The Art of Persuasion

by Midalia, Susan;

  ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’m going to fly to Canberra, march into Parliament House and give those wasters a piece of my mind.’

  ‘I’ll come too, Jim. I’ll make sure you don’t make a spectacle of yourself. You have to be civilised.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about civilised! The way they treat those poor people in those awful camps.’

  Hazel stabbed at a piece of pie. What would happen on Wednesday, after all? Knocking on those doors. Walking and talking with Adam. ‘Did I tell you’—when of course she hadn’t, waving her fork, putting it down—‘I’m going doorknocking for the Greens. In a few days time.’

  Three other forks were suspended in the air. And then a battery of comments, questions, praise for her courage and commitment, as though she was a soldier marching off to war.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said, airily. ‘I’m going to be in very good hands.’

  She saw Beth raise an eyebrow. She saw her mother raise an eyebrow. She saw her father tucking into a piece of pie, then lean back in his chair.

  ‘Nan, that was your best ever,’ he said. He was beaming now, replete, as he looked around the table. ‘Did I ever tell you how we met?’ he said. ‘It was a Saturday morning, raining cats and dogs, and there she was: Nanette. Taking shelter under an awning.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Beth, eagerly. ‘You offered her your umbrella.’

  ‘I didn’t have one. I was dashing across the street, trying to get out of the rain, when I saw her. She had this bright gold hair and the most beautiful legs and I stopped dead in my tracks, getting soaking wet. I just knew I was going to marry her.’

  His beautiful Nanette laughed. ‘You tell me that story at least once a year.’

  ‘More wine, anyone?’ he said, and reached for the bottle.

  ‘One glass, Jim, remember?’

  ‘But it’s Sunday. And I have a hard day at work tomorrow. And one more glass won’t hurt. See: three good reasons to—’

  ‘Not be convinced for a moment.’

  He pouted, like a child.

  Meandering back to the station, she and Beth were heavy with food and just a bit tipsy with wine. Waiting for the train, Hazel remembered: two people on a train, reading a book. Only not the same one.

  Beth sat down heavily. ‘Your parents are amazing,’ she said. ‘Keeping up the romance. Your mum’s still so pretty, and your dad—the way he looks at her—I’d be over the moon if a guy looked at me like that.’ Beth gasped. ‘Not your dad, though, I don’t mean your dad. That would be really gross. Hell, not that your dad’s gross, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Well, he is putting on a lot of weight. I know Mum’s worried about his health.’

  ‘She should tell him sex uses up a lot of calories.’

  ‘I think he’s already worked that out.’

  Beth gave her a sly kind of look. ‘And what’s all this about you being in good hands?’ she said.

  Hazel shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really. It’s just that, well, the man I’m doorknocking with is—’

  ‘You’re attracted?’

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, definitely. A whole lot.’

  ‘Well, I hope it goes better for you than it did for me,’ she said. ‘The guy I flirted with at Todd’s party.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Cos we went to another room.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘His hands.’ Beth sighed. ‘He was a great kisser, gentle, not the tongue-ramming kind. I was all set to take him home and then he started squeezing my boobs like a couple of stress balls. I’ll spare you the rest of my body. Anyway, tell me about this man of yours.’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing. He’s a lot older than us. Me. In his forties, I guess.’

  Beth didn’t even blink. ‘I always thought an older man would appreciate your depths,’ she said. ‘No innuendo intended.’

  ‘Look, I’m not even sure if he’s interested. And he’s a widow. No, I mean, widower.’

  ‘So is he still in a deep state of mourning?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I mean, he seems quite happy. Content, really. He leads a very simple life.’

  ‘Boring, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t mean.’

  ‘Where did you meet him, then?’

  ‘On a train.’

  ‘That’s so romantic, Hazie. It’s one of my fantasies, meeting a handsome stranger on a train.’

  ‘But he’s not making any moves, Beth.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s not a sleazebag. Maybe he’s just—well—lovely.’

  Beth had one thing right, at least.

  ‘We’ll have to find you something great to wear,’ she said. ‘Something seductive in a subtle kind of way.’

