The Benn Diaries: 1940-1990 (18 page)

Then we went out on to the steps at the front of the school where there’s a little stone balustrade. There was an enormous crowd. I can’t estimate the number, but it’s a broad road, and I suppose there were 2,000 people there. And they were absolutely cheering their heads off. It was a wonderful moment. The only trouble was, I’d lost my voice so I had to shout hard to be heard. It sounded rather shrill. I went on from the uncontroversial bit that I’d said inside, to a highly political bit saying we’ll go on from this till we’ve removed all privilege in this country. It was a fabulous scene.

After the speeches, we came down the steps. We got on top of a jeep and were driven very slowly from St George’s Grammar School right up the hill along the main road to London, which was utterly blocked by people, to the headquarters. We went into the Walter Baker Hall and there were all these people gathered. It was a moment of great drama and great personal excitement. We were overcome with emotion and gratitude and I was unable to express it, of course, because I’d lost my voice. The result was a 13,044 majority with a 13 per cent swing. There were about 200 supporters in the main hall. This was about 1 o’clock; how they all got home I just don’t know.

The following day we got up at 8.30 and, of course, the press was terrific. The headlines that day about triumph in Bristol completely wiped out the memory of the Committee of Privileges, the dull lawyers, the old nonsense. Here was the response from the people I represented. I was very arrogant at this stage, extremely arrogant.

After my election the
London Gazette
published a statement from the Crown Office saying ‘Member returned from Bristol South East, Anthony Neil Wedgwood Benn.’ I rang the Public Bill Office and arranged to collect the certificate. I phoned the Sergeant-at-Arms to tell him what would happen that afternoon. He said that as far as they were concerned, I was a stranger. I got five Gallery tickets, phoned the Speaker’s Office and left at about ten to twelve for the House of Commons. There were four cars full of photographers chasing me there.

At 12.15 I went in to see Gaitskell, Brown, Bowden and Frank Barlow. They were very friendly, and extremely pleased with the result of the Election. Of course, I was full of excitement. They did really feel, then, that it had done the Party some good and this was the new factor: that the Party did recognise that a swing of that kind, and a humiliation for the Government, was a much bigger and better thing than they had previously realised. It did, undoubtedly, push into the background a lot of the doubt and even a lot of the hostility. Anyway, we discussed the tactics to be pursued in the afternoon. It was really that we should try to get me to the Bar and then, again, get me seated. We knew neither would succeed, because no stranger could be admitted to the Bar and the Speaker said I was a stranger.

I went to see the Speaker at 1.25. He had my letter and he said that he had ruled to debar me from the House. He discussed the procedure and said,
‘You can’t come beyond the door.’ So I asked whether he had ordered force to keep me out. He asked why I said that, and I said that I was not prepared to stay out for any purpose other than to avoid a scuffle. He said he would have to think about that. So I said, ‘Well, this is quite clear. If you intend to stop me you must give orders that force is to be used to keep me out. That’s the only condition under which I’m prepared to bow to your authority.’

He was very upset indeed. He said, ‘I had no idea that you were going to put it like that’ So I told him he was responsible for keeping me out of the House. I’d just been elected by a large majority and, ‘If you’re stopping me, you must take responsibility for it.’

The Speaker was shaken by this. I also raised with him the question of his ruling: his excluding me from the amenities of the House. Peers who have been MPs are allowed to use the House of Commons. He said that because I was not a peer yet, because I hadn’t taken my Writ of Summons, I was not allowed to use the privileges of the Commons. Well, he was rather upset, but he said at the end, ‘I know this must be difficult for you.’

At 2.15 I went out to St Stephen’s entrance and there was Caroline and Mother, and Stephen and one or two others. There were a lot of people and a lot of photographers, and I had the return to the writ proving my election to Bristol South East, which I held up. That was undoubtedly a key point – I was approaching the House armed with the authority of the constituency, and there’s a certain dramatic excitement in it. Well, then came the scene at the House.

