Campaign Ruby (32 page)

By the time we were finished, it was 7 p.m. and we were, as Maddy put it, ‘maggoted'.

‘Cheers.' She charged her daiquiri. ‘Twenty-four hours until the polls close.'

‘Cheers,' I said, thinking that this wasn't something we should be drinking to.

Maddy checked the news online. ‘Shit. One of the snappers has a shot of a shadow minister holding a brief face-up. They've zoomed in on it—it's full of lines. We always cover this in media training. Do not under any circumstances be photographed holding a document face-up. Any camera will be able to pick up content. She's a shadow minister, for crying out loud.'

‘Did they get anything controversial?'

‘Just bits and pieces to do with her portfolio. She's got stuff in there on family law, unemployment benefits, adoption for singles and gay couples.'

‘What does it say about gay adoption?'

‘Just party policy. What we agreed at national conference.'

‘Which was?'

Maddy looked up. ‘We don't support adoption— international or local—for gay and single parents.'

My stomach churned. ‘Why not?'

‘I dunno, Roo. We just don't. The other side doesn't either. It's contentious. I guess if anything we're lucky her stupid brief stuck to policy. Nobody's picking it up—it's a pretty small story in the scheme of things—'

‘I'm sorry, why does the party have a problem with single or gay people adopting children?'

She looked at me like I was losing the plot. ‘Seriously, mate,' she said, ‘I've got no bloody clue. I'm just the advancer.'

‘Well, who can I talk to about this? It's ridiculous and it needs to be fixed.'

‘Um, Roo.' She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I know how you feel—we're all a bit jumpy at the moment. Let's get another daiquiri.'

‘I'm not jumpy,' I said. ‘If you'd told me this on Day One I'd have said the same thing. I'm not going to support a party that doesn't SUPPORT THE rights of people to parent.' The churning fast became nausea. ‘I need to get some air.'

‘How much more air do you need? We're on the bloody roof!'

‘A lot,' I said. I ran inside and into the Ladies. Sitting on the loo lid in the corner cubicle, I came to terms with what I had done. How could I have been so stupid as to not ask the fundamental questions before throwing my weight behind something like this? There was so much more I needed to know. Where did the party stand on the environment? And what about higher education? Affordable housing? Genetically modified food? It felt like I'd married a stranger in Vegas.

Pull yourself together, Ruby
, said my head.
This doesn't
change anything
. But it had. Everything was different. That lovely man who'd taken time out of his day to speak to my five-year-old niece was the same man who would deny my aunts the opportunity to love a child of their own. It was baffling.

I called Daphne to confess.

‘Ruby, darling, it's so wonderful to hear from you. What should we wear tomorrow night? Is it likely to be formal?'

‘I can't do it anymore, Daphne. I'm truly sorry. I didn't realise…I didn't realise I was working for a bunch of bigots.' A simmering tear plopped onto my lap.

‘How so?'

‘You mightn't have seen the news, but today I learned the party's position on gay adoption,' I sniffed. ‘I can't keep working now that I know.'

‘Ruby, that is the sweetest and most stupid thing I've ever heard,' she laughed. ‘What difference can you possibly make by heckling from the outside?'

‘But, by staying here, aren't I endorsing their position?'

‘I don't think so,' she said. ‘In fact, you'd be doing us all a favour if you kept going. Stay there. Be a challenging voice. So long as you know that your team would do a better job than the other team, I think that's something worth fighting for. Don't you?'

‘I suppose.'

‘Now, let's get onto some important questions. What should I wear tomorrow night?'

I laughed. ‘You look beautiful in purple, which happens to be the party's colour.'

‘I have a plummy beaded wrap dress. Would that work?'

‘Sounds lovely.'

‘Now get back to work—we want to have something to celebrate tomorrow night.'

‘You'll be the best mum one day, Aunt Daphne.'

A square of loo roll absorbed the dampness on my cheeks and I went to rejoin Maddy. Beryl and her husband had flown up from Canberra. Senator Flight, her husband, various offspring and bursting belly hovered around the chips and dip.

