by Philip Bond
Wellington displays an uncharacteristic annoyance with the casual banter as the waiter hovers over Harry, expectantly… “Make that three,” she confirms.
“And the wine,” voices the waiter.
“The Moss Wood Semillon please.” Anthony looks for agreement from the journalists.
Immediately the waiter gathers the knives to depart.
Unwittingly, Harry contributes to Anthony’s hobby… “Remaining faithful to the constituents, minister?”
“Always!” With Harry’s input, today’s the perfect opportunity to break the all-time record… “Besides, there’s no better Australian Semillon.” Knowing Wellington’s frustration meter has some way to go before reaching critical, he pushes the envelope… “Now, let us come to an agreement, I’ll call you Harry if you call me Anthony.”
“Of course.”
Refusing to be ignored any longer… “Anthony,” interjecting… “The party is floundering in the metropolitan centres. When the government is returned, albeit with a greatly reduced majority, will there be a leadership challenge?”
No unbeatable record today… “Again,” Anthony relents… “Straight for the jugular, Wellington?” He makes no attempt to hide frustration… “Most probably, yes.”
Resolute as always… “So,” Wellington presses forth… “Who has the numbers?”
Back to the Q&A… “It’s a three-horse race; the numbers change daily.”
Wellington punctuates the reply… “With each poll result?”
“Correct. Members in marginal seats bend in the wind of public opinion.”
“It’s difficult,” Harry interjects, “to build numbers until you know just who will be there to lobby.”
“Precisely.” She’s a breath of fresh air… “Harry, you should seriously consider Wellington’s offer. You’d fit right into the gallery.”
“You say a three-horse race?” Correcting the topic… “Anthony, the treasurer is on the nose with the electorate; is it not really between you and Samuel Duffield?”
“It’s true he’s performed well in the portfolio, subsequently has the admiration of several of his parliamentary colleagues.”
Harry bites her tongue as Wellington fires back… “So really, it is a two-horse race.”
“It’s possible to draw that conclusion.”
Conversation halts as the waiter arrives with the wine. Following the ritualistic tasting and filling of glasses, he exits, leaving the threesome to resume… “Anthony,” Wellington seizes opportunity… “I understand the US Vice-President intends visiting next week. The election obviously reschedules that, but is he lobbying Australia in support of the US position on Bosnia-Herzegovina?”
Caught with a mouthful of wine, Anthony swallows quickly … “Well, yes and no.” The wine is exceptionally pleasant; he pauses for another sip before continuing… “Yes, the Americans want a Security Council mandate to stop the carnage, but also Australia wants support for UN support for Timor self-government.”
Although conscience of today’s ground rules, Harry’s unable to restrain… “You’re playing hardball.”
Almost welcoming her involvement, Anthony fires the return… “That’s one way to describe the situation.”
The waiter appears balancing three plates… “Your fish, minister. Bon appétit.”
Another waiter places fish knives at each place setting before both disappear.
Wellington’s political agenda dominates the remainder of the lunch until… “Yes. I’m speaking at a reception for graduating MBA students from East China University of Science and Technology and the University of Canberra this evening here in the house. You both can be my guests?”
Not looking up from his fish… “Thank you, however,” Wellington gruffs… “I have a prior engagement.”
Looking at Harry with a smirk… “He always does.” Anthony leans forward… “Harry?”
“I don’t have anything planned, why not.”
“It’s settled then. My wife will call for you on her way around say, twenty to seven?”
“Great. I’ll be ready.”
*
The ComCar arrives almost to the minute.
Walking to the limousine, her cellphone demands attention… “Matt hi, basketball tomorrow 4 pm; sure I’d love to. Great, see you then.”
The driver stands beside the open rear passenger door.
Sitting on the leather inside is an attractive woman… “Hi,” possibly in her early forties… “I’m Cynthia Waller.”
Bundling into the seat, producing a welcoming hand… “Harry Reisner, pleased to meet you.”
Sitting crossed legged and very relaxed in the leather seat, her voice is cultured and polished … “I hear you’re conscripted to the Canberra gallery.”
Looking at Cynthia’s long black dress, Harry realises her grey slacks white shirt and matching grey coat means she’s way underdressed… “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Without a thought for sensitivities, Cynthia immediately punches back… “Are you married?”
“No.” Harry is taken aback.
Again, in a matter of fact way, probing deeper… “In a relationship?”
“Sort of,” she’s flummoxed… “I’ve been mulling over its worth.”
Cynthia places her hand on Harry’s arm… “Then come to Canberra.” Leaning over to speak so that the driver can’t hear, a smile breaks out… “It’s a great place to forget yourself.”
Although only just meeting the woman, it’s as if they have been friends since birth… “What do you mean?” Intrigue reigns supreme.
Their limousine travels along Canberra Avenue towards Parliament House… “Everyone here has an agenda. Once you work out who you’re dealing with, there’re chances to play games.”
“Games?”
Their vehicle turns a little fast into the largish roundabout. Both back seaters lean into the corner with Cynthia offering a confident… “Yes, it’s called keep them guessing.”