I knew exactly what was going to happen; I’d even gone up that morning and spoken to Mr Stockley, the doorkeeper, who was a distinguished old naval warrant officer. I said to him, ‘It’s very important that this shouldn’t go wrong, or be in any way undignified,’ which he appreciated, because the truth was they were very scared. They were afraid that something would happen. They didn’t quite know what. It was, after all, quite a serious thing to keep a man out who had a piece of paper saying he was elected.

It was the first time in history that this had ever happened. The Chief Whip and I walked towards the door of the House. There were lots of Members standing in the Members’ Lobby and they formed a sort of ‘V’ towards the Chamber. I suppose there must have been 50 to 100 there. I came in from the Central Lobby and the journalists were all waiting there too, although they’re not allowed to report what happens in the Members’ Lobby. I went round and met Bowden and we walked towards the door of the House and the people sort of came in on us.

When we got there Stockley came forward and put his hand up and said, ‘You cannot enter, Sir.’ I was very, very nervous indeed. It was a moment of high drama, although the press said it was corny because everyone had known what would happen. But I was relieved to get it over, because you couldn’t be quite sure
how
it would happen.

After the debate we went to the Strangers’ Cafeteria, the only one we
could use, and those dear women who worked there laid out a cloth on two tables so that my mother, Stephen, Caroline and I could have a meal. Now, my friends in the House when I go there are the police, the women in the cafeteria, who play a very big part in a Member’s life, and some of the badge messengers, the ex-warrant officers who look after the Chamber. The idea that one had been thrown out by the Establishment, yet one was still a friend of the people who work in the Palace, meant a very great deal to me. They were so kind. Whenever I went to the Cafeteria, they always made a point of getting my meal. I didn’t have to queue like anyone else. This matters when you feel you’ve been shut out. Anyway, at 10.30 the votes were over and we went out and went home and that was the end of the Election campaign. The next stage was the Election Court, at which I decided to represent myself.

It was on Saturday 17 June that I got a cheque for £500 from Mr and Mrs Edward Sieff of Marks and Spencer, who were old friends of ours. We were absolutely knocked sideways by this. They said that it was for us personally, to help us over this very difficult period without my salary. We wrote back and said we couldn’t possibly accept it for ourselves, but that, if we lost the case, we would have to start a fund and could we put it into that? They wrote back and said they didn’t really intend it for that, but if we wanted to, that would be all right.

On that day, which was also our wedding anniversary, Caroline and I went down to a social at the Corn Exchange in Bristol. It was a wonderful evening. All the people who helped in the Election came along and we had a splendid evening, with dancing and cheering and all that.

It was very interesting that the Lords are terribly pleased if you come in to prove a peerage. If I’d come in with string around my trousers and said that I thought I was the Marquis of Granby, they would have treated me with respect, because I would have been trying to get what they had to offer. But there was a feeling of resentment, because I was trying to get rid of it.

On 29 June we had this talk with Lynn Ungoed-Thomas and Elwyn Jones. I presented in outline, very quickly, in about ten minutes, the whole case that I would argue. They sat there with faces absolutely blank. They’re great personal friends of mine and they didn’t want to discourage me, but they simply said that it wouldn’t wash at all. You start with a tremendous jurisdictional argument about whether the court has power to decide the issue, which was how we were going to start, and then go on to say you are not a peer. You have lost the ear of that court in half a day. They’ll never go on listening. So we came home utterly crushed, feeling that it was completely hopeless. Then, of course, we took the argument and rearranged it in a new form.

I felt very much on my own after the early part of May, for about six weeks. Charlie Pannell did ring me up from time to time, and one contacted individuals when it was necessary, but I never felt that they were taking a
continual interest. I had a few friends in the House. Lynn was one and Elwyn was another. There were a lot of people I could ring up if I wanted to or if I needed advice, but very few who took a lot of interest. The House of Commons isn’t really like that. If you’re sick, you probably get a letter from the Chief Whip and one or two friends may ring up. It’s a community, but only in the building. The thing died a death after the Election and my barring from the House, right up until the case, because it would have been contempt of court to have referred to it in any way at all.

