In a separate compartment of his mind the Opposition Leader was aware that he was being verbally reckless. It was dangerous to put sentiments of that kind so unequivocally on record, because any party which came to power found speedily that political pressures for limiting immigration were too great to be ignored. Someday, Deitz knew, he might well regret his present ardent words.
But at moments - and this was one - the compromises of politics, the endless mealy-mouthed speeches, wearied and disgusted him. Today, for once, he would say what he believed forthrightly and hang the consequences!
In the Press gallery, he noted, heads were down.
Pleading for Henri Duval, an insignificant man whom he had never met, Bonar Deitz continued to address the House.
Across the centre aisle, James Howden was listening with half an ear. For the past few minutes he had been watching the clock at the south end of the chamber below the steeply-tiered ladies' gallery, three-quarters full today. He was aware that very soon a third of the reporters present would be leaving to file stories for their papers' late afternoon editions. With deadlines close, they would begin moving out at any moment. Listening carefully, he waited for an opening...
'Surely there are times,' Bonar Deitz declaimed, 'when humanitarian considerations should override stubborn adherence to the letter of the law?'
The Prime Minister was on his feet. 'Mr Speaker, will the Leader of the Opposition permit a question?'
Bonar Deitz hesitated. But it was a reasonable request he could hardly refuse. He said curtly, 'Yes.'
'Is the Leader of the Opposition suggesting,' Howden asked with sudden rhetoric, 'that the Government should ignore the law, the law of this country, enacted by Parliament...'
He was interrupted from the Opposition side by shouts of 'Question, question!' 'Get on with it!' 'It's a speech!' And from his own supporters came retaliatory cries of 'Order!' 'Listen to the question!' 'What are you afraid of?' Bonar Deitz, who had resumed his seat, was once more on his feet.
'I am coming to the crux of my question,' the Prime Minister declared loudly, his voice rising above the others, 'and it is simply this.' He paused, waiting for relative silence, and when it came he continued, 'Since it is plain that this unfortunate young man, Henri Duval, is in no way admissible to Canada under our own law, I ask the Leader of the Opposition if he is in favour of referring the case to the United Nations. And I may say that in any event it is the Government's intention to bring this matter immediately to United Nations attention ...'
There was instant uproar. Once more, shouts, accusations and counter-accusations flew back and forth across the House. The Speaker was on his feet, his voice unheeded. Red-faced, his eyes blazing, Bonar Deitz faced the Prime Minister. He cried angrily, 'This is a device --'
And so it was.
In the press gallery, reporters were hurrying out. The interruption, the announcement, had been perfectly timed...
James Howden could predict the one-sentence lead on most news stories now being telephoned or typed: Henri Duval, the 'man-without-a-country, may have his case referred to the United Nations, the Prime Minister revealed to the House of Commons today. CP and BUP had probably sent three-bell bulletins already. 'DUVAL CASE GOES TO UN - PRIME MINISTER', the teletypes would clatter, and time-pressured editors, feverishly in search of a new angle, would use the words in headlines. The Opposition attack; Bonar Deitz's speech -these would be mentioned, of course, but in a secondary sense.
Inwardly glowing, the Prime Minister scribbled a one-line note to Arthur Lexington: 'Write a letter.' If questioned later, he must be able to state that the promise of an approach to UN had been properly fulfilled by External Affairs."
Bonar Deitz had resumed his interrupted speech. But there was a sense of lessened impact, of a bead of steam dispersed. James Howden was aware of it; he suspected Deitz was too.
Once, long ago, there had been a time when the Prime Minister had liked and respected Bonar Deitz despite the gulf of party politics dividing them. There had seemed an integrity and depth of character about the Opposition Leader, an honest consistency to all his actions, which was hard not to admire. But in time Howden's attitude had changed until nowadays he thought of Bonar Deitz with little more than tolerant contempt.
