by Stuart Slade
There was a bit of hubbub around the benches as the Prime Minister droned on, some pleased, some not, but mostly surprised. By any standards, this was quick work; to lay a bill before the house within hours of the BBC broadcast. To those so inclined, such decisiveness spoke well of a new Government itself hardly settled in to office. Amid the Opposition, initial skepticism at such haste grew to outright alarm as the PM concluded introducing the bill and immediately began to read the contents out in full, punctuated by increasingly frequent interruptions and objections.
He’d been expecting Curtin to come out swinging this afternoon, and no one could ever say Solly Rosevear was shy of a good fight. Even so, this was turning out to be even hotter than he’d anticipated. The struggle to maintain order, and even more to retain any illusion of impartiality, grew harder as the Points of Order mounted and were stuck down by his gavel. After the preamble and first few sections of the bill had been tortuously ground through, Rosevear was starting to regret the Labor Party’s principled rejection of the Speaker wearing robes. Rumor had it some Speakers had sat in nothing but a singlet under their robes. It was warm day to start with. The chamber was getting hotter by the minute and Solly was sweating like an alcoholic sponge in his sauna of suit, vest and tie.
Down on the floor, Curtin bore the mounting temperature with the same tolerant smile he gave to all the raucous objection and procedural insult. Discretely studying the House over his spectacles as he read, or gazing about more frankly during the frequent interruptions, to Curtin it was all poetry set to life. Sweetest was the dismay across the room. The coalition shattered and leaderless in the wake of Menzies’ departure now clucked about like headless chooks as the tidal wave of Labour victorious crashed over their privileged ranks. The faint mutterings of dissent from his own party only served to confirm his judgment of the situation. Every ship had its rats; and so long as he knew where they lay, Curtin was confident in his grip. A consummate party politician, he had his numbers locked down tightly. With the support of the Party Caucus and Trades Hall, he had nothing to fear from a few grumpy backbenchers and lukewarm supporters.
But those lukewarm supporters were turning the heat up on Rosevear. This might have been all part of Curtain’s plan, having set the man up as Speaker partly with this sort of situation in mind. However, it had the Speaker in a lather; both physically and politically. He was having to strike down a growing number of interjections from his own side of the Labor Party in addition to the Opposition, many of which were points he agreed with and would have been making himself.
Like any Parliament worth its salt, information traveled around the chamber almost by osmosis. Early doubts hardened into ironclad conclusions long before Curtain reached the end of his document. The bill may have been a little rough about the edges, but it was no work of hours. Depending on one’s point of view, this was either proof positive of the new leadership’s depth and insight, or the depths of their conspiracy and treachery. All felt a growing sense of urgency as the details slotted into place.
The interpretation of Daventry lay at the heart of things, Labor took it as permission to wrest the nation free of its links to Home and Empire and were taking this opportunity with both hands to set some cherished planks of party policy into law. In sum, this bill was paving the way to a republic. That notion was as controversial on the Labor side of the house as it was unthinkable among the Opposition. Torn between the duties of his office, his own inclinations, and the hard lines of party allegiance, Rosevear grew increasingly angry and in dire need of a stiff drink. His rage might have been expressed in his language and temper towards towards objectors, but inwardly it focused exclusively on his party leader and Prime Minister.
As Curtin concluded his reading of the bill, he tabled the bill for immediate debate. His well oiled machine kicked into top gear. Having pushed proper procedure somewhat beyond its limits already that morning, gagging debate might have out of the question. But that didn’t imply he had to play fair. If anything, the first hour of debate was even more disorderly than all that had passed before. A solid stream of well primed Labor MP’s stood to ramble on, asking back-handed questions their own front bench could answer with long winded positive replies in favor of the Government’s case. Occasionally, Rosevear let one of the Opposition get a few words in edgewise, but each was snowed under in a blizzard of interjections and objections. It was an old game, familiar to all on both sides of Parliament. But it was not one used lightly for matters of such weight that verged on constitutional reform. The fury this provoked exceeded anything seen before in the Australian Parliament, and Rosevare verged on losing control utterly.
