Lost In The Corridors Of Power (20 May 1977)

The use of Westminster Hall for the presentation to the Queen of Parliament’s loyal Jubilee greetings reminded me of the occasion when, for a few moments, I had that great barn of a place all to myself. That afternoon, Mr Dick Crossman was to announce the government’s intention of creating a new town in North Bucks and I had been sent to report. I had never reported Parliament before, armed with the necessary credentials, I was there very early in order to find my way to the House of Commons press gallery.

I entered by the general door where, as far as I remember, I was quite unchallenged. Inside, there were very few people and none who looked like an attendant of whom I could ask directions. But I had lots of time. So I went straight ahead along a wide corridor lined with busts of former statesmen, until progress was blocked by a door.

I wondered what lay beyond the door. Well, there was nothing like looking to see. So I pushed it open and took one step inside. Then I realised that this was a furnished room. On the left a fire was blazing in a big fireplace. On the right of the fireplace a thick-set man with a bright bald head sat in an armchair. On the left of the fireplace sat another figure with a judge’s long wig on his head. They were deep in conversation, but as I half-entered they turned their heads and seemed about to speak to me when I beat them to it, excused myself and hurriedly withdrew.

Clearly my goal did not lie in that direction. That man in the wig could be Mr Speaker himself!

After that boob I wondered between the busts and had nearly reached the end of the corridor when in a small cubicle I noticed a man who I was certain had not been there when I first passed it. But he turned out to be a man I needed. He looked at my credentials, gave me a chitty of some kind and told me to go along another corridor at right-angles to the first.

I was wandering down this corridor, still wondering where I was getting to, when I met a man in uniform and asked him for directions. He said: ‘‘Go through that door at the end into the hall and out into the yard the way they took Winston out. Then go to the lift tower at the corner of the next building, then up in the lift, and there you are.’’

I went through the door, expecting to find only a domestic hall on the other side. Instead, I found myself standing on a top platform of the Great Hall of Westminster itself! I recognised it at once from pictures I had seen. There wasn’t another soul in it. And to use my grandmother’s expression, ‘‘It fair gave me the creeps.’’

This was the place built by William Rufus in 1097 and enlarged by Richard II in 1394-99. Here they said King Richard had subsequently been deposed, Charles I condemned to death and Oliver Cromwell installed Lord Protector. And here Sir William Wallace, Sir Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, Stratford, Guy Fawkes. The Seven Bishops and Warren Hastings had stood trial. The trial of the last-named had lasted seven years, but as far as I remembered he had been the only one of that lot not to be put to death. In fact, he had been found not guilty.

These walls and this vast stone floor, now naked of any furniture, had seen all that and much more. I also now knew what the man meant when said ‘‘the way they took Winston out,’’ for here Churchill, like Gladstone before him, had recently lain in state prior to burial.

And his way out had obviously been through the big doorway at the far end of the hall from the platforms.

The one thing that didn’t fair give me the creeps was the magnificent hammer beam roof put up by Richard II. Looking at it, I smiled as I thought of the effort being made (rightly) by some good people to preserve the mini version at the Rectory Cottages.

Well, I went Winston’s way out into the fresh air (though on my feet) found the lift tower where the man said it would be and went up in the tiny lift to the back of the Press Gallery.

Here was a long room that was almost a corridor. Up some steps off it was a restaurant for my ilk, but I had already eaten, so stayed in the long room. Ranged along one side were a few writing tables and on these tables were leaflets calling on Pressmen to press for better facilities. Along the other side were a few telephone boxes and I could see what the grumble was all about. A man of ample proportions might hardly squeeze into them. I had seen as many and bigger press phone booths on football grounds as there were for the Press in the House of Commons.

The Press Gallery itself was fine. There were scores of seats. I had wondered whether I would be able to hear all that. In the event, the job turned out to be easier than the county council and much easier than our urban council.

One other memory sticks with me. Robert Maxwell was our MP at the time. Members drifted into the chamber after private prayers and during the preliminary proceedings, among them being Mr Maxwell. He made a striking figure as he entered. He was impeccably dressed and his bow to the Speaker was a real bow and not the perfunctory nod which was all that some crumpled MPs vouchsafed. I’ll say that for him.

As for the Speaker, I could not see him from my perch, so to this day I do not know whether he was the bewigged figure whose conversation I interrupted when I was wandering round Westminster like an innocent abroad.