I was the star of the show there for a while and I liked it. It seemed just about everyone knew I was the one who had secured the number from the paper and it conferred brief guru status on me.
Frank made a nice speech, the kind of speech he can make in private settings, off-the-cuff, funny, generous and moving. He spoke in the way political professionals rarely do these days when the cameras are rolling. That is when most of them, overly scripted, wooden and nakedly political, are at their worst.
Frank started his speech with a nod to me as he clambered to the top of a worryingly shaky table in the middle of the room: ‘Evening all. It’s been a long month. It’s been a long four years. Tomorrow will tell its own tale but, if Jack is right with those bloody numbers, than we have another four years to look forward to.’
Cue much cheering, and much backslapping of me. Frank spoke and made us feel like one big happy family. For a brief moment rivalries were cast aside, silly factional feuds abandoned. It felt like we were in this game for the right reasons, that we had made a difference to this state and we would keep doing so.
Ray came up for a chat, shook my hand, grabbed me by the shoulder and said, ‘Good work, mate, really good work.’ He started talking about the future in what could only be described as optimistic terms.
‘Mate, we did some good stuff these last four years, fixing the budget for a start but I think it’s the next four when we’ll really make progress. We want to be remembered. And the best way to do that is build shit. Hospitals, schools, roads. Whatever. We need to leave behind stuff that will make a difference. Maybe we’ll even have a crack at that bloody sport stadium you’re always banging on about. The point is, mate, you can be part of that if you want.’
And, strangely, at that moment that’s exactly what I wanted. All the horrors, the abuse, the fear of him vanished. Perhaps we have an inherent optimism that wants to believe the best in people, even when they have regularly demonstrated their worst. Perhaps we want to be part of a bigger cause that actually does help people. Or perhaps it was the six pints I had just drunk on an empty stomach.
55
Election day. The scariest words in the political language. Of course the worst of my fears are calmed by the poll on the front page of the morning paper. Although I admit I do hesitate before retrieving the paper from its usual place in the rose bush. Perhaps it’s the pessimism that usually infests hangovers. Perhaps it’s the emotional comedown from the highs of the night before. What if those numbers were wrong? What if he was winding me up or had decided to just publish that fucking picture? Of course, I am just being paranoid. That beautiful set of numbers is there in black and white under the headline ‘Four More Years’.
By election day Ray has well and truly had enough. For once I don’t blame him. He has worked harder in the last four weeks than at any stage in the preceding two years. He, like the rest of us, is stuffed. The Premier and a few Cabinet ministers in marginal seats are out and about trying to hoover up any last-minute votes. But Ray is home and I am under strict instructions not to disturb him for any reason short of Boyle being assassinated.
It’s a weird situation. There are two million people out there with my fate in their hands. Sure, none of them have a clue who I am, much less care about my future, but it sure makes voting a heightened experience. I turn up at the local school to cast my ballot and instead of shuffling head down in the queue, fiddling with my phone, doing my best to ignore everyone around me as I usually did I am on super-alert—watching which people take how-to-vote cards from which volunteers, trying to identify who are with us and who aren’t.
While this day is the apogee of the democratic experience, it’s probably my quietest ever day in the job. No phone calls to Ray, no phone calls from Ray. The media don’t need him, we don’t need them. And because I have tried to retain a shred of fictional purity by not joining the party I’m not even required to stand around forlornly with a bunch of how-to-vote cards.
However, my parole does not last the entire day. One of the rituals of election day is the election night coverage. The TV stations assemble an ‘expert panel’, to give ‘unrivalled coverage’ and ‘the results as they happen’. One of the braver, or more hyperbolic, stations might suggest their viewers will be ‘the first to know who will be the state’s next premier’. In well-worn fashion, these panels include representatives from government and Opposition, a moderator, a journo from the station and an expert in interpreting the numbers. Throw in some whiz-bang graphics to show swings and chambers filling up with red or blue figures and you have your typical election night coverage.
Naturally, all the pollies are dying to get their head on the box for four or five hours of continuous tellie time to spout more or less uninterrupted tosh on whatever takes their fancy to a captive audience. If politicians had a heaven, this is what it would look like.
Ray, needless to say, loves it. I lost track of how many times he asked me in staff meetings months beforehand about who was asking about him for election night. A month to go and no one had contacted me to ask him on. So I started spreading rumours among the TV journos that Ray had been asked by X channel to do their election-night coverage and was seriously considering it.
As plans went it was hardly Operation Overlord, but it didn’t need to be, I wasn’t trying to fool the Nazis, just a bunch of half-witted TV journos. Soon enough everybody wanted Ray, and he chose the channel expected to have the highest ratings. The only downside is the coverage is being hosted by Caldicott. Still, how bad can it be? We are going to win this thing. Right?
