by Fiona Capp
David began walking towards the podium and the auditorium erupted. He stood, looking out over the audience, smiling and waiting until the applause died down and the moment felt right. Then he began to speak, his voice steady and low.
‘Not long before I began as a student here, this whole place was open paddocks and bush. Scrubland. For all the buildings and the nods to civilisation – the Agora, the moat – you could still feel the newness, the rawness of it. It was a remarkable time.’ He spoke of the early days, of the memorable characters who populated the campus, how it felt as if they were reinventing the idea of what a university could be.
It was a speech infused with nostalgia and I couldn’t help wondering how he would achieve the necessary shift in tone so that when he spoke of the political passions with which he no longer wished to be identified, he didn’t bathe them in the same warm glow.
‘There was one particular evening in my second year that I’ll never forget,’ he went on. ‘It was around dusk and I was walking to the car park after a lecture. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a reddish-brown blur moving low across the lawn. It disappeared down the banks of the moat, there was a splash and the sound of ducks squawking. When I got to the bridge, there was a fox with a duck in its mouth swimming across the moat. It was having trouble getting up the other bank, which gave me time to get quite close. There was a moment, as it reached the top, when we eyeballed each other, the duck hanging limp from its mouth. I can still see the glint in that fox’s eye.’
David paused, savouring the moment. ‘But it wasn’t afraid, that I’m sure of. The way that fox looked at me gave me the strangest feeling. The feeling that I didn’t exist. I was there but not there as far as the fox was concerned. The campus, the buildings, the students – we were all just a fleeting distraction. The fox inhabited another world altogether. Our eyes met and then it was gone, like a fugitive thought, racing across the grass and into the scrub.
‘You are probably asking yourselves what’s the point of this story?’ He raised his palms as if to say it was a mystery to him. I couldn’t help smiling. It was the kind of left-field anecdote he used to throw into a lecture when he was teaching, to keep the students on their toes. I knew he missed the freedom of those lectures. There were times he felt he’d become a snake-oil salesman pitching a line; stuffing people’s heads with what they wanted to hear instead of opening their minds.
‘It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks, casts everything in a new light. I was, at this time, consumed by campus politics, by all the in-fighting that was going on. Between right and left. Left and left. I was one of a very small band of anarchists; we considered ourselves the purest of the pure. No more governments. People should govern themselves.’
He flashed a wry smile and touched his chin. ‘It will no doubt strike my old comrades as rather ironic that I am now hoping to lead the next government of this country.’
There was an amused murmur from the audience. Duncan gave my arm a quick nudge but I didn’t dare look at him.
‘I don’t often find myself quoting Chesterton but on the principles of democracy we agree. He says democratic government is like falling in love or raising children. It’s so important that it must be left to ordinary men and women to decide.’
For a moment, David seemed to falter. He gazed out over the audience, as if searching for me. As if he was thinking of our night on the moat. I blinked back tears and hoped that Duncan hadn’t noticed. After an agonising, endless pause, he rallied.
‘And if you can’t be an idealist in your youth, when can you? We were not violent radicals. If we suffered from anything, it was from an excess of faith in human nature, in the perfectability of mankind.’ Over the years, he said, he began to understand why his ideals had never been put into practice. He still believed in cooperation between individuals, in community, but now realised this was not enough on its own. This cooperation needed to be formalised, to have a structure in order to keep society functioning. But we should never forget that government served the people and not the other way around.
‘If that evening when the fox and I eyeballed each other taught me anything, it was the importance of detachment, of a historical perspective. Of not getting distracted by petty politicking or losing sight of what it is you want to achieve. Civilisation as we know it may seem entrenched and unassailable but it is still a work in progress. We need to remember that each of us can contribute to its betterment. And now, of course, when I think of that fox, I also think of the fragile nature of our planet and of the vital need to find ways to coexist with that world of the fox – because we are part of it.’
A thunderous wave of applause and stomping of feet broke over the auditorium, punctuated by whoops and cheers. Duncan leaned towards me again. I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘You’ve got to admire it, I guess.’
I flinched. ‘Admire what exactly?’
‘The whole strategy. The statesman above petty politicking. The rousing, big-picture rhetoric. It gives a whole new meaning to disarmament.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘I think it’s all bollocks, of course. But that doesn’t mean he won’t pull it off.’
‘Kind of you.’
‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘His only danger is seeming too distant. No one wants an academic running the country.’
We both laughed and I felt guilty for ever having doubted him. In his own grudging way, he was still on side.
The speech went for another twenty minutes and by the end of it I felt a kind of elation, or perhaps it was just relief that he had managed to leave our story untouched. As the audience began filing out of the auditorium, I reached for Duncan’s arm. ‘Come down and say hello to him.’
Duncan picked up his satchel and glanced at his watch. ‘Afraid I’ve got to run. It was good to see you again, Esther. Tell David I might even vote for him. Better the bastard you know, eh?’ He gave me a brief hug and began edging his considerable bulk towards the aisle.
