The Importance of Ernestine

by Elizabeth Dunk

  ‘Really, no line? That seems like a waste.’

  Cecily was about to give her foster brother a lesson in the psychology of women when another message window popped open. She looked at it and then leapt across the room, half dragging her computer from the desk before her headgear came off. She stopped when she was on the couch against the other wall, legs drawn to her chest, shivering.

  The words of the new message flashed before her as if she could still see them. ‘Hey little girl—wanna make your papa happy?’

  Cecily closed her eyes as the memories washed over her. Eleven years old. Dead of night. Foster father coming into her room. Whispered words as he pushed her nightgown up …

  ‘You can’t beat me, you can’t hurt me, I’m better than you, I’m gonna win.’ It was a silly little song she’d made up as a little girl, but singing it always helped her refocus on where she was, what was actually happening, so the horror wouldn’t swallow her and ruin everything. ‘You can’t beat me, you can’t hurt me, I’m better than you, I’m gonna win.’

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, then a third. Slowly, her heart rate slowed, the shivering ceased and her hands relaxed from claws ready to strike.

  Cecily opened her eyes, stood and went back over to the desk. She straightened her computer, sat down and put on the headset. She closed the window that had caused all the trouble. Some dweeb who thought talking like that was sexy. He didn’t deserve any attention from her. Just as her former foster father didn’t deserve her memories.

  She looked at Mike’s message screen.

  ‘Cec?’

  ‘Cec, where are you?’

  ‘Cec, you okay?’

  She looked at the time. Wow, she’d been away from the screen for ten minutes. Her avatar was alone in the courtyard, the rest of the team having gone into the castle without her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she typed to Mike. ‘Emergency. I’m here now. Where are we?’

  ‘Inside, turn right at first hall. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Cecily said and she meant it. It had been horrible, that re-awakening of the memories, but she had dealt with it and put it aside. That part of her life was over, and she wasn’t going to let it ruin the rest.

  ***

  Horrible screeching woke Cecily from a deep sleep. She sat upright, picked up her phone and took a moment to look at the time—excellent, three in the morning—and then answered.

  ‘Good morning, Senator.’

  ‘Cecily, it’s a disaster.’

  Cecily rolled her eyes. Senator Michelle Abeyson, recently elevated to the role of Parliamentary Secretary for Multiculturalism, had a tendency to the dramatic that would have made her a fun person to be around if she wasn’t an ambitious political animal. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘The red suit has shrunk. I was supposed to wear it today.’

  When the senator had been promoted to the position of Parliamentary Secretary for Multiculturalism—a sign she was on track to eventually be a minister and maybe even make it to cabinet and be one of the top decision makers—she’d been most excited about the fact she might now get the media’s attention. Junior senators tended not to get much coverage and she needed people to notice her in order for her influence, and thus her position, to improve. But she’d been silly enough to think that just meant more doorstops and not realise that the media now considered everything she did potentially newsworthy and maybe even a reflection on the government. So she hadn’t been ready for the photograph of her chasing her hat across the road outside the Senate entrance to be the front page accompaniment of a story about the government being out of control. Ever since she had been obsessed with ensuring she looked perfect at all times and nothing ever went wrong.

  Cecily was pretty certain the red suit hadn’t shrunk, rather that the Senator was enjoying a little too much all the hobnobbing and dinners that had come from her elevated position in the government. ‘I really don’t think the red suit would be a good choice, Senator. Much too uncomfortable for you to travel in this evening. May I suggest that you go with that lovely silver cashmere jumper over your grey slacks? You look so classy and elegant wearing that.’

  ‘I look too much like every other politician in that outfit. The red suit was going to make me stand out.’

  ‘You could never look like every other politician, Senator.’ It was true—Michelle Abeyson was one of the few women in the place of Middle Eastern background, and her dark skin, hair and eyes was a dramatic contrast to most of the white males that wandered the corridors. ‘What part of the suit isn’t fitting, may I ask? Perhaps you can mix and match it.’

  ‘The skirt. Bloody thing won’t do up. I bet the jacket won’t either. Hang on.’ The sound of fabric being ruffled. ‘Yes, it won’t do up either. You need to have a word with the dry cleaner.’

  ‘Of course.’ The word Cecily would have would be with a tailor, to let it out. ‘In the meantime, there is your wonderful yellow jacket. Why not wear it over a simple shirt, with the grey trousers? It will be a wonderful splash of colour.’

  ‘Indeed. Indeed it would. Thank you, Cecily. I knew you would help me see right. Now, promise you won’t forget to go hard on the dry cleaner.’

  ‘Leave the red suit here in Canberra over the weekend, Senator, and I will deal with it.’

  ‘Thank you, Cecily. See you in the morning.’

  Cecily disconnected and looked at the time. Twenty minutes of quality snooze time, wasted by a woman who was so caught up in doing the right thing to aid her ambitions that she panicked every time something went wrong.

  At least here in Canberra she was reasonably well behaved. Her office staff in Sydney had some horror stories, and since she’d been promoted after the last election, Michelle Abeyson had been through no less than three personal assistants.

