ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

The Accidental
Politician
Liddy Clark
Her partner went out late on Saturday morning to gather the papers.
She was hiding at his place on the other side of town after a murder
of crows had gathered on the nature strip outside her house. They
were all there: the tried and long-toothed television political reporter;
rotund photographers; jaded tabloid writers; men, women, no
children—they had probably eaten their young. Camera trucks lined
her street with the occupants leaning against their vans, dragging on
durries. To an outsider it looked like a reunion; to the initiated it was
much more sinister. They had gathered outside her place because they
smelled blood. A wild dog camp snarling, yapping, drooling, sniffing
each other, wanting the titbit.
She had fled before microphones could be thrust into her face. With
dog in tow she had backed the car out and with a queen-like wave she
was gone. She knew they would put the second eleven on sentry duty.
It wouldn’t be safe to go home for some time.
“Did you get them all?” She was sitting at her partner’s large dining
table, staring vacantly out the window with a knot in her stomach
and not really knowing what to feel. She was exhausted.
“Australian, Courier and Gold Coast Bulletin. Gird your loins,
darling, you made the front page of all three.” He let the papers
fall, and time moved in slow motion as they hit the table, making
a splattered pattern. She wasn’t eager to look. Murdoch stable rags,
Labor minister; it was manna from heaven. Her partner broke her
foreboding.
“Coffee? I have croissants.” He turned and went toward the kitchen.
She stared at his back and then moved her eyes to the papers.
Of course, it was the most unflattering photo they could publish. Her
once pristine white shirt and black trousers looked like they had been
slept in. The shirt revealed flesh as it crept up, the wind blowing her
messy hair, hands clutching a bottle of water, her face like a smacked
arse. She had been up since six that morning and the shot was taken
at five in the afternoon after a long, hot, embarrassing February day.
Bastards! “Sorry, coffee. Yes please, black and strong.”
She tentatively opened the daily paper colloquially known as the
curious snail. Curious, its writing was not—it was a tabloid trying
hard to be cutting-edge and failing dismally; editors ‘in charge’
taking riding orders from the big man. She turned to page two and
three, double-page spreads with at least five photos. They’d dug up
the obligatory Play School presenter image. Page four and five, more
photos, more misinformation. She didn’t read all the commentary;
she was now intent on counting. She stopped at page fourteen. It
occurred to her that there was no news on the terrible train crash in
Spain where people had lost their lives. What sort of journalism was
this—she was being hung, drawn and quartered without trial and
world events weren’t getting a look in. Investigative journalism at its
worst.
Her coffee was cold by the time she had gone through the other
papers. Her phone rang and her stomach lurched. She stared at the
phone and willed her partner to pick it up. He did with a look of
determination; he was ready for the fight.
“Oh hi … Yes, she has counted the pages, fucking arseholes … Yes,
come over for lunch.”
She stopped holding her breath. Friend, not foe.
“Keep breathing, darling,” he said after hanging up the phone. “No
one can believe there is no news other than ‘Winegate’. Before coming
over tomorrow she will drive by your place to see if the mongrel camp
are still pissing on the lamp posts.”
“I can’t believe it either. Shit, when did it become Winegate, for
heaven’s sake?”
It was ringing again. The blood drained from her face and her body
tensed. Her partner snatched up the phone; he was still maintaining
his ‘don’t fuck with me’ stance. It was her campaign director, a fine
human being. She often referred to him as a ‘true servant of the
public’. He was a senior counsel and had been her campaign director
and confidant across three elections.
“I’ll put her on. Oh, okay … Right … Thanks, I’ll let her know … Yep,
tough going. We’ll come over tomorrow.” He sat down beside her and
gave her the details of the call.
Their federal member had been trying to contact her. He strongly
urged that she fall on her sword immediately, no discussion, no
workshop, just do it. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter. It was the only
way out, it was the only way to survive. It would stop the opposition
and the press haunting her every move. Career suicide would be
enough to call the dogs off. ‘The Premier will survive either way. You
need to look after yourself, and quickly,’ was his advice.
She was torn. It sounded so easy—say she was in the wrong, get
dumped from the ministry, return to the backbench and everything
would be okay. She looked at her partner. He looked at her still with
the same fire in his eyes.
“I think you should fight it.”
Both options made her fearful. The press would have a field day
with a mea culpa, and the Premier would make sure that he wasn’t
seen as having an unstable ministry, that he hadn’t made an error of
judgement by giving a rookie MP a seat at the cabinet table. No matter
which way you looked at it, it was going to be messy.
“Don’t let those bastards win. Stand up for your principles.”
Stand-and-fight men are good at that.
With fear and trepidation, stand and fight was what she finally
decided to do. But it was not well thought through, and turned
out to be a bad decision that she never really recovered from. If she
had fallen on her sword she would have been the shortest-serving
minister in the history of the parliament—not counting the Labor
kamikaze act with the abolition of the Legislative Council in 1922.
You’re wrong, Shirl and Red. Ego is a dirty word.
Politics can be ruthless and unforgiving. She was about to learn this
the hard way.
It was her second term as a member of parliament when she scraped
past the post again. What had been a historic Tory seat was now in
the hands of Labor, much to the chagrin of the Liberal hierarchy. She
would like to say it was her campaigning and oratory that won the
good people over, but to be frank, she had to thank Pauline Hanson
for helping her into her seat. It was definitely a vote against racism
that pulled the margin to a respectable five per cent and 800 votes
past the post. It also saw the demise of one of the most hated men in
politics. For one small moment she was lauded.
There is always a lot of cut-and-thrust when it comes to ministerial
appointments, but her elevation was somewhat different. The argy
bargy was for the last spot on the frontbench. The factions were equal
with their numbers but there weren’t enough women. The Premier’s
choices were to cut the ministry and be savaged for not having
enough women, or put in a non-factional rookie. The left faction
fought hard to get her over the line—not so much for her, but to
thwart the right.
*
ReadFin Literary Journal 41