  ‘Beth. It’s not a date. It’s politics. Doing my bit to raise awareness. Maybe change a mind or two.’

  ‘If you say so, Hazel.’ Beth leaned into her. ‘So does he have a name, this lovely man?’

  ‘Adam. And he has a child. A nearly five-year old son.’

  Beth whistled. ‘Well, that’s a whole new ball game,’ she said. ‘If you’re serious.’

  Hazel laughed, nervously.

  ‘You are serious, aren’t you?’ Beth grinned. ‘So what’s the big attraction? Let me guess. He’s sexy and charming and intelligent and—’

  ‘Different. He’s just different.’

  She could watch him from a distance again, standing to the side of the Rose Garden, head down, absorbed in reading, possibly a map. He was wearing light brown trousers and a pale blue shirt, and didn’t even notice her arriving.

  ‘You look very dapper,’ she said, trying to sound breezy.

  He looked up, seemed to force a smile, then tilted his head to the side.

  ‘So you decided to wear green after all,’ he said. ‘You look very—bright.’

  Hazel looked down at her lime-green shirt. ‘It belongs to my flatmate,’ she said. Which was why it was a bit on the tight side. ‘Do you think, I mean, is it too much? Beth, my flatmate, she likes these vivid kind of colours and she’s vivid but in a good kind of way.’

  What did she want him to say, after all? That you, darling Hazel, look absolutely irresistible?

  ‘Your friend must be fun to live with,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, she is, she’s always entertaining. Always sees the funny side of things. Only now she’s feeling a bit down because she can’t find a job.’

  Adam nodded. ‘That’s not good. The problem of your generation.’

  Saying they’d better get moving now. Ten am, they’d be finished by one, and did she have a hat? He put on a beaten-up cane one, which made him look even more attractive. Raffish.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he said. ‘We have a stack of houses to cover.’

  Hazel tried to look ready.

  ‘Let me do the talking first up, OK?’ he said. ‘I want you to listen and observe, then you can write the responses on the form. See. Right here.’

  His hand was suddenly so close to hers, and she flinched. Surely he must have seen it? But he was telling her something else now, something she needed to keep in mind: that educated people weren’t necessarily informed about politics, let alone engaged.

  ‘But you told me it would be easy,’ she said.

  ‘I said easier, Hazel, easier than a lot of other suburbs. And if we get one new commitment to vote for the Greens, even make a few people more receptive, we can call it a promising day.’

  ‘Seriously? Only one?’

  ‘But multiply that by all the volunteers, over many months of grassroots campaigning, and we might get enough votes to make a difference. Hold the balance of power in the Senate and stop bad legislation.’

  ‘Like increasing uni fees? Cutting funds to women’s refuges?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He pulled down his hat. ‘Bad legislation is anything I disagree with,’ he said.

  ‘Because you’re very high-minded.’

  ‘Correct. Neville’s my conscience. Everyone should have o
ne.’

  He waved her on and they walked in step, approaching their first challenge. Adam opened a creaky metal gate and…well! It must be a student rental, she thought. A burnt, weedy lawn, torn curtains in dirty windows, two broken cane chairs on the verandah, an ashtray overflowing with butts. Adam went knock knock knock. They waited. No answer. Knock knock knock again. Still no answer.

  ‘This happens,’ he said. ‘People at work, or maybe avoiding us.’

  She remembered Adam’s instructions. ‘We have to put a leaflet in the letterbox,’ she said.

  Which was stuffed with envelopes and flyers, a bunch of local papers. Maybe it wasn’t a student rental. Maybe no one lived here anymore. Or maybe whoever lived here was dead. You heard those stories, how the body wasn’t found for days, weeks, even more, because no one came to visit.

  ‘Hazel, are you OK?’

  ‘I was thinking about death,’ she said. ‘And love.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to segue,’ she said, and pointed to the letterbox. ‘I was thinking about all this junk and how there could be a dead person inside the house, lying there for a very long time and no one came to see them because no one loved them.’

  ‘OK. Then just tick the box that says No Answer,’ he said. ‘There’s no category for Possibly a Corpse.’

