Underground (12 page)

‘Really? I know I fucked up, and I know you guys have to be careful, but isn’t there a fine I can pay or something?’

‘Oh, there’ll be a fine,’ the Citizenship man muttered darkly. ‘In the meantime, you’re a security risk.’

‘But I can’t miss the rally!’

There were murmurs of support from the crowd around. Someone from the front called out, ‘Give him the Test! That should settle it.’

‘Yeah,’ someone else cried. And suddenly the whole bus was echoing it. ‘The Test! The Test!’

The inspector seemed to puff up slightly. ‘Okay. A CVT it is.’

Internally, I sagged with relief. Harry was taking the heat for me. And a part of me was curious too, because I’d never heard a CVT delivered first-hand—although, like everyone else, I’d driven through plenty of checkpoints where, off to one side, some hapless non-Aussie-looking individual was being grilled with that week’s list of questions. Okay, maybe in this case it was only being applied to Harry for form’s sake. Still, taking the Test is never just a joke. For those who don’t pass, strip searches, beatings, or even detention have been known to follow.

The Citizenship man pulled a green paper from his pocket and read from it, all formality. ‘I’m informing you now that I am about to apply a Citizenship Verification Test, which will consist of seven questions. Failure to answer all seven correctly will have consequences. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Harry replied. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t understand. Inability to speak English is certainly no excuse when it comes to the Test, as many luckless older migrants could confirm.

‘First Question—What was Donald Bradman’s batting average?’

‘Ninety-nine point nine four.’

No response from the inspector. Supposedly they never tell you if you’re right or wrong, until the end. Not that there were any worries about a Bradman question. Meanwhile, the bus really had gone silent. The other two inspectors were working their way down, but everyone else was listening eagerly.

‘Second Question—What line follows this one from Banjo Paterson’s “The Man From Snowy River”:
There was movement at the station . . .
?’

‘
For the word had passed around
.’

Another giveaway.

‘Third Question—On what date does Anzac Week begin?’

Hmm. That was a harder one. After all, this is just the second year since the government upped the Anzac tributes from one day to seven, to fit in all the new ceremonies and the commemorative war games. (Not to mention the pilgrimage to Gallipoli itself. I heard somewhere that last year it topped a quarter of a million Australians. That’s ten times the size of the original army we sent!) Still, it was only a matter of counting back a week from the old date . . .

Harry was way ahead of me. ‘Nineteenth of April.’

‘Fourth Question—Which country has repeatedly threatened the Australian environment by carrying out nuclear tests in the Pacific?’

A scowl from Harry. ‘France.’

Ah now, this was different—not just a question about Australia, but also a check on political attitudes. It remains official policy, as everyone should know, to hate the French. And all other European types who won’t join in the wars. But there was a trick in the question, too, because if some fool dared to mention the USA’s nuclear tests in the Pacific, well, it would be off for re-education on those subversive tendencies, wouldn’t it? Not that Harry needed to be warned.

‘Fifth Question—What did most Aborigines die of after Australia was settled?’

‘They died only of disease.’ And was there a twinkle in Harry’s eye? ‘Not lead poisoning.’

The Citizenship man gave him a stare. This wasn’t the place for irony. The new Australia has no sins to hide, no black armbands, and certainly no room for smart-arse doubters. Not unless they want a taste of the whip.

‘Sixth Question—Where did the criminal bushranger Ned Kelly murder three innocent policemen?’

I nearly laughed out loud. Seems the government is still trying to paint poor old Ned black. You can’t have a bushranger
as a national icon anymore. Heck, by today’s reckoning, he was a terrorist, pure and simple.

‘Stringybark Creek,’ answered Harry, without comment.

‘Seventh Question—Who bowled the underarm ball, and was it legal?’

Chuckles all round the bus.

‘Trevor Chappell. And yes, it bloody well
was
legal.’

Take that, New Zealand! But then, a little Kiwi-bashing was no surprise—our former allies across the Tasman are nearly as bad as the Europeans these days. Peace-mongering lunatics who haven’t even locked up their Muslims yet.

‘Finally—Recite the Australian Oath of Loyalty.’

