CHAPTER NINE

DAY THIRTEEN – TUESDAY

‘Professor, this operation manual they’ve sent us is brilliant.’ Robert Wong was sitting at a chair in the university library working through initial campaign plans, studying very closely the manual that had been delivered from campaign headquarters earlier that day. ‘It covers in great detail everything we need to know.’

Jaya chewed the end of her pen as she scanned research papers, head resting on her hand, thick hair trailing to the table. ‘Well, that’s good. I suspect we will need every bit of help we can get.’ She then looked up with a quizzical frown. ‘Do you think I need to be across every policy?’

‘I suppose you should be across tax rates,’ Wong replied. ‘From my research of previous campaigns the standard questions journalists usually to try and catch candidates out on is tax.’ Wong looked to see if the professor understood. ‘You know – so they can create a political storm against the leader. They apparently call them gotcha moments, but it seems like stupid journalism to me.’

‘What else does your research tell you?’ Jaya, with a smile of admiration, looked over to her colleague.

‘They ask questions like the price of milk, which no-one actually knows, but they expect politicians to have the answer immediately.’ He chuckled and referred to his notes. ‘They also want you to know some basic policy principles of the party, and I suppose you had better get across the current health initiatives. Plus, given we have a traditional green bloc of voters in the electorate, we’d better get across energy issues and where the party differs from government.’

‘Where does it differ from government?’

‘We want a secure energy supply and the government doesn’t consider that aspect of sovereign wealth to be important.’

‘Why would they think energy security is not important? It’s essential,’ Jaya said.

‘No-one really cares, especially young voters, so the government do and say anything to achieve headlines about climate change,’ sighed Wong. ‘This is a problem with the academic work we do – it never matches political reality out on the street.’

‘Well, if we can get traction, avoiding any scandals along the way, then we’ll have achieved an awful lot. I think adding an applied campaign unit to the curriculum would be a great result from all of this energy.’

‘What is your primary vote expectation?’ asked Wong.

The professor sat back, pulling her hair back and tying it with a scrunchy from her wrist. Jaya frowned and said sternly, ‘I would like ten per cent.’ Then she smiled broadly. ‘That would be my best result, if we beat the Greens on the primary that would be an even better result. Ten per cent would be a great result, I suppose, but, if we do the best we can, then that’ll be okay as well.’

‘Actually, I must confess, it’s a little stress free knowing we’re going to lose,’ said Wong. ‘I couldn’t begin to imagine what marginal seat candidates must go through.’

‘That may be so, but ensure we document everything and apply the right ethics to our decisions. Otherwise this whole exercise will be a waste of time and resources,’ Jaya said. ‘Remember, you’ve promised me a credible campaign, Robert, without any trouble,’ she waggled a finger at him. ‘I don’t want my academic reputation tarnished in any way.’

‘Do you think we should do a campaign plan?’

‘Do politicians do plans?’ Jaya asked, not knowing the answer. ‘They just seem to manage the news cycle – I don’t recall seeing any plans in the studies I’ve taken over the years. I don’t think handing out brochures at bus stops and train stations is much of a plan.’

‘I suppose we should do one if we want to be serious,’ sighed Wong again as he flicked over pages of the manual. ‘I was just planning to focus on election day and getting volunteers standing at train stations handing out your brochure.’

‘What does the operation manual suggest?’

Flicking back to the contents page, Wong was directed to four chapters dedicated to a thirty-day campaign plan. He quickly scanned the information and turned to the professor with a broad smile. ‘According to this manual, you need to be out doorknocking this afternoon.’

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Jaya was sceptical, crossing her arms. ‘I could lose votes if a golliwog like me turned up on a voter’s doorstep.’

‘You really have a problem with this colour thing, don’t you?’ Wong asked casually.

‘You try living in Australia as a black person,’ sighed Jaya. ‘You can see it in their eyes. My colour challenges them. They don’t expect to see people like me in the supermarket, let alone on their doorstep.’

‘I find Aussies to be colour blind,’ Wong countered.

‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not just Australians, it’s a human condition to be sceptical and wary of something different. Every culture discriminates against something they don’t like,’ Jaya said. ‘Look at India. One of the most overt discriminatory cultures in the world, but they don’t try to hide it. It is what it is. Australia believes it is liberally pure, when clearly it’s not – not purposefully, I might add – when you inhibit free speech then thoughts are covert, but you always see it in their eyes.’

‘I’m not sure I agree with your view,’ smiled Wong. ‘But I will defend your right to say it.’

‘Touché,’ laughed Jaya. ‘Now, what happens if we don’t do this doorknocking thing?’

‘They have a section on non-compliance that clearly states if the non-conformity continues, it could lead to disendorsement, and we wouldn’t want that being broadcast on the national news. Being a sacked candidate would definitely tarnish your reputation.’ Wong paused and gazed at the professor for a moment. ‘I reckon we better get the others in this afternoon and allocate activities.’

‘Seems like a plan.’

‘Did you expect campaigning to be so complex?’

‘Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect,’ Jaya nodded and winced. ‘The whole preselection thing was bizarre. Folks asking me weird questions about the food I ate and what books I read. As if that’s important.’

‘What did you say? You love a curry and a poppadum.’

‘No, stuff that. I told them I prefer a good steak from the barbie with a cold beer.’ The colleagues laughed a little too loudly and were shushed by nearby staff.

Wong looked at his professor. ‘Do you have any regrets so far?’

‘Not at all. This is why I was enthusiastic when you suggested it. Learning about the election process from a candidate’s point of view is a great idea. I think there’ll be enormous lessons for us. If we can educate future candidates, maybe the entire political process could be better organised. It’s really exciting.’ Jaya was shushed again as her voice shrilled louder so she hoarsely whispered. ‘Just make sure we document everything. That means recording a personal diary about how you feel, and the many challenges you face, which would make a good case study.’

‘Well, my first response to that is that we need much more money than we currently have and way more people,’ Wong whispered a reply. ‘We probably need a campaign slogan.’

The professor immediately responded with her hands blocking the words in the air. ‘Jaya Rukhmani – more than black or white?’ They laughed and were shushed again by annoyed staff.

The prestigious habourside mansion, Admiralty House, was resumed by the Gerrard government soon after the shock failure of his republic referendum. Once the Sydney residence of the governor-general, the prime minister decided with the strokes of his scrawled signature that a four-bedroom brick veneer house on the river in Parramatta was more appropriate for the king’s representative – banishing the governor to live twenty-five kilometres from the CBD.

Gerrard refurbished Admiralty House to his own specific tastes, including private suites boasting expansive views of the harbour. He then redeveloped the former prime minister’s Kirribilli House residence next door into working offices for staff and other departmental advisers, providing a secluded compound away from the hustle and bustle of Sydney CBD, and an escape from Canberra. Gerrard’s wife Margaret rarely travelled to Sydney with him. She found it hard to cope with the traffic and the hot humid weather, preferring instead to stay at Yarralumla.

Gerrard’s electorate for the last thirty-two years had been the inner-city suburbs and CBD in Melbourne. He rarely visited his loyal staff at his electoral office in Fitzroy, and only did so when he was required in Victoria. He had not lived in the city for over twenty years, and no longer owned real estate there either.

Meredith Bruce, Government Education Minister and Manager of Government Business in the House of Representatives, arrived at the prearranged time for her meeting with the prime minister. She managed herself through security to the foyer of Kirribilli House, looking forward to working with Gerrard to review campaign strategy. Miles Fisher welcomed her downstairs in the foyer.

‘Miles, how are you? Is the boss ready to see me?’

‘He is over at the residence, minister. He asked me to direct you there.’

Expecting to have met Gerrard in his office, Bruce suddenly dreaded the directions. She lingered for a moment, hoping any delay would encourage the prime minister to come looking for her. ‘Good work in overcoming the shameful media yesterday.’

‘It’s easy when it’s fake news. So disappointing to have it happen, but increasingly common in politics these days.’ Fisher began to move away.

