CHAPTER TEN: The Governor General
Mark Blake was at a meeting at St Peter’s. It was almost over.
Gladly Mark looked around the faces of the Anglican Vicars of Wellington: young, old, men and women, some worried, some at peace. They had called the meeting, concerned for the rising tensions in their parishes. They had shared their concerns. So far as Mark was concerned, they had got it off their chests – and now it was time to move on.
“We can handle a little heat,” he said. “Don’t you worry: back to business as usual.”
They looked at him, rose to their feet, and dispersed. Eun Ae Choo lingered for a moment, looking at him. What was that expression on her face? She seemed questioning – almost perplexed, about to say something. Then she also moved on.
Mark gathered up his papers, rose to his feet, and wandered out of the meeting room. He strode down a few steps, and then along into the cathedral.
There a solitary person sat, in the middle of the congregational chairs. She was wearing a green blouse and matching half-length skirt. Mark glanced at her, glanced quickly away, and then gave a double take. It was the Governor General! What was she doing here?
Her middle aged face was lifted up, her eyes fixed on the mosaic of Jesus on the cross: her expression surprisingly similar to that of Choo – perplexed, and questioning. Mark hesitated, and then wandered up to her.
“Right Honourable Anita Mayes,” he began, offering a hand to her. “Can I help you?”
She smiled formally at him, rising to her feet. “Bishop Blake,” she said. “Good to meet you.”
“Forgive me if I am intruding.”
“Not an intrusion.”
“Indeed?”
“I am…contemplating a few things.”
Mark politely waited, while she cast her eyes back over the cross and then back to him.
“Please join me,” she finally said, “if time is permitting.” Surprised, he also glanced at the cross, and then back at her.
“Very well,” he said. “I have some time.”
He sat next to her, and now both were facing the cross – side by side looking at it.
“I confess,” Mayes began, “I haven’t been to church in a while.”
“Life can certainly get very busy,” Mark graciously offered.
“I had a few moments, so thought I would seize them.”
“Good idea.”
Now Mark was feeling perplexed: where was this conversation heading?
Mayes became silent for a few moments – and then she spoke again.
“I have some concerns for our country.”
Mark shifted slightly, next to her. “Oh, yes?”
“Will you keep my words confidential?”
Surprised again, Mark glanced at her. It had been a long time since someone had actually confided in him as a priest. He frowned slightly, at his own sudden awkwardness – he took a slight breath, fleetingly closed his eyes to God, and then offered himself.
“Very well,” he said.
Mayes now rose to her feet, shifted herself into the aisle, and began to pace, glancing from time to time at the closed glass doors. Mark also rose to his feet, moving out to the aisle, leaning against a seat: available to hear her as she paced.
“Our country is struggling,” Mayes began. “Crops are failing, food is more scarce, petrol is escalating in cost and diminishing in supply – you know all of this.”
“Yes.”
“Crime is up, and understandably so: there is escalating theft, disputes are leading to violence – the police, now, in some cases are succumbing to violence. I am a lawyer, Bishop Blake, but I’m not sure the Law is enough: I fear the Law is beginning to fail the people.”
Mark stared at her. The Law failing the people? How could she say such a thing?
“The Law is vital,” he said. “It provides safety: it provides the necessary external stop-gate, to stop us when we lose control.”
“I agree with you,” Mayes said, now looking steadfastly at him. “But what happens if the whole country starts to lose control? What happens if the law-keepers start to lose control? What happens if even the law-makers start to lose control?”
Mark swallowed. He looked away from her gaze, and began to wander up the aisle himself, toward the cross.
“We are all, after all,” Mayes voice continued, drifting over him, “only human.”
Now Mark stood at the steps leading to the inner sanctuary. He looked at the face of Christ: there seemed sorrow in his expression – he’d never noticed that before.
Mark felt fear, standing there. Mayes’ words pricked at his usual comforts: the status quo – ‘business as usual.’
“What are you suggesting?” he spoke, into the inner sanctuary.
“I don’t know what to suggest,” Mayes replied, behind him. “That’s why I am here. That’s why I am wondering: what do you suggest, Bishop?”