Theo was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. ‘We're going to win this, Roo,' he said. ‘I've got my lucky shirt on.'

As the sun went down, the roof heaved with colleagues, most of whom I knew by email only. The LOO, Shelly and Abigail arrived with Luke. Max took to the centre of the roof with beer in hand. He seemed reinvigorated and opened his mouth to address his supporters.

‘Shoosh, darling,' said Shelly, moving to stand in front of him. ‘It's my turn. Thank you for all your hard work. If we don't win tomorrow, it won't be for want of trying. People think this is Max's journey alone. It's not. It belongs as much to you and your families as it does to Max and his. Abigail and I, with the combined technical prowess of Maddy and Roo, wanted you all to see
our
journey. And, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask my husband to dance, because this was the song we danced to on our wedding day. I'd encourage you all to do the same. Kill the lights.'

‘Yeah,' said Max, ‘what she said.' He kissed his wife and accepted her invitation, collapsing into her arms. Against the soft light of our projected journey, they danced like newlyweds to Elton and his ivories.

Di took Luke; Maddy, Abigail; and Hawaiian Theo, me. The rest followed. Too tired to bust a move, we swayed in each other's arms, occasionally joining in for the chorus. ‘Wanna swap?' asked Di at the bridge. ‘You're welcome to Luke.'

A dejected Luke extended his hand. I kicked off my Up Yours, Oscars and went with it.

His bad suit smelled like the promise of rain. His fingers played my lower back like a piano. He hummed the tune, his chin on my head, the sound reverberating between his jaw and my crown.

‘Luke?'

‘Hmm?'

‘What's our position on genetically modified foods?'

‘Shut up, beautiful.' He held me closer, so I did.

Desperate and voteless

I didn't wake up because I didn't sleep. Two things kept me awake. First, Elton John. Second, the fact that I was thinking about Elton John and not about the election. It was an insane-making cycle. The tune would play (mostly without the right lyrics) then my head would scratch the vinyl.

Why in God's name are you awake? Tomorrow is the
biggest day of your career and you're lying here with a
forty-year-old ballad on loop in your frontal lobe…

And then we'd go back to the piano interlude and so on until 4 a.m. when the newspapers thudded onto the carpet outside my hotel room door.

I pulled the curtains along their runner to reveal the overcast Melbourne morning. The rich brown river was perfectly still and the streets were dotted with zigzagging party-goers making their way home. I grabbed the papers and dialled in.

MAYBE MASTERS, said the
Herald
. CLIFFHANGER, said the
Weekender.
The poll was disgustingly close. We were even with the government. If I could have opened the windows at the hotel, I'd have called out to the revellers and reminded them to vote. I was still alone on the conference call. Just me and Mozart. They were seventeen minutes late. Eighteen. I hung up and texted Di.

Where are you guys? R

No reply. I tried Maddy.

Are you joining this morning's hook-up? R

My phone buzzed.

Dude, no hook up—it's D Day. I'm making sandwiches for the booths in Pratt. Where are you handing out? M

Don't we have work to do? Where's Max? R

Sandwiches don't make themselves. Max is hitting the radios from home. He'll be voting at nine. M

There must be something I can do. R

Find a booth and work. See you tonight. M

The lack of structure did my head in.
Hang on
, it said,
I thought we were going to do the phone hook-up and
race around trying to convince people to vote for us like
usual. And now you're telling me we have nothing to do?

Which booth? All of my favourite candidates were in other cities. Melissa was in Launceston, Felix in Adelaide, Felicia in Cloncurry. I didn't know anyone in Melbourne. Not a soul.

We need wine
, said my head.

Good thinking. I showered, packed, checked out and hailed a taxi.

‘I need to go to the Yarra Valley,' I said, jumping into the back seat.

‘I'm clocking off in half an hour, love. Sorry.'

‘I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars cash to take me there.'

He thought about it. ‘Righto.'

We drove past countless polling booths—churches, schools, community halls—each replete with bunting and other paraphernalia from both sides. Rolls of flimsy plastic bearing Max's smiling face were being unfurled by volunteers along fences. Full body shots of the Prime Minister glistened on A-frame stands in the dewy dawn. Our campaign workers wore purple T-shirts and caps with MAX FOR PM in white block letters. Theirs were in black and white.

