Time to Be in Earnest (27 page)

I made my maiden speech on the subject of literature and the preservation of the English language. Nearly all new peers confess that, whatever experience they may have of public speaking, their maiden speech in the House of Lords is an ordeal. There is no reason why this should be so as the tradition of the House is to be unfailingly courteous and supportive to the new member, and maiden speeches, however inadequate, are by custom received with tributes of praise and congratulations from following speakers. And so it was with me.

And now, if the Government’s intention in its manifesto is to be carried out, the House will change fundamentally and will, indeed, cease to be the House of Lords. Although few people would wish to defend the right of hereditary peers to have a part in the government of the country merely because of their birthright, to seek to reform the House by first abolishing the hereditary peers without deciding the final constitution and form of the second chamber seems to me dangerous and irresponsible folly. The first step to reform would surely be to prohibit any elder son from taking his father’s place when the peer dies, and to exclude from the chamber all those who don’t have a record of regular attendance. This would enable the work of the House to be carried on while the long-term future was discussed at leisure. There should be no hurry about changing an institution which has served for 700 years.

The proper way is to appoint a Royal Commission and to give them adequate time in which to take evidence from a wide variety of people and interests. The reform of the House is more complex than a government anxious for quick results is prepared to admit. Reform of the second chamber involves considering the relationship between the two Houses, and between the Westminster Parliament and the legislative bodies in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. It is also for consideration whether the second chamber should have powers in relation to European legislation. The Royal Commission would need to consider whether the Lords should be appointed or elected and, if elected, by what means and for how long; whether the present system of appointment, if continued, is sufficiently democratic and open to scrutiny; and whether it is desirable that the power of a second and revising chamber should be increased. If the second chamber is elected or partly elected, it will, of course, have a democratic legitimacy which it now lacks, and it could well flex its muscles to be a far more effective check on the executive. At present the Lords, only too aware that all members are there by privilege not by election, are afraid to exercise those powers which are already theirs. A more democratically constituted Upper House would be more powerful and more troublesome to the Government; is this likely to be acceptable to the Commons?

I am not sure, either, whether we really need a second chamber composed mainly of professional full-time politicians. There is something to be said for the present system whereby men and women with particular expertise will try to attend and make their contribution when their subject comes up. A danger, too, in an elected chamber is that the House
will lose that sturdy independence which has characterized not only those on the cross-benches, but peers who have declared a political allegiance. And when the hereditary peers go, will there be any point in retaining life peers? The ermine, the title, the coat of arms for those who decide to have one, the induction ceremony, all will become meaningless flummery if the House has in fact become the equivalent of a senate.

The House as at present constituted may be an anomaly and one difficult to justify democratically, but it does work effectively and if it is to be changed, it must be changed for the better and not merely to gratify the more ignoble impulses of class resentment or envy. Our present system of government makes a strong revising chamber essential to the cause of democracy. Because of the first-past-the-post voting system, which does have the advantage of producing strong government, nearly every government is elected on a minority vote; there are always more people who didn’t want the party in power than those who did. The second chamber should have a keen ear to hear their grievances and the courage and independence to voice their concerns. No one doubts that the final authority rests with the elected chamber but it is carrying hypocrisy too far to pretend that the elected chamber always represents in every respect the will of the majority of the people.

Whatever happens, the House will be far duller without the hereditary peers, and I must try to attend more often while it retains some of the vigour, independence, excitement and breadth of knowledge which characterizes it at present. And is it too much to hope that the reforms will be made in a spirit of dignity, courtesy and generosity? The hereditary peers have served the country well, some of them with distinction. They deserve our thanks before they go. But then, ours is not a dignified, courteous or generous-minded age.

I arrived last Friday at Grand Cayman, flying from Gatwick to spend a week with Dick and Mary Francis. The journey is much easier now that there are direct flights. Previously I had to transfer at Miami, a tedious time-consuming business, since the airport has apparently no transfer lounge and I had to go through Immigration merely in order to change
planes. This is my second visit and, as before, I stepped out of the aircraft into warm, sweet-smelling air and saw Mary and Dick waiting for me under the leafy canopy which leads to the airport building.