Pain penetrated his chest. Where did it come from? Why was it there? The Governor General of New Zealand was asking for his guidance – why now? Why now, after all these years? Why now, at the very time when he was least able to give it, after…after…
“I don’t know what to suggest either,” he whispered, staring at Christ – and then he found some strength again for his voice. “We have what we already have. We should use it well.”
He turned back to Mayes.
“I agree we should use our system well,” Mayes said. “My role is to ensure our democracy stands: to ensure, under the authority of our Queen, that our processes are not corrupted.”
“The Queen is the sovereign of the Anglican Church also,” Mark said. “Both Church and Government answer to her.”
“Does not the Church answer to Christ?” Mayes asked, with a wry smile.
“Insofar as the Queen herself answers to Christ,” Mark quickly replied.
“Indeed,” Mayes said. “And that is why I am here. In our constitution, both Queen and Government answer to Christ.”
Mark looked at her. “In word,” he said. “But in action? In reality? That is the question.”
Mayes silently gazed at him. “Each person’s faith is their own affair.”
“I can respect that,” Mark said, “when the scope of one’s faith only influences oneself.”
Mayes smiled slight. “Very good,” she said. “Now you are certainly speaking as a bishop. My decisions could have enormous impact on our entire country.”
Mark held her forthright gaze. What specifically was on her mind?
“I signed a bill two weeks ago,” she said. “I did not want to sign it.”
“The National Lawful Use of Force Bill,” Mark murmured thoughtfully.
“Yes,” Mayes said. “I was wary of the bill – but I was obliged. I signed, and now the bill is an act: now it is law. Do you see what has happened since, Bishop?”
“Yes,” Mark replied quietly. “I see.”
“Escalating violence in the streets. The police, now, have been given the legal power to inflict more force. Two men are dead…”
Now a shadow crossed her face. “I am a lawyer, Bishop,” she said. “Those men were innocent. We have deliberately avoided a death sentence in New Zealand for over forty years – we have maintained a system of due process. And now this new bill, which I signed into law, has thrown due process out of the window.”
Mark had seen the articles: one of the men had been killed by a policeman on Mark’s own hill!
“The police are not villains,” Mayes said. “They are under strain, like the rest of us. We have given them too much power.”
And now her eyes were set upon him.
Mark shifted uneasily under her intensity.
“You have the greater power,” he said. “You are the Governor General: your signature is required for all changes of law. You represent the Queen.”
“I do,” Mayes said. “But my power is limited, Bishop. I am compelled to follow due process: the Queen is compelled to let democracy have its way. Parliament, vot
ed in by the people: Parliament determines the law – Parliament voted this law change in. The Queen tips her hat: the Governor General upholds the true democratic process. Democracy decided, Bishop: but democracy made the wrong decision.”
Now Mark suddenly realized why she was there. He flushed, and turned slightly away.
“You know who holds the real power in this country, Bishop,” the Governor General’s voice said.
“The Prime Minister,” Mark replied, staring at a hanging on the wall: at Christ, and his disciples handing out bread and fish.
“Is it not the Priest’s role to inform the Head of State?”
The next hanging was Christ, before Pontius Pilate.
“To inform?” Mark asked under his breath. “Or to be crucified?”
“You know James Connor,” Mayes said. “You both went to school together.”
“Oh, yes,” Mark said, and laughed, turning to her. Shrewd! She had done her homework! “I know James Connor all right! But tell me, Governor General – just what message are you asking the Bishop of Wellington to bring to the Prime Minister of New Zealand?”
Now her face flushed, and Mark saw it, and was satisfied. His own actions were his alone – it was inappropriate for her to manipulate the pieces as in a chess game: even if it was due process!
“You misunderstand me,” Mayes said. “I am not putting words in your mouth. I am imploring you, Bishop: for God’s sake, stop James Connor before it is too late.”
Mark stared at her. Tears pricked his eyes. In that moment, he was with her: in that moment, he suddenly saw what he had failed to see for so long. The great threat to the essence of freedom: dictatorial takeover. A rising Caesar…
“Your faith is filling you with gushy sentiment,” James had said. “Democracy is for the rich.”
