Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 2 December 1972
Gibber’s Creek to Face Yass in a Cricket Match This Afternoon
In a special pre-Christmas match today, the Gibber’s Creek Eleven will face their traditional opponents from Yass in what promises to be a thrilling match at the Gibber’s Creek Cricket Ground . . .
MATILDA
Michael had set an armchair to one side, just below the stage. Matilda sat in it, surveying her empire: an uncertain crowd tonight as they waited to see the election results come in, many with red faces from handing out how-to-vote cards in the summer sun.
The men held stubbies of beer. The women stuck with shandies, cask wine and the inevitable china cups of tea. ‘Coffee,’ she ordered, to be contrary, when Nancy asked her what she’d like to drink, though she would have loved a cup of tea. She was always snappish when nervous. She knew it, but was too old to change it.
Interesting. That was the first time she had ever thought ‘I am too old’. But not, she thought, the last.
Polls closed at six pm. Counting would have begun at the Central School and across the country, except in Western Australia where the polls had yet to close, overseen by scrutineers from both the Liberal Country Party Coalition and Labor Party, perhaps some of those dreadful National Socialists too if they had members enough, as well as some from the DLP. Appalling that Nazis should still be allowed to play a role in politics, but that was democracy for you.
She had been so passionate about democracy and women’s suffrage when she was young, as if votes for women might make a difference. She doubted it had. Most women still, when asked, said, ‘My husband makes the political decisions in our family.’ All that the dearly won women’s suffrage had achieved had been a doubling of men’s votes.
Until tonight. Perhaps. Because this year the Women’s Electoral Lobby had made it plain: women’s votes counted tonight. If young Whitlam became prime minister tomorrow, women might begin to take an equal place across the land — go to university. Until now so many families had found the fees for a son but not a daughter.
Would her own life have been different if she had been educated? But of course she had been, by so many teachers . . .
‘You okay, Mum?’ Only Michael and Jim called her Mum. To the rest of the world she was Grandma or Matilda or Mrs Matilda or Mrs Thompson. Manners weren’t what they used to be, but no one had ever yet had the temerity to say, ‘Hey, you,’ to her.
The first results came up on the television screen. An inner-city swing to Labor. Which meant nothing, she told the flutter in her heart, for inner-city seats were always Labor, and Labor voters voted early. A swing in Werriwa, Gough Whitlam’s seat. Well, they would swing wouldn’t they, for their chosen son, his face on all those advertisements. Matilda wasn’t sure that she approved of political songs. Politics was for rational debate, not pop songs and stamping. Though if it had worked today . . .
‘And now to Gibber’s Creek. Gibber’s Creek is held by the Country Party with an eight point five per cent margin. What is the board showing us there?
‘Well, with only two per cent of the vote counted, it’s difficult to say. But there seems to be a swing towards Labor . . .’
But that was never in doubt. There’d be a swing, just as there had been in ’69. But would the swing be large enough?
‘Excuse me, Mrs Thompson. Would you like a pikelet?’
‘No. Thank you. Perhaps a slice of quiche.’
She wouldn’t eat it. But if she held a plate of quiche, people would stop bothering her with food.
A smattering of cheers as Nicholas strode in, using his stick only to steady himself. And truly strode, thought Matilda. Either he was more used to his new legs or this campaign had given him confidence. Only the slightest sway gave any indication that under those trousers were metal and plastic, not leg. Sensible of the lad to wait till some results were in, especially ones that showed a possible victory for himself. Made him look more in control . . .
‘And that makes the swing to Labor in Victoria twelve per cent now . . .’
But a swing in Victoria was predictable too. One hundred and twenty-five seats were being contested tonight. Labor must win not just more than fifty per cent of the popular vote — it had done that in the last election — but more than half the seats, which was far harder.
Matilda glanced at Nicholas, Felicity on one side of him, dressed again in brown — Good grief, didn’t the girl have a few bright colours in her wardrobe? — Flinty leaning on her stick as if guarding her granddaughter, her soon-to-be grandson-in-law and the entire district, if necessary. She gave Matilda a brief affectionate nod before turning back to listen to Nicholas, talking to a group of supporters.
Nicholas was doing well. If he lost tonight, Matilda guessed he’d take it on the chin. She also knew this meant far more to her than to him. If Nicholas lost by a narrow margin this time, he could stand again. At ninety-one you had few chances to see Jerusalem’s walls built for your nation.
Matilda looked at her watch, pink gold set with diamonds, a gift from Tommy. She took it off only to bathe. Seven-thirty. If only Tommy were there tonight.
She heard his voice chuckle. ‘Who says I’m not, old lady?’
‘Old lady yourself,’ she said, then took a bite of quiche to cover her embarrassment. Anyone could talk to ghosts, but only the very old were caught doing it.
‘And in Gibber’s Creek more results are in. With twenty-four per cent of the vote counted now, there is a definite swing to Labor in Gibber’s Creek. It looks like newcomer Nicholas Brewster is in with a real chance now.
‘An ex-serviceman, Nicholas Brewster is also the author of . . .’
More charts and graphs on the TV. More talk, talk, talk. Nothing could be definite yet. Why not shut up until it was?
Scarlett wheeling through the crowd, offering home-made sausage rolls — a clever choice — with tomato sauce to dunk them in. The sauce was home-made too. That strange young woman Leafsong walked next to her, offering what looked like tiny balled-up echidnas, but were probably made of rice.