Mostly the change had come through Deitz's own performance as Opposition Leader. Many times, Howden had been aware, Bonar Deitz had failed to take full advantage of James Howden's own vulnerability on specific issues. That sometimes such action - or lack of it - argued a reasonable restraint, was (as Howden saw it) beside the point. A leader's role was to lead and, whenever advantage offered itself, to be tough and ruthless in taking it. Party politics was no cream-puff affair and inevitably the path to power was strewn with shattered hopes, and husks of other men's ambitions.
It was ruthlessness which Bonar Deitz had lacked.
He had other qualities: intellect and scholarship, perception and foresight, patience and personal charm. But overall these qualities had never made him a match - or at least had never seemed to - for James McCallum Howden.
It was next to impossible, Howden thought, to imagine Bonar Deitz as Prime Minister, commanding the Cabinet, dominating the House of Commons, manoeuvring, feinting, acting swiftly - as he himself had done a moment ago - to gain tactical advantage in debate.
And what of Washington? Could the Leader of the Opposition have faced the US President and his formidable aide, and have stood his ground, and come away from Washington with as much as Howden himself had gained? More than likely Deitz would have been reasonable, never as tough as James Howden and, in the end, have conceded more and gained less. And the same would be true in whatever was to happen in the months to come.
The thought was a reminder that in a mere ten days he, James Howden, would stand here in the House and announce the Act of Union and its terms. Then would be a time for greatness and great issues, with petty concerns - stowaways, immigration, and their like - forgotten or ignored. He had a sense of frustration and annoyance that the present debate was at this moment considered significantly when, in fact, it was laughably trivial compared with the issues he would soon reveal.
And now, after a speech of almost an hour, Bonar Deitz was ending.
'Mr Speaker, it is not too late,' the Opposition Leader declared. 'It is not too late for the Government, in charity and magnanimity, to allow this young man Henri Duval the Canadian domicile he seeks. It is not too late for the individual himself to escape the tragic prison to which an accident of birth has grimly sentenced him. It is not too late for Duval -with our help and in our midst - to become a useful, happy member of society. I plead with the Government for compassion. I urge them that we should not plead in vain.'
After announcing the wording of the formal motion '... that this House regrets the refusal of the Government to accept and discharge its proper responsibility in the matter of Immigration ...' Bonar Deitz sat down to a thunder of desk tops on the Opposition side.
Immediately, Harvey Warrender was on his feet.
'Mr Speaker,' the Immigration Minister began, in his bass, booming voice, 'as usual the Leader of the Opposition has managed to flavour fact with fantasy, cloud a simple issue with excessive sentimentality, and has succeeded in making a normal lawful procedure of the Department of Immigration appear like a sadistic conspiracy against all mankind.'
At once there were angry cries of protest and 'Withdraw!' countered by cheers and desk thumping.
Ignoring the outcry, Harvey Warrender continued heatedly, 'If this Government had been guilty of a breach of law we would deserve the contumely of the House. Or if the Department of Citizenship and Immigration had failed in its proper legal duty, ignoring the statutes enacted by Parliament, I would bow my head and accept its condemnation. But since we have done neither, I tell you I will accept neither.'
James Howden found himself wishing that Harvey War-render would moderate his aggressive tone. There were occasions in the House of Commons which called for
a boisterous, free-swinging kind of tactic, but today was not one. Here and now quiet reasonableness would be more effective. Besides, the Prime Minister was uncomfortably aware of an undercurrent of hysteria in Warrender's voice. It persisted as he continued, 'What is this charge of infamy and heartlessness which the Opposition Leader lays before you? It is simply that the Government has not broken the law; that its Department of Citizenship and Immigration has honoured its obligations exactly according to the Immigration Act of Canada, with undeviating fairness.'
Well, there was nothing wrong with that; in fact it was something which needed to be said. If only Harvey, personally, could be less intense...
'The Leader of the Opposition has spoken of the man Henri Duval. Let us ignore for the moment the question of whether this country should take on a burden which no one else wants, whether we should open our doors to the human garbage of the seas...'