Which was always how the Test ended, I’d heard—and not so easy to do, either. Sure, I’d recited the oath the last time I’d gone to get my Australia Safe card renewed, but they give you a sheet of paper with the words on it for that, and the woman behind the counter hadn’t even listened.

But Harry was upstanding, hand to his heart. ‘I swear loyalty to the Commonwealth of Australia, to obey its government, to uphold its laws and to preserve its values. I swear loyalty to our Prime Minister, and to our armed forces, wherever they may serve. I swear to report all traitors, and to respect all alliances, most of all, our great and good friendship with the United States of America. God bless Australia.’

Harry started the recital alone, but the bus couldn’t resist, and by the end fifty voices were shouting it out loud. Patriots all.

‘Correct,’ the inspector intoned. He handed Harry his card. ‘Get that updated,’ he warned. Then, without even a glance, he handed my card back to me, motioned to his colleagues, and stalked away down the aisle.

‘Jesus,’ I said, as the bus started up and Harry was assaulted by handshakes from all around, the faces genuinely relieved under all the mock bonhomie. ‘Are we gonna have to go through
this at every checkpoint between here and Brisbane with that dodgy card of yours?’

‘God, no.’ He pulled out another ID. ‘This one is fine. I always carry an expired one too, though, just for tight situations. When the security boys are looking hard for a major crime, it’s always a great distraction to give them a minor one.’

Citizenship tests . . . Could we sink any lower?

And as for loyalty oaths, time was that only new immigrants had to take them. For the rest of us sunburnt slobs, lucky enough to have been born here—well, that was all you needed. You didn’t have to play the national anthem twenty times a day, or fly the Aussie flag in front of your house, or swear loyalty against a thousand enemies. We knew exactly who we were, and how good we had it, and there was no need to make an unseemly fuss in the meantime. Australia? Yeah, a great place, thanks, mate. Happy to be here. National anthem? Don’t actually know the words, cobber, but shocking bloody tune. The flag? Funny thing with a Union Jack in the corner. War against Islam? Sorry china, not right now, the cricket is on.

Then came the Twin Towers.

I remember where I was that day. Or that night, actually. Late, Tuesday night, Australian time. I was in a Sydney hotel
room, having my last drink of the evening and staring at the TV. I was watching, in fact, that old series ‘The West Wing’. (Not that I was fan—I thought the show was pretty far-fetched at the time, having known a few politicians in my day. And Christ, how ludicrous does it appear, looking back now? What a liberal wet dream of how the White House should be run!) Anyway, it was close to the end of the episode. There was an ad break, and I was flicking channels idly, and suddenly there was a picture of a burning tower on the screen. I assumed (and this happened to other people I’ve talked to) that the image was part of ‘The West Wing’. A dramatic cliffhanger climax to the episode. And just another crisis for President Jed Bartlet and his faithful staff to deal with, in their considered and law-abiding and utterly fictional fashion.

It was a good thirty seconds before I realised that the burning building was real, not part of the show. And about thirty seconds after that, the second plane hit.

Still, I had no real concept of how much things were going to change. In the USA. In the world. And in little faraway Australia too. How could I? The years leading up to September 11 had been so balmy, so pleasant. Even my own fortunes were on the rise again. Where was I up to in this story? That’s right, I was dangling about in Canberra, waiting for a meeting with Bernard, the new Minister for Local Government. And yes, the little bastard made me sweat on it, but the day finally came when I was invited into his ministerial office.

It was my first good look at the new Parliament House. Actually, I arrived early for my appointment and took the public tour. A lot of glass and steel, it felt to me. Almost like something
I
would have built, in my eighties heyday. The grand foyer could have been the lobby of a resort hotel in Surfers Paradise, and the rest of the place felt either overweight with its own self-importance or, paradoxically, as flimsy as a garden
shed. But at least the two chambers—the House of Representatives and the Senate—were bigger than the cramped quarters of the old Parliament House. The politicians no longer had to suffocate together, jammed into the backbenches. Now there were deep, comfy leather seats for each MP or senator, tasteful green in one chamber, garish red in the other. And if they wanted fresh air, there was always the lawn-topped roof for a stroll, in the shade of the biggest, shiniest flagpole known to democracy.