‘You look familiar,' the driver said as we went through Lilydale.

I looked at the rear-view mirror to examine his face. ‘Really?'

‘Yep. I must have driven you before.'

‘I've only been in Australia for just over a month and in Melbourne intermittently.'

‘I never forget a face. What do you do?'

‘I work for Max Masters.'

‘I don't bloody believe this.'

‘What?'

‘You took your duds off in my cab on the way to Tullamarine, remember?'

It can't be.

‘No, I think you're mistaken.'

‘Nope, I told you. I never forget a face.'

Or other body parts, for that matter.

He winked. ‘You've got my vote, love.'

‘You can drop me here.' I got out at a tiny weatherboard primary school in Warburton and paid him through the window. ‘The polls open in two hours,' I said.

‘Good luck, mate!' He sped off with a smile on his face.

Mums and dads were setting up trestle tables. Support the WSS LAMINGTON DRIVE , read a handwritten sign. A man in a deck chair dozed under a purple cap, his thermos holding down a pile of newspapers. I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me.'

He stirred, adjusting his hat to see me. ‘Yes?'

‘Sorry to disturb you,' I said. ‘My name is Ruby Stanhope and I work in Max Masters' office.'

‘Yeah, right,' he said. ‘Why would Max Masters send a flunky to an unwinnable seat? What are you, media?'

‘No, I'm a financial policy advisor, except I've never done any financial policy advice; I seem to play a more miscellaneous role, but that's not the point. I'm here because I want to be. My aunts live locally. And no seat is unwinnable.'

‘Do you have a card or something?'

I showed him my parliamentary security pass. He rubbed his forehead in disbelief. ‘Sorry about that,' he said. ‘We don't usually get much interest in this electorate, especially not at'—he looked at his watch—‘a quarter past six in the morning.'

‘I didn't know what to do today and I needed to do something, so I got in a cab and came here. I hope that's okay.'

‘Sure,' he said. ‘I've been manning this booth solo for twenty years, so it'll be nice to have a bit of company. I'm Graeme, by the way.'

‘Everyone calls me Roo.'

Graeme and I stood there all day. We ate lamingtons, drank tea and talked politics under the shade of a purple and white umbrella.

‘Max Masters for PM,' we would say, handing our how-to-vote cards to passers-by.

‘Give Gabrielle a go,' said Phoebe, our competitor.

When the midday sun was burning my shoulders, Daphne, Debs, Fran, Clem, Pansy and the pups brought us homemade rye rolls with smoked salmon and watercress. Graeme said all his Christmases had come at once. Clem had tied purple ribbon to the pups' collars, which wooed about seven voters by my count.

‘Well,' said Graeme at five, ‘I guess we had better vote and pack up—why don't you go first.'

Trembling with excitement, I approached the school hall. In London, election days had always seemed so inconvenient— I'd rarely found time between conference calls to cast my vote—but this was different. I couldn't wait.

Inside, under the ceiling fans, eight cardboard cubicles stood proud with Australian Electoral Commission pencils attached. There were two ballot boxes in the middle of the room near a long trestle table, at which sat three plump ladies. Each had a name tag and a cheery smile. ‘Hi, love,' said one, ‘what's your surname?'

‘Stanhope.'

‘Do you live in this electorate?'

‘No, I don't think so,' I said. ‘I don't know which electorate I'm in.'

‘Well, where do you live? You can absentee vote from any booth in the country if you give me photo ID with proof of address.'

‘London.' I realised the privilege wasn't mine. It was devastating. ‘I'm not Australian.'

The lady exchanged puzzled glances with her colleagues. ‘In that case, you don't have to vote.'

‘But I really, really want to,' I said. ‘I've been working on the campaign for weeks.'

‘Sorry, love, this isn't an application process. You have to be a citizen on the electoral roll.'

‘What if I wait until five to six? Maybe there will be people who don't show up and I could use their vote.'