by Philip Bond
“Thanks people; we’ll keep in touch.” Harry steers towards home, wishing she was in Canberra.
The Election Caravan
After extending the apartment stay, Harry launches upon Canberra.
First on today’s agenda, Wellington’s election strategy briefing… “The government is directing us towards their strong issues, at the same time, opposition’s weakness. If you see something to pursue, run it by me first. Chances are, I am across it already. Of course, if you’re there on the spot when something breaks, go for it.”
Remembering Cynthia’s comments, she interjects… “What about leadership?”
“Win or lose, the PM will step down within four months of the election.”
“Isn’t that the story?”
“Only when the time comes.” He’s totally dismissive.
Now she’s the editor… “Shouldn’t we look closely at the contenders?”
“There is only one, Samuel Duffield.” Turning attention to several documents on his desk… “I have someone to pursue that issue.”
Harry gulps in missing the plum assignment … “You do; who?”
“You, Harrietta,” trying to disguise his smirk… “You!”
“So,” her eyes light up… “I have your backing to pursue my story?”
The schoolmaster looks over his glasses… “You will go slowly on your drugs story; instead, report on what I tell you. You, my girl, are part of my plan and timing is everything.”
“Care to include me in the details?”
“Not yet,” returning to the dismissive… “Maybe later. Now, get to know the people with whom you are working. Get to know our politicians, their electorates, electoral margins.” He picks up a document… “Find out who is electorally strong.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to our people?”
“You are a journalist,” the eyes remaining fixed to the document… “You do not need me to break the ice.”
Standing… “Oh fine.” Unceremoniously thrown into the deep end and unimpressed.
Rubbing salt into the wound… “Assignments are allocated each morning at six. Additional are as they come geographically.”
She steps towards the door… “So, by that you mean, I’m to be here at six each morning?”
“There you go; you have it in one. You are a journalist.”
“Thanks, 6 am, great.”
*
Bumping in at seven minutes to six; the sun hangs just over the ranges to the east.
Sitting at her desk, pondering where to start, Wellington walks from of his office… “Harry, I want you over to the Indonesian embassy to follow-up on the ambassador’s comments regarding Australia’s policy to boat people. It’s important and in tonight’s bulletin.”
“Are they the comments reported in the paper this morning?”
“Good, you are across it. Get moving.”
Grabbing a copy of the newspaper and press release announcing to her crew… “Guys, I’m going to attack it from a different angle first, we go to Parliament House for PM comment. Then, we’ll hit the Indonesian ambassador for follow-up.”
Dave the cameraman’s unsettled… “Is that what’s asked for?”
“Not exactly, but it’s the way I want to handle It.”
The cameraman looks to Steven, shrugging a shoulder… “You’re in charge.”
Not used to anyone questioning her assignment handling… “There’s a problem with the way I’m approaching the story?”
Dave, a Canberra veteran of several years now and use to political machinations, bureaucrat protocol… “You can’t walk in on the prime minister. They go off their face over that sort of thing.”
“I do things my way, Dave; I get results.”
“I just hope it’s the result that you want.”
*
Arriving at the Parliament House underground car park entrance, they’re stopped by security… “Harry Reisner. We have an interview with the PM.”
Viewing the running sheet… “Your name’s not here; wait while I get this cleared.”
Uninterested in delays, just results… “What sort of incompetent system is running this place?” she erupts… “Give me a telephone, I’ll just tell the prime minister he’ll need to wait while the system catches up.”
“Sorry, Miss Reisner,” the unsettled response begins… “Someone’ll take you up to the Prime Minister’s suite. They can look after you.”
“Thank you.”
Up several levels, to exit near one of the many security doors, the entourage file into a reception area with the escort offering… “She’s your problem now.”
PM’s staffer announces… “We don’t have an entry in the PM’s diary for you.” Dave nudges Steven and laughs… “What time was your appointment for, Miss Reisner?”
“It’s not firm, however, tell the PM I’m here, it’ll only take three minutes.”
“Oh,” the look grows stern… “I’ll check.”
Dave smiles and angles his head around to Harry… “Maybe next time, you’ll take our advice. The PM’s press secretary is going to come out here and chew your head off.”
“That’ll prove interesting.” Harry’s ready.
The door bursts open… “Hello, Harry,” Pullman marches towards the trio… “Come into my office, thank you.”
Following the self-important press secretary into his office, he closes the door… “Harry, this isn’t Sydney,” Pullman’s blowing up like a steam locomotive working to a deadline… “You can’t barge your way into the prime minister’s office expecting to speak to him without going through proper channels.”
A derailment looms… “About your offer the other night,”
It works… “Pardon?” With the engine jumping the rails.
Now, for the carriages… “Maybe, we can get together sometime, and you can provide me with some useful advice on Canberra.”
Suddenly, his personality stocks soar; Brian changes from the gruff to the expectantly hopeful… “Sounds good, when?”
“How ’bout coffee,” Harry’s nonchalant… “This afternoon about 3 pm?”
“No can do,” he’s slowed by the change in attitude… “I have a working dinner at the lodge.”