From across the House a roar of protest eclipsed in volume all the earlier skirmishes of the day. Harvey Warrender had gone too far, Howden knew. Even on the Government side there were shocked faces, with only a few members responding half-heartedly to the opposition clamour.
Bonar Deitz was on his feet. 'Mr Speaker, on a question of privilege, I object...' Behind him were other heated, protesting cries.
Amid the growing din Harvey Warrender ploughed determinedly on. 'I say let us ignore the phony sentimentalities and consider the law alone. The law has been served...' His words were drowned out in a rising tide of angry shouts.
One voice persisted above the rest. 'Mr Speaker, will the Minister of Immigration define what he means by human garbage?' Uneasily, James Howden recognized the question's source. It had come from Arnold Geaney, a back-bench Opposition member who represented one of the poorer districts of Montreal.
There were two notable things about Arnold Geaney. He was a cripple, only five feet tall, with a partially paralysed and twisted body, and a face so uniquely ugly and misproportioned as to suggest that nature had conspired against him to produce a human freak. And yet, despite his incredible handicap, he had carved a notable career as a parliamentarian and champion of down-trodden causes. Personally, Howden had an intense dislike for the man, believing him to be an exhibitionist who traded shamelessly upon his physical deformity. At the same time, well aware that popular sympathy was all too ready to be on the side of a cripple, the Prime Minister was invariably wary of tangling with Arnold Geaney in debate.
Now Geaney demanded again, 'Will the Minister define the words "human garbage"?'
The muscles of Harvey Warrender's face were twitching once more. James Howden envisaged the answer which, in un-considered haste, the Immigration Minister might make: 'No one is in a better position than the honourable member to know exactly what I mean.' At all costs, Howden decided, that kind of rejoinder must be prevented.
Rising, the Prime Minister declared above the shouts and counter-shouts, 'The honourable member of Montreal East is placing an emphasis upon certain words which I am perfectly sure my colleague did not intend.'
'Then let him say so!' Geaney, raising himself awkwardly on crutches, hurled the words across the centre aisle. Around him there were supporting shouts and cries, 'Withdraw! Withdraw!' In the galleries people were craning forward.
'Order! Order!' It was the Speaker, his voice barely heard above the din.
'I withdraw nothing!' Harvey Warrender was shouting wildly, his face flushed hotly, his bull neck bulging. 'Nothing, do you hear!'
Again the clamour. Again the Speaker's cries for order. This was a rare parliamentary occasion, Howden realized. Only some deep-rooted division or a question of human rights could arouse the House in the way that had happened today.
'I demand that the minister be made to answer.' It was still the persistent, penetrating voice of Arnold Geaney.
'Order! The question before the House...' At last the Speaker was succeeding in making himself heard. On the Government side the Prime Minister and Harvey Warrender resumed their seats in deference to the chair. Now from all quarters the shouts were dying. Only Arnold Geaney, swaying on his crutches, continued to defy the Speaker's authority.
'Mr Speaker, the Minister of Immigration has spoken to this House of human garbage. I demand...'
'Order! I would ask the member to resume his seat.'
'On a question of privilege ...'
'If the member will not resume his seat, I shall be obliged to name him.'
It was almost as. if Geaney were courting censure. Standing orders, the rules of the House, were definite that when the Speaker stood, all others must give way. In this case there had been reinforcement by a specific order. If Geaney continued in defiance, some form of disciplining would become essential.
'I will give the honourable member one more opportunity,' the Speaker warned sternly, 'before I name him.'
Arnold Geaney said defiantly, 'Mr Speaker, I am standing for a human being three thousand miles from here, contemptuously referred to by this Government as "garbage"...'
The pattern, James Howden suddenly perceived, was perfectly simple. Geaney the cripple was seeking to share the martyrdom of Duval the stowaway. It was an adroit, if cynical, political manoeuvre which Howden must prevent.
Standing, the Prime Minister interjected, 'Mr Speaker, I believe this matter can be resolved ...' He had already decided that on behalf of the Government he would withdraw the offensive words, whatever Harvey Warrender might feel...
