Westminster Commentary
The Lost Follower
BY the time my carriage turned into Whitehall, the crowds had become so thick, and had en- croached (despite the efforts of the police cordon) so far on to the roadway, that further pro- gress became impossible. The Commissioner fought his way through (his cap being knocked askew as he did so) and begged me to dismount and proceed the rest of the way on foot. 1 of course assented, and the pro- cession slowly went on up to Parliament Street, Sir Joseph taking personal charge of the police phalanx with which I was by now surrounded. As we moved along, the rain of flowers thrown by women in the crowd grew almost blinding, while from all sides there was the sound of weeping, mixed with cries of 'Come back to us soon, Sir,' and the like. Arrived at the gate to New Palace Yard, I found that the Brigade of Guards, which was drawn up on the pavement to either side, had been so pressed by the enormous crowd that they had been compelled to fix bayonets (to the bewilderment, not to say consternation, of many of them), and the band was quite unable to play. In the Yard itself-the entire House, it seemed, had assembled, and as I passed along there were many warming moments. Dame Irene Ward pressed into my hand a privately printed volume of Mr. Butler's Table-Talk (These are the best lamb cut- lets we have'), and, I thought, woukl fain have added some personal message had she not been choked with emotion. Sir William Robson-Brown and Sir Leonard Ropner struck up a rousing chorus of 'For he's a jolly good fellow,' but this unfortunately went unheard as the band of the Brigade of Guards, outside, had by then managed to disentangle their instruments and had begun to play a selection (chosen by Sir Beverley Baxter) from the works of Edward German. As I approached the door I saw a large puddle lying directly in my path; with admirable presence of mind, not to say chivalry, Mr. Glenvil Hall tore off Mr. Maurice Edelman's dinner-jacket and flung it to the ground for me to walk on. Lord Salisbury gravely raised his coronet, a touching gesture marred only in the eyes of the cynical by the fact that a packet of ham sandwiches (the crowd had begun to assemble hours earlier) fell out of it. A muffled report from the far corner indicated, as I afterwards learned, that Mr. Anthony Barber had attempted to shoot himself, but missed; an occurrence which added an extra touch of sadness to an already sad occasion. This, however, was partly relieved by the sight of Mr. Hugh Fraser, who was carrying a large banner reading 'Taper Go Home'—though the roguish twinkle in Mr. Fraser's eye belied the brusque- ness of the message (besides, he was holding it upside down). And so I passed on into my place, to say hail and farewell to Her Majesty's Com- mons assembled.
The crowd downstairs was larger—much larger —than on Budget Day. Every seat and every gangway was full, and the crowd below the Bar was huge (the attendants could scarcely get in and out, and Black Rod had to have the way cleared for him when he came to summon them to the Lords). Messrs. Chataway and Johnson Smith looked slightly dazed at being on the inside look- ing out, though Mr. Jeremy Thorpe surveyed the proceedings with a carefully nonchalant air (he was one of the few—and almost the only new boy—to follow the Front Benches to the Lords). Mrs. Judith Hart, who removed Mr. Patrick Maitland from Lanark, was accepting well- deserved congratulations from all around; Mr. Tom Driberg looked almost glad to be back; Mr.
Grimond was dressed in positively funereal fashion; Mr. Gaitskell got a very loud cheer; Mr. Macmillan got a slightly smaller one (though his reception at the 1922 Committee had been, by all accounts, on film-star or footballer scale); the blinds were lowered to shut out the autumn sun- shine; a hush fell; and the proceedings started, late.
Now the negotiations over the Speakership having been conducted to all intents and pur- poses in public, the main outlines of what was about to happen were tolerably clear. What is more, I cannot be accused of over-rating the average intelligence of the Conservative Party.
But I do feel, I do really, that somebody other than Sir James Duncan could have been selected for the Clerk's unerring finger to point at. Sir James rose to propose Sir Harry Hylton-Foster for the office of Speaker, and with every word he uttered he jammed his foot more firmly into his mouth, while the jeering from the Opposition benches grew louder and more delighted. It was important, he said, that the House should `deliberate together' about the office of Speaker. The Labour Party blew him a collective (though figurative) raspberry. In the past, he said, the Speaker had been a nominee of the King. The Labour Party howled, Then it had become a party matter. The Labour Party threw up its sweaty night-caps. On this occasion there had been great difficulty in finding the right man. The Labour Party put its temper back in its pocket and laughed; it was by then difficult to do anything else about Sir James, though Sir Harry Hylton- Foster, no doubt feeling it would not be seemly to join in, blushed. But Sir James Duncan was not finished. He listed Sir Harry's personal quali- ties, and gravely informed the House that such was Sir Harry's dialectical skill that whenever he (Sir James) had had an argument with him, Sir Harry had always won. Apart from Mr. Thurber's Bolonkiewicz, the only living creature I have ever encountered that, on Sir James Duncan's showing on this occasion, could not have beaten him in an argument was a Boxer dog belonging to an aunt of mine, which was so stupid it eventually forgot how to breathe, and quietly died.
