Shane Malone - Eureka Street

ticket. If ever the much-abused expression 'true believer'
fitted anyone, it was Ray from Reservoir. The
Labor Party runs on such people, the handers-out of
how-to-vote cards and feeders of strangers. 'I used to
be a Thea man/ Ray said. 'But now I'm for Martin.
He doesn't take people for granted.'
Martin Ferguson's qualities, Ray told me, were
something I should judge for myself. He'd be at the
local shopping centre the following Saturday, canvassing
votes. I ate my beef and told Ray I'd go along and
take a look.
The names on the shops in the High Street retail
strip read like the Pireaus telephone book. At the
entrance to the Northcote Plaza, Emily Dimitracopoulos
stood handing out flyers. On the benches
inside, old men with faces of a decidedly Hellenic cast
sat in tight-knit groups and talked in whispers.
Ferguson was near the supermarket, offering
handbills and handshakes. Trade was quiet. An Indian
woman tentatively thrust a child forward. 'My son
has always wanted to m eet you/ she said. What might
have been a blush infused Ferguson's cheeks. For a
moment, he looked like he might die of embarassment.
He mumbled something appropriate and
pumped the nine-year-old's hand.
This apparent lack of guile is one of Ferguson's
greatest assets. That open, ruddy face. That stunned
mullet expression. He is almost exactly my age and
when I look at him I see half the kids I went to school
with. I have a vision of him in short pants, playing
under a kitchen table at which big men in blue serge
suits sit talking about loyalty and betrayal and who
has the numbers.
I approached and asked him how he thought the
campaign was going. 'The base/ he said, 'is
with us.' His face was wide open, but his eyes
were watchful. And in personal conversation,
his nang accent was much less marked.
When the electioneering moved up the
road to the Fairfield shopping centre, I
followed. This is the up-market part of Batman.
The Video Ezy stocks Greek movies and
the Hoit Yim has laminex tables, but there is
also a Thai restaurant and a Sandra Rhodes
samples and seconds shop. It was a brilliant
morning and the two rival butchers were giving
away free sausages from gas barbecues.
Apart from a little light stirring from a gang
of frisky grannies, Ferguson's presence went almost
unremarked. I decided to leave him to it. There were
better ways to spend a fine summer day.
As I headed for the car, a rough nut in grimy denims
begged my pardon. He had, he said, slept the night
in a park and was trying to raise the fare to Narre
Warren. If I could just spare $2.80, he'd be grateful.
The Australian vernacular does not yet have an
expression for these increasingly familiar encounters.
The word 'begging' sounds too blunt, 'panhandling'
too American. I listened to an elaborate story and
forked over a dollar. 'You might have more luck over Th . 1 1
there/ I said. 'That bloke's running for parliament.' lS apparent ac <
'Labor' The mendicant drew himself upright. of guile is one of
'I'm Labor.'
The last I saw of Martin Ferguson that morning, Ferguson's greatest
he was standing beside a free sausage sizzle, edging assets. That open,
L E
uncomfortably away from a broke cadger
with a tale of woe.
ruddy face.
WEEK BEFORE THE ELECTION, a notice appeared in That stunned mullet
Batman letterboxes advertising a debate between the expression.
candidates at the Northcote town hall. More than a
hundred people turned up, squeezing into the airless He is almost exactly
council chamber. The Trots had a stall on the foot- my age and when I
path. 'Should We Punish Labor' read the headline on
their paper. All of the candidates were there but two. look at him I see half
Ferguson, claimed the organisers, had reneged. .
The days of such corner electioneering are long the l