The Dominion, Saturday, July 11, 1925. p. 8.
Peeps at Parliament: A Fused Fusion Wire — Mr. Atmore Short-Circuited

(By “Novitia.”)

I really hadn't, at the time, the faintest intention of darkening the doors of the House of Representatives again—at least, not until that fine week-end which Mr. Bates so kindly promised us had somewhat restored my mental stamina.¹²⁷ We women can stand just so much—as members will discover when the Upper House gets over its unreasonable and unseasonable prejudice against female M.P.'s. However, as I was wandering lonely as a cloud¹²⁸ down the corridors, I was accosted by—no, not by a policeman—by an orderly with a clinging Scotch burr and medals three deep running all round his chest. His greeting was unusually colloquial. "Such a go," he said excitedly.

"Go where?" I replied, languid but listening—you know the style.

"In there," he answered, indicating the door of the House of Representatives with a shaking forefinger. ["]Atmore expected to move his amendment to-night, but they sprung a surprise on him, and called him up this afternoon."

"And what, may I ask," I said, "is Atmore?"

"Independent Liberal, mover of second amendment to Address-in-Reply, member for Nelson," he rattled off, viewing me with a reproachful eye.

"It's all right," I said, "if he's a Liberal I'm going. I've waited to hear a Liberal say something since—since I was a child."

"Independent Liberal," he reminded me.

"Oh, yes," I replied, "I've heard that one before."

Inside the Chamber, usually somnolent members were sitting bolt-upright, galvanised into activity. From the expression on most of their faces, I should say that they found the process exceedingly painful. And over on the Liberal benches, a man with a Sydney Cartonish¹²⁹ sort of lovelock on his brow waved his hands at the Government benches, and told everybody just what he thought of them. This, I gathered, was Mr. Atmore. Mr. Atmore was justly incensed. Perhaps that was what made him so interesting. Members of Parliament, you must know, are hopelessly lost and forlorn with no notes to guide them, and Mr. Atmore, not knowing that his crowded hour of glorious strife¹³⁰ was so close upon him, had left his notes at home. This was cataclysm. A lesser man than he would have blushed, stammered and fallen by the way. A greater would have composed an entirely new and highly superior brand of speech. Mr. Atmore remembered what he could of his notes, and, with the aid of the most expressive voice in the House, came gamely through his ordeal.¹³¹

We have listened (by "we" I mean the general occupants of the Ladies' Gallery), to a great deal of mysterious humbug about the Fusion question. But we don't know yet whether anybody—except ourselves, and we don't count—wants Fusion, or, if not, why not. Mr. Atmore's speech dealt with Fusion, and dealt with it in a straight-forward way. There is such a thing as touching off a skyrocket in mistake for a squib. (At least, it's frequently done in Parliament, where everyone works in the dark). Mr. Atmore is a political skyrocket. It was rather a pity that his fellow-members compelled him gently but firmly to come down to earth. He made an impressive spectacle 'way up there in the air.

Mr. Atmore thinks that we want Fusion—that we have, in fact, come to the stage where we are rudely and most unconstitutionally demanding it.¹³² Well, I don't know. I think that most of us think the country will contrive to muddle along somehow—which is exactly what it's always done, hasn't it? Even if the apparently impossible happened, and the Powers of Darkness—I mean the Libs. and the Lab.-Socs.—should combine themselves against Reform, even two lefts can't make a right, especially if one of them is a left-over.

If Mr. Atmore is a good speech-maker, Mr. Fraser is a better speech-breaker. For fully an hour he poured cold milk-and-water on Mr. Atmore's flame of enthusiasm.¹³³ What did he talk about? Anything and everything except the business in hand. This is a winning little way common to most Labour-Socialist members. "I could go on like this," stated Mr. Fraser, beaming on the assembly through his spectacles, "for hours—almost interminably."¹³⁴ Here someone in the gallery—it wasn't I—uttered a low moan.

Our young Labour-Socialist friend Mr. Lee took up the tale of woe (perhaps Mr. Atmore interpreted it as a tale of "Whoa"), where a beneficent¹³⁵ Providence—meaning the Speaker—compelled Mr. Fraser to lay it down. Mr. Lee, leaning with graceful negligence against his desk, requested Mr. Atmore to produce the honourable scars which he acquired in the late lamented war. This Mr. Atmore, never having been there, found a little difficult. The fact that, at the time of the war Mr. Atmore was over the age limit made no difference whatever—not to Mr. Lee, anyhow.¹³⁶

None of the Labour-Socialist Party can resist the temptation to have an occasional little fling at the expense of the native-born New Zealander. "Rabbits, blackberries, and thistles," stated Mr. Lee, "were born in New Zealand."¹³⁷ Now, oddly enough, I always believed that rabbits, like Labour-Socialist leaders—very like some Labour-Socialist leaders—were imported into the country.¹³⁸ My mistake entirely.

The bell rang at last—mercifully. With much pomp and dignity the House arose, feeling that, however indiscreet Mr. Atmore may have been, members as a whole had been successful in committing themselves to nothing. That's the great game in the House, you know. Everybody says everything they can think of, but if any other member successfully grasps a phrase or a sentence which might pin his colleague down to an absolutely definite opinion—well, that colleague is "out."

Mr. Atmore, sitting back in his chair, looked just a little old and tired. It's a sad old world for the enthusiast, my masters.¹³⁹ The moral of all this is to acquire wisdom and learn to put your faith in Parliamentary procedure, which is, in plain English, the cocaine used for extracting a man's ideals.