Public life in Scotland II

Walter Humes
Self-deception at the top

The words inscribed on the silver mace specially designed for the opening of the Scottish Parliament in 1999 are Wisdom, Justice, Compassion and Integrity. They might be regarded as terms of aspiration rather than achievement but, even with that qualification, the extent to which Scottish public life currently falls short of them should be a source of concern to us all.
     Consider the cumulative effect of Kenneth Roy's articles about a whole series of important issues: the levels of remuneration for both managers and consultants in the health service; the difficulty of obtaining information about serious matters of public concern; the limitations and, in some cases, failures of regulatory bodies; secretive decision-making affecting some of the most vulnerable members of society; the deplorable state of some of Scotland’s towns. These revelations amount to a disturbing indictment of the capability and ethical standards of Scotland's leadership class. That class includes politicians, civil servants, professionals and senior office-bearers in a range of public bodies, who have the power to make major decisions affecting the lives of citizens.
     How has this been allowed to happen? Part of the answer may lie in the fact that Scotland is a relatively small country and many of the key players know each other personally. This is sometimes presented as an advantage, making for ease of communication. But it is not hard to see how it might have a downside as well, encouraging a form of complacent cronyism that is certainly not in the public interest. The 'old boy network' in its most blatant, sexist forms may be a thing of the past, but 'networking' is alive and well, fuelled by corporate hospitality at sporting and artistic events.
     It is true that appointments to the boards of many public bodies now require open advertisements and 'transparent' procedures, but anyone who is familiar with the practices of human resources management will be aware that there are ways of ensuring that the 'right' names emerge from the process. 'Person specifications', seemingly setting out a list of objective criteria for appointment, can be subject to remarkably pliable interpretation in the privacy of post-interview discussions among the selection panel.
     The area of public policy with which I am most familiar is education. There is no doubt that a powerful educational establishment exists, which employs a disarming rhetoric of public service – the words partnership, consultation and consensus feature regularly – but which often seems to act in ways that protect the interests of the most influential stakeholders. Through the skilful use of patronage and 'narrative privilege' – the means by which the terms of any debate are constrained – it becomes possible to orchestrate the 'management of consent'.
     In the 1980s, in a brilliant book entitled 'Governing Education', Andrew McPherson and Charles Raab of Edinburgh University delineated the 'assumptive world' of the educational leadership class in Scotland. They showed that, in order to be admitted to the inner circles of the policy community, potential members had to demonstrate both deference and trustworthiness. There were initiation tests at the lower levels of the structure – membership of a minor committee, service on a short-life working group – which, if successfully negotiated, might lead to involvement at more senior levels of operation. The socialisation process was subtle, encouraging a form of 'groupthink' and enabling any potential dissidents to be identified and marginalised.
     Extend this pattern across a range of public policy areas and what emerges is a very unhealthy picture of a nation which values conformity more than critical thinking or creativity, and which rewards those who are prepared to play by the rules of a rather discreditable game. Add to the mix a tendency (borrowed from the private sector) to employ an inflated, boastful form of words when describing the policies and practices of public bodies – which senior officials then begin to believe corresponds with reality – and the shaky foundations of civic leadership begin to emerge.
     Take the current reform programme in education, for example: it is called 'Curriculum for Excellence'. I recently took part in an event at which one of the speakers was from Finland, the country which regularly shows up at the top of international comparisons of educational achievement. He said that, in Finland, they would never use the term 'excellent'. They were pleased to do well but content to describe their system as 'good', while continually striving to do better. A little rhetorical restraint might serve as a modest start in developing a more realistic sense of our current national condition. Meanwhile, let us hope that Kenneth Roy's well-researched pieces, written with such passion and style, are causing more than a little discomfort in high places.