“It works?”
“Perfectly for me so far.”
Hearing such enticing commentary promotes the retort… “I’m very good at playing, keep them guessing. Might fit right into this town.” There’s a new world opening up here and now, Matt too. In a moment of reflection, realisation hits like a lead weight, thumping into her chest; the relationship with Phillip’s now well and truly over.
Travel to Parliament House is short. The driver ignores the main entrance, delivering the passengers instead to the members’ entrance. The heat of the day lingers into the evening, creating a dash from the limousines air conditioning to the interior comfort of the house.
With an attendant on point, Cynthia and Harry head down the corridor towards the grand hall… “We wait just off the main entrance for Anthony, then it’s our entrance. He’ll probably put you on his other side to enter. He loves the theatrics, all politicians do.”
“I guess it’s one way to be noticed.”
“You better believe it. With you on his other side, he’ll be the envy of just about every male in the room.”
Being centre stage is something Harry takes in stride. Suddenly her demeanour changes as she straightens her back. Her stride becomes deliberate yet supple, arms swing with elegant precision. She’s ready for the entrance.
The scene inside the Great Hall with the odd familiar face is reminiscent of the American embassy reception. Cynthia’s in full flight acknowledging greetings… “Harry,” Anthony first kisses Cynthia, then Harry… “It’s good you’re here. Please, give me your arm.” Positioning himself in between the women, ready for the grand entrance.
Cynthia’s right, eyes turn, bodies part as the trio join the throng. In sequence, people move forward to greet the foreign minister forcing him to repeat… “Of course, you know Cynthia, and let me introduce Harry Reisner.”
The event repeats almost to the point of boredom. Each time someone would ask, ‘And how are you recovering from your accident?’ ‘You are so br
ave going on camera bruises and all so soon after the accident.’ It becomes so that she wishes there’s a white board nearby to post the reply, ‘I’m fine thanks. As you can see, the bruises are healing already,’ even if the non-visible have not.
Noticing the high proportion of Asian faces within the gathering forces Harry’s question… “I didn’t think to ask, what’s the occasion?”
“Honouring Chinese students, graduating from the ANU,” Cynthia’s quickest… “It’s a project supported by Anthony’s department. Lots of export dollars, you know.”
The evening moves into thanks and congratulatory speeches. Anthony is winding up his speech, a man appears… “Hi Cynthia, aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?”
“Why, Brian,” turning towards the voice… “You little turd.” Turning her back on the hapless individual, offering to Harry instead… “The party’s just deteriorated with the arrival of the parliamentary sleaze.” Harry tries hiding the smile erupting across her face as Cynthia returns to the newcomer… “Brian, crawl back into your dung heap. Your odour is abominable.”
The man ignores the remark, forcing his way in between the women… “Pay no mind to Cynthia, I’m Brian Pullman, the PM’s press secretary, but everyone knows you.” He reaches for her hand.
Unwilling to comment on the static electricity… “I’m guessing you and Cynthia know each other.”
Cynthia’s quickest… “Everyone in Canberra knows the PM’s slime ball,” with a wily smile curling her mouth… “Some better than others.”
Again, Pullman ignores the quip, instead offering… “I hear you’re joining the gallery.”
“It’s under consideration.”
Aged around his early forties, Pullman stands just under 185 cm with a full flowing head of hair. His English origin provides fair skin and complexion, although his hazel eyes seem a little too close together for his rounded face. Used to manipulating journalists, this hotshot reporter from Sydney will be a cinch… “I’d be a big help to you. Why don’t we skip out of here and I’ll give you some useful background?”
He might think so… “I’m here as a guest of Anthony and Cynthia Waller.” Harry’s used to getting her way and used to deflating males with erect egos… “Maybe, we can talk another time.”
Cynthia can’t help herself… “Personne idiote ou méprisable, touché.”
Brian exits equally quickly as he appears while the women join in the applause for Anthony’s speech.
Anthony makes his way through the thinning throng back to the women… “Right then, who’s for supper in Manuka?”
*
Harry’s last to exit; Anthony closes door, the ComCar driver exits to hibernate nearby.
“I’m starved,” Anthony leads the way into the restaurant… “I think I’ll have a Marinara with a light red.”
Since Anthony re-joins, Cynthia remains noticeably quiet about the verbal exchange with Brian Pullman. Unsure of the history, Harry decides it best to leave sleeping dogs, for now.
Benefiting from a substantial lunch tempers Harry’s evening appetite, but not so the Wallers. A member of parliament for sixteen years, a government minister for four, and aspiring parliamentary party leader since university, consumes much of Anthony’s attention at the expense of an expanding waistline, not so Cynthia, however. Her body seems toned and suitably proportioned for height and age.
Spying a familiar face coming into the restaurant, Anthony interrupts the conversation… “My dear, Harry, please excuse me. I must have a word with Sam Duffield.”
What, Duffield where? Harry scans the surrounds, seeing Duffield ushered to two tables away. Cynthia leads… “He’s the PM’s favourite. He’s grooming the cretin for leadership within the new parliamentary term.”
