'No, Henri.' Alan shook his head slowly, then put a hand on the stowaway's shoulder under the darned blue jersey. 'I'm sorry... I guess you knocked at the wrong door.'
Part 13
The House of Commons
Chapter 1
'So you've told the Cabinet,' Brian Richardson said. 'How did they take it?' The party director rubbed a hand over his eyes to relieve their tiredness. Since the Prime Minister's return from Washington the previous day, Richardson had spent most of the intervening hours at his desk. He had left it ten minutes ago to come by taxi to Parliament Hill.
Hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his suit coat, James Howden continued to face the window where he had been looking down, from his Centre Block office, on the steady afternoon stream of arrivals and departures. In the past few minutes an ambassador had come and gone; a trio of senators, like ancient pundits, had passed beneath and out of sight; there had been a black-habited cleric, stalking hawk-faced like a shade of doom; official messengers with monogrammed dispatch cases, self-important in their brief authority; a handful of press-gallery reporters; MPs returning from lunch or a stroll, at home like members of a club; and the inevitable tourists, some standing to be photographed by friends beside sheepish, grinning Mounties.
What does it all mean, Howden thought? What does it all amount to in the end? Everything around us seems so permanent: the long procession down the years; the statuary; the storeyed buildings; our systems of government; our enlightenment, or so we choose to think. And yet it is all so temporary, and we ourselves the most fragile, temporary part. Why do we struggle, strive, achieve, when the best we can do, in time, will amount to nothing?
There was no answer, he supposed. There was never any answer. The party director's voice recalled him to reality.
'How did they take it?' Brian Richardson repeated. A full meeting of Cabinet had been held early that morning.
Turning from the window, Howden asked, 'Take what?'
'The Act of Union, of course. What else?'
James Howden considered before answering. The two men were in the Prime Minister's parliamentary office -'Room 307S, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the regular suite of offices in the East Block, but only an elevator ride from the House of Commons.
'It's strange that you should ask what else. As far as the Act of Union was concerned, most of the Cabinet took it remarkably well. Of course, there'll be some dissension - perhaps strong dissension - when we discuss it again.'
Brian Richardson said dryly, 'That figures, doesn't it?'
'I suppose so,' Howden took a turn around the room. 'But then again, perhaps not. It's often true that big concepts can be accepted more readily than smaller ones.'
'That's because most people have little minds.'
'Not necessarily.' There were times when Richardson's cynicism grated on Howden. 'You were the one, I think, who pointed out that we've been moving towards the Act of Union for a long time. What's more, the terms as I have now negotiated them, are extremely favourable to Canada.' The Prime Minister paused, tweaked his nose, then continued thoughtfully, 'The extraordinary thing about this morning's Cabinet was that some people were much more anxious to talk about this wretched immigration affair.'
'Isn't everybody? I suppose you saw today's papers?'
The Prime Minister nodded, then sat down, motioning Richardson to a facing chair. 'This lawyer Maitland in Vancouver seems to be giving us a good deal of trouble. What do we know about him?'
'I checked. Seems to be just a young fellow, fairly bright, with no political connexions that are known of.'
'Not now, maybe. But this kind of case is a good way to start them. Is there any way we could approach Maitland indirectly; offer him a by-election seat if he'll take things easier?'
The party director shook his head. 'Too risky. I made some inquiries and the advice I get is to stay away. If anything like that was said, Maitland would use it against us. He's that type.'
In his own young days, Howden thought, he had been that type too. 'All right,' he said. 'What else can you suggest?'
Richardson hesitated. For three days and nights, ever since Milly Freedeman had produced the fateful photostatic record of the deal between the Prime Minister and Harvey War-render, his mind had explored possibilities.
Somewhere, Brian Richardson was convinced, a counter-lever against Harvey Warrender existed. There was always a counter-lever; even blackmailers had secrets they preferred to keep, though the problem was inevitably the same: how to wrest the secret out. There were many individuals in politics -inside and outside the party - whose secrets Richardson had been told or had stumbled on over the years. And in a locked safe in his own office a slim brown book contained them all, written in a private shorthand that only he could read.