‘I have to admit the trend is toward this type of rubbish reporting,’ continued Bruce, keen to stall. ‘The media have to do better than that.’

‘We tracked the delivery of the forgery to Brisbane. It was a Mr Paul Keating who sent it,’ Fisher snorted and held his nose, prompting Bruce to join the laugh. ‘There was no CCTV of the transaction unfortunately.’

‘Why would someone use that name?’

‘It’s delicious, isn’t it,’ smiled Fisher. ‘The greatest treasurer in our history. Someone’s idea of a joke, I suppose. A good one though, we all had a laugh.’

‘Given he was eventually dumped by the punters, I reckon the forgery came from the other side.’

‘You think someone from the opposition set up Stanley?’ Fisher was surprised by her suggestion.

‘The poor dear, I feel sorry for him,’ mused Bruce, then looking about asked. ‘Is he planning on coming back here soon?’

‘No, the boss has another meeting in an hour, so you had better get a move along.’ Fisher walked her to the door leading to the path to Admiralty House.

‘Thanks,’ Bruce said, without much excitement.

The walk through the garden showcased the harbour and the white sail traffic bobbing about, fighting with the ferries for passage on the water. As Bruce strolled slowly, taking in the vista, she wondered if there would be a chance for another woman to reside at the house, scoffing cynically at the thought it could be her; although she did wonder.

She recognised the females in her party were not as highly regarded as the media pretended, and she knew her ambition for higher office would need to be carefully managed. Her recent assignations in Canberra with the prime minster unsettled her a little, but she liked the idea that she was now favoured by him, which helped with any occasional regrets she may have about her behaviour. ‘Whatever it takes’ was the clichéd advice from her mentor – she just privately wished it was not as often as the prime minister was increasingly demanding.

The housekeeper directed her to the pool deck, advising the prime minister was enjoying the sun after this flight from Melbourne. She walked the sandstone paving until she came across Gerrard in a private alcove surrounded by lush greenery. He was laying on a lounge enjoying the sun, a mirrored sheet beneath his chin. He heard Bruce approach and looked up, shielding his eyes and folding away his reflector.

‘Ah, Meredith. Thank you for coming over. Please, take a lounge and get a little sun on those gorgeous legs,’ Gerrard pointed to the next lounge. Still close enough to talk comfortably, she preferred a chair in the shade away from the prime minister.

‘Andrew, I would have preferred to see you at the office. This is a little inappropriate. Is Mrs Gerrard about?’

‘She’s in Paris for the duration and wants me to have a continental tan when I join her for Christmas, so out here will have to do,’ Gerrard paused, and then leered. ‘You’re uncomfortable with a near-naked man. I thought we overcame this silly shyness in Canberra?’

Bruce sighed, ‘If we are to remain “friends”, Prime Minister,’ she used her fingers to emphasise the quotation. ‘Then we cannot be seen in these types of settings.’

‘Fair enough,’ Gerrard curtly responded, sitting up. Adjusting his skimpy red swim trunks, he said, ‘Always remember who pays your bills, Meredith.’

‘Prime Minister, I will never underestimate your influence on my career, and I will continue to be grateful when time and circumstance permits,’ she smiled coquettishly to relieve the sudden tension between them.

Gerrard smirked and leered at Bruce, ‘Okay, we can discuss these issues when we are in Canberra again, but I’m sure a sleepover at Admiralty House would help your career no end.’

‘Prime Minister, can we get to business, please. I feel a little uncomfortable.’

‘What’s the current status of the campaign?’ Gerrard felt a little chided and pulled a towel over, readjusted himself and left a hand for the moment under the towel.

‘Yesterday’s forgery scandal has been the best thing to happen for us, quite frankly.’ Bruce referred to papers from her satchel. ‘You have increased your preferred prime minister rating by ten points and it’s now better than the last election. The two-party preferred is now at a level where we are likely to win by ten seats, which is a terrific achievement given the circumstances.’

‘Why would you have expected anything less?’ Gerrard scratched his head and stretched, reaching for the sun before resting his hands behind his head. ‘Stanley is useless, and I would think he has been set up by someone. I wager it was Harper – it’s what I’d have done if someone had shafted me.’

