2028

by Ken Saunders

  A sudden thought made Stanfield grin in excitement. Had Fitzwilliams been arrested for bus-fare evasion?

  ...

  Georgia Lambert hadn’t uttered a word of reproach. She was all business when Fitzwilliams was bustled into the dressing room. ‘Get those wet clothes off him,’ she ordered, and staffers quickly began removing his jacket and shirt. ‘Don’t put a clean shirt on him yet,’ she instructed, leaving the PM shirtless in front of his team. ‘No time to shower. Splash cold water on him, then towel him off.’

  The make-up artist touched his face and drew her hand back. ‘Can’t put make-up on him. He is sweating like a …’ She tactfully left the barnyard animal unsaid. ‘He’s flushed. Anything we put on him will melt in two minutes.’

  ‘Au natural, it is then,’ Georgia decided.

  They were working on him like a Ferrari pit crew, Fitzwilliams thought. Someone pressed an ice pack to his cheek, trying to de-flush his face. He let them get on with their work. His job was to regain his debating frame of mind. Every minute was critical. Langdon was out there doing Fitzwilliams’ fighting for him. Langdon. Langdon with his peculiar fixation with prime numbers. Anything might happen. Perhaps only even numbers would come up in the debate while Langdon was out there, Fitzwilliams consoled himself.

  ...

  ‘Anyone who votes for the Luddites has no idea who would be their prime minister,’ Roslyn Stanfield told the camera. She turned to face the Luddite. ‘Who’s the leader of the Luddite party?’ she demanded. ‘Are you their leader—or just a face to put before the camera? If you are the Luddite leader, why do you hide it from the Australian people? Why don’t you tell us who you actually are? Tell the Australian people who is funding the Luddite Party. Tell the baffled battler out there what your party stands for!’ She let the barrage of demands buffet the Luddite. Her opponent would inevitably fail to answer one of them and then Stanfield could accuse her of refusing to answer the question.

  ‘The Luddite Party has no official leader,’ Aggie replied calmly, ‘because we want Luddite ideas to be discussed on their merits alone. Party leadership has become a national distraction, an obsession, so pervasive we have a PM who shouts about being prime minister at bus ticket machines. And you’ve promoted your policies by showing how good you are at kicking AFL goals. What has that got to do with the merit of your ideas?’ Aggie gave Stanfield a concerned look. ‘By the way, give your leg a rest,’ she advised. ‘You need to be careful with hamstring injuries.’

  Stanfield didn’t answer. If she denied being injured, it would mean she’d have to kick a goal tomorrow to prove it.

  ‘We don’t pretend the Luddite Party is the only source of good ideas,’ Aggie continued, ‘but we do want ideas to be discussed. By having all our candidates called Ned Ludd, we avoid the party leader being the prime political fixation.’

  Stanfield shot a glance at Russ Langdon. ‘As the Prime Minister has not condescended to show up tonight, perhaps I’m the only one here who does think that leadership of this nation is of prime importance.’

  ‘Leadership?’ Aggie asked. ‘You toppled the previous Labor leader, saying at the time it was a question of direction for the party, yet you kept all the same policies. What you wanted was not based on ideas or policy but solely on your desire to be leader.’

  Stanfield scoffed. ‘You’re remarkably uninformed, Ned, if I may call you that. Under my leadership, Labor brought forward the Opportunity-Based Employment policy that gives the battler—whether that’s a builder battler, a beautician battler, a barista battler—gives every battler enhanced pathways to advancement.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Aggie admitted.

  Stanfield had not expected the reply. She hesitated.

  ‘Sounds like something I’d be willing to support,’ Aggie continued. ‘How does it work?’

  Stanfield adopted her visionary pose. ‘Labor’s Opportunity-Based Employment will deliver seventy thousand new jobs, increase blending of casual jobs to full-time equivalent positions, and provide Australian workers with increased pathways in emerging employment sectors. Opportunity-Based Employment brings twenty-first-century employment opportunities to beleaguered battlers everywhere.’

  Aggie shook her head. ‘Those are its promises. I asked: how does it work?’

  ‘We enhance pathways to employment,’ Stanfield began again.

