From Free Life No 20, August, 1994

The clerk had trouble finding his old office building. Most of the street names had changed. Some had been given back the names they had before the rise of Big Brother. More often, they were re-named again, this time to commemorate a hero of English history or letters he'd never heard of. Worse, the street signs were now printed in a Gothic script he'd never learned properly. Must bone up, he thought.

And, of course, he wasn't looking for The Ministry of Truth this time. He was looking for the Ministry of Truths Historical.

At first he tried to find his way by roaming the old neighbourhood, looking for the portcullis of Henry VIII which the newly-independent English government had adopted as an official symbol. But now every shop, even the new private ones, bore the symbol too. It wasn't until he saw the ministry's rain-streaked shoulders above the gutters in Gower Street that he could navigate.

He was soon back with the balls of his feet balanced on the steel threshold of his old chief's office. A secretary was playing a video game on one of the ministry's new computers.

He coughed. "Winston Smith," he said. He noticed a sharpness in his voice that once might have sent his mind scurrying down the possible repercussions. But he breathed easily, knowing he had something of a reputation as a "dissident." Even if that failed, at least he'd spit out a good English name.

The secretary swivelled to face him. "Of course, of course." Her hands scattered the yellowed forms on the desk. "The Minister is expecting you."

Winston barely recognised the office or its occupant. The walls had been freshly, if sloppily, whitewashed. The old simulated-wood desks had been replaced with black Swedish tables. Big Brother's portrait. which had always hung awkwardly high on the far wall, was gone. Now, smack in the middle, hung the portcullis, its plastic shield glimmering under the bright neon lights.

The Minister was engrossed in marking the day's newspapers with a red pen. Winston's thin, nervous colleague had put on some weight since their days together, but it had been ten years. At least he's got a new suit, Winston thought. As the Minister walked out to greet him, Winston noticed that his colleague still wore white socks.

"God be with you, Winston, and with our King." The Minister beamed as he shook Winston's hand.

"God be with you, sir," Winston said. After a brief pause he added, "and with our King."

The Minister smiled again and shook his head in disbelief. "Who would have thought, Winston, that our work in the opposition would have brought us to this!"

Winston said nothing. The Minister offered him a seat in front of the desk and went on.

"The revolution happened just in time, Winston. I was near my wits' end. I'm afraid many of you in dissident circles never appreciated how much pressure those of us working from within were under. The Americans kept close watch on us."

"I remember once writing an encyclopedia entry that highlighted the German ancestry of our royal family. It was struck out immediately, of course, and I spent a few long hours being interrogated by some New York cosmopolitan. 'England as a European nation?' he sneered. Then he got nasty. 'Why do you want to break up Oceania?' he asked. 'Who are you working for?'" The Minister smirked. "Of course I didn't tell them I was working with your circles."

The Minister fell silent for a moment and set his hand on Winston's shoulder. "Um, thank you," Winston said.

The Minister returned to his seat, then looked at the newspapers. He frowned. "If only our journalists had your knowledge, Winston, or your understanding of how history has treated England. They reduce everything to black and white. Yes, we suffered in Oceania, but does that mean we must break all ties with our fellow victims? The break-up of the United States offers us great access to Western markets. Surely we should welcome the restoration of the Confederacy. Instead, all these calumnies!"

The Minister picked up a copy of The Guardian and smacked the front page with the back of his hand. "I make one trip to Atlanta, one cultural visit, and I become an agent of a new 'Confederate CIA.'"

The Minister paused, folded the paper and lay it gently back on his desk. "We cannot afford these kinds of lies in a time of war," he said.

Winston blinked but the Minister merely smiled. "I know that phrase might be a bit, well, familiar," he said in a soothing voice. "But it will be your job to help others to avoid simple historical comparisons. I hope you will not fall prey to them yourself."

The Minister leaned back and looked to the far corner again. "The wars of the past were in the name of artificial constructions. Oceania - what was Oceania? What historical roots did Oceania have? But our war today is a war for England, the mother we were never allowed to know. Our mother has been much abused. Big Brother sold her to the financiers of New York, who shackled her to our traditional enemies, all for his beloved 'United Kingdom.' David Hume a Scot! W.B. Yeats an Irishman! The lies we have endured!

"If England is to be free of Oceania, if we are finally to enter Europe, then the world must see how we have suffered and what we are fighting for in Cumbria. That's your job."

The Minister pulled a bulky white packet from his desk drawer.

"Several of our television journalists are well-known Unionists. It shows in their work. We have offered them a packet of historical guidelines for their cultural programmes. Unfortunately, they are all too often ignored. I've therefore insisted that the reporters submit their scripts to you for fact-checking."

The Minister's face grew serious again. "Now, Winston, we all know the pressure that you were under when you made your, well, unfortunate choice. But we recognize the value of your opposition work and would hate to have your good name ruined. What do the public know of those rat cages! If word got out, you would never be given a fair chance to clear your name."

The Minister handed Winston the packet. "These guidelines will help you present a true picture of England. Follow them and you need never fear a false picture of you."

The Minister rose and shook Winston's hand, which was already shaking. He smiled. "God be with you and with our King."

"God be with you and with our King," Winston said. He glanced at the blank space high on the wall. He hated Big Brother.