Bruce continued to scan her notes. ‘We have candidates out campaigning and we are placing extra resources into the marginal seats.’ She flicked over a page and continued. ‘The debate is yet to be confirmed, but we are insisting on the last Thursday as we normally do. It’s almost a tradition now.’

‘I don’t want to do more than one, so resist the media’s demand for more. Get the ministers out if we have to. Debates will just give Stanley a leadership platform he doesn’t deserve,’ counselled Gerrard. ‘Why should we gift him an increased profile? They’re just for television ratings anyway and have no relevance for the punters. I don’t know why we still bother with them.’

‘I’ll advise the opposition.’ Bruce took a note. ‘Do you want to announce any policies before the end of the campaign?’

‘Not particularly,’ sighed Gerrard. ‘We wouldn’t even be having this election if it weren’t for that stuff-up in parliament. How did you miss it?’

‘I was taking instructions from you at the time, if you remember.’ Bruce was keen to move on. ‘Are you planning on spending any time in your electorate?’

‘Nope. I don’t particularly want to travel out of Sydney, why should I?’

Bruce smiled. ‘Oh, to have your confidence in the good people of Melbourne.’

‘Are they running a candidate this year? They haven’t bothered for the last two elections.’

‘I’m advised they have a university professor running against you, a female in her forties.’

‘Really?’ Gerrard sneered slightly. ‘What does she look like, any good?’

‘What do you mean by any good?’ sighed Bruce.

‘Is she a looker?’ Gerrard asked. ‘That would make a difference to my vote. Mind you, not much, but it would help.’

‘Since when has looks got to do with politics?’

Gerrard raised his sunglasses to look at her and smugly smiled. ‘Oh, you are so naïve, Meredith. Looks have everything to do with successful political careers. That is why you are doing so very well,’ said Gerrard, seemingly oblivious to what he was saying. ‘You don’t think you’re a minister because you’re smart, do you?’

‘I thought it might have something to do with it.’

‘I choose my ministers by faction first, locality of their seat second, then looks.’ Gerrard beamed. ‘Look at Angie Gasper. She comes from the Teachers’ Union, she’s in the centre-right faction, just like you, and unlike you, she is a Doctor of Education. So why isn’t she Minister for Education instead of you?’

‘Okay, I’ll bite. Why isn’t she?’

‘Television appeal,’ smiled Gerrard. ‘She has it all over you with experience, policy grunt and just about all political capabilities, but she would frighten people if she ever got on the frontbench.’

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Bruce, mouth agape. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. Is that how you make decisions on political careers?’

‘It’s called political patronage and it’s the way I do things,’ Gerrard responded. ‘You either comply with the system or there is no career for you. You complied with my request, and your career is laid out for you. Gasper, on the other hand, has little chance of becoming a minister because of her frumpy looks, so sadly, we’re missing out and wasting her talents – but that’s politics.’

‘That’s bullshit, actually.’

‘Well, when you are leader, change it. Until then, enjoy the spoils my leadership provides for you.’ Gerrard said, reaching over for a glass of water. ‘Now, what else have you got for me?’

Peter Stanley was at his desk resting his head in his hands when Anita Devlin knocked gently on the office door. Stanley looked up, grimly smiled, and waved her in to sit at the desk.

‘Mr Stanley, sorry to disturb you. They said it would be okay—’ Anita began tentatively pointing over her shoulder. ‘I just wanted to get a few details from you to add to a feature article I’m writing on the campaign.’

‘Not sure I would be much good with this,’ sighed Stanley. ‘Perhaps Chris Hughes would be a better choice to talk to about the campaign – he’s coordinating the leadership strategy.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Mr Hughes,’ smiled Anita. ‘I wanted to speak to you, actually.’

‘I sometimes wonder if I’m suited to politics.’ Stanley noticed Anita taking notes and quickly added. ‘All of this is off the record unless you ask me to place something I say on the record.’