Before he can offer an alternative, she throws a lifeline to the self-opinionated ladies’ man… “Tomorrow?”
He’s still flustered… “I’m in Melbourne for two days.”
Once more, Harry rescues the male ego… “Then call me and we can organise a time. Maybe dinner?”
Relieved that he’s not blown une occasion de poursuite… “Love to.” He sighs.
“Perfect.” Now the objective… “I just need five minutes with the prime minister. There’s an election on you know?”
“Sorry, Harry, you’ll have to make an appointment, same as the other gallery journos.” As he’s about to launch into his pompous ego, the door opens.
In pops a head… “Ah there you are, Brian,” the PM notices… “Harry Reisner, well, I never. They told me you were in the building. I’m one of your biggest fans. Loved your Newcastle report.” Turning away… “Brian, why didn’t you tell me Harry would be here?” Then back to Harry… “Brian will fix an appointment for you; I’d like to talk with you.”
Harry’s motto—never ignore opportunity… “Prime Minister, what is your reaction to the Indonesian ambassador’s comments regarding Australia’s policy towards the boat people?”
Pullman is exasperated… “Harry!”
“It’s okay, Brian.” The PM’s cool… “Harry, our actions are somewhat more humanitarian than the Indonesians. At least, we feed them before flying them back to their country of origin. We don’t put them back on their boats, push them out to sea and say Australia is to the south.”
“Thanks, prime minister. I would like to have some time with you shortly. I have much to tell you about my findings about the Newcastle story. I am sure you will find them interesting.”
The PM’
s turns to his press secretary… “Brian, arrange that, thanks?”
During the exchange, the prime minister stands in the open doorway in full audibility of occupants in reception. Dave’s astonished, needless to say, so too the press secretary.
Pullman is deeply embarrassed, exasperated also. Stumbling to regain authority, he thumbs diary pages… “The prime minister will be unable to see you until Wednesday the 13th at the earliest.”
That’s not acceptable… “I have a better idea, Brian, why don’t you make it for next Tuesday possibly 8 am. I’ll have someone ring for security clearances.” She turns to exit… “Thanks, Brian.”
Back peddling at a hundred miles an hour, Pullman has a rush of blood… “You want to talk to the PM about the Newcastle story Harry; can you be a little specific? Maybe, I can research the subject for a considered response?”
Always a step ahead and pausing… “It’s dynamite stuff and I’d prefer to restrict its circulation at this stage until I’m ready to expose a few people.”
“Quite so?” Pullman’s exasperated.
*
Security cameras record the news wagon, coming to a halt at the embassy’s main entrance. Steven’s first collecting equipment, Harry makes straight for the doors to get started. Walking into the reception… “Hello, my name is Harry Reisner; I’m here for an interview with the ambassador.”
The attendant instructs them to wait.
Steven and Dave join in the reception. A few minutes’ tick by then, the attendant re-appears indicating for them to follow. The crew finishes setting the equipment as the Ambassador walks into the room… “Good morning,” with entourage… “How can I be of service to you?”
“Hello, my name is Harry Reisner. As I indicated in the telephone call, I would like to ask some questions relating to your comments regarding Australia’s policy towards the boat people.”
“Certainly.”
Camera and sound roll… “Mister Ambassador, were you accurately reported in today’s newspaper regarding your comments concerning Australia policy towards the boat people?”
Stern-faced and steadfast… “Not accurate is this, however,” he responds… “For the purposes of an expeditious interview, I will correct the errors as we go along.”
“Mister Ambassador, do you see deficiencies in Australia’s policy towards the boat people?”
“Australia is a big, wealthy country,” the question allows a forthright answer… “It should do more towards settling refugees.”
The counter is… “Yet international conventions dictate the first port of call should give sustenance and comfort to refugees. How do you equate this?”
“Australia is not abiding by the United Nation’s conventions. They pack everybody off on a plane back to their country where they might be persecuted,” he pauses… “Or worse.”
“Mister Ambassador, what is your response to the Foreign Affairs department statement that no person will be repatriated if there is any doubt about their well-being back in their country of origin.”
“It doesn’t stand up to scrutiny.”
Harry interjects the edit… “The Australian Prime Minister suggests otherwise; his exact quote not less than thirty minutes ago is, ‘Our actions are somewhat more humanitarian than the actions of the Indonesians. At least, we feed them before we fly them back to their country of origin. We don’t just put them back on their boats, push them out to sea and say Australia is to the south.’” Seeing his expression change… “Your reaction, Mister Ambassador?”
“Once again, your prime minister has wrong facts. There is not one element of truth in his statement. Maybe the next prime minister will be a little better informed.” He shuffles… “I now have a meeting, we will leave it there, thank you.”
“Mister Ambassador,” Again Harry’s rules, there is always time for one more question… “How do you compare the human rights records between Australia and Indonesia?”
“We never practice genocide on an indigenous population. Maybe, you could learn a great deal from our shining example.”
The attendant ushers Harry and crew out of the building.
Steven is first… “There goes my Bali holiday.”
