Campaign Ruby (27 page)

I did.

‘At the table, kiddo.'

I got up off the floor and took my seat opposite her.

‘I have a possible solution. Apparently we can argue you haven't violated the terms of your visa because you were working in a voluntary capacity, but you'll have to forgo remuneration for the period worked until your new visa is valid.'

‘Fine.'

‘We can then rush your working visa through, but to do that we need two things. Your employer needs to verify that you were never paid and sponsor your new visa application.'

‘That's great news,' I squealed, teary-eyed. ‘Let's do it!'

‘Settle, petal,' she said. ‘I've spoken to Bruce about it and he reckons that would be okay by him on the condition that your employer or a representative of your employer comes here to vouch for the sponsorship arrangement.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes. And I'll need my pants and shirt back, preferably dry-cleaned, by way of legal fees.'

I nodded.

‘Get someone over here pretty quickly—I'm due in court in two hours.'

I called Beryl to ask who was in Melbourne. ‘Your options are Max or Luke,' she said. ‘I don't like your chances.'

It would have to be Luke.

He answered in a harsh whisper. ‘Is it urgent, Roo? I'm at the LOO's house discussing logistics for the launch.'

‘I'd call it urgent,' I said. ‘You see, I'm facing possible deportation unless I can show Immigration that I haven't been paid for my work to date and that my employer will sponsor my working visa application. They need someone in person.'

His voice muffled as he put a hand over the phone. ‘I have to go out for an hour—something urgent has come up, but it's nothing to worry about.' I heard footsteps. Louder. ‘Where are you?' A car door shut.

‘The Immigration office at Melbourne Airport with a long-socked man called Bruce and my lawyer.'

‘I'm on my way.'

He wasn't angry per se, just a bit stressed, when he arrived. He looked different in jeans and a T-shirt: better somehow. ‘Are you okay?' He grabbed my shoulders.

‘I'm fine.' I couldn't look him in the eye, so I focused on his chest. His T-shirt had a tiny label stitched into it. Huge Boss. ‘You must regret hiring me sometimes. I'm more trouble than I'm worth.'

‘I'm told we got the last three weeks of you for free, so we're about even.'

My head hung.

He squeezed my shoulders tighter. ‘I'm kidding, Roo. I can't believe I almost lost…Deborah Lewellyn?'

‘Little Lukey Harley,' roared Debs and slapped him on the back.

‘Are you doing immigration law now, you big softy?'

‘Not a chance, mate. Feet still firmly in the commercial camp. Just helping out my partner's niece.'

Bruce tapped his foot. ‘I take it you propose to employ this woman, Lukey?'

‘Sorry, yes, Luke Harley's my name—I'm the Chief of Staff to the Leader of the Opposition.' He handed over a card. ‘I'm sorry for the confusion here, officer. We were under the impression that Miss Stanhope had all her paperwork in order. We appreciate your vigilance.'

Bruce's chest puffed visibly when Luke addressed him by his title. ‘Just doing my job,' he said. ‘And are you in a position to sponsor Miss Stanhope's working visa, which entitles her to work in your employ for a maximum of twelve months in this country?'

‘Yes,' said Luke, looking at me, ‘I am.'

‘Well,
he's
not in a position to sponsor her,' corrected Debs. ‘His office is.'

‘That's what I meant,' said Luke.

‘In that case,' sighed Bruce, licking his index finger to turn the page of a form, ‘this is slightly unorthodox but just sign here to say so and I will release Miss Stanhope.'

I embraced Luke. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.'

‘It's my pleasure.'

‘Miss Stanhope, I need you to go directly to the Immigration Department in the city and fill out some paperwork. You are not entitled to do anything other than voluntary work until you have your working visa. Am I clear?'

‘Understood. Thank you, Officer Bruce.'

Debs picked up her briefcase. ‘Right, I'm off. Can you find the Immigration Department without getting detained by other authorities along the way?'

‘I'll take her,' said Luke. ‘I've got my car here.'

‘It's fine,' I said. ‘I can take a taxi.'

‘Come with me, Roo.'

‘Yes, boss.'

Later at the department it became clear that Bruce's socks were standard issue for gentleman bureaucrats. I took a number: 483F to be precise.

‘You can go now,' I said to Luke. ‘It'll be a long afternoon.'