But under 'Warrender' in the private brown book there was nothing save a new entry made a day or two ago.
Yet ... somehow ... the counter-lever must be found; and if anyone found it, Richardson knew, it would be himself.
Over the three days and nights he had turned his memory inside out... probing recesses ... recalling chance words, incidents, asides ... juggling faces, places, phrases. It was a process which had worked before, but this time it had not.
Except that for the past twenty-four hours he had had a nagging sense of being close. There was something, he knew; and it was near the surface of his mind. A face, a memory, a word might trigger it. But not yet. The question was: how long?
He was tempted to reveal to Howden his knowledge about the nine-year-old agreement; to have a full and frank discussion. It might clear the air, perhaps produce a plan for countering Harvey Warrender, possibly even release whatever was locked in his own mind. But to do so would involve Milly, at this moment, in the office outside, guarding their privacy. And Milly must not be involved, now or later. The Prime Minister had asked: 'What else can you suggest?'
'There's a fairly simple remedy, chief, which I've urged before.'
Howden said sharply, 'If you mean, let the stowaway in as an immigrant, that's out of the question now. We've taken a stand and we must maintain it. To back down would be an admission of weakness.'
'If Maitland has his way, the courts may overrule you.'
'No! Not if things are handled properly. I intend to talk to Warrender about that civil servant who's in charge out there.'
'Kramer,' Richardson said. 'He's a deputy director who was sent out temporarily.'
'He may have to be recalled. An experienced man would never have allowed a special inquiry. According to the newspapers he offered it voluntarily after the habeas corpus writ had been refused.' Howden added with a flash of anger, 'Because of that stupidity, the whole issue has been reactivated.'
'Maybe you should wait till you get out there. Then you can give him hell personally. Did you look over the schedule?'
'Yes.' Howden rose from the chair he had been occupying and crossed to his paper-strewn desk near the window. Dropping into an armchair behind, he reached for an open file folder. 'Considering the short notice,' he said approvingly, 'it's a good programme you've arranged for me.'
Howden's eye ran down the list. Allowing for a House of Commons announcement about the Act of Union in ten days' time, there were five days available for a whirlwind speaking tour across the country - the 'conditioning' period they had planned. He would begin in Toronto the day after tomorrow -- a joint meeting of the influential Canadian and Empire Clubs -- and end, on the final day, in Quebec City and Montreal. In between would be Fort William, Winnipeg, Edmonton, Vancouver, Calgary, and Regina.
He observed dryly, 'I see you've included the usual quota of honorary degrees.'
'I always thought you collected them,' Richardson said.
'I suppose you could call it that. I keep them in the basement of Number 24, along with the Indian headdresses. The two things are about as useful.'
Richardson gave a broad grin. 'Don't ever get quoted on that. We'd lose the Indian and in
tellectual votes together.' He added: 'You said the Cabinet kicked the Duval case around, as well as the Act of Union. Was there any new conclusion?'
'No. Except that if the Opposition forces a debate in the House this afternoon, Harvey Warrender will speak for the Government and I shall intervene if needed.'
Richardson said with a grin, 'More discreetly than yesterday, I hope.'
The Prime Minister flushed brick red. He answered angrily, 'That kind of remark is not required. What I said yesterday at the airport was an error, which I admit. But everyone has lapses occasionally. Even you, from time to time, have made a few mistakes.'
'I know.' The party director rubbed the tip of his nose ruefully, 'And I guess I just made another. Sorry.'
Slightly mollified, Howden said, 'Possibly Harvey War-render can handle the whole thing himself.'
Actually, Howden thought, if Harvey spoke as well and convincingly as he had in Cabinet, he might well retrieve some lost ground for the Government and the party. This morning under sharp attack from other ministers, Harvey had defended the Immigration Department's action, making it seem sane and logical. There had been nothing erratic about his manner, either; it was subdued and rational, though the trouble with Harvey was, you could never be sure when his mood might switch.
