In High Places

Stuart Cawston, who had finished his conjuring tricks a moment or two earlier, strolled with seeming casualness to join them. ‘Harvey,’ the Finance Minister said cheerfully, ‘you’re making an ass of yourself.’

‘Take care of him, Stu,’ the Prime Minister said. He could feel his anger growing; if he continued to handle this himself there was a danger he would lose his temper, always volatile, which could only make the situation worse. Moving away, he joined Margaret and another group.

But he could still hear Warrender, this time addressing Cawston.

‘When it comes to immigration I tell you we Canadians are a bunch of hypocrites. Our immigration policy – the policy that I administer, my friends – has to say one thing and mean another.’

‘Tell me later,’ Stuart Cawston said. He was still trying to smile, but barely succeeding.

‘I’ll tell you now!’ Harvey Warrender had gripped the Finance Minister’s arm firmly. ‘There are two things this country needs if it’s to go on expanding and everybody in this room knows it. One is a good big pool of unemployed for industry to draw on, and the other is a continued Anglo-Saxon majority. But do we ever admit it in public? No!’

The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration paused, glared around him, then ploughed on. ‘Both those things need carefully balanced immigration. We have to let immigrants come in, because when industry expands the manpower should be ready and waiting – not next week, or next month, or next year, but at the moment the factories need it. But open the gates of immigration too wide or too often, or both, and what happens? The population goes-out of balance. And it wouldn’t take too many generations of those kind of mistakes before you’d have the House of Commons debating in Italian and a Chinaman running Government House.’

This time there were several comments of disapproval from the other guests to whom Warrender’s voice had become increasingly audible. Moreover the Governor General had quite plainly heard the last remark and the Prime Minister saw him beckon an aide. Harvey Warrender’s wife, a pale, fragile woman, had moved uncertainly towards her husband and taken his arm. But he ignored her.

Dr Borden Tayne, the Health and Welfare Minister and a former college boxing champion who towered above them all, said in a stage whisper, ‘For Christ’s sake, knock it off!’ He had joined Cawston at Warrender’s side. A voice murmured urgently, ‘Get him out of here!’ Another answered, ‘He can’t go. Nobody can leave until the Governor General does.’ Unabashed, Harvey Warrender was continuing. ‘When you’re talking about immigration,’ he declared loudly, ‘I tell you the public wants sentiment, not facts. Facts are uncomfortable. People like to think of their country as holding the door open for the poor and suffering. It makes them feel noble. Only thing is, they’d just as soon the poor and suffering keep well out of sight when they get here, and not track lice in the suburbs or muddy up the prissy new churches. No siree, the public in this country doesn’t want wide-open immigration. What’s more, it knows the Government will never allow it, so there’s no real risk in hollering for it. That way, everybody can be righteous and safe at the same time.’. In a separate compartment of his mind the Prime Minister acknowledged that everything Harvey had said made sound sense but impractical politics.

‘What started all this?’ one of the women asked.

Harvey Warrender heard the remark and answered. ‘It started because I was told to change the way I’m running my department. But I’d remind you I’m enforcing the Immigration Act – the law.’ He looked at the phalanx of male figures around him. ‘And I’ll go on enforcing the law until you bastards agree to change it.’

Somebody said, ‘Perhaps you won’t have a department tomorrow, chum.’

One of the aides – an air force flight lieutenant this time -appeared at the Prime Minister’s side. He announced quietly, ‘His Excellency asked me to tell you, sir, that he is withdrawing.’

James Howden glanced towards the outer doorway. The Governor General was smilingly shaking hands with a few of the guests. With Margaret beside him, the Prime Minister moved across. The others melted away.

‘I hope you won’t mind our retiring early,’ the Governor General said. ‘Natalie and I are a little tired.’

‘I do apologize,’ Howden began.

‘Don’t, my dear fellow. Best if I don’t see anything.’ The Governor General smiled warmly. ‘A most happy Christmas to you, Prime Minister. And to you, Margaret dear.’

With quiet, firm dignity, preceded by an aide as the women guests curtsied and their husbands bowed, their Excellencies withdrew.

Chapter 2

In the car returning from Government House, Margaret asked, ‘After what happened tonight, won’t Harvey Warrender have to resign?’

‘I don’t know, dear,’ James Howden said thoughtfully. ‘He may not want to.’

‘Can’t you force him?’

He wondered what Margaret would say if he answered truthfully:

No, I can’t force Harvey Warrender to resign. And the reason is that somewhere in this city – in a safety deposit box, perhaps – there is a scrap of paper with some handwriting -my own. And if produced and made public, it might just as well be an obituary – or a suicide note from James McCallum Howden.

Instead he answered, ‘Harvey has a big following in the party, you know.’

‘But surely a following wouldn’t excuse what happened tonight.’

He made no answer.

He had never told Margaret about the convention, about the deal that he and Harvey had made nine years ago over the party leadership; the hard-driven deal, with the two of them alone in the small theatrical dressing-room while outside in the big Toronto auditorium their rival factions cheered, awaiting the balloting which had been unaccountably delayed – unaccountably, that is, except to the two chief opponents dealing their cards, face up, behind the scenes.