“Talk to him,” Mayes implored him.
“Democracy is to enhance the rich to lift up the poor,” Mark had replied.
“Talk to him,” Mayes said.
“All right,” Mark said, “I’ll talk to him.”
It had been a long time since Mark had ventured into the Beehive. He stood next to security, pulling out his wallet, taking off his belt – surrendering them to be X-rayed. Something beeped in his pocket, as he walked through the machine: darned keys! He obediently lifted up his arms to a guard, who passed a scanner down both of his sides, lingering on his pocket.
“What’s in here, sir?”
He removed the keys, and the guard was appeased.
“Have a good day, sir.”
“Thank you,” he replied – and moved left through the glass doors.
There he paused briefly at the reception desk, informing the lady that he was expected. She made a quick call, and then nodded him on up the curving stairs to the reception hall: the long windows looking out to the Parliament grounds and St Peter’s, off to the left.
There Connor was waiting for him.
“Mark!” he said, stretching out his hand, and Mark received its enthusiastic shake. “It’s been too long!”
“Too long indeed,” Mark muttered wryly. “Good to see you, Jim.”
“Good to see you, too!” James said. “The Bishop of Wellington himself: fancy that! Come – we’ll have lunch in the staff cafeteria.”
And Mark followed him around the round circumference of the hall, into the small lift, and up.
The cafeteria was virtually empty. Surprised, Mark glanced around the empty chairs and tables.
“The Government running out of food too?” he asked, and Jim grinned.
“Don’t you worry about that. What’ll you have?”
“Ah…just standard coffee’s fine.”
“Not cappuccino?”
“If you’re having it.”
“Cappuccino it is, then!” And he ordered two cups, and sat down.
Mark cast his eyes over James’ face. He had aged, certainly – greying, amidst the brown hair. A bit of a middle-aged spread, despite the food shortages. Suit pants, light business shirt with sleeves still buttoned, blue tie loosened a little. In all senses, very average looking.
“How’s Pam?” Mark asked, and James smiled.
“Good as ever. The garden’s a bit more of a challenge for her.”
“And Rachel?”
“Working hard, at North-East Hospital.”
Mark braced himself, and in came the obligatory questions.
“How’s Selena?”
Mark shrugged. “Doing all right, I think.”
“At Grammar?”
“No,” Mark said, shifting uncomfortably. “She wanted to go to Hutt High.”
James eyebrows shot up. “How’s she doing there?”
“Top of the class. I’m sure she’s bored, but she has to sleep in the bed she made for herself.”
James was smiling – and then he tilted his head.
“I saw Tristan.”
Now Mark swallowed. Connor had seen his son? How? Mark had lost touch with him for years.
“Where?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
James’ expression looked a little puzzled. “You don’t know?” he said. “He retired from Army service.”
Mark stared at him. Army service? How long…? He could have been killed! When did he…?
“What?” he said, resisting hard the impulse to shoot to his feet.
“Mark, you don’t know?” James said. “He was in the Army for five years. Part of our Peacekeeping force, in the Middle East. He told me face to face of the atrocities there – the escalating conflict, and how close the rebels came to securing a nuke…”
Mark’s whole body went cold. His son, in the midst of a potential third world war?
“So he’s back?” His voice sounded muted to his own ears.
“Yes, he’s back.”
“Where?”
James looked perplexed. “I don’t know, Mark – he’s not my son.”
The pain was back: deep, in his chest – all-consuming. Where was Tristan? Was he safe? Was New Zealand even safe anymore? Was anywhere safe?
Somehow the thought stirred him again into his original purpose.
“James,” he began, and James looked at him.
“Yes?”
“What do you think about everything that’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Jim: New Zealand! Everything is changing. We’re not like this – little old New Zealand, friendly country, beautiful, great get away: that’s who we really are. Self-sufficient. What’s gone wrong?”
James held his gaze, glanced away, and then returned.
“Mark, the world’s going to pot. Capitalism isn’t working for the States – they’re deep in the New Depression. Communism gives me the Heebie-jeebies. Religious conflict, too – check out the Middle East: that might be the end of us all. What’s the solution?”