Watching him go, I had an urge to call out to him, to apologise for the whole ruse. When he reached the aisle, Duncan stopped and turned around, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Does he still have those dreams of being naked in public?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I quipped, laughing. But the truth was that I couldn’t say. I used to know these things, before he went to Canberra. But we didn’t talk about our dreams any more.
The sky was turning coppery as we walked back towards the moat.
David put his arm around my shoulders. ‘What did you think?’
I was aware of Jasper just behind us. There was so much I wanted to tell him – how we were wrong about Duncan, and about my relief. But also how sad it made me that he had to do it at all – if not renounce idealism, then put it behind him.
‘You did it well,’ I said, my voice brimming with emotion.
‘Given what I had to do?’
I smiled up at him. ‘Exactly.’
Jasper had stopped a few paces behind. ‘Hey, look,’ he cried, pointing across the lawn in the direction of the wildlife reserve. ‘A fox, over there!’
David and I spun around, peering through the fading light.
‘I can’t believe you fell for it,’ Jasper cackled.
We groaned in unison. When we reached the moat, we stopped on the bridge and leaned over the railing.
‘How many years ago was it now, Est?’
Jasper turned from David to me. ‘What’s this?’
‘The night I asked Esther to marry me. I got hold of a rowboat and we took it for a spin round the moat.’
‘How romantic,’ Jasper said dryly.
Jasper always adopted an ironic tone when it came to emotional or intimate subjects. He looked about twenty-five but I knew he was at least ten years older, so his awkwardness couldn’t be put down to youth.
When we got to the car park, David said to Jasper, ‘This is where we part ways, Jaz. Est and I are off to a little local joint we use
d to frequent as students.’
Jasper raised his hand in a half wave, half salute, acknowledging that he had been dismissed. I watched him walking across the bitumen to his car and wondered what he would do for dinner. Takeaway, probably. When in Melbourne, Jasper lived – according to David – in a bedsit that contained a TV, a couch and almost nothing else. He might have the ear of the King-in-waiting, he might be the one David turned to at any hour to get things done, but he didn’t seem to have a life outside his job.
Getting into a car not far from ours were a journalist and a photographer I had seen in the media pack at the front of the auditorium. When we pulled out, I noticed they were behind us. I didn’t give them another thought as we drove towards the restaurant – a family-run Lebanese place that had been an oasis of quality food amid a suburban desert of MSG-laden Chinese takeaways and greasy fish-and-chip shops when we were students.
The restaurant was now run by the children of the original owners. It was decades since we had been back and I was thankful, when we arrived, that they didn’t recognise us. More than anything at this moment we both wanted to have some private time together, to withdraw into the charmed, closed circle that love demands in order to thrive. Fortunately, we were the first diners for the evening and were able to find a table in a dimly lit, secluded corner. Now we would have a chance to talk properly, do a postmortem on the speech and all the memories the university had stirred up.
And so the King and the Queen sat down together …
Our sparkling wine had just been poured and we were raising our glasses in a toast when an urgent voice called out, ‘Ms Chatwin, Mr Nash!’
We both looked around and were immediately blinded by the white flare of a camera going off. Next to the photographer stood the smartly dressed young journalist I’d seen in the car park.
‘Excuse me, Mr Nash, but we were just passing and saw you come in here. Was this a haunt of yours when you were at university?’ The young woman flashed a dazzling smile at David before turning to me. ‘You and Mr Nash met as students, right?’
I blinked at her, my face still frozen in shock. A moment ago the restaurant had been peaceful and empty. It was like being hunted. Like being back in the supermarket with that woman fixated on me. I could hear a distant buzz in my head growing louder, as if something menacing were approaching. I looked around for the exits. Journalists had to be tolerated, I understood that. Someone had to make politicians accountable. But this was surely not the time or the place.
I shot a panicked glance at David, suddenly wishing that Jasper was at hand to intervene. But, of course, I couldn’t expect to have it both ways: time alone with David and Jasper hovering nearby, like some faithful attendant in a medieval court.
The young journalist turned her dazzling smile on David once more as if nothing were wrong. ‘That was a terrific speech, Mr Nash. I loved the fox. We’ll be gone in a moment. All I need is one good shot of you and Ms Chatwin smiling at each other over your drinks. The public love that kind of thing, you know. A glimpse of their future leader when he’s off duty.’
My God, this woman knew how to get her way. I could see David fuming as he considered his next move. The tabloid that she worked for was the biggest in the country and it normally favoured the government. Good coverage from it could make all the difference. And the last thing he wanted was a scene.
‘I would have thought,’ he said slowly and carefully, ‘that you’d already taken the photographs you need. This is a private dinner, Roxanne. I’m sure you appreciate that.’
The journalist smiled regretfully and pointed at the camera. ‘You really wouldn’t want us to run the shots we’ve got. You look, I’m afraid, like a pair of stunned mullets. Come on, one more photograph won’t hurt.’
David and I looked at each other.
‘Smile!’ the journalist urged. ‘Smile!’