Pure chintz, really, but off in the administrative wings and away from the public eye, things were more businesslike, and Bernard, as a departmental head, had a whole suite. I was held in the waiting room for half an hour or so, flicking through glossy Local Government brochures. Then I was ushered through to Bernard’s office. And a glance told me that this wasn’t my little brother anymore. Instead he was . . .

Well, put it this way. Power pumps up men like balloons, and while he was still nearly fourteen years away from the full size and pomposity that he would display as Prime Minister, when I walked in I saw a man who was just beginning to inflate. It was something about the way the collar of his shirt cut into his neck—the new, defiant out-thrusting of his meagre chin. And when he shook my hand, a moue of distaste on his lips, it was perfectly clear that he thought I was exactly the sort of disreputable prick that might burst his bubble.

Ah, but why would I want to do that? The only point of this reunion, remember, was to help relaunch my career as a developer. I needed him fully inflated. And Bernard, for his part, knew that if he was stuck with a brother determined to trade on his name, then it was in his interest to at least set some ground rules. Which he proceeded to do. There would be no special treatment for me or my projects, he insisted—but on the other hand, his government was entirely in favour of development, and he wouldn’t do anything to stand in my way
either, as long as I behaved with some decorum. And hey, I could read between the lines. If I kept my nose clean, he was telling me, he wouldn’t object to me leaning on the odd local council by dropping the name of the man who handed out the grants. And yes, he’d even introduce me and my friends to
his
friends in the party, as long as in return . . . Well, cash donations to the election fund were always warmly appreciated.

So we had an understanding, and I was back in the trade, and for the next five years I soared. Relatively, anyway. It wasn’t like the 1980s all over again, but still, it was good times. I had investors, I had developments on the go, I had my name in the paper. But it wasn’t only me. Looking back, it seems like the whole country had it pretty good too. The economy was up, unemployment was down. And yet the period seems a dull blur now. Strangely lifeless. There must have been important things happening, headlines on the news every night, but to tell the truth, I can recall very little. There was the big debate about Australia becoming a republic. A year of fuss and fury that ended in nothing. There was all that stuff about apologising to Aborigines for taking over their country. More fuss, more fury, and nothing whatsoever as a result. There was the rise and fall of One Nation. The biggest fuss and fury of the lot, and again, so much rotting newspaper now. Is that really all we had to worry about? The introduction of a sales tax, a few skirmishes with the unions, an ever-victorious cricket team, the Olympics in Sydney?

And the world? What were the big international concerns? The death of Princess Di? Monica sucking President Clinton’s dick? The Y2K bug? It’s bizarre—why can’t I remember anything important? There must have been wars and revolutions going on everywhere. There must have been warning signs. I suppose to anyone in the Middle East or the Third World, there were signs aplenty. But us westerners . . . lord, we were just sailing along. I do recall that al-Qaeda were active even then, bombing things here and there. But no one was really worried
about them, were they? And sure, people talked about terrorism, and rogue states, and the evils of oppressive regimes. But it was only talk. I suppose everyone was still bathing in the afterglow of the collapse of communism, even a decade on. The big battle was won. There was nothing left to do but sit back and watch the money roll in. Easy to see the collective blindness now. A lot harder when you’re part of the generation living it.

And yet it’s curious. Australia had things rosy—but somehow, for Bernard and the Liberal Party, the times weren’t quite so good. They were in power, yes, but to many people they still seemed a rather ordinary government, and John Howard only an average Prime Minister. That’s hard to credit now, when Howard stands tall in the books as one of the longest-serving PMs in the nation’s history. But he was a bit of a joke back in the nineties, even to the people who voted for him. Who can forget him showing up at that rally on gun control, out west—conservative voters all, his very support base—wearing a bullet-proof vest in case someone shot him! Then there were problems with his ministers, sackings for incompetence, the messy union battles, the endless cost-cutting. Between it all, after a mere three years in government, he very nearly lost his second election. A few more years passed without much improvement, and as 2001 rolled around, yet another election was looming, and Labor was streets ahead in the polls.