  Was he laughing at her now? She didn’t want him laughing at her.

  ‘Time to move on,’ he said. ‘And here’s our next obstacle.’

  A high brick fence, a tall iron gate, which they managed to open after several hefty shoves. Confronted now by a two-storey house with massive turrets, plush burgundy curtains in many large windows.

  ‘It’s straight out of Gone with the Wind,’ said Hazel.

  And with a front door so heavy, they’d need a medieval cannonball to knock it down. Which was a different period of history. Knock knock knock, with an imposing iron ring. They waited. Heard some yapping inside, and then a haughty voice—Stop that silly barking—and there in the doorway, resplendent in a gown that matched the curtains, was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Another period of history: couldn’t these people get it right? But it was over in a flash because the woman looked them up and down, then slammed the door with an angry boom.

  ‘We might get a bit more of that,’ said Adam. ‘Tick the box that says No Support.’ He must have seen the look on her face. ‘Most people are courteous,’ he said. ‘Honestly.’

  The next door opened onto a scowling peroxide blonde in one of those upmarket tracksuits with fake diamonds on the sleeves, her face a mask of suspicion. Adam did his expert thing: polite introductions, here to listen to what matters. My words, Hazel’s thought, five long days ago. And now Fake Diamonds, waving her fake red-painted fingernails, was beginning to wail about culling the sharks: so cruel, so wrong (Hazel was trying not to listen, trying hard not to picture that shape in the water, the swift, silent movement, those pointed, deadly teeth). She heard Adam moving on to other issues, heard the woman’s snappy replies. Refugees? Send them back to where they came from. Climate change? A load of rubbish, it’s just the weather. Cuts to education? My kids have left school. Cuts to health. We’re privately insured. Everyone should be privately insured. She reluctantly agreed to take a leaflet and shut the door in their faces.

  Adam shrugged. ‘Maybe we got her with the sharks,’ he said. ‘Put that one down as Weak Support.’ He hitched up his bag, ready for the next encounter. ‘Mind you, the culling is a state issue, not a federal one, but we didn’t need to remind her of that. I’m happy to string people along to sneak a vote or two.’

  ‘That’s very Machiavellian, Adam.’

  ‘Absolutely. Or call it realpolitik. Dirty dealing. Whatever you like. As long as there’s a vote in it I don’t object at all. Although I must say that it gets to me, this endless sympathy for animals, while asylum seekers are left to rot, to fall into despair.’

  He was sounding angry. Not like the Adam she barely knew.

  ‘So you’re not a fan of Peter Singer?’ she said.

  Adam looked surprised. What did he think? That she’d never heard of one of the most famous philosophers in the world?

  ‘Well, I agree with Singer about many things,’ he said, ‘but not when it comes to species equality. I mean, if you had to choose between saving the life of a person or—I don’t know—a gerbil, which one would it be?’

  ‘But that’s an extreme case.’

  ‘And extreme cases can be instructive,’ he said. ‘Ethically speaking.’

  ‘But doesn’t it depend on the person? I mean, I’d choose to save the life of a gerbil any day over the life of—let’s see—the Minister for Immigration.’

  ‘And don’t forget Border Protection,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right: Immigration and Border Protection. I think that’s called conflation.’

  ‘I’d call it scaremongering.’

  They laughed, together. She liked it, this to-ing and fro-ing, their lighthearted, serious repartee. They moved on to the next house: no one at home. Ten in a row and it was beginning to feel like a waste of time, even worse when a man adorned with a chunky gold necklace snarled that politicians were all a bunch of crooks determined to shaft hard-working people. Then more No Shows, ten or eleven, she was losing count, until they finally found another real live person: a preppy guy in a striped pink shirt who denounced the Greens as communists plotting to abolish private property.

  Not one intelligent conversation so far, let alone a conversion. And in between each house, Hazel would tick No Support and they would head off doggedly again.

  ‘This is supposed to be an educated demographic,’ she said. ‘All we’ve had so far is ignorance, complacency and selfishness.’