*
Returning to the television station, the receptionist calls… “Harry, you better get on up to Wellington’s office. Be careful, he’s in one hell of a shitty mood.”
“Gee, I wonder if it’s something I’ve said?”
Harry rounds Wellington’s door… “Hi, you want me?”
“Yes Harrietta, come in, close the door.”
Pulling a chair back to sit, she’s just in the mood for a verbal joust.
He waits for her comfort… “Had a call from Brian Pullman. It seems you have been here what, a little over twenty-four hours. In that short time, you manage to unsettle what has taken years to establish. Pullman may be an egotistical shit, a weasel on a power trip, none the less, someone with whom I have to work. I used to be able to telephone the prime minister but this little shit is arranging for all my calls to the PM are directed to him first. Therefore, I do not want any difficulties added to an already difficult situation. Understood?” Harry remains expressionless; Wellington continues… “I want a follow-up with the Indonesian ambassador about his reported comments attacking the Australian government’s attitude towards the boat people. What in God’s name are you doing up at the house?”
“Wellington,” it’s time to spell out the difference between his way and Harry’s way… “I heard perfectly, you said exactly, ‘I want you over to the Indonesian embassy to get some follow up on the ambassador’s comments regarding Australia’s policy to boat people. It’s important and it’s to be in tonight’s bulletin.’ If it’s so important, why not add a little spice such as an exclusive?”
“Like what?”
“I knew going to the embassy and asking for clarification would result in the ambassador giving me a copy of his speech, and I’d do a stand-up outside the embassy and repeating his line.”
“So?”
“Why not speak to the PM, get his reaction and feed that to the ambassador during the interview?”
“My dear girl, we all had a door stop this morning, that is asked. His response is, no comment.”
“In guessing he would and everyone would get the same answer, I decide to go to the house; yes, I know about needing an appointment yet got in. I’m prepared for Pullman, maybe to get a reaction to my drug story. While in Pullman’s office, the PM comes in and I’m able to ask him about the ambassador’s comments.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“His exact words were, ‘Our actions are somewhat more humanitarian than the actions of the Indonesians. At least we feed them before we fly them back to their country of origin. We don’t just put them back on their boats, push them out to sea and say Australia is to the south.’”
Wellington first leans forward in his chair, then in a calmer voice… “Edit and call me when it is ready. It had better be as good as it sounds, because if I have to go through with a lunch with that weasel, I want it to be worth it and for your sake, it had better be.”
Harry wins the points for that round.
*
She slumps back in her chair after seeing the final cut.
Wellington concedes… “That’s good work but in future, talk it over with me.” Changing tone to the serious… “I remind you, if you had gotten nothing and in the process of furthering your drugs story, compromised my election coverage, you would be at best on the next plane back to Sydney, at worst, looking for a new job. If you work with me, your future with this network is assured. Work against me, and you are out on your ear. Understand?”
“Yes, Wellington.”
“I do not know what you said to Pullman about your drug story and at this stage I do not care. Just note it down and we will talk about it when I am ready.”
The visit to the headmaster ends as he dismisses the errant pupil back to class.
> *
Back to her desk and telephone rings… “Hello, Harry speaking?”
“Hi, babe,” suddenly the day goes from better to best.
“Matt, it’s wonderful to hear your voice. How are you? Are you still on duty?” The rapid fire highlights a significant attitudinal change in the relationship… “When can I see you again?”
Buffeted by the avalanche of questions, he addresses the last… “Tonight? I’ve a twelve-hour liberty from 18:00 hours.”
“Great. You’re coming over to my place and I’m going to cook for you a great dinner.”
“Sounds great to me, babe. When?”
“It’s ten to four now, in three hours?”
“You got it. I’ll be there at seven and I’ll bring the wine, okay?”
“I cannot wait, yes please.”
“Bye, babe.”
*
The doorbell rings… “Coming.”
Running to open the door she sees Matt standing at ease, with flowers, wine and a gift… “Hi babe.”
The broad grin reveals the whitest teeth in the universe. He’s dressed in a leather jacket, white tee-shirt and jeans, with a body that fills the whole door opening. She moves forward as he leans over and without embrace, they kiss, lingering and long. Finally, they separate with Harry pulling him into the apartment… “The wine goes in the kitchen please.” Following him in, again she grabs her marine, this time the kiss is longer. Although centimetres shorter, she rises on her toes, adding force to passion, Matt rolls his head in ecstasy as Harry rubs her pelvis into his inflaming desire and hardens his genitalia. Harry feels the growth, getting larger, stimulating her passion. Almost breathless, she forces a halt… “I’m so glad you’re here. I need to be with you.”
“Babe, I’ve been going crazy eating up the minutes.”
“Me too.”
She closes the door, leading into the bedroom.
*
The clock radio erupts into life. Matt turns towards the alarm… “Already?” It’s 5 am.
“I want to see you again.”
“I’m getting four days come Friday.”
Nestling her head snugly into his shoulder… “Great,” she offers… “When the election is over, I’ll take some days; we can go somewhere?”