  ‘But how does anyone find the pathway and take it to wherever it’s leading?’

  ‘Opportunity-Based Employment will create employment hubs centring on innovation-based industrial/managerial solutions. Stakeholders will be part of the process to incentivise entrepreneurs and business leaders … to develop enhanced corridors to … employment.’

  ‘You lost me,’ Aggie replied.

  ‘You lost me too,’ Russ Langdon chipped in. ‘Are they corridors or pathways—or does a pathway lead into a corridor?’ he asked. ‘And just how do you incentivise entrepreneurs? I’m not sure it’s even a word.’

  ...

  ‘Well done, Russ!’ Fitzwilliams clapped at the screen. They had nearly finished their overhaul of his face. A staffer looped a tie around his neck. On the screen, Stanfield looked as though she was hurting—which, in fact, she was, her right thigh having shot a prong of pain through her.

  The make-up person touched his cheek. ‘Still too hot. The surface skin has cooled, but the underlying layers will heat it up again. Nothing we can do. You’ll look your age, Prime Minister,’ she predicted bleakly.

  Ten minutes into the debate and Langdon was holding his own. Stanfield had tried to take charge, but Ned Ludd had made her look vapid. Seeing Stanfield bested, however, was not reassuring. The seemingly mild Luddite evoked an odd sensation in Fitzwilliams. He suspected it might be fear.

  Georgia Lambert gave him a last look-over. ‘You’re still red-faced, but you have to go on anyway. This is what you’ve trained for all weekend. You know how to do it. Take out Ned Ludd.’ She clapped him on the back. ‘Like King Harold at the Battle of Hastings!’ she encouraged.

  ‘Surely you don’t want me to be like that,’ he replied, turning back to her. He clasped a hand over one eye. She looked at him, puzzled. It was not a good sign; he’d expected her to laugh.

  ...

  The changeover went smoothly. He waited for Langdon to finish defending a nit-picking attack from Stanfield on transport policy and then strode out to assume his rightful place behind the lectern. Langdon held up his hand for the exchange of a jaunty high five with the Prime Minister. It might be the gesture of tag-team wrestlers, but at least it looked like tag-team wrestlers in control.

  ‘I apologise for my lateness,’ Fitzwilliams began, ‘and want to thank Russ Langdon for stepping in. That’s the kind of cabinet this government has: one in which everyone is able to step up, a cabinet of depth and experience,’ he declared in a vast overstatement of the abilities of the motley place holders who made up most of his team.

  ‘I thank the Prime Minister for condescending to attend,’ Stanfield replied. ‘A clearer case of this government’s hubris …’ she let the word hang for a moment, knowing it was a good one to pin on a long-term government, ‘in taking the Australian people for granted could hardly have been better demonstrated.’

  ‘Could we get back to discussing policies?’ Aggie suggested.

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ Fitzwilliams said, smiling at her. ‘I note that the Ned Ludd candidate in the electorate of Flynn is in favour of bringing back the death penalty, an opinion opposed by the vast majority of the Australian people. I’d like to know whether you stand by this Luddite policy of restoring the death penalty.’

  ‘No,’ Aggie replied.

  ‘No?’ Fitzwilliams had at least expected her to hedge.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be a good idea. As a bare minimum standard, a government should try to avoid killing its own citizens,’ Aggie elaborated.

  ‘Are you prepared then, right now, to disendorse him as the Luddite Party candidate for Flynn? A c
andidate of your own party is advocating policies that, in your own words, don’t meet “a bare minimum standard” of acceptability.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Aggie reassured him. ‘It’s a minority view. If he put that up as a private member’s bill, it wouldn’t get up.’

  ‘He’s talking about executing people. I think you have to do a little more than tell me not to worry,’ Fitzwilliams prodded.

  Aggie disagreed. ‘Let’s say you, Roslyn and I all get elected, and the Ned Ludd in Flynn gets elected, it would be three-to-one against him already. In a general vote in parliament, it would be voted down.’

  ‘That is not the point,’ Fitzwilliams persisted. He wasn’t going to let her fob him off so easily. ‘A member of your party is advocating a policy that is repugnant to the people of Australia. Are you prepared to denounce the Ned Ludd of Flynn?’ he demanded.

