VIEW FROM THE GALLERY
An Issue of National Importance
SALLY VINCENT
To tell the truth, it's not much of a view. They allow me a corner of a scrawny back- row pew with the grudging assurance that nobody else wants it, where if I raise myself aboard coat and handbag and strain every nerve in my spine, while juggling my notebook on top of a wooden partition, I can see almost the whole of the Tory party, plus the top of the Speaker's canopy. The central no-man's-land is invisible and so is the entire opposition population. I can, of course, hear some of what is said and I can also see
around the gallery. I am free to observe, for instance, the assembly of journalistic Haves
and Have-nots. There are those whose mysterious superiority entitles them to a cen- tre seat with a view of both sides, as well as an adequate ledge on which to arrange their papers. I am free to be chilled by the prevail- ing atmosphere and to be sure that as a newcomer I am lowest in the pecking order. In this male enclave I can expect to be treated with the degree of affability one might reasonably suppose would be afforded a sludge monster who has managed to scramble out of the Thames and up the lift shaft to abuse this inviolable haven called the Gallery.
had hoped that my days of feminist ex- tremism were over. But that was before I came up here. Indeed, before I set eyes on the middle-aged fellow on the end of a sumptuous, empty centre row who refused to allow me in on the grounds that 'someone else might want to sit there later'. Or the official who numbers among his duties, helpfulness to the press who 'can't help' the fact that I cannot see. Or the worthy who hands out free bumph to all (but one) and explains 'you have to hold your hand out'. Or the chap whose telephone kiosk I inadvertently violated with a telephone call, who literally hopped with consternation as he tore his door open to expose me. Or the officials and policemen who every day de- mand to inspect my credentials and still ask if I'm 'from the Trish', whatever that might mean. In short, this is not so much a Gallery as Territory. And God help the wandering animal.
As someone who has studied the vagaries of sexual inequality, I am not unsympathetic to the plight of the menopausal man, but this is ridiculous. Forces more insidious than hormone waning, or even fear that when the weatherman comes he'll be disguised as a girl and carrying a SPECTATOR ticket, must be responsible for the sullen tension generated up here.
Perhaps, then, the unease comes through long familiarity with the sounds of govern- ment. Assuming these gentlemen are pro- foundly loyal to the system, they must all be suffering the strain of remaining totally and satisfyingly faithful in the sight and sound of frequent displays of infantilism from the Right Honourable Members beneath them. From my own point of view, I sec no reason why, for instance, Mr John Wells (Con., Maidstone) should not ask the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry what steps he is taking to look into the price of last year's cucumbers, without incurring the derision and mirth of his colleagues. Or why Mrs Joyce Butler (Lab., Wood Green) should be fobbed off with answers that are not strictly serious when she inquires after the develop- ment of self-destroying plastic. And surely the business of politicians saying 'rhubarb, rhubarb' to each other is not exactly con- ducive of confidence in those who rely on their dignity for their own status. For my part, when points of order elude me, or dare I say bore me, I am well able to fix my attention on the centre of the clock beneath the public gallery and lapse from con- centration to meditation and on to a sort of Yogic enstasis without being a trouble to anyone. Which has to do, no. doubt, with being politically unsophisticated, as that well-known political sophisticate, Mr Peregrine Worsthorne, when given any op- portunity, insists I am.
Unlike Mr Christopher Chataway, the Minister of Posts and Telecommunications, who has a strike on his hands, a statement to make (the finer points of which have already appeared in our morning newspaper) and the power to trigger a real-life, grown-up parliamentary debate on an issue of national importance. His statement he delivers in the cool tones of a man who does not have much to do with the problem.
That the men and women who work for the Post Office desire more pay is glossed over with talk of percentages, that the Post Office Union has refused proffered arbitra- tion arrangements is described as merely `regrettable' and that as a consequence the Post Office will be operated by people .other than Post Office workers during the strike is mystified by phrases like 'waiving monopoly provisions'.
First on his feet, Mr Ivor Richard (Lab., Barons Court) is clearly not standing for anything mealy-mouthed. What are we going to have now, he wonders, not unwittily, a pirate post office? And when the pirates are in, who is going to issue them with stamps? And how, when we've paid two shillings to send a letter, do we ensure its safe delivery? The burden of his remarks, though, is that post office workers are grossly underpaid and that this fact should be regarded as of prime importance.
In reply, Mr Chataway athletically draws attention to the Pact that post office workers enjoy the good will of the public, as though that might be enough to satisfy coarse people who demand.to live by bread. They are not, he insists:4MOng the lowest paid members of society. Indeed, the average earnings of a
postman are £25 3s 8d. Despite the meticulous detail of the odd eightpetice.there is a general rumble of dissent. But rapidly our miler is on to the safer ground of whose fault it is that the matter is not up for arbitration under the Agreement of 27 August last year. Fortunately for him, other members anxious to debate in the correct manner; sweep him still further from the point. But the regional tones of Stanley Orme (Lab., Salford West) high pitched with anger, as well he might be since he's been up and down and ignored by the Speaker until he is in a frenzy bf frustration and accusing the Minister of humbug. Postmen, actual postmen, actually take home between £14 and £17 a week.' Mr Orme has no doubt been talking to postmen similar to those who plaintively exhibited their pay-slips to me. This is net pay,'he says, for net pay is what matters. Yet this House, and the good fellow betrays his emotion, this very House recently voted for an increase in the salaries of High Court judges. And now it refuses decent wages for people who are the backbone of the nation: Mr Chataway is implacable. The average earnings of a post office worker, he reaffirms, is just over £25 a week. He has, at least, dropped the eight pence. So this, if I am not mistaken, is a debating point. Politely and firmly he makes more debating points. They sound to me like lightly veiled threats. Postmen have good-will, he repeats, but if this strike goes ahead it will be recorded by the public as the Ninepenny Letter Strike. For that is what it will mean. The public will pay and the postmen will suffer loss of good- will. It is the sort of get-out tfiat can do little to raise the morale of my companions in the Gallery. Perhaps he is embarrassed, for the Speaker decides to end the debate:There is an•outcry from the left. How can he do such a thing when at least ten of them are on their feet? How can a mere twenty-seven minutes be allotted an issue of such overwhelming importance? This is supposed to be an open- ended discussion ! A fraction of wig peeps out from the Speaker's chair. 'I have decided the matter', he intones. And so he has. It is all over and for us all, up here, another lesson in reverence for authority has penetrated our flimsy facade.,
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