Deceit

by Richard Evans

  ‘This is National One News, with Sylvia Burns.’

  ‘Good evening. Prime Minister Andrew Gerrard has announced that legislation approving funding for the first offshore detention centre to be built on the Indonesian island of Ambon in the new year will be finalised in the parliament this week. The prime minister made the legislative commitment at a joint press conference after a formal meeting with Indonesian president Doctor Amir Surriento, who is visiting Australia to discuss bilateral foreign policy, intended to reduce the number of illegally smuggled boat people during the summer months. Reporting outside the prime minister’s residence is Curtis Jones …’

  ‘You’ll miss your old sparring partner, I suspect.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll miss me. Turn it down, will you?’ Gordon said.

  ‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘If I could leave here and never have to see him again, I would be very grateful. He has upset me so much with his attitude and his changes to standing orders and parliamentary procedure, and the way he mistreats the parliamentary staff is totally unacceptable.’ Gordon closed the last file and pushed back from his desk. ‘I heard today he’s running again at the next election; the man just doesn’t know when to give up. You’re right, I don’t like him.’

  ‘Perhaps you should dismiss him,’ Majorie offered, stifling a laugh.

  ‘If only I could.’ Gordon got to his feet. ‘Now that I’m going, who will protect the parliament from him?’ Just as Marjorie muted the television, the door opened and Paige Alexander, Gordon’s diary secretary, entered in a flurry.

  ‘Mr O’Brien, I’ve just taken a call from the prime minister’s office wondering where you are. They’re waiting in the speaker’s courtyard for you.’

  ‘Yes, okay. I’m coming,’ sighed Gordon.

  Marjorie gathered up the files and papers.

  ‘If I’m not back within forty minutes, please come and get me.’ Gordon collected his jacket, almost identical to the one he’d had on his first day as clerk, and carefully swung it on as he strode from his office.

  ‘Where is the pompous goose?’

  ‘He won’t be long, Prime Minister. I just spoke to his office. He’s on his way.’

  ‘He’s a slimy little bastard. I don’t know why I even bothered with this.’

  ‘You bother because you are the prime minister.’

  ‘Get me a drink will you. I’ll have a beer. I’m going to have a chat to Zara.’ Gerrard smirked and watched his principal private secretary slink off to the drinks table, pushing through the mob of politicians and their staff, more interested in the free hospitality than the honoured guest.

  Gerrard scanned the room and saw Speaker Bagshaw in a corner talking to someone he didn’t recognise, her elegant black frock complementing her brown skin, her pillar-box red lipstick marking her perfect smile. She was oozing charisma as she listened to the conversation, her thick, curly hair adding to her unique allure. As Gerrard headed for her, she saw him coming and whispered a warning to her colleague.

  ‘You look very attractive this evening, Madam Speaker. I love the way you’ve done your hair,’ Gerrard said, ignoring the other women. He towered over Bagshaw, his stature commanding respect, the greying hair marking his sixty-seven years. His suit looked as if it had come from the finest Italian tailor, the subtle pinstripe of the rich dark blue cloth contrasting with a white shirt and striking orange and grey silk tie.

  ‘Prime Minister? How nice to see you.’ Bagshaw straightened her frock, cheeks flushing, as her colleague escaped. ‘This was a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Well, the old bastard is finally retiring, so why not?’ Gerrard almost spat the words. ‘It’s the very least I can do for the moron, and thankfully the only celebration I’ll need to attend for him. Although there is talk of a parliamentary thing, but I won’t be going.’

  Bagshaw didn’t respond. She didn’t share the prime minister’s view that the clerk was a handicap to the government. ‘It’s a nice thought anyway. When would you like to speak?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ Gerrard looked about the room and identified the leader of the opposition examining a food tray offered by a waiter. ‘Invite Harper to speak first. Don’t let him know, though. Put him on the spot and let’s watch him squirm.’

  ‘You’re rather devious, aren’t you?’ smiled Bagshaw.

  ‘You, more than anyone else, should know that my dear Zara.’

  Bagshaw stopped and looked at her prime minister, and slowly, suspiciously, said, ‘Yes?’

  Gerrard played the exotic dance of political banter well, his power absolute; he did whatever he liked, and always got what he wanted. ‘How’s the new husband?’

  ‘He’s good,’ replied Bagshaw, looking about the room and nodding to various colleagues. She did not want to encourage Gerrard.

  ‘Giving you what you want?’

  ‘All I need.’

  ‘Surely not everything you need?’