“Well,” Mark began, “what about getting back to the basics?”
“The basics?” James said, with a laugh. “Here are the basics: there is no food. There is no petrol. Our economy is being turned on its head. The threat? That we return to the Middle Ages: isolated tribal conflicts. Warring, across our nation. Is that what you want? We must maintain centralized control.”
Mark stared at him, and frowned. The Middle Ages were a time of faith…
“Centralized leadership, yes,” Mark said, “to serve the country’s interests. To cultivate harmony…”
“You haven’t changed,” James said. “Still the idealist! Hold onto that.”
Mark flushed, and persevered. “Centralized control only makes sense if it serves the interests of the country.”
Now James paused for a moment, and then continued. “We must maintain unity.”
“Unity through freedom.”
“Sometimes freedom is a luxury we can’t afford.”
“James!” Now Mark rose to his feet, in dismay.
James stared up at him. “Sit down, Mark,” he said quietly, but Mark remained
standing.
“Jim, you’re starting to sound like a dictator.”
James’ expression did not change. “The Prime Minister is charged with the responsibility to ensure the security of the nation.”
“The Prime Minister is voted in by the people: is chosen by the people.”
“Once every three years.”
“The PM serves the people, Jim: not the other way around!”
“Sit down…”
“If you’re losing sight of that, maybe you should resign!”
“Sit down, Mark – now!” James exploded, thrusting himself out of his seat.
Mark stared into his face: flushed and angry. Had Connor unwittingly become a tyrant? Had he really?
“Everything I do is to serve the interests of New Zealand,” James said. “How dare you imply otherwise?!”
Mark frowned, remaining on his feet. “Taking greater control always looks bad,” he said quietly. “You’re a politician – you know that.”
“I do know that, Mark, but does that prove guilt?” At this Mark smiled sadly, as Connor continued.
“The people on the street have no idea of the bigger picture out there,” he said. “The powers that be are organising, Mark – internationally, they are organising! Even Clarkson refuses to see what is in front of his face: he is too consumed by his increasingly communistic ideals. The international scene is ripe for complete conquest: do you not see it? The Government has the most accurate Intel. If we don’t remain united, we will fall – and all the nations with us.”
“Fall to what?” Mark asked.
“To global totalitarian rule.”
At this Mark swallowed, and sat back down, and James also sat.
“Do you actually have evidence for this?” Mark asked. “Or is it only your deepest fear talking?”
“I have evidence,” James said. “They are hidden, but poised. They have food. They have petrol. They are listening to us – but they don’t know yet that we are also listening to them. Our only defence is true self-sufficiency: and we can’t maintain that unless we remain a cohesive whole! Our country must not fragment or we will be assimilated, as surely as a tsunami sweeps up everything in its path.”
Mark grimaced. He considered James’ words. And then he spoke.
“James, I have known you since high school,” he said. “We have debated, we have argued – we’ve even had the odd punch up. I can see you’re genuinely concerned for New Zealand, and you’re trying to protect us all.
“You have some kind of faith, behind what you are doing, don’t you? Some kind of driving morality behind your actions?
“I say this to you now: for Christ’s sake, in all your efforts to save us, don’t become the very thing you fear most – don’t succumb to becoming a Hitler.”
James’s eyes were on him. He heard him. With gratification, Mark saw it: he was actually listening.
“I don’t want to become a Hitler,” James said. “But what if the future of New Zealand requires it?”
Mark stared at him, disturbed. Did the end justify the means? Surely not! Surely not…
“What is a future built on control,” he replied quietly, “but the worst kind of imprisonment?”
“I don’t have the answers for that,” James said. “I’m a politician – you’re the priest.”
James rose to his feet, smiled slightly, and bowed his head to him.
“It’s been good to see you again, Mark,” he said. “Stay in touch.”
Mark nodded, rising to his feet – shaking his hand again. But there, in the Beehive, as he sat back down in the deserted cafeteria, he had a sense of dark foreboding.
A New Kind of Zeal Page 10