Unparliamentary papers and other diversions

by Reginald Berkeley

The Junior Whips are another matter. Rebellious members of the party who would, however, feel some compunction about speaking their minds to the Chief Whip, lay bare their grievances, with embarrassing plain-spokenness, to the juniors. The Scottish and Welsh Whips must often find themselves like to the unfortunate victims of that mythological giant, whose habit it was to tie the legs of his foes to opposing fir-trees, and, releasing the trees, divide them in twain—by reason of the rival claims of their own particular groups of members and of the Chief Whip himself. Needless to say, in all parties, there is the fullest opportunity for members to bring their point of view to the notice of the leaders, both through the Whips and at party meetings. But once a party decision has been taken, it is obvious that, for the sake of the unity of the party, it is highly important that its members should present a consolidated front. And it is when the preconceived opinions of individual members, or special circumstances in their constituencies, happen to be at variance with the general policy of the party, that the troubles of the Junior Whips begin. They have obviously an inclination towards those who compose their own group, such as the Welsh members or Scottish members; they have also their duty towards the party as a whole—not always easily to be reconciled. Anyone who experienced the unenviable position of a Junior Staff Officer in one of the feuds that habitually raged between battalion and brigade, or between brigade and division, during the war, will have a fairly accurate understanding of the trials of a Junior Whip.

But that is not all. The Whips are responsible for the social side of the party as well. Sir Augustus and Lady Broadside, let us say, offer to arrange a reception. For some reason, limitation of space for instance, it is not possible to invite everybody. On the Whips falls the invidious duty of making the selection, who shall be asked and who not. And when this difficult task has been performed, it is discovered that, by an oversight, there is no record of the fact that some new member is married—consequently he is asked and his wife is not, with inevitable heartburnings as the result. Or, again, there are ceremonial duties to be attended to. Members wishing to attend the King’s Levee must have their paths made smooth. The presentation at Court of the wives and daughters of members must be arranged. The Whips must expect to be consulted, as well, on sumptuary questions, such, for instance, as whether a member ought to buy a levee dress, or whether it will be considered sufficient if he avails himself of the new regulation, and attends in evening coat and knee breeches; and what is the most appropriate garment, other than a white sheet, in which to make a maiden speech.

As if that was not enough, there are the speaking arrangements to be made. It does not, of course, follow that the list will be adhered to, but, for the convenience of the Speaker, it is usual for him to be furnished “through the usual channels,” which means in other words by the Whips, with a list of members of each party who would like to speak in any Debate. Obviously some selection must be made, or in a Parliament of active politicians, such as the present, the list of each party would be impossibly large. More than half a dozen names for each party would be more of a hindrance to the Speaker than a help, because there would be no possibility of getting them all in—seeing that the normal hours of Debate are between four in the afternoon and eleven at night—seven hours in all—and the average duration of speeches is twenty minutes, giving a maximum of twenty-one speakers. This process of selection calls for tact of the highest order. On the one hand, if the list is too full, the Whip must not put off further volunteers in such a manner as to discourage them. On the other hand, he must be careful not to create the impression that he wants them to speak always, or they will never leave him in peace. Even the most sensible and level-headed people are touchy about their speaking; and the effect of a hasty word may easily take a whole session to efface from the mind of the person to whom it was addressed.

Nor do the Whip’s duties end there. A question suddenly arises needing instant determination. On the one hand, the leader may make up his mind at once as to the party attitude; in that case the Whips must hurry round, and communicate it to the members of the party. On the other hand, the leader may wish to know the feelings of his party before deciding on a course of action; there is no opportunity for holding a party meeting, the decision must be taken probably within half an hour; it now becomes the duty of the Whips to flit from member to member, collecting opinions and suggestions for communication to the Leader by the “Chief.” Or it may be necessary to “keep a house” for one of the back-benchers who is “raising a question on the adjournment”; again the busy Whips must hurry here and there lobbying their party to make sure that forty members will be present, to protect their colleague against the misfortune of being “counted out.”

And then, on top of all this, there is liaison with the other parties, which in practice is more or less reserved for the Chief Whip himself—for this kind of work demands the delicacy of Agag. These are the accommodations, arrangements of business, exchange of party views, that necessarily go on behind the scenes as a preliminary to the set Debates—especially in connection with the procedure of the House and the settlement of the order of public business.

There is a certain glamour in being styled a Whip. Your name and, probably, your photograph are published in the papers; you are given special facilities for entertaining your fellow-members; if your party happens to be in power, you hold a junior office in the Treasury. The Chief Whip, despite his responsibilities, has, on the whole, an interesting job. He is largely concerned with what is sometimes called the kitchen side of politics; but his function of linking up the Parliamentary party with the leader, calls for high qualities; and his weight, in the determination of the party programme in the conclave of leaders, is considerable. The Junior Whips are devotees of a high order to their party’s organisation. Their task is a thankless one. They condemn themselves to well-nigh Trappist vows in the Chamber, because they are almost always at work outside it. They place themselves at everyone’s beck and call. They are in demand to smooth out any difficulty that may arise.

In fact, as a man once said, who was A.D.C. to a Colonial Governor: “It’s a spittoon of a life.”

YOUNG MEN AND “MAIDENS”

Defer it as you may, upon one pretext or another, the fatal moment will come at last when you must make your maiden speech. There have, it is to be supposed, been members of Parliament of such agonising modesty or such iron self-restraint, that they would have been willing to pass their entire Parliamentary lives in silence. But sooner or later, and probably sooner than later, an aggregation of pressures—duty to the constituency, the spur of amour propre, green jealousy of the triumph of X., who so impressed the House by his speech on the Protection of Insects Bill, the subtle encouragement of some fair flatterer who, when X.’s speech was discussed, eyed you archly and murmured, “Of course you ...” leaving your vanity to fill in the blanks—these, and other compelling reasons, combine to persuade you to the irrevocable step of giving in your name to the Whips, after which, feeling like a man who has made an appointment with his dentist, you slink away and prepare for the worst.

With becoming modesty, you select some insignificant, and relatively trivial, subject—such as World Federation, the Solar system, or the relations of the Almighty and the Universe, as affording you scope for the pronouncement you feel it in you to make. You collect a whole pantechnicon-load of authorities, which, when you have read them through, are allowed to lie piled in the darkest passages of your house for the servants to fall over; you take a ticket for the British Museum Library; you apply yourself to study with all the fervour of a Bengalee competing for an examination. And then, one or at the most two days before the great oration is scheduled to be delivered, your Whip says casually, “Oh, we’ve had to change the arrangements. We’re getting you in on the Committee stage of the Impurities in Milk (Abolition) Bill”; and all your labour is shown to be wasted and vain. There are only three days left. You rush to the Dairy Produce Association, the Institute of Milkmaids, and the Society for the Preservation of Cattle and Kine, from each of which you receive an undigested mass of propaganda, disguised in the form of scientific tracts. There is no time to push your investigations beyond these, so you set yourself to learn them word by word. You come down to the House on the fatal day primed with knowledge, with lactialities on your lips and the milk of human kindness bubbling from your heart—and you discover that, before your arrival, a member of your own party, interested in the welfare of subject populations of the Empire, has moved the Adjournment of the House to draw attention to a matter of urgent and definite public importance, namely, the refusal of the Government to issue practising licences and a charter of incorporation to the witch-doctors in the U-Ba-Be district of Abeokeuta.