Caucus menaced by ‘wall of death’

Press, 30 June 1989, Page 4

Caucus menaced by ‘wall of death’

By PETER LUKE in Wellington Parliament’s Room 234 has the virtue of being large — big enough to house the 56 politicians who make up the Labour caucus. But it has one drawback. Room 234 occupies the corner where the two corridors of the Parliamentary press gallery intersect. For most caucus meetings this presents little problem — Cabinet Ministers are used to tape-recorders popping out of offices and into their faces as they negotiate the news media gauntlet. But give a caucus a bit of spice, the whiff of a leadership plot, and the two corridors become so entrenched with “stake-out” journalists, that they become a politicians’ “wall of death.” Yesterday was no exception. Politicians coming out of the crunch leadership caucus could look straight ahead or to their left, but the view was the same. Up to 50 reporters bristled with tools of their trade — from electronic gizmos feeding the air waves, to the notebooks of news media luddites.

From 10 a.m. until after 2 p.m. the entrenched camps remained at their posts — held back from the caucus door by between two and four Parliamentary security guards. About 20 paces each way from the door was a no-stay area for reporters, free to snaffle a piece of politicians’ cheese, but not to linger. Three doors down from the caucus room, the office of “The Press” is a favoured spot for caucus watching; a tribute not to the quality of the office’s coffee, but to its proximity to the most frequent destination of caucus members; Room 238. Once a men’s toilet, this room has changed with the times to become unisex. As the hours of the caucus meeting went on, members of Parliament’s visits to it became more frequent. So the politicians emerged, and the ritual developed. Jocular, half-hearted questions probed the bladder-troubled members, enjoining them to spill all about “how is it going?”

Never really expecting an answer, reporters studied the faces of the members for their grimness, or their ebullience, or for anything. Evening newspaper reporters looked to their watches, as their precious early afternoon deadlines drew close, then passed, the corridors grew thick with smoke, and the meeting went on, with only occasional raised voices or laughter to indicate life within the caucus room.

The joking began, with suggestions that a soothsayer and the entrails of a chicken had been called for. In similar spirit, two members of Parliament added to speculation that the body politic was at issue.

“Not cathartic — visceral,” was one Labour member’s description of proceedings.

“People’s guts all over the walls,” was another’s vivid summary. So for four hours, New Zealand’s news media watched Labour politicians on their toilet calls. When each politician returned to the caucus room, Room 234, the curtains became as studied as the faces. Over the door of the room, two curtains prevent a glass window being used as an observation post by exceptionally tall reporters. As each politician closed the door they fiddled with these curtains. To the right then the left — was it significant? And who was it curtains for?

Just after 2 p.m. there was real action. The party president, Ms Ruth Dyson, emerged with the Chief Whip, Mrs Austin, and with a box of ballots, prompting some reporters to phone anxious news editors with word of a vote.

Soon after, the Junior Whip, Mr Trevor Mallard, came out to give a “two minute waring” that the meeting was to adjourn, and to promise a Prime Ministerial press conference. “From whom,” was the obvious question, but the looks on the faces of Labour members as they ended their four-hour seclusion spoke volumes — that it was not curtains for the Prime Mininster, Mr Lange.