The Prime Minister stood up again and faced the window, his back to Brian Richardson. There were fewer people down below, he noticed. Most, he supposed, had gone inside the Centre Block where the House of Commons would be convening in a few minutes' time.
'Will the rules allow a debate in the House?' Richardson questioned.
'Not in the ordinary way.' Howden answered without turning. 'But there's a supply motion coming up this afternoon, and the Opposition can pick any subject they choose. I hear a rumour that Bonar Deitz may make it immigration.'
Richardson sighed. He could already imagine the radio and television coverage tonight, the news stories tomorrow morning.
There was a light tap at the door. It opened to admit Milly. Howden turned, facing her.
'It's almost half past,' Milly announced. 'If you're going in for prayers...' She smiled at Richardson and nodded. On the way in the party director had handed her a folded note which read characteristically: 'Expect me at seven tonight. Important.'
'Yes,' the Prime Minister said. 'I'm going.'
Above them the Westminster quarters of the Peace Tower carillon began to chime.
Chapter 2
The sonorous, distinguished voice of the Speaker of the House was moving towards the end of prayers as James Howden entered the Government lobby. As always, the Prime Minister thought, Mr Speaker was putting on an impressive show. Through the nearest doorway to the floor of the House he could hear the familiar daily words ... beseech Thee ... particularly for the Governor General, the Senate and the House of Commons ... that thou wouldst be pleased to direct and prosper all their consultations ... that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety may be established among us for all generations ...
Such splendid sentiments, Howden thought - alternated daily in French and English for a presumably bilingual God. It was a pity that in a few minutes from now the words would be forgotten among the minutiae of petty political sparring.
From inside came a chorus of sonorous amens, led strongly by the Clerk of the House, as was his special privilege.
Now other ministers and members were moving in, the House filling as it usually did for question time at the opening of a daily session. Around the Prime Minister in the lobby, supporters of his own majority party filed to their seats. Howden stayed, chatting briefly with members of the Cabinet, nodding to others who acknowledged his presence respectfully as they passed.
He allowed time for the galleries to fill before making his own entrance.
As always, there was a stir and turning of heads as he appeared. As if unaware of the attention, he made his way leisurely to the front row double desk on the Government side of the House which he shared with Stuart Cawston, already seated. Bowing to the Speaker, presiding from his canopied, thronelike chair at the north end of the high oblong chamber, James Howden took his own seat. A moment later he nodded urbanely to Bonar Deitz in the Opposition Leader's seat directly across the centre aisle.
The routine barrage of questions to government ministers had already begun.
A Newfoundland member was upset because of great numbers of dead codfish floating off the Atlantic coast, and what did the Government propose to do? The Minister of Fisheries began an involved and laboured answer.
Beside the Prime Minister, Smiling Stu Cawston murmured, 'I hear Deitz has chosen immigration for sure. I hope Harvey can carry the ball.'
James Howden nodded, then glanced behind him at the second row of government desks where Harvey Warrender sat, apparently imperturbable, except that now and then the muscles of his face were twitching.
As questioning continued, it was evident that the subject of immigration and Henri Duval - normally the kind of issue with which the Opposition would delight to bombard the Government at question time - was being omitted. It was added confirmation that Bonar Deitz and his supporters planned a full-dress debate when the supply motion was moved in a few minutes.
The Press gallery was crowded, Howden noted gloomily. All the front row seats were occupied and other reporters had crowded in behind.
The questions had ended and Smiling Stu arose from beside the Prime Minister. He moved formally that the House go into Committee of Supply.
Gathering his silk QC's gown around his corpulent figure, the Speaker nodded. At once, the Leader of the Opposition was on his feet.
