promised Mr. Fox. “Sir Michael will be along for you
in a few minutes.”
They thanked him and followed the attendant up a winding stairway.
“Who was that?” asked Dirk.
“Robert Fox—Labour M.P. for Taunton,” explained Matthews. “That’s one thing about
the House—everyone always helps everybody else. Parties don’t matter as much as outsiders
might think.” He turned to the attendant.
“What’s being debated now?”
“The Second Reading of the Soft Drinks (Control) Bill,” said the ancient in a funereal
voice.
“Oh, dear!” said Matthews. “Let’s hope it
is
only for a few minutes!”
The benches high in the gallery gave them a good view of the debating chamber. Photographs
had made his surroundings quite familiar to Dirk, but he had always pictured a scene
of animation with members rising to cry “On a point of order!” or, better still, “Shame!”
“Withdraw!” and other Parliamentary noises. Instead, he saw about thirty languid gentlemen
draped along the benches while a junior minister read a not-very-enthralling schedule
of prices and profits. While he watched, two members simultaneously decided that they
had had enough and, with little curtseys to the Speaker, hastily withdrew—no doubt,
thought Dirk, in search of drinks that were not particularly soft.
His attention wandered from the scene below and he examined the great chamber around
him. It seemed very well preserved for its age, and it was wonderful to think of the
historic scenes it had witnessed down the centuries, right back to——
“Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” whispered Matthews. “It was only finished in 1950,
you know.”
Dirk came back to earth with a bump.
“Good heavens! I thought it was centuries old!”
“Oh, no: Hitler wrote off the earlier chamber in the Blitz.”
Dirk felt rather annoyed with himself for not remembering this, and turned his attention
once more to the debate. There were now fifteen members present on the Government
side, while the Conservative and Labour parties on the Opposition benches could only
muster a baker’s dozen between them.
The paneled door against which they were sitting opened abruptly, and a smiling round
face beamed at them. Matthews shot to his feet as their host greeted them with many
apologies. Out in the corridor, where voices could be raised again, introductions
were effected and they followed Sir Michael through yet more passages to the restaurant.
Dirk decided that he had never seen so many acres of wooden paneling in his life.
The old baronet must have been well over seventy, but he walked with a springy step
and his complexion was almost cherubic. His tonsured pate made the resemblance to
some medieval abbot so striking that Dirk felt he had just stepped into Glastonbury
or Wells before the dissolution of the monasteries. Yet if he closed his eyes, Sir
Michael’s accent transported him instantly to metropolitan New York. The last time
he had encountered a brogue like that, its owner had been handing him a ticket for
passing a “Stop” sign.
They sat down to tea and Dirk carefully declined the offer of coffee. During the meal
they discussed trivialities and avoided the object of the meeting. It was only broached
when they had moved out on to the long terrace flanking the Thames which, Dirk could
not help thinking, was a scene of much greater activity than the debating chamber
itself. Little groups of people stood or sat around, talking briskly, and there was
much coming and going of messengers. Sometimes the members would,
en masse
, disengage themselves apologetically from their guests and dash off to register their
votes. During one of these lacunae, Matthews did his best to make Parliamentary procedure
clear to Dirk.
“You’ll realize,” he said, “that most of the work is done in the committee rooms.
Except during important debates, only the specialists or the members who
in a few minutes.”
They thanked him and followed the attendant up a winding stairway.
“Who was that?” asked Dirk.
“Robert Fox—Labour M.P. for Taunton,” explained Matthews. “That’s one thing about
the House—everyone always helps everybody else. Parties don’t matter as much as outsiders
might think.” He turned to the attendant.
“What’s being debated now?”
“The Second Reading of the Soft Drinks (Control) Bill,” said the ancient in a funereal
voice.
“Oh, dear!” said Matthews. “Let’s hope it
is
only for a few minutes!”
The benches high in the gallery gave them a good view of the debating chamber. Photographs
had made his surroundings quite familiar to Dirk, but he had always pictured a scene
of animation with members rising to cry “On a point of order!” or, better still, “Shame!”
“Withdraw!” and other Parliamentary noises. Instead, he saw about thirty languid gentlemen
draped along the benches while a junior minister read a not-very-enthralling schedule
of prices and profits. While he watched, two members simultaneously decided that they
had had enough and, with little curtseys to the Speaker, hastily withdrew—no doubt,
thought Dirk, in search of drinks that were not particularly soft.
His attention wandered from the scene below and he examined the great chamber around
him. It seemed very well preserved for its age, and it was wonderful to think of the
historic scenes it had witnessed down the centuries, right back to——
“Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” whispered Matthews. “It was only finished in 1950,
you know.”
Dirk came back to earth with a bump.
“Good heavens! I thought it was centuries old!”
“Oh, no: Hitler wrote off the earlier chamber in the Blitz.”
Dirk felt rather annoyed with himself for not remembering this, and turned his attention
once more to the debate. There were now fifteen members present on the Government
side, while the Conservative and Labour parties on the Opposition benches could only
muster a baker’s dozen between them.
The paneled door against which they were sitting opened abruptly, and a smiling round
face beamed at them. Matthews shot to his feet as their host greeted them with many
apologies. Out in the corridor, where voices could be raised again, introductions
were effected and they followed Sir Michael through yet more passages to the restaurant.
Dirk decided that he had never seen so many acres of wooden paneling in his life.
The old baronet must have been well over seventy, but he walked with a springy step
and his complexion was almost cherubic. His tonsured pate made the resemblance to
some medieval abbot so striking that Dirk felt he had just stepped into Glastonbury
or Wells before the dissolution of the monasteries. Yet if he closed his eyes, Sir
Michael’s accent transported him instantly to metropolitan New York. The last time
he had encountered a brogue like that, its owner had been handing him a ticket for
passing a “Stop” sign.
They sat down to tea and Dirk carefully declined the offer of coffee. During the meal
they discussed trivialities and avoided the object of the meeting. It was only broached
when they had moved out on to the long terrace flanking the Thames which, Dirk could
not help thinking, was a scene of much greater activity than the debating chamber
itself. Little groups of people stood or sat around, talking briskly, and there was
much coming and going of messengers. Sometimes the members would,
en masse
, disengage themselves apologetically from their guests and dash off to register their
votes. During one of these lacunae, Matthews did his best to make Parliamentary procedure
clear to Dirk.
“You’ll realize,” he said, “that most of the work is done in the committee rooms.
Except during important debates, only the specialists or the members who
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