Ministers and Mandarins
16/8/2024
In the crowded waiting room outside the main Cabinet room, I shift my appointment paper on my lap, watching senior officials trade whispers.
I’m item fourteen on the agenda.
It’s a theoretically straightforward paper until you factor in the Treasury official’s frown at me when I walked into the room and that pointed cough from the Infrastructure officials when I sat down.
Fifteen years in the public service has taught me to read these pre-Cabinet signals like weather patterns.
The room hums with the particular tension of thirty seasoned bureaucrats trying to appear relaxed.
I make quick notes, mapping the alliances forming around the room: who’s nodding, speaking too loud and who’s suddenly fascinated by their papers.
As my Minister walks into the waiting room on his way to Cabinet, he catches my eye. I tap my briefing slightly, our subtle signal that I have backup data if needed. His slight nod tells me he’s caught the same undercurrents I have.
“Item four on the agenda,” the Cabinet Secretary announces via the intercom. I settle in. Ten more papers before I am up. While the paper might be the last on the agenda, I remind myself that even easy decisions are a high-wire political act in this room. At least I remembered to bring extra copies.
As I count the copies, the door to the Cabinet room bursts open, and a junior Minister practically tumbles out, his red ministerial folder clutched like a shield against his chest.
The fluorescent lights catch the sheen of sweat on his forehead as his eyes dart frantically, looking for his assembled officials. The usual careful distance between the minister and civil service evaporates instantly, and the officials rush to meet him, almost as if they are catching him as he falls.
“Well?” he demands, voice barely below shouting. “That was bad. They hated it. They want another option, and they want it now.” I can see the minister’s knuckles whiten against the folder’s edge. His officials exchange loaded glances. Decades of carefully cultivated neutrality warring with the raw desperation in their minister’s face.
At this moment, everyone in the room is watching. We all know the old dance of deferential guidance and ministerial authority hangs by a thread.
The Minister’s political advisor steps forward, clearing her throat. The sound echoes in the now hushed corridor.
Every head turns, every breath held – we all recognise the moment when a carefully maintained relationship and distance between elected and non-elected officials either evolves or shatters entirely.
The political advisor turns to the most senior public servant in the group and asks, “What is your first, best, free and frank advice?”
Everyone in the room breathes a sigh of relief. She has asked the right question.
But it’s not over.
In this charged moment, the weight of Westminster tradition presses upon the gathered group.
The most senior public servant now needs to respond with an option that bridges the gap between political necessity and public service wisdom while holding the space between being responsive to the minister and being politically neutral.
In a quiet, almost water-resistant voice, the official says “Minister, if I may… We can reframe our preferred option.”
The Minister pinches the bridge of his nose. “Go on.” He looks simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.
“Instead of the full rollout, we could propose a targeted pilot in the northern and eastern regions. It addresses Treasury’s fiscal concerns while still delivering the core policy objective.” The official keeps his tone measured, observing his Minister.
He goes on. “The data from Gisborne suggests we’d see meaningful results within six months.”
“Six months.” The Minister taps his pen against the folder. “The Prime Minister wants something faster.”
“I understand,” says the official, “But a pilot gives us clean metrics, a controlled narrative, and” – he pauses deliberately – “a compelling story for the next Budget round. Your colleagues might appreciate having those numbers when they face similar pressures from Treasury.”
The Minister straightens slightly. “And Infrastructure. Will they agree?” He looks to the Infrastructure officials in the room; they nod politely but firmly. They are as keen as everyone else to support this minister.
“We’ve already got assets in place in the east. You could leverage them rather than building from scratch.”
The Minister’s most senior official gives the minister a single page. “I took the liberty of running some preliminary numbers.” he says.
A thin and relaxing smile crosses the Minister’s face as he scans the page. “How long have you had this option in your back pocket?” He asks.
“I prefer to think of it as scenario planning, Minister. Or more precisely, contingency planning.” says the official.
The Minister nods. He’s much more relaxed now. “Thank goodness. Walk me through the key points again. I want to go back in and put it on the table. In fact, let’s go in together.”
The institutional memory of centuries has just hovered here. I watch, knowing I have just witnessed the oldest and most sacred practice of truth being spoken to power.
It’s not free speech.
It’s not academic freedom.
It’s not an official telling a Minister off for not letting them explore the full range of options.
It is the regulated and partnered use of strategic voice.
As I count the number of copies I have bought, I wonder how it will adapt to the increasing unique pressures on Aotearoa New Zealand’s modern democracy.
*Please note that this post is fictional. The stories shared are narratives used in workshops on free and frank advice and are drawn from my PhD research.
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