‘Shut up and fill in those forms.' Luke took phone calls from his lime-green plastic chair in the waiting room while I had a 47-minute discussion with Barry about my eligibility for an F78V43, apparently known in the trade as an ‘Effer.' When Barry knew more about me than I did, Luke took me back to Treasury Place.

‘I'm glad you're not leaving,' he said between drafting emails in the lift. ‘Please try to avoid deportation in future.'

Crossed

Wherever I go in life, I will always have a mental snapshot of my sister pushing her luggage trolley into the arrivals hall at Tullamarine. She had faded and shrunk in the last few weeks. Her usually plump, pink lips were mauve and chapped. The shiny thick mane she so often swept into a loose bun was now a dull tuft. Her rosy skin was as white and thin as paper. She was still beautiful, but Mark's infidelity had aged her and I hated him for it.

Clem on the other hand was exactly as I'd left her, minus two teeth. Her Wiggles knapsack bobbing up and down, she ran to me with a gappy grin, my birthday gift faux pas apparently forgotten. ‘Hello, Aunty Wooby. Mummy said it's already tomorrow in Australia and that we've been on fast forward for eleven hours.'

‘Mummy's right, Clem.' I cuddled her tiny body. ‘I can't tell you how good it is to see you.'

‘Why not?' she asked.

‘It's an expression,' I explained.

She looked up at the ceiling in confusion. Her mother let go of the trolley, like an old lady letting go of her Zimmer frame, and flopped into my arms.

‘I'm so sorry he did this to you,' I said quietly. It seemed insufficient.

‘It's good to be held,' she said into my neck. I felt the moistness of a tear.

‘Who's that lady?' Clem pointed behind us.

‘Manners, Clementine,' growled Fran, still in my arms.

‘I'm your great aunt, Clementine,' Daphne said. ‘You can call me Daphne.'

‘What makes you great?' asked Clem.

‘Years, my dear. Many, many years.'

‘Can I see your puppies?' She bounced with excitement.

‘Clementine.' My sister's remaining kilojoules of energy seeped out with every utterance of her daughter's name.

‘Soon, dear,' smiled Daphne. ‘They're looking forward to meeting you.'

Daphne exchanged kisses with Fran. ‘How was the flight?'

‘Fine, thanks. An odd man at Immigration asked if we were related to Ruby. I guess it's a much smaller airport than Heathrow.'

Daphne spotted the fogging around the rims of Fran's sunglasses. ‘How about Clementine and I get the car and we'll come to pick you up with the luggage?'

‘Sounds like a plan,' I said.

‘I'm keeping it all in for Clementine,' Fran said when we were alone, clutching my hand, ‘but I'm not sure how long I can do that.'

‘I could take you somewhere quiet. Just the two of us. We can talk about it.' I pushed the trolley towards the footpath.

‘I can't talk until I've had time to think. I need sleep first, food, possibly alcohol and room to think.'

In the car on the way to the Yarra Valley, Clem sang every line of ‘Just You Wait' complete with hands on hips and finger wagging, Fran made small talk with Daphne about the weather and I tried to attend a conference call with Melissa Hatton.

‘The worse I look, the more Donaldson loves me, Roo,' said Melissa. ‘We've got the front page of the paper today as well as a vox pop and editorial on dirty campaigning.'

Reluctantly, I un-muted my BlackBerry. ‘Sounds like a decent turnaround.'

‘Oh ho ho, 'enry 'iggins, just you wait!'

‘Where in God's name are you?'

‘Down you'll go 'enry 'iggins! Just you wait!'

‘Community event.'

‘Sounds torturous,' said Melissa. ‘Thanks for everything. I'll let you get back to it.'

‘Feel free to call if I can help at all.'

She hung up.

‘Did you like that song, Aunty Wooby?'

‘Very much so,' I said. ‘The ending was my favourite part.'

Finally, following a deafening rendition of ‘The Rain in Spain' for which Clem adapted her accent to both parts of the duet, we made our way up the driveway. Debs stood cradling a tiny pup on the deck.

‘Who is that lady, Daphne?' asked Clem.

‘That's my friend Debs.'

‘Does she live here too?'

‘Yes, this is her house.'

‘What's that puppy's name?'

‘JFK.'

‘Where are the other puppies?'