And so we raised our glasses once again and repeated that moment for the camera, like two hapless actors playing ourselves.
When they were gone, we stared stonily at our menus.
‘I seem to have lost my appetite,’ I said, my heart still hammering.
David tossed his menu onto the table. ‘So have I.’ He clenched his teeth and then sighed deeply. ‘I’m so sorry, Est. I really am.’
14
GOTLAND
September 2010
How different everything would be if Sven and I hadn’t stopped at that small whitewashed church. That particular church. They are scattered all over the island, almost one hundred of them. Some in hamlets and towns, others on their own in the middle of the countryside. Most are simple stone affairs from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. While I have no great love of showy, cavernous cathedrals, I found these little white churches – their intimate scale, their plainness – unexpectedly moving.
We had started early, as the sun was coming up. The roads were empty and we moved quickly through the industrial estate on the outskirts of town and were soon cycling past fields where farmers were rolling hay into bales and the sweet smell of it was everywhere. I remember the cool air fizzing over my body and how effortless the riding felt with a gentle tail wind fanning us on. Every time we came to one of the little white churches glowing in the morning sun, we’d stop and try the door.
I’ve forgotten how many we tried before we found one that wasn’t locked. I couldn’t help feeling we were trespassing as Sven pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside it was dim and cool. And incredibly bare. Almost no decoration. Just wooden beams and white walls, a heavy wooden Orthodox cross and a medieval chandelier hanging low.
Sven turned to me suddenly and said, ‘Sing something.’
‘Sing?’ My throat tightened. I thought of the night Sven and I sang those hallelujahs and felt a pang of guilt.
‘I know you can,’ he urged. ‘Just give it a go.’ He wandered off towards the pulpit, as if to free me up.
The idea of singing here, on my own, of breaking the silence of the church, seemed preposterous and yet there was something about the atmosphere, a kind of hard clarity, that made me pause. You could tell the acoustics would be good. Sven’s matter-of-fact proposal implied there was nothing to it. Nothing to be afraid of. And, of course, there wasn’t.
‘Will you sing too?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got to do it on your own. When you start, you’ll find out why.’
He knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. I thought of a hymn I used to love. It was simple enough, apart from a few high notes I might struggle to reach. I rehearsed a verse in my head and glanced across at Sven, who was inspecting one of the windows.
I cleared my throat and started very quietly. At first, my voice came out so thin and quavery that I wanted to disappear. Singing with someone else, after a few wines, was one thing. But this was like standing naked on a stage. Just as I was about to give up, something unexpected happened. The air began to thicken, to tingle, to hum with layers of sound. The more I sang, the richer my voice became and the more layers were added, as if I’d been joined by other voices, by some kind of heavenly choir. I could hardly believe it was happening. Soon the whole church was reverberating with my voice. I stared up at the vaulted ceiling, goosebumps rising on my arms. Even before the words were out of my mouth, I could feel the music swelling inside me, sprung from some deep well I didn’t know was there. All these voices, spiralling around one another, all of which were my own! I felt so light-headed I thought I might faint or float away.
Even when I’d finished, the notes kept ringing on and on and on with a life of their own. I shivered as they slowly faded into the arched recesses, the heavenly choir withdrawing. Even when silence returned, I could still hear those voices in my head.
I turned to Sven, my cheeks hot. ‘What was that?’
He grinned. ‘A twelve-second echo. Better than being up in the mountains. I bet you’ve never sounded so good.’
I knew I never would again. Something had loosened inside me, something had soared.
‘I knew you could sing.’
I smiled gratefully. Ros was right. He was a good person. The kind of goodness you could find yourself taking advantage of.
Whenever I have to speak publicly, I spend a moment before I step up to the microphone thinking of that church and its choir. Its multitudes. It gives me the confidence to open my mouth without fear. To feel safe even when I falter. To know that nothing terrible will happen. I won’t implode or fly apart. Most comforting of all is the memory of how my voice took on a life – took on lives – of its own; that I was merely the vehicle through which these voices found their way into the world. Being the prime minister’s wife, I’ve realised, is the same. Certain things have to be said and you just happen to be the one to say them. It’s a role I can disappear into, knowing that it’s not me, Esther Chatwin, people have come for, but the aura of the position I hold.
I climbed back on my bike, arms and legs loose in their sockets, my ears still ringing with the multitude of voices I didn’t know I possessed.
By midday we’d reached our destination: two rune stones that stood like sentinels from another age in the middle of a grassy field. We picked our way over the soft ground, hummocky with sheep’s droppings. The tallest stone was the height of a small tree: a great slab of limestone slightly tapering at the sides with a mushroom top. Although centuries of wind and rain had eaten into the surface and worn much of the etching away, you could still make out figures walking, a rider on a horse and a ship being tossed by waves. Sven said that the smaller stone, which was about his height, had probably been painted, although all signs of paint had disappeared. The stones faced what was once an important road linking Viking towns and the pictures related myths and real events. Like stained-glass windows in churches, they were a communal, visual way of telling a tale.