'Mr Speaker,' the Hon Bonar Deitz enunciated crisply, then paused, his scholarly, gaunt face turned questioningly towards the presiding officer. Again a nod from the Speaker, like a black watching beetle, in his chair under the carved oak canopy.
For a moment Deitz paused, looking up - an unconscious habit he sometimes had - towards the soaring ceiling of the chamber fifty feet above. It was almost, James Howden thought on the other side of the House, as if his principal opponent sought to draw, from the painted Irish linen surface and elaborate gold-leaf cornices, the words he needed for a moment's greatness.
'The sorry record of this Government,' Bonar Deitz began, 'is .nowhere more depressingly exemplified than in its policies affecting immigration, and the day-to-day administration of immigration affairs. I suggest, Mr Speaker, that the Government and its Department of Citizenship and Immigration have their collective feet firmly rooted in the nineteenth century, a period from which they will not be stirred by considerations of a changed world or by simple, everyday humanity.'
It was an adequate opening, Howden thought, though whatever else Bonar Deitz had gathered from his survey of the ceiling, it had not been greatness. Most of the words, in one form or another, had been used before by successive oppositions in the House of Commons.
The thought prompted him to scribble a note to Harvey Warrender. 'Quote instances where Opposition, when in power, followed exact same procedure as us now. If you've not details, instruct your Dept rush them here.' He folded the note, beckoned a page boy and indicated the Minister of Immigration.
A moment later Harvey Warrender turned his head towards the Prime Minister, nodded, and touched a file folder among several on the desk before him. Well, Howden thought, that was as it should be. A good executive assistant would brief his minister carefully on something like that.
Bonar Deitz was continuing,'... in this motion of "no confidence" ... a current example of a tragic case where humanitarian considerations, as well as human rights have been wantonly ignored'.
As Deitz paused there was a thumping of desk tops on the Opposition side. On the Government side a back-bencher called out, 'I wish we could ignore you.'
For a second the Opposition Leader hesitated.
The rough and tumble of the House of Commons had never appealed greatly to Bonar Deitz. Right from his own first election as a Mem
ber of Parliament years before, the House had always seemed to him remarkably like a sports arena where competing teams attempted to score points off each other at every opportunity. The rules of conduct, it seemed, were childishly simple: if some measure was favoured by your own party, it was naturally good; if favoured by another party, and not your own, it was just as automatically bad. There was seldom any in between. Similarly, to doubt your own party's stand on any issue and wonder if, for once, your opponents might be right and wiser, was considered disaffecting and disloyal.
It had been a jolt, also, to Deitz the scholar and intellectual, to discover that effective party loyalty extended to banging desk tops in support of other party members and hurling gibes and counter-gibes across the House in the manner of exuberant schoolboys, with sometimes a good deal less erudition than schoolboys might show. In time - long before he had become Opposition Leader - Bonar Deitz had learned to do both, though seldom without a degree of inward squirming.
The heckler had cried: 'I wish we could ignore you.''
His instinctive reaction was not to bother with a rude and silly interruption. But his own supporters, he knew, would expect some retaliation. Therefore he snapped back, 'The honourable member's wish is understandable since the Government he supports has ignored so much for so long.' He wagged an accusing finger at the other side of the House. 'But there will come a time when the conscience of this country can no longer be ignored.'
Not very good, Bonar Deitz decided inwardly. He suspected that the Prime Minister, who excelled in repartee, would probably have done better. But at least his attempt at counterattack had earned a volley of desk-top banging from the members behind him.
Now, responding, there were jeers, and shouts of 'Oh, oh,' and 'Are you our conscience?' from the other side.
'Order, order.' It was Mr Speaker, standing, putting on his tricorn hat. In a moment or two the hubbub died down.
'I referred to the conscience of our country,' Bonar Deitz proclaimed. 'Let me tell you what that conscience tells me. It tells me that we are one of the richest and most underpopulated nations in the world. And yet we are informed by the Government, through its Minister of Immigration, that there is not space here for this single unfortunate human being...'
In High Places Page 32