I was immensely impressed by the fact that the judges would listen to all I had to say. After all, I did talk to them for 22 hours and I gave them 135,000 words. They asked me 537 questions in the course of that, which kept it alive. There was no sign of impatience with me. I hope I didn’t bore them. But, even if I did, they didn’t show it. This made a very profound impression on my mind. On the first day of the case, the only thing we could do was to sit and listen attentively, and make notes to see if Andrew Clark raised any points we hadn’t expected. He didn’t.

On the second day, 11 July, we began to get into the routine of going to court. I got there early, with all the books, notes and materials. Clark went on all day. I ought perhaps, to say a word more about the court itself. It was crowded out almost all the time. Barristers were coming in and standing by the doors, or sitting. The Gallery was always full. There was a big crowd outside the court in the morning when we arrived, and quite a number of touching scenes. There was a woman called Mrs Belcher who lives in Shoreham. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to take up a point for her about her eviction from her house a year or two earlier and she came up from Shoreham every day to hear the case. Then there was a chap living in Westminster who was very keen on road safety; I had taken up a point for him and he came to the court every day. And one realised that there was a floating population of people who, for one reason or another, were interested and were coming in. Various other distinguished people looked in from time to time. It may have been a bit like the Christians and the lions in the local circus. But they were coming in.

Caroline sat beside me making notes of everything, and she was invaluable. Her natural pessimism matched my natural optimism.

By July I was very near the end of the case, and I had got everything prepared. We went out to dinner with the Sieffs. Well, anyway, the following day, Wednesday 19 July, I had finished my speech. The concluding passages, which I had polished with such care, really so moved me that I could hardly utter the last sentence because I was almost in tears.
The Times
reporter actually did, I’m told, break down at the end. Anyway, that was the end. Sir Andrew Clark got up, and I thought I had no right of reply, though I subsequently discovered I did have this, and did exercise it. But as far as I was concerned the main strain was over, and I felt very relieved. Clark
droned on and on but didn’t really take up any of the major points that I had made. He just dismissed them all. He didn’t deal with them.

At any rate, it all finished, and when I sat down I think that was the end of the case altogether. The judges said they would reserve judgment, and I was still not sure, of course, what the result would be.

We went off early in the morning – it was another of the siege days – and sat in this packed court. It was fuller than it had been on any other day, and we heard the judgment, which was read by the judges alternately. I suppose the judgment took about two hours to read. I should think that for the first forty-five minutes it was just a recapitulation of the facts. There were some phrases like, ‘we cannot allow our feelings or the feelings of the respondent to enter into our consideration.’ Then one realised that it was lost. Then it all poured out in a most extraordinary form: that while the hereditary system is retained, it cannot in any way be modified. The phrase is there, and is the phrase which is quoted in the Soviet reports of the trial. The idea that the hereditary system was necessary took precedence over the democratic element in our constitution. This is a view of our constitution that simply doesn’t fit in with the facts, because of course in no respect, except in this, does the hereditary system have anything but a very minor role to play in the government of this country. Any rate, that was the end of it and we kept our end up. It was a grim moment. It was the clanging of the gate. It was obviously the end of the first stage of the struggle, some eight or nine months after it had begun. But we were very cheerful and gave interviews.

I realised that I was faced with the absolutely crippling bill, and so simply made one submission to them. I said that I had tried to keep the case as short as I could. I’d represented it myself. I hadn’t engaged expensive counsel. I had not contested any of the evidence. I had dropped several of the points that Clark had thought I might raise, and warned him in good time that I was going to. Clark jumped up and said, ‘This is monstrous. Here are two men fighting, absolutely by themselves, one against the other, and the loser must simply pay.’ All the costs were duly awarded against me. If no award had been made to costs, Tory Central Office would have paid his, and I would have paid mine.