What's the secret?

After studying all the wrong things at University for a few terms, I got a job instead. In 1975 I was required to sign the Official Secrets Act to ensure that, in perpetuity, I would not divulge sensitive information gained in the course of my work. It was at the then Ministry of Agriculture Fisheries and Food (MAFF). I worked as a clerk collating the agricultural census for dissemination, and later as a 'computer operator'. The mainframe ICL machine inhabited a cavernous hall, but was much less powerful than your average smart-phone today. I recall not so much operating the computer as the machine controlling me, as I ran around the room following its instructions to load disk X, tape Y or card Z. I am reminded now of the film TRON (1982) in which the protagonist tries to escape from the bowels of a mainframe machine, although in his case transported into the software. The first job was probably the most monotonous I ever had. I recall little other than watching the clock for 'clocking off time'. I remember no sensitive information, but one recurring image is of those pages to be inserted into the published document that state they are 'intentionally blank'. But they were clearly not blank, always having those two words. What secrets did they contain? Today I would ask what information had been 'redacted'.

I then embarked on a long career in the field of mental health that finally, ironically, led to teaching at the very University from which I had 'dropped out' many years before. There were codes of professional conduct, codes of confidentiality but no 'official secrets' as it were. But of course I came to know the secrets of many individuals. In recent years, health workers have been subject to gagging clauses which prevented them from disclosing organisational/corporate 'secrets' and from blowing the whistle on abuse, neglect and worse, as tragically we now know.

While a student of mental health, I joined a men's close harmony chorus. We performed in competitions and for charity. At the outset I had no inkling that more than half of the members greeted each other with 'secret handshakes' which became evident the more 'Ladies Nights' we entertained, some digging more deeply into their pockets than the next man to display their largesse to their peers. The not-so-secret handshake was parodied by Monty Python's Flying Circus, and a couple of us would use this version backstage in jest. We assumed the others didn't know that we knew they were 'on the square', and we didn't then know there were so many of them in the group. It was as if the harmony singing was a smokescreen for their occult activities.

My mental health career took me on a visit to St Petersburg, Russia, around 2000. The mental health services of the city had much in common with those at home while being intriguingly rather more welcoming. At a hospital named after experimental neurologist Ivan Pavlov (1849-1936), famed for 'classical conditioning' of dogs' digestive systems, we took turns to sit in his chair or have a photo taken beneath his portrait. It rang a bell for some; some salivated. I still salivate at the thought of the delicious food provided by our hosts, in fairly secret restaurants tucked away in Soviet-era apartment blocks. I was the only one in our group to have a smattering of Russian, remembered from my failed GCE O-level, but it was sufficient for polite greetings, for navigating the Metro system and more importantly – menus.

I wonder now if my father's keen interest in the Soviet Union had a sumliminal influence on my choice of language at school. Communism has a long history in the Naval Dockyards in which he worked. Indeed his colleague and friend Harry Houghton was central to the Portland Spy Ring (1951-1960) referred to in a previous blog. I've only learned this year that my father's cousin and contemporary Fred Udell (1925-2018) a.k.a. 'Founder of Stevenage' (a.k.a. 'Fred the Red' in a local newspaper, according to a yet unsubstantiated family communication) had been an active communist. Of the same background to those the 'new town' was meant to house, Fred spoke of exploitation by construction companies aware of their desperation. Workers had a shed for a canteen, no toilet, and were afraid to challenge their conditions, lest their right to rent a new home, one they had built, was threatened. Fred went to St Petersburg too in 2014, a good few years after me, but much older, to mark his work in the Arctic Convoys. Sadly I hardly knew Fred. He (and wife Violet) had been one of those family or friends that in the 1960s seemed to visit out of the blue; or at least my brother and I were never told then that we were having visitors.

I often wonder to what extent my father had been involved in Fred and Harry's activities. If so, he was certainly discrete, and took any secrets to the grave in 1994. 

LINKS

Monty Python - Mason handshake Illuminati - YouTube
Portland spy ring | MI5 - The Security Service
Tales of espionage in four ports: Portsmouth, Portland, Porthmadog, Portmeirion. Part 1. (cambriancrumbs.blogspot.com)
Imagining New New Towns // New Socialist
Fred Udell by UniofWestminster (soundcloud.com) (you may need to log in to listen)
ARCTIC CONVOYS SAILORS 1941-1945’ | Royal Naval Association (royal-naval-association.co.uk)