Charles Snow - Last Things

That was the reason that he and I, one afternoon at the end of October, were sitting in the gallery of the Lords’ Chamber. I had tried to get tickets from Francis Getliffe, but was told that he hadn’t returned to Cambridge: so I had fallen back on Walter Luke, who said that he was down to answer a question that afternoon. As soon as I looked at the order paper, I expected that it was the question Charles and I were waiting for. It was fourth and last on the list. The Lord Catforth. To ask Her Majesty’s Government whether the defence contracts alleged to be disclosed during the disturbances at — College in June had actually been placed with the college .

It wasn’t a masterpiece of legal drafting: but the civil servants who had to write the official answer would have realised at first sight that it wasn’t innocent. I could recall similar questions arriving flagged in my in-tray in days past: and Hector Rose’s glacial and courteous contempt for all the trial shots at the answer, including, though for politeness’ sake not mentioned, the most senior, being my own.

The civil servants would have known, it was their business to know, something about the questioner. He was a backbench Labour peer, recently ennobled, who had served a long time in the Commons: a trade unionist who had made a speciality of military subjects, on which he was considerably to the right of the Tory front bench.

It was a Thursday, about five past three. High up in the gallery (there was, as mountaineering books used to say, an uncomfortable feeling of space in front of one) we looked down on a packed house. A house so packed that it might have been one of the perspectiveless collective portraits of historical Lords debates, hung in their own corridors. The scarlet and gold was swamped. Grey heads gleamed, bald heads shone: there were some very young heads also, one or two as hirsute as Guy Grenfell’s. This attendance was not, however, in honour of Catforth’s question. A debate on Southern Rhodesia was to follow later that day, and there might (or might not) be a vote. For most of those present, the preliminary questions were merely curtain-raisers or minute-wasters; to be endured, just as for parliamentarians anticlimatic business was always having to be endured.

Not so with Charles. He was leaning forward in the gallery, hands clasped round one knee. The fourth question might – it was not likely but it was possible – have its dangers. He was keyed up, but actively so, as, so I guessed, he would have been before an examination. If he could have taken part, he would have been happy.

He was also, I supposed, not put off by flummery. He and his friends were disrespectful towards English formalities, but they were used to them. A stately question number two about salmon fisheries in Scotland made him smile, but not so incredulously as if he had been a foreigner. Content changed, forms stayed, I used to think. I was no nearer knowing the answer to an old puzzle of mine, how much of the forms he and his contemporaries would leave intact.

At last the fourth question. ‘The Lord Catforth.’ A big man, with large spectacles and a black moustache, rose from the middle of the government benches, opposite to us in the gallery. ‘I beg leave to ask–’ standard formula, but not mumbled, sententiously uttered.

Walter Luke, who had been putting his feet up from the front bench, stood at the dispatch box. His hair was now steel grey, not pepper and salt, but his face had filled out in his fifties, the lines, instead of being furrows, had become undramatic creases.

In the comfortable West-Country burr, from his official file he read:

Her Majesty’s Government are aware that certain allegations were made during the June disturbances. As my honourable friend said in another place on 29 June none of these correspond to the facts as known by him. It is true that from time to time defence contracts have been placed with the college, as with many other university institutions. All such contracts are of a research nature which makes them suitable for work in university laboratories. They are placed in accordance with recognised procedures which have been used for many years, in the case of the college in question, since before 1939.

Loyal hear-hears from those near Walter. The civil servants must have calculated, I was thinking, that the wider, the better.

Lord Catforth, on his feet again: While thanking my noble friend for that answer, it does not appear to answer the question .

Scattered hear-hears.

Will my noble friend tell us whether any contracts of a specifically military nature relating to biological warfare have been placed with the college?

As soon as I heard that, I was sure that there had been some colloguing with Lord Catforth. Perhaps the whips had got at him. Anyway he was not the man to disapprove of any weapon either already in existence or ever to become so.

And Walter Luke was suspiciously quick in glancing at the answers to possible supplementaries with which he had been briefed.

Lord Luke of Salcombe: I can assure the house that no contracts of a specifically military nature, either relating to biological warfare, or any other kind of weapon, have been or will be placed with the college under the present government .

Louder hear-hears.

Someone gave voice from under the gallery whom I couldn’t see.

Does the noble lord deny that there has been a security leak? Can he estimate how valuable the information about biological warfare will be to the Russians –

Order, order.

Now I thought I recognised the voice. Man of the ultra-right. Probably attending to speak about Rhodesia.

Lord Luke of Salcombe: As I have said to my noble friend, Lord Catforth, there has been no contract of a military nature relating to biological warfare, and so no information about biological warfare could have been or has been elicited .

Defence spokesman from the Tory front bench, rising quickly: Can the noble lord assure us that appropriate security precautions have been taken?

Lord Luke of Salcombe: I can certainly give that assurance .

The last question had been intended to be helpful. But it didn’t, as it was meant to, silence the interlocutor below.

Can the noble lord tell us how much information reaching the public press during the riots carried security classifications?

Lord Luke of Salcombe: It would not be in the public interest to answer questions which might bear on security matters .

Very loud hear-hears from both sides of the house.

Voice: Well then. Was any of the information which reached the public press covered by the Official Secrets Act? I should like a straight answer from the noble lord. Yes or no .

Lord Luke of Salcombe: I am not prepared to let the noble lord form my answer for me. My answer is in fact the same as my answer to his last question .

Voice: The noble lord seems incapable of giving a straight answer. (Order, order, and a few hear-hears.) Perhaps, since we shall be bound to hear in due course, he might conceivably answer this one. Is the government intending to prosecute any of the persons concerned under the Official Secrets Act?

Lord Luke of Salcombe: No, my lords .

A few cries of why not, and then a venerable figure spoke, with a disproportionately strong voice, from the government rear.

Lord F: Does the government realise that many of us on this side and throughout the country share our young people’s detestation of this atrocity called biological warfare?

Lord Luke of Salcombe: We fully realise what my noble friend has said .

Lord F: Further does the government realise that anything said about biological warfare by any of the young spokesmen during what I prefer to call the events of last June was said in a spirit of genuine and absolutely spontaneous indignation?