I show up at the studio, after my day of inactivity, at 5.30, an hour before the broadcast is to start. We need time for make-up and a chat about how the night is likely to pan out. With Leo and Harry’s help I have compiled an ‘idiot’s guide to election night’ for Ray. It includes the seats, candidates, swings, and results from the last three elections. It’s a safety net really, just in case he needs a prompt. To be fair, this is probably more of a worry on my part than his. Ray has a phenomenal memory for this kind of stuff, helped by the fact he’s been immersed in it for most of his adult life.
He’s late. He wouldn’t be Ray if he showed up on time. The floor manager comes to hassle me every five minutes.
‘Have you rung him?’ he demands. I assure the nervous, sweating man in front of me wearing headphones and a bunch of keys attached to his belt that Ray is on his way. I don’t see the point in telling him I haven’t rung Ray and I’m not going to. That ringing Ray would only annoy him and neither of us wants that. In any case, I’m relaxed. I know Ray won’t miss this for the world. The only question is how fine will he cut it.
He strides in twenty minutes before air time looking as relaxed and happy as I’ve seen him in a long time. He smiles at me, even says hello and shakes my hand. ‘I’m going to enjoy tonight,’ he tells me as he takes the ‘Big Book of Elections’ proffered. But he doesn’t so much as glance at it, all night.
Part of the reason he’s so happy is that knowledge we’re going to win. He also knows that his opposite number on the panel is Tony Parkinson, a man he despises. Our mutual hatred of Parkinson had managed the difficult feat of bringing Ray and I together. The idea of sharing a TV screen with Parkinson for four hours as the results roll in to confirm our victory is just peachy as far as Ray is concerned.
It is wonderfully predictable how obsequious my old pal Caldy becomes when confronted by Ray in the flesh. It’s one of the reasons I urge Ray to go into the studio and take him on face-to-face. Caldy is a bully with a microphone, protected by the distance the mic offers. He relishes fighting with disembodied voices at the other end of the phone line. But if you actually front up to take him on, it’s a different story.
Caldicott spots Ray from the other side of the TV studio, immediately breaks off the conversation he is having to rush at Ray like a full back trying to smother a shot for goal.
‘Treasurer,’ he greases. ‘great to see you. I think this’ll
be a fascinating evening and I look forward to your insights.’
Ray, with the practised air of a professional bullshit artist, joins in with the pretence that the two are old and valued mates and leans in conspiratorially. ‘Yeah, great to be here, mate. This is the best place to be on election night. Just make sure you keep an eye on Parkinson and don’t let him get away with any of his usual crap. Ok?’
‘Sure, sure, Treasurer. You know me. I don’t let anyone get away with anything in this town.’
It should be noted that thus far Caldy hasn’t even glanced in my direction. The fact that we have had about fifty conversations in the last year obviously counts for nothing. I am only the hired help. Caldy excuses himself and heads back to the set for a final check-up.
56
Fifteen minutes later the big, booming, self-important election theme tune is played and we are away. I have been allocated a small desk about ten metres from Ray with my idiot’s guide, laptop, phone, three bottles of water and as many mints as I can handle. It’s not until later I discover that the back of my head is more or less in shot for the entire night. Well, at least they captured my best side.
Part of my responsibility for the night is to keep track of what’s going on where. I have about twenty names and numbers in front of me of people who are on the ground looking over the shoulder of the people who are counting the votes. I am regularly on the phone to party office looking for the latest news, calling campaign managers in key seats trying to figure out what the early trends and swings look like, trying to stay ahead of the official game. If the coverage cuts away to an interview with a candidate, or they run through a graphic I sneak up to Ray and give him a note or whisper the latest news. It’s my job to make Ray look the smartest political operator on the planet.
From early on it’s apparent we’re going to win. And it’s going to be a landslide. Results are coming in indicating we could win seats the party has never won before. It’s a beautiful feeling. I am constantly on the phone to happy people who have worked hard for this moment. In front of the cameras, Ray is doing a sterling job of looking serious and not overly smug, although I suspect it’s only a matter of time before his true feelings emerge. In reality, he is waiting for Frank to make his victory speech. The night is the Premier’s and Ray doesn’t want to rain on that parade. Moments of sheer untainted triumph are rare in politics.
Watching Parkinson become increasingly grumpy adds to my joy. He is sliding ever further down into his seat and growing increasingly irritated with Caldy who, in typical journo fashion, is now piling in boots and all, doing his best to kick the wounded defenceless man as he lies bleeding on the floor.
‘Tony, you were supposed to be the brains of the operation when it came to taking on the government, yet the people have clearly spoken here tonight. They don’t like your party, they don’t like your policies and they have voted in droves for the government. How did you get it so wrong?’
‘Well, Andrew, I don’t think it’s quite as straightforward as you are suggesting. There is no doubt this was a tough election for our party but I am proud of the fight we put up and the campaign we have run,’ Parkinson replies.