The immigration minister shakes Anthony’s hand before claiming a seat.
Turning to Cynthia… “You’re not a fan?”
“Some things can’t be concealed.”
“It sounds like you might become part of the story.”
“Let’s put that aside until after the election.”
“So, what’s the story today?”
“Associations that corrupt.”
“Such as?”
The restaurant’s filling with patrons.
Cynthia indicates nodding her head… “That comes with the cretin who joins Anthony and Sam Duffield.”
Seeing Brian Pullman joining Duffield’s table.
Immediately, Anthony rises making his way back to the women. His arrival heralds Cynthia’s question… “Darling, and why does our minister for immigration remain in Canberra during an election?”
Anthony relaxes into the chair… “Umm, the PM’s called a party strategy meeting.”
Harry seizes the cue… “I can’t resist. The journalist in me demands I ask; does that indicate the government plans to make immigration an election issue?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” a minefield Anthony has no intention entering… “Maybe you will have some investigative spadework elsewhere.”
“I will,” placing her arm on the table… “Putting aside the fact I’m a journalist,” Harry leans forward… “How much of a personality undercurrent is there in this town?”
The Waller’s look expectantly to each other; Anthony’s also reluctant to canvas this topic… “Well my dear, I believe your radar’s far more sensitive to that issue than mine.”
Looks to Cynthia, she’s sitting with straight back right elbow on the table with hand to chin. With deliberate sudden movements, she clasps her hands before returning to Harry… “Sometimes it resembles packs of marauding gangs bent upon rape and pillage. Then other times it’s the epitome of conciliation and virtue. I’m sure there’s the equivalent menstrual cycle for politics and politicians.”
Timing’s everything; Harry tosses a hand grenade… “Is there corruption?”
Not one to avoid the difficult, Cynthia leads… “There’s always corruption,” pausing for effect… “By degrees.”
Before Harry can ask to elaborate, Anthony jumps… “Corruption infects those who seek only power.”
That’s an answer needing a question… “As opposed to?”
Again, Anthony’s first… “Despite public opinion, there remains a number of long serving politicians working to improve the quality of life for their constituents. Sadly, time and exposure guarantees a minority.”
There’s an obvious question… “Are you advocating limiting the time a member of parliament can serve?”
Anthony’s cautious… “There could be a reasonable supporting argument.”
Realising she’s over-stepping the journalistic mark… “Is that a shared view,” regardless, the journalist asks anyway… “by the Prime Minister?”
“I can’t answer for him.” Anthony fires the return.
Still, the journalist isn’t yet done… “Cynthia mentions Samuel Duffield’s being groomed to take over the parliamentary reigns in the new term. Is that correct?”
Fearful of party repercussions… “Harry, please do not attribute that to me in any way.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Allaying his fears, and quickly adding for effect… “But you have given me a cue to fish for attribution elsewhere.”
“Please do.” Harry isn’t the only one to identify cues… “So I take it then you are joining the gallery?”
“I guess I should, given I’ve two wonderful background sources to guide me.”
“That remains to be seen, young lady.”
The remainder of the evening’s devoted to gossip, antidotes and humour at the expense of several of Anthony’s parliamentary colleagues.
Hey, That’s What’s His Name
The stadium’s small by most professional basketball standards allowing only around a thousand spectators, yet less than a quarter sit upon the bench seating. Signage identifies corporate boxes with marginally better comfort; regular patrons bring cushions. It’s fair to say, all who attend do so fo
r the action.
Canberra Capitals verses Perth Lynx is into the final three minutes with the Capitals holding a 10-point lead. Harry’s first onto the bench… “There are plenty of seats. So, basketball isn’t big in Canberra?”
Lowering his frame into the limited space, he leaps to the defensive… “It will be when the Capitals are in the play-offs. The stadium usually fills around the main game tip-off.”
“I’m guessing you’re the keen basketball fan?”
Both settle into the hard courtside seating, with Matt displaying greater enthusiasm for the occasion… “It’s as American as McNuggets and Coke.” He sits upright placing elbows on his knees in search of a comfortable position… “If it wasn’t for the judge, I’d have been in the pro-selection trials.”
The ref’s whistle erupts as the Capital’s centre fouls a Lynx driving towards the basket. Two groups each around twenty people enter the stadium threading through the scaffolding into four corporate boxes.
“Any regrets?”
Finding a degree of seating comfort… “Only that I put myself into the situation where the choice isn’t mine,” quickly adding… “Regrets at joining the Marine Corps, no way!”
“Why’s that?”
“Being a marine means you’re never alone; there’s always a family to call on. You Aussies call it mateship. We call it belonging. It’s pretty much the same thing.”
On seeing the conundrum… “Yet you’re preparing to leave.”
“What I do is akin to being an elite athlete. At some point, your body can’t keep up with demand and then you endanger your buddies. I’m not going to let someone die because my reaction time increases.”
“Sounds like something happened recently to bring about this thinking?”
“You’re perceptive; it’s sensitive,” he pauses momentarily for reflection… “Maybe another time.”
“So,” changing tact… “you embark on a new direction, journalism?”