than it used to with the club prices in the office bar.”

The fifth person at the table, Garry, interrupted “Can we cut the cackle and get down to business, please? We all know why we are here and we should get to it.”

Garry was ex-military and had little patience with the civilian way of doing business. Barry frequently wondered how he had managed to get to the top in his department. Nothing further from the traditional civil servant could be imagined. However, Garry had his uses, as Barry knew. Garry was very good at planning and implementing plans and he had been busy just recently.

“Thank you Garry,’ said Barry, in his most commanding voice. “Time indeed to get down to it. I’m off to my reward at the end of next month. Who will be replacing me at the Cabinet Office?”

“There’s a lady in the Treasury, whom we have been grooming for years. I think she is now ready to take a step upwards,” suggested Carrie.

“Any other candidates?” asked Barry.

Nobody answered, so Barry made his own nomination.

“I think our Larry would be the right choice.”

“But he’s your nephew!” Carrie exclaimed.

“Precisely! Nepotism has always been the most successful way of ensuring the continuation of a regime. Perhaps the lady at the Treasury could step up to take his place?”

This was followed by a vigorous discussion during which Carrie pushed her suggestion, but with no success. At the final vote they decided by four to one to move Larry to become Barry and to replace Larry with Carrie’s young colleague.

Barry was glad it had all gone so smoothly. Although he had something on all four of them, including Larry, he really didn’t like using stuff like that to force decisions. He sighed in relief and then closed the meeting.

“Thank you people, a most welcome decision. Shall we retire to the bar?”

That’s what they did. As the bunker was not an office but a Sports and Social Club, it had managed to keep its club bar.

*****

A day after his last working day, Barry — now stripped of the name he’d carried for decades — stood in Downing Street, keeping watch. He was there when the new Barry arrived at the famous door to Number 10. Without any apparent signal from anybody, the door opened and the old Barry watched the new Barry walk into his new job. He continued to watch until the door closed silently behind his nephew.

Comforted that the planned hand-over had actually taken place, old Barry walked out into Whitehall and hailed a taxi. Time now to plan his future. With luck he still had fifteen active years left in him. He could cultivate his rose garden much more frequently, but more importantly, he could make peace with his children and get to know his grandchildren. His family had taken second place all his working life and they had justifiably resented it. He wondered whether they would even believe he meant to change. Time to mend fences.

It was when he was on the train back home to Richmond that his mobile phone rang. He looked at the display and tutted. Just like everybody else, he himself had a master to whom he had to kowtow and it was that master who was calling him.

‘Hello Roland, what can I do for you?”

“Go to the British Consulate in Zurich and knock some Swiss heads together,” was Roland’s answer. “The Swiss people are expected to vote in one of their referendums to end the country’s neutral status and it is causing us problems. They mustn’t be allowed to do that. They are far too useful for international diplomacy as a neutral country.”

“But I’ve just retired!” Old Barry replied indignantly.

‘Exactly, that’s why we thought of you.”

“But my rose garden and my family. What about them? Can’t you find somebody else?”

“Remember the oath you took all those years ago. You dedicated your entire life to the cause.”

There was a long pause before Old Barry responded. When he did he was his normal, serious self. “How soon do you want me there?”

“By the end of the week, please.”

“Very good sir,” Old Barry replied. “I’ll be there.”

From Richmond station, Old Barry walked home, poured himself a single malt and switched on his laptop. Then he booked himself a one-way flight to Zurich and started to consider how he might rig yet another election. His gardener would just have to continue looking after the roses and it would be his great grandchildren whom he could spoil, if he lived that long and his children ever spoke to him again.