Too late.
Ignoring the Prime Minister, the Speaker pronounced firmly, 'It is my unpleasant duty to name the honourable member for Montreal East.'
Infuriatingly aware that he had lost the gambit, James Howden sat down.
The formalities followed swiftly. The Speaker's naming of a member of the House was a measure rarely resorted to. But when it occurred, disciplinary action by the remaining members became automatic and inevitable. Authority of the Speaker must, above all things, be upheld. It was the authority of Parliament itself, and of the people, won by centuries of struggle...
The Prime Minister passed a two-word note to Stuart Cawston, leader of the House. The words were 'minimum penalty'. The Finance Minister nodded.
After a hurried consultation with the Postmaster General behind him, Cawston rose. He announced, 'In view of your decision, Mr Speaker, I have no alternative but to move, seconded by the Postmaster General, Mr Gold: "That the honourable member for Montreal East be suspended for the duration of this day's sitting."'
Unhappily the Prime Minister observed that the press gallery was once again crowded. Tonight's TV and radio news, as well as a headline for the morning papers, was in the making.
It took twenty minutes for a recorded vote on Cawston's motion. The balloting was 131 for, 55 against. The Speaker announced formally, 'I declare the motion carried.' There was silence in the House.
Carefully, wavering on his crutches, Arnold Geaney rose. Deliberately, step by awkward step, he swung his distorted body and misshapen features past the Opposition front benches into the centre aisle. To James Howden, who had known Geaney in the House of Commons for many years, it seemed that the other man had never moved more slowly. Facing the Speaker, with a pathetic awkwardness, the cripple bowed and for a moment it seemed as if he might fall forward. Then, recovering, he turned, retreated slowly the length of the House, then turned and bowed again. As he disappeared through the chamber's outer doors, held wide by the sergeant at arms, there was an audible sigh of relief.
The Speaker said quietly, 'The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration has the floor.'
Harvey Warrender - a shade more subdued than before -continued where he had left off. But James Howden knew that whatever happened now could only be anticlimatic. Arnold Geaney had been justly expelled, for a few hours only, for a flagrant breach of House of Commons rules. But the Press would make the most of the story, and the public, not knowing or caring about rules of debate, would see two underprivileged men - the cripple and the friendless stowa
way - as victims of a harsh, despotic Government.
For the first time Howden wondered how much longer the Government could afford to lose popularity, as had happened since the coming of Henri Duval.
Chapter 3
Brian Richardson's note had said: 'Expect me at seven.'
At five minutes to, Milly Freedeman, nowhere near ready and stepping drippily from her bath, hoped he would be late.
Milly often wondered with vague incuriosity why it was that she, who managed her office life - and James Howden's - with machine-like efficiency, almost never carried the same process through to her life at home. On Parliament Hill she was punctual to the second; at home, seldom so. The Prime Minister's office suite was a model of orderliness, including neatly arranged cupboards, and a file system from which, in seconds Milly could whisk a five-year-old handwritten letter from an obscure individual whose name had long since been forgotten. But at the moment, typically, she was rummaging through untidy bedroom drawers in search of an elusive fresh brassiere.
She supposed - when she bothered thinking about it - that her own mild disorganization out of office time was an inner rebellion against having her private life affected by outside habits or pressures. She had always been rebellious, even perverse at times, about extraneous affairs, or the ideas of others which spilled over, embroiling her personally.
Nor had she liked others planning her own future, even when the planning was well-intentioned. Once, when Milly had been in college at Toronto, her father had urged her to follow him into the practice of law. 'You'd be a big success, Mill,' he had predicted. 'You're clever and quick, and you've the kind of mind which can see straight to the heart of things. If you wanted to, you could run rings around men like me.'
Afterwards she reasoned: if she had thought of it herself she just might have followed through. But she had resented -even from her own father, whom she loved - the implication that her personal, private decisions could be made by someone other than herself.
In High Places Page 33