Still, not even Sir James Duncan—even assisted as he was by Sir Robert Cary, who informed the House that it would be quite wrong to regard Sir Harry's imminent election as a mere formality— could stop the proceedings rolling on to their appointed end. Mr. Gaitskell was in fine and up- hearted form, though I think I caught the words `with the greatest respect' once or twice; but I sus- pect that this was one more example of the Oppo- sition's taking up a challenge that it is impossible to explain to the country.. The House was clearly impressed (in the case of many Tories, uncom- fortably so) by the force of his argument that the Government had behaved shabbily over the selection of the Speaker; but from outside 1 fear that it must have looked suspiciously like one more example of Labour bloody-mindedness. (On the other hand, if Mr. Gaitskell had not spoken up, he would have been accused of once again letting the Opposition's case go by default—the Labour Charybdis to match the aforementioned Scylla. I would not like to be Mr. Gaitskell.) One or two comments on the affair, however, deserve to be made. Clearly, in negotiating with Mr. Butler, Mr. Gaitskell is as clay to the potter (though this would be equally true of anybody who has ever lived except possibly Metternich; I imagine that even Lloyd George would have found himself wondering where his trousers could have got to), and there is a certain quintes- sentially Butlerian charm in the insistence on Sir Frank Soskice in face of the great probability '(and, before the end, certainty) that he would refuse the job. But the point at which I would like to throw a little weight about is precisely the point at which there was no disagreement between the two sides. That the Speaker must lean neither to partiality on the one side, nor to impartiality on the other, is of course accepted. But both Front Benches are unwilling to agree that he should no more lean forward than to either side. Mr. Speaker Morrison had many great qualities, and Sir Harry will have many of the same (apart from anything else they are both men of humour; which reminds me that on strictly pragmatic grounds I must support the Tory steam-rollering of Mr. Gilbert Mitchison, for if it was difficult to shut Mr. Mitchison up when he spoke from the Dispatch Box, it would be doubly so if he spoke from the Chair). But Mr. Morrison's greatest fault as a Speaker seems likely to be followed by Sir Harry—if only because the doctrine it pro- pounded now seems to have taken on the inviolability of case-law. I refer to his excessive subservience, not of course to the Government, let alone the Opposition, but to the Front Benches (using the phrase in more than its literal meaning) in general.
The inescapable truth that many back-benchers faced in the last Parliament was that it was pos- sible to know at the beginning of a debate whether they would be called before the end. In the discussion of the Labour Party's future, one suggestion that has been widely canvassed is that the Shadow Cabinet should be chosen by Mr. Gaitskell, not elected by the Parliamentary Labour Party. The idea has merits, but I am not here disposed to consider them. What I would like to draw attention to is the assumption—made quite explicitly—that this would give Mr. Gaitskell freedom to nominate the Opposition speakers on different topics, rather than having them fixed for him by his party as a whole. It is a grim reflection on the decline (self-accentuated for the most part) in the standing of the Chair that such an assumption can be made at all; throughout, there has been no suggestion that the Speaker might like to take a hand in calling members, too.
Of course, opening and closing speakers on either side must be chosen in advance; but this unavoidable practice has opened the door to a flood of nominated speakers, of debating priori- ties and arrangements, which is doing Parliament more harm than many of its members know. What I would like to see is an end, and a pretty firm one, to the whole existence of lists, of casual visits by the Whips, of tactful suggestions that the choice of so-and-so to speak would be a little surprising, and the omission of so-and-so keenly regretted. If Sir Harry should prove the man to re-establish the Speaker's right to call whom he pleases when he pleases, his Speakership could be one of the most exciting and fruitful for very many years.
But I shall not be there to see it, in any case. My announcement last week that I was retiring from the day-to-day reporting of parliamentary and political affairs seems to have produced some confusion in the minds of such few readers as I have. Sonic have read into the announcement a decision to enter a monastery, or even an intima- tion that I will be writing no more for the Spectator. Neither, I make haste to add, is true; week after week I will still be at the same old stand (though under an umbrella with different- coloured stripes). But you really cannot expect me to go on day after day about Them.
You cannot expect it for two separate sets of reasons, which I will give. The first can be summed up in an incident from the proceedings I have described. While Mr. Gaitskell was speak- ing, the Prime Minister, who was to follow, started slightly at some point Mr. Gaitskell was making, and drew out his pen to make a note to assist him when he came to reply. Beside him there sat the Right Honourable Brigadier John Selwyn Brooke Lloyd, Commander of the Order of the British Empire, Commander of the Ameri- can Legion of. Merit, Queen's Counsel, Member of Parliament for the Wirral Division of Cheshire, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. As Mr. Macmillan held his pen poised, Mr. Lloyd leaped to his feet. leaned over the table to the stationery racks (which, in strict though perhaps not relevant fact, were a few inches nearer to Mr. Macmillan than to Mr. Lloyd), extracted some sheets of paper, gave them to Mr. Macmillan and resumed his seat. The Prime Minister graciously inclined his head a few inches and started to make his notes. Is it seriously contended that I should continue in regular daily attendance upon a House of Com- mons in which the Foreign Secretary is literally as well as figuratively the Prime Minister's office- boy? The other reason is less personal and more important; for I can hardly hope that the tedium and silliness of the House of Commons, which will inevitably be much worse now, will be re- garded as a sufficient excuse for abandoning it, at any rate by those who are not compelled to go there. In truth, the House of Commons is becom- ing a very unimportant place. Apart from the increasing proportion of decisions which are taken in party conclave without reference to the House as such, real power in this country is shift- ing not only from the Legislature, but from the Executive itself. The city, the trade unions, the courts and the Civil Service, impersonal economic forces, the mass media of communications, the immovable realities of the international situation, the hydrogen bomb—these are increasingly the true centres of power; 1 would be distorting reality if I continued to chronicle the affairs of politicians and parties as though they were truly the arbiters of our fate. With no major legislative programme, with the Labour Party being forced into the realisation that there really is not enough dividing the parties (at any rate in areas that the electorate cares about) to enable it to win an election in present circumstances, with the decline of oratory and ability, with the increasing emptiness of the political stage—with all these influences and more pressing upon me, I have come to feel that to go on bowling my hoop exclusively around West- minster would be tantamount to a confidence trick, and I have no wish to be charged with obtaining readers by false pretences; wherefore my decision. The joy, I am told by a correspon- dent, will be great in Hoylake. That settles it.
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