  ‘Denounce him?’ Aggie asked. ‘If he’s elected, I’m going to have to work with him on other issues. It’s not sensible to denounce people because they disagree with you on one issue.’

  ‘So no policy position is beyond the pale for the Luddites then? Your candidate for Solomon has very extreme views on Aboriginal Native Title. She proposes that traditional ownership means actual physical ownership of all mineral rights in this nation. What she advocates would end the mining industry in Australia!’ he thundered. ‘Is that Luddite policy too?’

  ‘It is a radical interpretation of traditional ownership,’ Aggie conceded, ‘but surely she has the right to propose it. Would it hurt parliament to listen to what she has to say on the subject? You, Prime Minister, are always banging on about political correctness muzzling free speech. Perhaps you could be open enough to listen to someone else’s opinion in parliament. And I mean listen,’ she stressed, ‘not engage in catcalls and childish antics when someone else is speaking.’

  ‘Parliament is not some coffee club for latte-drinking lefties,’ Fitzwilliams declared, ‘to propose ideas that would eviscerate the mining industry and the economy of this nation.’

  Roslyn Stanfield had been left out of this exchange too long. ‘For once, I agree with the Prime Minister,’ she plunged in. ‘Electing Luddites would tie up the important work of parliament in an endless stream of private members’ bills on crackpot ideas.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say, “I agree with the Prime Minister,” Roslyn, when I have just used the phrase “latte-drinking lefties”,’ Fitzwilliams pointed out. ‘Half your party are latte-drinking lefties.’ Comedy improv, he reminded himself. ‘Think of your base, Roslyn—they like a good latte.’ He chuckled towards the camera.

  ‘Well, who doesn’t like a good latte?’ a male voice asked. Fitzwilliams turned to see a tall man standing where Ned Ludd had been. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m Ned Ludd, candidate in O’Connor. As we are talking about the mining industry, I want to outline potential reforms to that industry. There’s a great deal of disruption done to local communities by fly-in, fly-out workforces.’

  ‘The Luddites can’t—’ Fitzwilliams stopped himself in time. He’d been about to say, ‘change debaters midway through’.

  ‘This is precisely the leadership issue I was talking about,’ Stanfield jumped in. ‘The Luddite Party can’t even manage a debate without it becoming a game of musical chairs. Who exactly is the spokesperson for your party?’

  ‘The Luddite Party agreed to send Ned Ludd to the debate,’ the new Ned pointed out. ‘I am Ned Ludd and so was Ned Ludd, who preceded me. Now can we discuss fly-in, fly-out workforce policy?’

  Fitzwilliams’ radar signalled alert. Ludd was going to spring some complicated idea on them and then expect everyone to discuss it. He gave only very guarded responses to the Luddite, and Stanfield too, he noted, was keeping her head down. Fitzwilliams took the first opportunity to pull the rug from under new Ned by shifting the debate to foreign affairs. What would the single-issue twerp from Western Australia know about that?

  It turned out he knew a fair bit. The bastard could even speak Malay. Still, Fitzwilliams had been able to assert a degree of prime ministerial-ness over both his opponents. Overall, Fitzwilliams judged the debate was going all right, but all right was not good enough. He was still looking to land a knockout blow on the Luddite and brushing away the buzzing irritant of Roslyn Stanfield was a distraction.

  He got into a tangle with Stanfield on tax incentives so protracted that the moderator had yawned. Fitzwilliams needed to put some life back into the debate. He could almost hear the voice of his improv coach urging him to go for it.

  When he broke off from Stanfield, however, a young woman, no more than a schoolgirl, had taken the most recent Ned’s place. ‘What, another one?’ Fitzwilliams complained to the moderator.

  ‘I’m a volunteer working on the campaign of Ned Ludd in Sydney,’ the young Ned said by way of introduction, looking about nervously in the lights.

  ‘You’re not even a candidate,’ Stanfield protested.

  ‘But I am Ned Ludd,’ the girl shot back. ‘I changed my name officially.’

  The moderator shrugged. ‘The Luddites agreed to send Ned Ludd to the debate and they have done that—repeatedly it seems.’ He held up a hand to silence any further objections.