Around that whole room of angry, shouting, screaming men, the Speaker could only see one island of support. Ironically it was the man he had replaced less than a week before. George Bell, DSO, MP and senior of the two Deputy Speakers, knew exactly what Rosevear was going through. He had spent the past six years in the chair himself. While not unmoved by the politics, he sat there smiling up at Rosevear and offering what encouraging nods he could.
Bell’s was more than a professional sympathy; he actually thought the fellow was making a dreadful fist of it. The Speaker’s face was flushing deep purple when it wasn’t pasty white and Bell could see he was perspiring like a fountain from 20 feet away. The Tasmanian MP thought it best to do what he could, lest Rosevear collapse and leave him with the job of presiding over this shambles of a travesty.
Just after 3 PM, and with no end in sight, the Sargent-at-Arms crossed the floor to deliver a note to the PM. The Minister for Transport, who had been using two hundred and fifty words to say ‘yes’ in reply to a yet another prearranged question, paused as Curtin read the message. The Prime Minster looked up and waved the Minister back in action, stuffing the note into his pocket before leaning back with a casual smile. If Curtin had hoped to down play this new piece of information, the parliamentary grape vine had other ideas. The news raced around the chamber, leaving something approaching silence in its wake.
Rosevear, sitting in splendid isolation, was the only man excluded from the bush telegraph, although he certainly noticed something was happening. For the first time in what seemed like hours, and probably was, he was not beating down waves of protest, or even facing angry glares. It was almost uncanny how quiet the Chamber had become. Every MP in the House was whispering to each other instead of shouting at him. Given a chance to draw breath, he waited for the Minister to finish and resume his seat. As if wired to some trigger, the ministerial backside meeting leather saw almost half the house spring to its feet in a jabbing roar of “Mister Speaker, Mister Speaker!” They all clamored to gain Rosevear’s ‘eye’ and be called up to speak.
Scanning the crowd judiciously, and with his own eye on trying to reinject some calm and normality to the proceedings, he chose one of the steadier heads off the Opposition backbench and the fringe of the United Australia Party.
“The House recognizes the Member for Lara”
Under other circumstances, the Labour front bench would have nodded appreciatively at this. If not quite an Independent, the MP for Lara was well known for taking a casual view of party allegiance and speaking his rather liberal mind on occasion. If anyone on that side of the House might support the Government he was as likely a candidate as existed. Even if he didn’t—well the seat of Lara was a marginal and Labor had high hopes for it. If the sitting member cared to put a foot or two in his own mouth, the Government would thank him for the ammunition.
Rosevear saw he had made a mistake immediately. It was hard not to with his whole front bench staring daggers at him. Bugger ‘erm, he thought.
Let the lazy sods deal with their own bloody problems; I’ve done more than my share today.
Gregory Locock remained standing as the other aspirants sunk back into their seats. “Mister Speaker, thank you. I was going to ask the Honorable Attorney General to expand on clause 12, but instead might I ask the Prime Minister, if in light of this recent n
aval action in the Indian Ocean, might not this whole bill be reexamined? Again I refer in particular to clause 12, but also several others …”
The rest was drowned out under a barrage of sound.
Curtin rose to his feet as the Speaker hammered the Chamber into silence. “Mister Speaker. I’d like to thank the honorable member for his question,” he said with great confidence “And reassure him, and any others who may be concerned, that while events remain unclear, the Government has things well in hand. In any case, it is hard to see how such matters might have any bearing on business presently before the House. There’s nothing that can’t be smoothed over and we should not be distracted from more important things.”
As soon as the words passed from his lips, Curtin realized he had made a grave mistake. It wasn’t just the deafening silence, but the low grumble that replaced it. The sound, not of anger, but of men quietly saying hard words in serious tones.