Anita understood, and nodded her head. ‘Where do you think the forgery came from?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past Gerrard to have set me up,’ sniffed Stanley. ‘The police have advised it originated in Queensland, which means Gerrard probably didn’t do it.’

‘Could it have come from your side?’

Stanley gawked at Anita, thought about the proposition and finally said, ‘Probably not. I mean who would do that?’

‘Someone who wanted to hurt you and the campaign.’

‘So not one of ours then?’ Stanley leaned back into his chair, slowly rocking it, he rested his face on his hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair.

‘Who stands to gain most from it?’ Anita asked, having guessed the answer and hoping Stanley would think it through.

‘The government, so maybe it was them. Bastards.’

‘How will this affect your campaign?’

‘Jack says it will put us back a few days,’ said Stanley, the other hand now clawing roughly through his hair. ‘He says the local campaigns won’t be affected.’

‘The Hyphen says that?’ Anita tried her luck.

‘Yes, he has the campaigns working their programs and we begin active community engagement from the weekend.’

‘He must be a busy man.’ Anita reeled out more baited line, hoping for a bite. ‘What, with all his international projects and the like?’

‘We’re lucky to have him, quite frankly.’

‘So, who’s paying for him?’

Stanley stopped and gazed at the journalist. ‘You’re being a little tricky today, aren’t you, Anita?’

‘Just doing my job,’ she smiled. ‘How do you think the campaign is going? Do you think you’ll win?’

‘Let’s see, I crack an innocent joke with so called friends that ends up on the front page. I make a public statement calling for the resignation of the prime minister about a letter that is a forgery. We have very little money in the campaign account and the polls are heading south. Jack has suggested we don’t do any debates, he doesn’t want me out in public anymore, which I tend to agree with.’ Stanley was not smiling. ‘How do you think we are travelling? We might have a chance, but we are coming from a long way behind.’

‘Where do you reckon Gerrard gets his money?’

‘The corporates love him,’ Stanley sighed. ‘He hasn’t delivered for them for years and he has policy that stifles investment, but they still love him.’

‘You didn’t tell me specifically,’ asked Anita. ‘Do you think you can win?’

‘If the community campaign goes to plan and I don’t stuff up any more, then yes, we can win it.’ Stanley laughed then heavily sighed.

After thirty minutes of chatting, Anita finally said cheerio to Stanley and pondered the information she had noted as she left the building. Who did have the most to gain from a Stanley election loss? The obvious culprit was Gerrard, but the political answer could lie within his own party. She considered the connection James Harper may have had with the forgery – how did he have a copy? When she found a quiet space, she called her boss to discuss her theories, seeking an experienced alternate perspective.

‘Cleave, I think James Harper was behind the forgery.’

‘Big call, how can you say that?’

‘I just wonder how he had a copy before the media conference,’ Anita said. ‘Who had more to gain from the forgery?’

‘Gerrard has benefited most as the polls now place him in an easy winning position. They are talking a ten-seat margin.’

‘Yeah, but if Gerrard wins, then what?’

‘They have a change of leader,’ Cleaver responded.

‘Who are the likely candidates?’ Anita asked. ‘Hughes is the obvious choice.’

‘Would they go back to Harper? Not sure they would.’

‘But they could if they lost the election.’

‘You have a nose for dark conspiracy stuff, don’t you?’

Anita laughed, ‘Do you want me to put something together? I also have their campaign operative confirmed by Stanley, so we can move on the article Hancock is stalling.’

‘I can only ask.’

‘Why would he hold it up, anyway?’ asked Anita.

‘Put something together on the Harper thing, and maybe we can roll it into your previous story and get a feature from it.’

‘I actually feel sorry for Stanley,’ sighed Anita. ‘He’s a good and generous man and doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.’

Cleaver snorted. ‘He’s a freakin’ politician, Anita.’ Cleaver chuckled. ‘Never trust them, and never feel anything toward them. They go into this political business focused only on themselves and their own egos. They really don’t care about the country, just their own legacy. So, no, don’t feel anything for the miserable bastards.’

When Anita finally ended the call, she thought about Bart and wondered if what Cleaver had said of politicians was true of him.