A hard worker, that girl, and one who hadn’t let the punches life threw her knock her down. Matilda approved on both counts. And of her great-granddaughter’s choice of sister. Strong women needed to stand arm in arm. Or at least help each other now and then, with a cup of tea, some scones, a tuna mornay or even a house . . .
Eight o’clock. Had she dozed? No, of course not. Just shut her eyes. She’d known what was happening the whole time. The hall was no longer quiet. Laughter, toasts. A growing hope so strong you could almost twang the cords that linked the crowd.
And yet not certainty. And finally Gough and Margaret on the screen. Pity Margaret wasn’t standing for election instead of Gough, but Australia would never elect a woman PM. Well, perhaps one day. Jed’s daughter, maybe. It would be good to have one of her descendants a female PM.
‘She is my descendant, not yours, darling,’ said Tommy’s voice.
‘I have claimed her, so she’s mine,’ Matilda told him, but silently this time.
‘And with sixty per cent of the vote counted in Gibber’s Creek, it is clear that newcomer Nicholas Brewster . . .’
A shriek. Felicity. So the girl did have some spirit. ‘Nicholas! You’ve done it!’
‘We’ve done it,’ he said, laughing, for the whole crowd to hear, then, ‘Ooff!’ as Felicity launched herself at him. ‘Darling, my legs . . .’
Felicity stood back, beaming at her fiancé as if he’d won the Melbourne Cup. Then cheers. Felicity hugging Nicholas again; Nicholas hugging Flinty. Flinty waving her stick in the air.
If only Sandy could have seen this. Sandy had started the Rocky Creek branch of the Labor Party after the Great War.
Michael kissed Matilda’s cheek, and Nancy kissed her other one, then Jed and Scarlett and Leafsong kissed her too, and then Flinty, darling Flinty. So many more kisses now than when she was young, but those had been in the days when a kiss might transmit polio or scarlet fever. She supposed profligate kisses were safe enough now . . .
She blinked. Somehow Nicholas had ascended the stage. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Well, we’ve done it! Tomorrow there is going to be a new Australia. I can promise you a government that will care, that will listen, that will do what is right for Australia, not just for the rich.
‘I promise you that, as your local member, I will listen too, and work for you. No more young men sent to another’s war. No more widows trying to survive on tiny pensions, mothers desperate for a doctor’s care for their children, but without the money in their purse to pay for it. No more!
‘And no more speeches from me either,’ he added.
The hall laughed, happily, gratefully.
‘This is a time to celebrate, not make speeches. It’s a time to do, not just to talk about it. I’d just like to thank you all, every one of you. This has been an amazing victory tonight. I owe it to all of you. To my campaign manager . . .’
Names, names. Labor Party names, her name, Jed’s name in a string of others. ‘And, finally, my fiancée. Felicity!’ Nicholas held out his hand to her.
Laughing, she stood beside him. And Matilda saw not a nonentity, but a girl, well rooted in the earth, her own earth, in the mountains. Flinty’s granddaughter indeed. Excellent stock, there. Exactly what Nicholas needed, those roots, to steady him, just as Jed needed.
Matilda’s eyes flickered about the hall, then settled on young Sam. All nonsense with this commune stuff, but he’d grow out of it. Blue’s boy. You could always depend on good stock when you were breeding sheep, or families . . .
Cheers on the screen. Shrieks of joy. Why did some women always feel the need to shriek? Gough Whitlam’s acceptance speech, Margaret looking almost tearful. My word, what a night, to have a woman like Margaret Whitlam in tears . . . She realised her own face was wet too.
But what a night!
‘Why doesn’t McMahon concede?’ muttered Jed, next to her. ‘Would you like a meringue?’
‘No, thank you. I would not.’
‘Coffee?’ suggested Jed. ‘Or champagne?’
‘If I have champagne, I’ll go to sleep. Give me a glass though, for the toasts.’
Jed went to fetch it.
Matilda held it as up on the stage Nicholas raised a stubbie of beer. She knew the lad would rather have champagne, but this was a Labor Party victory, after all. ‘Men and women of Australia! I give you Gough Whitlam and a new Australia!’
‘And a bloody good MP for Gibber’s Creek!’ yelled someone from the back, that Raincloud, Rainstorm lad . . . Swearing in front of women. She’d kept bad language off Drinkwater for more than fifty years, but what could you do when even your own daughter-in-law used the ‘b’ word now?
Another flicker on the TV screen. Billy McMahon, mouse-like, white faced, a little man, with sticky-out ears, towered over by his wife, looking protective rather than glamorous tonight. A good speech . . . well, an acceptable one, but she could be generous . . . tears in his eyes. He’d done a not-too-bad job, ordering the troops back. He’d done what he could within a fossilised party. The Coalition will have to come up with more policies than anti-communism now . . .
She found the glass of champagne in her hand, smiled at it, raised it to Tommy. ‘They’re going to have a nine-seat majority, darling. Maybe more, when the Western Australia results are in.’
‘Western Australia will stick with the Coalition. But they’ve done it.’
‘We have done it. Australia has done it . . .’ Had she said the words aloud? It didn’t matter. The noise of the crowd had swallowed them. Tonight, just now, for the first time since she’d held the reins of Drinkwater, the district did not notice her, but watched the telly screen and the future.
Which, given that she was ninety-one years old, was entirely a good thing.