Locock remained standing for the next ten minutes as the Prime Minister tried to unsay what he had just said. A fine job Curtin did too. Slathering on the butter of reason and jam of promise with a lavish trowel to the hearty Hear Hear’s of his increasingly vocal supporters, once the Whips and Ministers had recovered their poise and got to stirring up his defense. But it was a hollow noise, and few in the chamber bought the line he was selling, no matter how hard they stamped their feet after Curtin made each point.
If Australian ship had fought German ship, whatever the outcome, it was an act of war.
Curtin might say what he liked, but Berlin would have their own view and that was nothing to brush under the carpet. Nor was there any point to pushing this bill though until there was some idea of how Herr Hitler felt about it all.
Locock was still on his feet as the PM resumed his seat. Rosevear would have graveled him down, but the fellow had asked the question that had to be asked and done it with unusual civility. There was no reason to be abrupt and every reason to encourage a return to the usual courtesies on such a day as this, so Rosevar nodded at Locock.
“Mister Speaker,” Locock nodded back, “I would like to thank the Prime Minister for his clear and informative expression of the Government’s position. And further, Mister Speaker, I would beg leave to move this House has no Confidence in the present Government.”
Chaos descended, bringing with it pandemonium, bedlam and turmoil. It did not quite reach anarchy, if only because Parliament sat on benches so there was a shortage of ready weapons. Rosevear pounded his desk like a carpenter and swore like a bargee, turning ever deeper shades of puce in the process. He might as well have spared his voice and blood pressure the strain. Eventually it was George Bell who stepped up to the Speaker’s chair, stuck two fingers between his lips and let out an ear piercing whistle.
“SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS AND SIT DOWN! Your pardon, Mister Speaker.”
It took a few moments for the Speaker to regain control of himself. Rosevear felt the humiliation of Bell’s assistance as keenly as his own embarrassment and anger at losing control of the House. So it was with some ferocity he glared down at Billy Hughes, nominally Locock’s party leader. Although, at 79, Hughes’ position was mostly honorary; one he filled in lieu of some more energetic man.
“Has this Motion a second?”
In his day, Billy Hughes would have eaten Rosevear alive and picked his toes with the bones. Now, a little past his prime and still coming to terms with recent events, Hughes hesitated. It wasn’t that the room lacked for men who would have backed the Motion of No Confidence in a heartbeat, but the Speaker had just made it a party affair rather than a private matter and so no one stepped forward.
Until, from the Labor benches, the Parliament’s one true independent stood up. “I’ll second the motion,” said Alexander Wilson in his Irish brogue, “and what’s more, I think I may take a small little stroll.” Putting actions to words, he crossed the floor.
The man who had bought the curtain down on Menzies’ government proceeded to leave Curtin’s in aheap on the floor of the House.
Cabinet Room, Government House, Calcutta, India
“Telegram from the Governor General in Australia, Your Excellency.”
Sir Martyn bustled in to the Viceroy’s brightly morning room and handed the message over directly. He knew the contents, of course, but theoretically it was a private letter.
Lord Linlithgow slipped the flimsy from its envelope and read eagerly. Of all the sources of intelligence available to the Government of India, the back channel between the Crown’s direct representatives around the globe was by far the most reliable. It was actually the official route for a good deal of correspondence between parts of the Empire that lacked more direct representation, but as a source of reliable gossip, it was without peer.
“Which way have the Australians gone?” asked Nehru anxiously from settee. Yesterday, Brigadier General The Right Honorable Lord Gowrie, VC, GCMG, CB, DSO & Bar, known to his friends as Alexander Hore-Ruthven and presently Governor General of Australia, had sent warning the new Government was clarifying its position in response to Daventry and he should have more news shortly. “Are they still in the war?
The Viceroy just shook his head. “This verges on the incredible! Two governments in almost as many weeks. Good God, one would think they were turning into some comic-opera republic, yet Gowrie believes they remain stable and has some hopes for a new Government by morning.”