  ‘Don’t forget cynicism,’ said Adam.

  What a huge relief, then, indeed, a lifting of the spirits, when the next two people announced themselves as Greens. Even if one of them—a gangly, bearded guy with a disconcerting squint—went on at length about some infighting in his local branch. And when he’d finally had his say, Adam nodded at Hazel, waved her on.

  ‘Don’t let that put you off,’ he said. ‘The party’s not immune from ambition or egotism.’ He hitched up his satchel. ‘Shall we have a quick break?’

  He pulled out a paper bag, opened it.

  ‘This is mostly Jessie’s work,’ he said.

  A congealed mass of something yellow and sticky, studded with plump raisins.

  ‘Campaign biscuits,’ said Adam. ‘We baked them last night.’

  Hazel broke off a piece, bit into it carefully. ‘It’s an interesting flavour,’ she said.

  ‘You’re being very polite.’ Adam chewed quickly, then swallowed. ‘So you and Simon are friends? He’s a hard worker for the Greens. A bit scatty in organising things, but very focused in meetings.’

  ‘He told me you’re a legend,’ said Hazel. ‘In the Greens, I mean.’

  Adam shrugged. ‘He means I’ve been around for years. You get brownie points for longevity.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re being very modest. I bet you have a lot of influence.’

  ‘Not at all. I just take things day by day, and what with Jessie, it’s hard to do as much as I’d like.’ He took another bite, swallowed. ‘These are my guilt biscuits,’ he said. ‘Whenever I spend a lot of time away from him, I let him run amok in the kitchen.’

  Hazel asked what he meant by a lot of time.

  ‘Well, it’s been flat out preparing for this new campaign. Meetings at night and on weekends. And he’s home from school today, pre-primary, a pupil-free day. I’ve had to leave him with his aunt again.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think you tied him to the clothesline and left him a bowl of water.’

  He grinned, looked at the biscuit in his hand. ‘They’re not too bad, are they?’ he said. ‘I should have given some to Neville.’

  ‘So what’s story with him? I mean, he seems a bit of a—’


  ‘Moaner?’ Adam laughed. ‘He hasn’t been a Green for long and I’m not sure he’ll last much longer. He’s a retired GP, would you believe? Can you imagine how he spoke to his patients?’

  ‘I can. What seems to be the trouble, Mr Smith? Well, you think you’ve got it bad? Let me tell you about my lumbago and my Achilles tendon and my gout and my ulcers.’ She remembered his simpering, eyelash-fluttering companion. ‘And Molly?’

  ‘Neville’s wife.’

  ‘Was she a nurse?’

  ‘She still is, actually. How did you know?’

  ‘Because as a rule, men like to—well, you know.’

  He frowned. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Men like to marry women who aren’t as smart as them. Or who have a less prestigious social status. Who are shorter. That kind of thing.’

  Adam brushed a hand through his hair. ‘If you say so,’ he said, and put the biscuits back in his satchel. ‘Are you OK to keep going?’

  ‘Never better.’

  She didn’t want the three hours to end.

  They reached another high brick wall. All these walls, she thought, the drawn curtains and closed blinds: so many people looking inwards, unwilling or afraid to look out. But she was determined to give it a shot, to prove something to herself, if not to Adam. So she offered to try the next house, and before he could protest, she rang the doorbell decisively, heard heavy footsteps, saw a bulky man towering at the doorway.

  ‘May I help you?’ he said.

  Polite, at least. Not a bad start. She introduced herself and Adam in a crisp tone of voice, proceeded to follow the drill.

  ‘So you want to know what matters to me?’ The man folded his arms, huffily. Not so promising after all. ‘The fact that you lot voted against an emissions trading scheme.’ His shook his balding head. ‘You lost my vote when you betrayed the country.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And then we were left with nothing. Nothing.’ He unfolded his arms, waved them about. ‘We’ve gone backwards since then. Global warming going through the roof and we’re standing by doing jack shit, pardon my language.’

  ‘Sir.’ Adam took a step forward. ‘The Greens voted against the scheme because they knew it would ultimately fail.’