  Cecily put the phone down, grateful the sitting week finished today. Michelle would go home and wouldn’t be back in Canberra until Sunday evening. Cecily would have three whole days of being able to just focus on her job—making her boss look good. Keeping her boss out of trouble would be the Sydney office’s job.

  When she became a politician, Cecily was never going to make her staff’s jobs so difficult. When politician and staff worked as a team, they were unstoppable, and Cecily was just as ambitious as her current boss.

  Rolling over, Cecily drifted back to sleep.

  John

  John Worthing closed the door and looked down at his fitness tracker. Good pace. Good time. At this rate, he might even be able to consider the Canberra half-marathon in a few weeks.

  He went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge. As he downed it, he stepped back into the lounge room and noticed a red light flashing on his answering machine. He pressed the button and a female voice spoke.

  John’s knees buckled and he slumped to the floor. He stared at the black device that was spewing out his mother’s voice.

  ‘Hello, my darling John. Happy birthday. I am so sorry I cannot be with you. I want you to have a good day. Be happy. Laugh. Enjoy your friends. You deserve it. I love you.’

  It was like a knife through his heart. He could tell from the weakness, the huskiness, that it had been recorded near the end of her life. But still, three months later, to hear her speak again—it was heaven and hell in the one moment.

  John staggered to his feet and stumbled over to his couch. There, he sat and stared up at his ceiling through eyes brimming with tears.

  Fuck. Damn. Shit, it hurt. His heart felt like it was trying to explode through his chest and split in two at the same time.

  John became aware that his trousers were wet, sticking to his thigh. He looked down, blinked back the tears to focus his vision and cursed. He’d dropped the bottle of water on his lap and it had leaked through his clothes.

  His phone rang and he made his body haul itself upright and go over to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Johnnie. Happy birthda
y.’

  ‘Dad.’ John sat at his kitchen table. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Thankfully, his father didn’t ask what he was talking about. ‘She begged me to. Can’t deny a dying woman’s wish.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t.’ John rubbed the back of his neck. His entire body ached, like he had the flu.

  ‘You would have known there was something coming, son. You would have been waiting for it all day. This way, it’s over and you can put it behind you and get on with the day.’

  Actually, John thought, he hadn’t expected anything and that had been what he’d been dreading about this day. Every birthday, his mother would do something to make it special. Something unexpected. Something surprising. Something funny. The fact he was going to go through his birthday and have none of that happen had been dragging him down.

  ‘She wasn’t going to let it pass, was she?’

  ‘No.’

  A suspicion arose. ‘Is there anything else you’re supposed to do today?’

  ‘Nope. That was it for this year, I swear.’

  ‘This year?’

  ‘Whoops.’

  So she’d planned several surprises. ‘How many years?’

  ‘Another six. She figured by the time you turned 40, you’d be over it.’

  John couldn’t help but smile, even as tears tracked down his cheeks. ‘She’s dead and she’s still being a pain.’

  ‘Your mother wouldn’t be satisfied if she wasn’t. Will you be okay?’

  John let out a sigh. ‘Yeah, I will be.’

  ‘Wish you could come home this weekend.’

  ‘Me too, Dad. There’s nothing I want to do less than traipse around the electorate with Mrs B. But with all the time I missed with Mum …’

  ‘I know. Well, make sure you come home soon. Kenny’s planning on taking down one of his cattle in a few weeks. Fresh meat.’

  ‘I’ll make plans and let you know.’

  John hung up and held the phone against his forehead for a moment, letting one last wave of grief pass. Then he put the phone back in the cradle so he could begin the day.

  ***

  ‘Mr Worthing, is that you?’

  John slowly put his coat on the coat rack, walked over to his office and put his brief case on his desk. Then he went in to greet his boss.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Blakely.’

  ‘John. Get in here. Something utterly ridiculous has happened.’

  John didn’t doubt that it had. Being chief of staff for the Assistant Minister for Defence and Member for Blackpool involved a lot of dealing with the ridiculous.

  His boss—the Honourable Doris Blakely—was stabbing her finger at the screen of her computer. John walked over to look over her shoulder. ‘A problem with your diary?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a problem with my diary. What is this?’ She stabbed her finger at the screen again.

  ‘The meeting on the Defence White Paper has been moved to Tuesday evening. Helen sent you the text about it yesterday.’

  ‘And why is it actually in my calendar?’

  ‘I believe Helen thought as Assistant Minister for Defence, you would want to attend.’

  ‘Did I, or did I not, specifically arrange a meeting with some constituents for tonight that meant I could not attend the Defence White Paper meeting at its original time?’

  ‘You did.’ John had organised the meeting with the constituents—a.k.a. dinner with the local newspaper editor—himself.

  ‘So tell me why I would want to attend the meeting next Tuesday?’

  ‘It is to every politician’s benefit to be seen to be doing their job.’

  Blakely stared at him. ‘Are you saying I am not doing my job?’

  ‘Of course you are, Minister. I have seen you do your job on many occasions. But here in your office, other people cannot see you do your job and from time to time, it is good to make these things public.’

  ‘But at a Defence White Paper meeting? No one cares about those things. If as you suggest I should be more public about doing my job, then it needs to be something the public will see. Get in touch with Defence and organise a photo opportunity. Surely they’ve bought some new gun or something lately.’