“They are so divided all over this one issue?” puzzled Nehru.
“Oh, reading between the lines, I suspect there is a little more to it than just the war,” Linlithgow sniffed. “And I can’t say I cared for the sound of this Curtin fellow, so perhaps there’s a silver lining to be found in that. But what sort of government they might cobble up now, I should hate to think.”
“They have three parties,” offered Sir Martyn helpfully, “but only one has the numbers to govern on its own. The other two have a long standing coalition.”
Pandit Nehru smiled “Yes and the Australian Labour Party was the first Labour Party in the world to form a national government..”
“Ahh ..”
“. . even if it only lasted for five days. My knowledge is mostly historical, Martyn. As Australian affairs have taken some prominence lately, I thought it best to do a little reading, but I find there is not a great deal to be had on the subject.”
“Oh?” recovered Sir Martyn easily “Well recent events are a little complicated but, put simply, the previous Prime Minister, or should I say now, the fellow before the last chap . ..”
“Menzies,” supplied Linthgow. “A good man by all accounts.”
“Yes, sir; thank you. Robert Menzies took the loyalist view and was, reluctantly, prepared to follow London. His party, by and large, disagreed, as did his coalition partner and they all seem to have parted ways. That let Labor in as a minority government—I believe resting on the vote of a single independent…”
“Who must have jumped ship,” concluded Nehru.
“Precisely,” agreed Sir Martyn. “Or, if not, then there has been some movement across the floor. But other than Labor no one else has the numbers to form government unless another coalition can be arranged.”
“Damn messy,” nodded Linlithgow. “Whoever does come along will have no choice but to make a stand on the war, one way or another. So . .”
“I know what will occupy the bulk of our day, we must find a sound line and length for us to take should the Australians publicly accept the Armistice and step out of the war.”
“And should they stay in, of course …” add Nehru
“Oh, I should think that very much depends on you, Pandit,” returned the Viceroy with a smile. “What say the Congress Party on the events of yesterday?”
“Your Excellency,” Nehru began gravely, “the revelation of plans to invade India and the sinking of the Hobart have swung enough votes on the Party executive towards maintaining the state of war. It is held that the act confirms the intentions. Many disagree
, of course. Gandhi and his followers call for peace at any price and non-violent resistance to the German invasion. Subhas Chandra Bose actually believes that an alliance with Germany is the proper course. But with those exceptions, and with heavy hearts, most others agree that maintaining the state of war is required. Both as a prudent precaution against German designs and to highlight our independence from London.”
Linlithgow smiled with relief. “Very well. With your agreement, Pandit, we will announce your appointment as my deputy tomorrow. One change I would like to make to the agreement you negotiated with Sir Martyn. In two years, when you become President, instead of taking the position of your Chief of Staff, I would like you to appoint Sir Martyn in that role. It would be of great benefit to all concerned, I think.—Oh and if you are agreeable, Martyn?”
Nehru’s stately nod and Sir Martyn’s stunned head jerk seemed to signify acceptance. The Viceroy took pity on his secretary. “Then, with your concurrence Pandit, two telegrams please, Martyn. If you would, type them out personally, and secure them until required. The first to London; in cypher of course: ‘Regret to advise you that in accordance with the Daventry Message, India takes responsibility for her own internal government and external relations. God Save the King.’
“Very good, sir,” said Sir Martyn scribbling hastily in his note book. “And the second?”
“To Reichskanzlei in Berlin. Two copies, of course; one for the Japanese as their protecting power, but in plain language. It should read ‘Genesis 1:22.’”
Nehru looked confused. Sir Martyn leaned over and whispered, “Go forth and multiply.”
“Ahhh.” Nehru smiled. “How appropriate.”
CHAPTER SIX: POSITION STATEMENT
Parliament House, Canberra, Australia