  ‘I’m here to propose the establishment of a national wage,’ the adolescent Ned announced to the viewing audience. She went on to describe something Fitzwilliams thought ought to sound ridiculous but which this wet-behind-the-ears girl was making appear feasible. Cappuccino communists, part of his brain suggested, but he’d already discussed coffee. She was proposing that the whole adult population receive a wage from the government of $17,000 per year for doing nothing! Everyone. There was to be no means testing.

  He wanted to go for the kill, but caution held him back. The Luddites sending out this naive girl with her pipedream idea for him to tear her apart—it was obviously a trap … but what kind of trap? Was it just about how bad it would look if the Prime Minister let loose on a teenage girl? ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Seventeen. However, it’s the national wage proposal we should be discussing, not my age.’

  He would condescend, but not too heavily. ‘You’re not even old enough to vote.’

  ‘I’m old enough to live under the consequences of government policies. They affect me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much your little scheme would cost the Australian taxpayer?’ he prodded gently. ‘Every adult in Australia receiving seventeen thousand dollars from the government would be—’ the Prime Minister swallowed, realising he had just posed himself a maths problem in front of a national audience ‘—beyond the ability of the government to pay,’ he salvaged.

  ‘You haven’t done the maths, Prime Minister,’ the young Ned shot back. ‘It is not seventeen thousand dollars times the number of adults in the country. To begin with, the seventeen thousand would be taxed at the recipient’s marginal rate of taxation. The richest would therefore give back a fair portion of it.’

  Fitzwilliams didn’t quite get her point, but thought it ill-advised to say so. She might be saying something simple and he was missing it.

  ‘Second, we spend an awful lot of money running Centrelink, employing armies of people to verify people’s entitlements, investigate complaints and translate complaint forms into community languages. None of that would be necessary anymore. Everyone over eighteen gets the money deposited straight into their bank account by the tax office. You can get rid of almost all of Centrelink. Smaller government, Prime Minister! Save a packet there.’

  Fitzwilliams blinked. Smaller government? That was Liberal Party mantra. How dare she try to pilfer it!

  The young Ned pressed on. ‘You can get rid of the Work for the Dole schemes. Think of all the workers you have employed over the years just to organise and monitor the people who are working for the dole. Think of all the pointless Work for the Dole jobs people have had to do. Think of the waste of talent. Those people could have been d
oing something useful instead.’

  Fitzwilliams knew he needed to respond to this. He had to wedge her somehow. ‘It must be very tempting to you, as a seventeen year old, to get seventeen thousand dollars next year for doing nothing. It would be a cruisy bludger’s life for you and your young friends, wouldn’t it? All paid for by the taxpayers, the hard-working mums and dads, the small businesses, all so you can slack off!’ He would be dismissive. ‘It’s not going to happen. We are not going to turn the entire nation into bludgers. “Here’s a handout. Don’t even bother looking for work.” That is not the sort of Australia I’ll lead.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Ned asked. ‘You think everyone would quit their jobs if you gave them seventeen thousand dollars per year? Is that your opinion of Australians?’

  She was twisting his words. ‘No. Australians are hard workers,’ Fitzwilliams insisted. ‘You are too young to—’

  ‘Australians are hard workers,’ Roslyn Stanfield cut across him. ‘Whether you’re a brawny battler or a brainy one, Labor’s goal for everyone out there is a fair day’s pay for a hard day’s work.’

  ‘Think of the difference it would make,’ Ned Ludd persisted. ‘For all your talk about innovation and enterprise, do you know what holds most people back? We have to make ends meet. We can’t take risks. We don’t start businesses, we don’t invent new products. Instead we work in coffee shops, as security guards, take jobs in call centres. Yes, the seventeen-thousand-dollar national wage would help poorly paid people to live more comfortably, but its most important consequence would be what it does for the young entrepreneur, the young researcher, the young person with a business dream. They can unleash their ideas, put their energies towards creating something new and know they aren’t going to starve to death while doing so. It’ll release the locked-up creativity of the nation! Is this something you can support, Prime Minister? Is it something we can carry forth together?’