Nine years. James Howden’s thoughts went back…

… They would win the next election. Everyone in the party knew it. There was eagerness, a smell of victory, a sense of things to come.

The party had convened to elect a new leader. It was a virtual certainty that whoever was elected would become Prime Minister within a year. It was a prize and an opportunity which James McCallum Howden had dreamed of all his political life.

The choice lay between himself and Harvey Warrender. Warrender led the party’s intellectuals. He had strong support among the rank and file. James Howden was a middle-of-the-roader. Their strength was approximately equal.

Outside in the meeting hall there was noise and cheering.

‘I’m willing to withdraw,’ Harvey said. ‘On terms’

James Howden asked, ‘What terms?’

‘First – a cabinet post of my own choosing, for as long as we’re in power.’

‘You can have anything except External Affairs or Health.’

Howden had no intention of creating an ogre to compete with himself. External Affairs could keep a man permanently in the headlines. The Health Department disbursed family allowances to the populace and its minister rode high in public favour.

‘I’d accept that,’ Harvey Warrender said, ‘providing you agree to the other.’

The delegates outside were getting restless. Through the closed door they could hear feet stomping, impatient shouts.

‘Tell me your second condition,’ Howden said.

‘When we’re in office,’ Harvey said slowly, ‘there’ll be a lot of changes. Take television. The country’s growing and there’s room for more stations. We’ve already said we’ll organize the Board of Broadcast Governors. We can load it with our own people, and a few others who’ll go along.’ He stopped.

‘Go on,’ Howden said.

‘I want the TV franchise for-‘ He named a city – the country’s most prosperous industrial centre. ‘In my nephew’s name.’

James Howden whistled softly. If it were done, it would be patronage on a grand scale. The TV franchise was a plum of plums. Already there were many favour seekers – big money interests among them – jostling in line.

‘It’s worth two million dollars,’ Howden said.

‘I know.’ Harvey Warrender seemed a little flushed. ‘But I’m thinking of my old age. They don’t pay college professors a fortune, and I’ve never saved any money in politics.’

‘If it were traced back…’

‘It won’t be traceable,’ Harvey said. ‘I’ll see to that. My name won’t appear anywhere. They can suspect all they want, but it won’t be traceable.’

Howden shook his head in doubt. Outside there was another burst of noise – catcalls now, and some ironic singing.

‘I’ll make you a promise, Jim,’ Harvey Warrender said. ‘H I go down – for this or anything else – I’ll take the blame alone and I won’t involve you. But if you fire me, or fail to support me on an honest issue, I’ll take you too.’

‘You couldn’t prove…’

‘I want it in writing,’ Harvey said. He gestured towards the hall. ‘Before we go out there. Otherwise we’ll let it go to a vote.’

It would be a close thing. They both knew it. James How-den envisaged the cup he had coveted slipping away.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Give me something to write on.’

Harvey had passed him a convention programme and he had scribbled the words on the back – words which would destroy him utterly if they were ever used.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harvey said, pocketing the card. ‘It will be safe. And when we’re both out of politics I’ll give it back to you.’

They had gone outside then – Harvey Warrender to make a speech renouncing the leadership – one of the finest of his political life – and James Howden to be elected, cheered, and chaired through the hall…

The bargain struck had been kept on both sides even though, over the years, as James Howden’s prestige had risen, Harvey Warrender’s had steadily declined. Nowadays it was hard to remember that Warrender had once been a serious contender for the party leadership; certainly he was nowhere in line of succession now. But that sort of thing happened so often in politics; once a man was eclipsed in a contest for power, his stature, it seemed, grew less as time went on.

Their car had turned out of Government House grounds, heading west towards the Prime Minister’s residence at 24 Sussex Drive.

‘I’ve sometimes thought,’ Margaret said half to herself, ‘that Harvey Warrender is just a little mad.’

That was the trouble, Howden thought; Harvey was a little mad. That was why there was no assurance that he might not produce that hastily written agreement of nine years earlier even though, in doing so, he would destroy himself.

What were Harvey’s own feelings about that long-ago deal, Howden wondered. As far as he knew, Harvey Warrender had always been honest in politics until that time. Since then, Harvey’s nephew had had his TV franchise and, if rumour Were true, had made a fortune. So had Harvey, presumably; his standard of living now was far beyond the means of a cabinet minister, though fortunately he had been discreet and not indulged in sudden changes.

At the time the franchise was awarded there had been plenty of criticism and innuendo. But nothing had ever been proven and the Howden government, newly elected with a big majority in the House of Commons, had steam-rollered its critics, and eventually – as he had known from the first would happen – people had grown tired of the subject and it dropped out of sight.

But was Harvey remembering? And suffering a little, with a stirring of uneasy conscience? And trying, perhaps, in some warped and twisted way to make amends?

There had been a strange thing about Harvey lately – an almost obsessive concern with doing the ‘right’ thing and hewing to the line of law, even in trifling ways. On several occasions recently there had been argument at Cabinet – Harvey objecting because some proposed action had overtones of political expediency; Harvey arguing that every fine-print clause in every law must be scrupulously observed. When that happened James Howden had thought little about the incidents, dismissing them as passing eccentricity. But now, remembering Harvey’s alcoholic insistence tonight that immigration law must be administered exactly as laid down, he began to wonder.