  ‘I will see what I can find,’ John said.

  ‘In the meantime, there must be something I can do on Tuesday to avoid attending the meeting but be able to give genuine regrets. Is there some charity event or something I can say I have a long-standing commitment too?’

  John got out his phone and looked through invitations that had been received. ‘The Australian Doctors’ Association is having their annual dinner on Tuesday night. You turned down the invitation.’

  ‘Well, now I’m accepting it. Get in touch with the organisers and tell them I’m coming. Make sure they understand that I always meant to accept, there was a miscommunication and I have had a long-standing commitment to their function. Then get it into my diary, and apologise to the Defence meeting for my being unable to attend.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ John knew the organisers of the dinner would be far from impressed about this—they would have sent in numbers and be in the final stages of planning. He hoped for their sake they’d kept a couple of seats up their sleeves.

  ‘Now, since you are here, I need your opinion on an important decision. What do you prefer—beagles or German shepherds?’

  John blinked. Even with the ridiculous things Blakely asked of him, this one still surprised him. ‘Well, I personally prefer German shepherds.’

  ‘Really? You don’t think they’re a bit scary?’

  ‘Well, yes, but generally that’s the point. Isn’t it?’

  ‘The children might not react well to them.’

  The children? ‘Might I know the context for this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Blakely closed her calendar and there on the screen were two pictures of stuffed toys. One a beagle, one a German shepherd.

  ‘Gifts for your grandchildren?’ John guessed.

  ‘Supply needed for customs,’ Blakely said. ‘To make them seem friendlier, and get away from some of the negative publicity lately. We are going to purchase ten thousand of them and give them away.’

  It astonished John that he could still be astonished by politicians’ ability to trivialise the serious and give import to the trivial. Rather than attend an important meeting that related to her portfolio, Blakely was more worried about what type of stuffed dog to get.

  ‘In that case, I think the beagle would be more appropriate,’ John said.

  ‘I agree. Thank you, Mr Worthing.’

  ‘I live to serve, Mrs Blakely.’

  John escaped back to his desk and sat with a sigh. He loved his job, loved the party, he really did. They’d been so supportive and amazing while his mother was dying and for several weeks after. Even Mrs B had put her overwhelming ambition on hold for him. He was more devoted to them than he’d ever been, which at times hadn’t been much. But there were days when he really did wonder if he was doing anyone any good here.

  His phone beeped and he looked at the text. It was Alec.

  ‘Morning, mine enemy. How goes life in the trenches?’

  ‘Stuffed dogs’, John texted back.

  ‘No need to swear at me. Just asking.’

  John grinned. ‘Not swearing. Ordering. Stuffed dogs.’

  ‘Ah, a great and glorious use of the public purse. Well done. Fine government you’re working for there.’

  ‘Wasn’t it your boss that made the Parliamentary Office buy him a ridiculous print for his office at double the cost of buying it at a shop?’

  ‘If supporting local artists is to become a crime, then lock us all up.’

  ‘Get to work, you cretin.’

  ‘Shanghai Dumpling Café for lunch?’

  ‘Deal.’

  Putting his phone down, John looked at his work calendar. Fuck, that to-do list was a shocker. And they were heading to the electorate tonight to spread the good word. So he needed to try to get all this done today.
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  Well, first things first. He got on the phone to get Blakely a spot at the dinner on Tuesday. He could tell from the overtly polite tone of the event organiser that she was pissed to have to make a change this late, but she was going to do it anyway.

  John updated Blakely’s calendar, and then got on with the rest of his day.

  Gwendolen

  Gwendolen Fairford had only just put her handbag on her desk when her boss appeared at the door to his office. ‘Gwen? What is the meaning of this?’ He shook a piece of paper at her.

  The Honourable Barry Fisher MP had a booming voice that could lift the hair off your head. It was a voice that was born to cut through the noise of a dissenting party room, ensuring that no one ever had to doubt what Barry Fisher thought of something. But he didn’t know how to tone it down, and in a small office it could make furniture rattle.

  ‘Good morning, Barry.’ Gwen smiled. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘This. How the hell did I get booked to have dinner with that awful Prism woman.’

  Gwen took the piece of paper—a copy of Barry’s calendar for the following week—and saw that indeed someone had booked Barry in to have dinner with tobacco lobbyist Lobelia Prism on Tuesday night. Gwen had a sneaking suspicion who had done the deed.

  ‘I imagine it’s a misprint,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’m sure we actually have you booked to attend another event that evening.’

  ‘Such as? I don’t have time to dilly dally at ridiculous events, Gwen. We have a campaign to win.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’ Gwen fired up her computer and considered the possibilities. ‘The Doctors’ Association annual dinner is on Tuesday night. That must be what you were supposed to attend.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Save me from medicos droning on about how difficult their life is.’

  ‘I will fix your calendar so that is marked.’

  ‘I suppose it’s the lesser of two evils,’ Barry said. ‘Does the Prism woman think I am having dinner with her?’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t, that this was just a misprint in your calendar, but I will make sure she understands.’