Our daily routine is well established. Dick and Mary’s apartment is on Seven Mile Beach within yards of the warm translucent sea. In the morning, before breakfast, Dick and I walk along the firm sand, splashing through the surf for half a mile in either direction, returning to take our morning swim with Mary, who gets up later. Early in her marriage she had polio very badly, was in an iron lung and nearly died. She can’t tolerate the English winter, which is the reason why she and Dick live in Grand Cayman. After our swim I laze under the palm trees until it is time for lunch. The afternoon is similarly sybaritic and I don’t put on shoes or change from shorts and T-shirt until it is time to go out for a meal. The restaurants are varied and good, and I particularly like the Wharf Restaurant, where we sit under the lights on the pier in warm scented darkness, and wait for the tarpons to be fed, swirling and leaping as the bucket empties in a silver stream.

Grand Cayman is one of the few remaining British colonies and the people are obviously well content with a system which produces security and prosperity. I learned something of the history. Columbus discovered Grand Cayman on his fourth journey in 1503, apparently by accident when blown off course on his way to take on water at Dominica. He named it Tortuga after the turtles for which it was, and remains, famous. Francis Drake arrived in 1586. Because the island is unwatered there seems to have been no indigenous population and the earliest inhabitants were pirates, remittance men and escaping slaves.

It is a colony without taxes and since people keep all the money they earn, there is no need for the equivalent of a welfare state. It is a socio-economic system which could only work in a small and self-contained community. Income is derived from a tax on imports and on every legal document signed in the colony; since Grand Cayman, for obvious reasons, is one of the world’s most flourishing financial centres, this imposition is lucrative. I went to a meeting of the Legislative Assembly. There are fifteen members elected by districts and an Executive Council of five elected by the Assembly with the Governor General and Attorney General as ex officio members. The Assembly is modelled on the House of Commons with a Speaker but no Prime Minister. The debate I listened to was lively, with the multiracial members questioning the Customs Officer on the problem of controlling the traffic in drugs. Grand Cayman is a convenient
staging post for drugs entering or leaving the United States. I was intrigued to see that the Minister of Health was called Anthony Eden.

Grand Cayman is an island with remarkably little crime, which is hardly surprising since almost everyone is personally known and the only way of leaving is by boat or air.

I have stayed at a number of British embassies abroad when on my travels and always there has been high security, often with armed guards. Walking along the beach with Dick I saw that the Governor’s garden stretches down to the beach with no fence and a simple notice on a post stuck into the sand: “Please respect the Governor’s privacy.” That notice seemed to sum up the spirit of the island.

I arrived home in the early afternoon. Andy was waiting for me at Gatwick and drove me to Marks & Spencer on my way home to stock up with food. Polly-Hodge gave me her usual cool greeting to demonstrate displeasure at my absence, and then followed me around the house for the rest of the day. Everything was in good order. Joyce, with her usual efficiency, had sorted the post into matters requiring attention, those that were urgent and papers for information only. What on earth would I do without her?

Next week is going to be exceptionally busy, but I shall think about that tomorrow.

I awoke after a very good night’s sleep with the firm intention of going to 11 o’clock Mass. I set out with a quarter of an hour to get to Margaret Street, but neither bus nor taxi appeared and I was obstinately disinclined to go down into the Underground. Eventually a 94 appeared, but the journey was slow and it was obvious by the time we reached Marble Arch that I would be at least twenty minutes late for the service. So I went into
Marks & Spencer instead and bought myself a skirt. I was rewarded for this triumph of Mammon over God by leaving my umbrella in the bus.

Waiting for the 94, I was reminded somewhat irrationally of Billy Brown of London Town, that squat round little man of the war years with his bowler hat and rolled umbrella invented by some functionary of the Ministry of Information to demonstrate the perfect citizen. Billy Brown never lost his ration card, never travelled unnecessarily and his blackout was always impeccable, showing no chink of light. The poster showed him standing at a bus stop with his left hand raised and read: “Face the driver, raise your hand / You’ll find that he will understand.” Underneath some wit had written: “Of course he will, the silly cuss / But will he stop the bloody bus?”