‘Inside.'

‘Where are the puppies' mummy and daddy?'

‘Pansy, their mummy, is inside. I don't know where their daddy is.'

‘He's probably with my daddy at the Jewish Poodles Conference in Bang the Desk.' Clem leaped out of her seatbelt and marched towards the deck.

‘Bang the Desk, indeed,' muttered Fran.

‘Hello, Debs,' Clem said before anyone could introduce them. ‘My name is Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope. Your friend Daphne is my great aunt because she has so many ears.'

‘Nice to meet you, Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope.' Debs bent to shake her hand.

‘You don't have to call me that, silly,' she said. ‘Aunty Wooby calls me Clem.'

‘Righto,' said Debs, ‘Clem it is.'

‘This is my mummy,' said Clem when the rest of us had caught up with them.

‘Thank you for having us in your beautiful home,' said Fran.

‘Pleasure. Shy kid you've got here.' Debs lowered herself to Clem's level. ‘Want to pat him, Clem?'

‘He's very soft,' Clem whispered.

Debs took Clem by the hand and led her inside. ‘Let me introduce you to the others.'

While Fran and Clem showered, Daphne insisted on doing my washing and Debs and I made a pot of tea.

‘So, are you legal yet, kiddo?'

‘Yes, thanks to you. Your fee is at the dry-cleaner's.'

‘Good to hear. So, you and little Lukey Harley, eh?' She slapped me on the back as if we were blokes on barstools.

‘What about me and Luke?'

‘No need to be coy,' she said. ‘He's a good guy.'

‘I know he is. He's my boss.'

‘He's the Chief of Staff. It's a week out from polling day and he left a meeting with his boss to rescue you. You seriously expect me to believe you're
not
doing him?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘It's fine. I won't judge you for it. I mean, he's not my type.'

‘Clearly,' I said as Daphne joined us.

‘Hot cross buns, anybody? The dough should have risen by now. I'm adjusting my recipe this year—using lime zest instead of lemon to mix it up a bit.'

‘Sounds delish,' said Debs, kissing Daphne's forehead. ‘In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out whose hot buns Ruby's been crossing.'

‘Oh, very droll,' I said, not even thinking about it.

Much.

‘Has Ruby got a boyfriend?' probed my aunt.

‘No, I don't have a boyfriend. I did accidentally slip and fall on a journalist though, which in hindsight wasn't my wisest move.'

‘Did you hurt yourself, Aunty Wooby?' My stealthy niece's ringlets were tucked up into a towel-turban almost twice the height of her.

Debs cackled. ‘Good question, Clem.'

Bollocks. ‘Not really,' I said, ‘just a little bruised, that's all.'

‘And the journalist?'

‘The journalist is fine. He wasn't hurt at all.'

‘Who wasn't hurt?' asked Fran. Bollocks squared.

‘The journalist who Aunty Wooby slipped and fell on.'

Debs was gleeful with the salaciousness of it all.

‘I see,' said Fran with a disapproving big sister look. ‘Why don't you go and find the puppies, darling?'

With Clem at a distance the interrogation intensified. ‘You're sleeping with a journalist?' The three women gathered around, cornering me against the kitchen bench.

‘It's more past tense and singular an episode than that,' I said. There hadn't really been time since leaving Canberra on the previous Monday to dissect the Oscar incident over a box of Kleenex and a
Sex and the City
marathon, as any right-minded female would have done.

‘Which one?' asked Debs.

‘Not a chance,' I said.

‘They're mostly feral,' she said. ‘Did you sleep with a feral one?'

‘No.'

‘Then you slept with a hot one. That narrows it substantially— pretty much rules out print and radio.'

‘I didn't say that. It was a stupid mistake anyway. I don't want to relive it, if it's okay by all of you.'

Debs whipped out her BlackBerry.

‘What are you doing, Debs?' asked Daphne.

‘Googling TV journos from the national press gallery.'

Bollocks cubed.

‘Now, darling, leave poor Ruby alone,' said my aunt. ‘I'm sure she'll tell us if she wants us to know.'

‘Tell me,' said Fran. ‘I'm your sister.'

‘I suppose that makes you a bastion of confidentiality?' I could recall countless examples of merciless teasing over high school beaus, including one my family affectionately dubbed Lumpy Liam.