‘Proud?’ Caldy almost spits at him. ‘If these numbers hold up this could be the worst result in your party’s history. You shouldn’t be proud, surely you should be thinking of resigning to let someone else have a crack.’
‘No, no, no,’ starts the increasingly desperate-sounding Parkinson. ‘Look, the government ran a hugely resourced twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week spin and misinformation campaign that the gullible bought hook, line and sinker.’
We all take this in for a moment. I even twist around in my chair so I can look at Caldy and Parkinson in the flesh, rather than on the TV screen in front of me. Ray, I see out of the corner of my eye, is enjoying himself enormously. He is clearly as relaxed as it’s possible to be on election day in front of the cameras. His smile is bright and delicious.
Caldy resumes the battle: ‘Sorry, Tony, just let me get this straight. Are you saying the voters are too dumb to know when they are being hoodwinked by a political party? That people, you know the voters who elected you as well tonight, are a bit on the thick side? Are you saying it’s their fault they couldn’t recognise the inherent, and obvious, brilliance of the political proposition put forward by your party in the last four weeks? Because if that is the claim you are making I suspect this won’t be the last election you’ll lose.’
Parkinson has emerged from his slumped position and is now sitting so erect you would think a broom handle has been inserted up his bum and attached by wire to that quivering mass of jelly he calls his backbone.
‘No, that is certainly not what I am saying,’ he splutters. ‘But I think the media has many questions to answer …’
He gets no further. A sin even worse than blaming the punters in Caldicott’s eyes is blaming the media. ‘I see. It’s the media’s fault? We’re the ones too stupid to recognise the brilliance of your plan. If I may say so, Treasury spokesman, I can only humbly apologise on behalf of the entire industry for being unable to detect the magnificence of your plan.’ I may have been wrong about Caldy. I am beginning to enjoy his work enormously.
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. Frank made his victory speech and I found myself staring at the TV with a cheesy, slack-jawed grin and, possibly, a song in my heart. Ray managed to keep a lid on the triumphalism and maintain a façade of dignity while the cameras were rolling. As soon as it was all over he bounced over to me, took my hand and near as damn it, gave me a hug. Then we left to join the others at the party.
A wining election-night party is like a wedding, a twenty-first, a fiftieth, sixtieth and seventieth all rolled into one. There are drunken people wanting to tell you how much they love you, making pledges about how we’re all going to stick together and really make a difference over the next four years. It’s a mad night. The kind of night you can go up to the Premier, grab him, plant a kiss on his cheek and say, ‘Thanks, mate.’
Even better, Emily is there waiting for me as I walk with Ray through the door to a rousing roar. She has put up with a lot in the last couple of years, my mood swings, fear of work and general arsehole-ness. And I’m still feeling bad about that US trip. What sort of bloke takes off for almost a month and leaves his wife with their new baby?
But she hugs me and I hug her, and I know at that moment the decision I’m going to make, no matter the euphoria of the next few hours.
Epilogue
I got out. It took me a couple of months but I did it. I pulled the rip cord on the parachute that had been on my back for the last year, stopped the headlong, out-of-control descent my life had become and floated gently back to earth.
Harry and Leo tried to talk me out of it, but in many ways their heart wasn’t in it. They knew if they could fashion an escape route they would be following me out the door. But they were far more tied to the party than I was. It was their future, it wasn’t mine and even though I felt a pang of guilt at leaving them behind, it wasn’t nearly enough to stop me going. It did take them a while to forgive me for keeping them in the dark about the Fox debacle. As I promised Stanton, Sloan talked to the paper the Monday after the election and the last I heard Fox and Cavendish were ‘helping the police with their inquiries’.
Ray made a generous speech at my farewell. He said there would always be a job for me in his office; he said all the right things and even seemed to mean it. Not for the first time I wondered about this bloke, and why he so rarely exhibited this side of his personality. Maybe he thought it a sign of weakness and, as the government’s chief headkicker, an extravagance he could ill afford. In the two years I worked for him I never did figure him out.
But I had to leave in order to save myself. I could feel myself disintegrating and my family life collapsing, and I thought whatever was left of my moral fibre could be next. It’s a job that can eat you up from the inside if you allow it to. So in the end I
went back to my beginning to start again. I took a job at the local paper where I started my working life. Calling it a career seems a bit grand, but I love it. There were sideways glances and muttering in corridors from my new-again colleagues at first but I understand that as well. I’m not sure I’d trust someone who had spent the last couple of years trying to persuade me black was white and up was down. But I also know that newsrooms are forgiving places if you do the right thing, knuckle down and write a few decent yarns.
A few weeks into my new life I realise the weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I have an interview a couple of hours out of the city and the car to myself. There’s a cracking blue sky and David Bowie is singing songs of loss and alienation when I feel a sudden, overwhelming freedom that seems to reach down to my soul. It is a point of pure joy.
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Never a True Word Page 19