  ‘He makes me happy.’

  ‘Does he? Does he make you truly happy, Zara?’ Gerrard mocked.

  ‘He does,’ Bagshaw snapped.

  ‘I was just thinking, if you ever want what I know you really need,’

  Gerrard paused, ‘then call me. There is never any harm in someone getting what they really want.’

  ‘It’s over, Andrew.’ Bagshaw anxiously sipped her wine, scanning to see if anyone was listening.

  ‘Hmm,’ Gerrard paused for just a moment. ‘Are you planning to retire soon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should reflect upon your career choices.’

  ‘You really are a nasty bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really … I just need what we used to have.’

  They looked for any glimmer of understanding in each other’s eyes, only to be interrupted by Gerrard’s private secretary.

  ‘He’s here, Prime Minister.’ Miles Fisher passed his boss a glass of beer.

  ‘Why, thank you, young man.’ Gerrard took the beer and finalised the conversation. ‘We can continue to discuss your career in my suite later, Madam Speaker. Say around nine, after dinner, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Bagshaw regretted saying it but the prime minister’s authority sent a tingle down her spine.

  Gerrard moved away to chat with other colleagues and allow the speaker to host the event, now the guest of honour was present.

  The speaker’s courtyard, with its beautiful garden, catered for the more than fifty politicians and parliamentary colleagues comfortably. It was a secure, enclosed space outside her office suite with large, open, cantilevered, folding glass doors that allowed the garden and office to merge; a glassed walkway between the foyer of the parliamentary chamber and her office had been opened up to allow even more room for the guests. Six Australian flags hung limply from a row of masts behind the lectern positioned to one side of the folding doors, as formally dressed waiters delivered drinks and cocktail food on silver trays. The guests chatted and laughed, looking forward to hearing O’Brien speak.

  Gordon was warmly welcomed by colleagues from the department as he squeezed through the guests toward his host. Bagshaw was his tenth speaker, and Gordon wanted to get to her quickly so the speeches could start, which would allow him to leave earlier than his forty-minute deadline. He had work to do and legislation to approve for the following day’s proceedings in the house. He felt uneasy with the backslapping and overly generous remarks; he was only doing his job, that’s all, and saw no reason for a servant of the parliament to be honoured in such a way.

  ‘Gordon, welcome.’ Bagshaw extended her hand.

  ‘Madam Speaker.’ Gordon took her offered hand and limply acknowledged the welcome.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Everyone has been looking forward to seeing you, and wishing you well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Gordon dropped her hand. ‘Madam Speaker, I have a number of important tasks I must complete before seven, and I wonder if we could get going.’r />
  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll call everyone together. We have a couple of speeches, and a small gift …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Will you be able to say a few words? I think your friends would like to hear from you.’

  ‘I haven’t prepared anything, but I’m sure I could string a few words together.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, Gordon. Would you like a drink?’ The speaker summoned a waiter and Gordon took a glass of white wine from the laden tray.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gordon sipped his chardonnay and looked about, ending the conversation.

  Speaker Bagshaw moved to the lectern on a small wooden podium, switched on the microphone and called for attention, straightening her notes that had been left there by a dutiful assistant. Her husky tones soon quietened the gathering.

  ‘Good evening, colleagues … good evening. I welcome you all here this evening, and thank the prime minister for his generosity in supporting this occasion. As you know, we are all here to recognise and celebrate the career of our long-serving clerk Gordon O’Brien, who is sadly about to retire.

  ‘I was in primary school when Gordon first joined the parliament, almost a lifetime ago. He first started as an administrative assistant to the then clerk Sir Angus Levinstan some forty years ago, and quickly progressed to the ranks of management in various departments. Gordon has served as serjeant-at-arms to the house, deputy clerk and now, of course, he has been clerk for the last seventeen years.

  ‘Gordon has the responsibility for overseeing all departments, from catering – ensuring we are all fed and watered—’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ The guests expressed their robust appreciation.

  ‘… to transport, ensuring we all get home to our families safely.

  At the same time, he remains responsible for all legislation and the parliamentary process. During his long career, Gordon has served under just two changes of government, and as clerk he has served ten speakers. I am not sure what that means, but I am sure their length of stay in the chair had nothing at all to do with the unequivocal advice provided by Gordon.’ Bagshaw waited for the laughter to subside.

  ‘Speaking personally, I admire his respect for the parliament and its rules. He has been vigilant and is respected by all of us, as is his interpretation of standing orders. I have greatly appreciated his advice as I have settled into my role.’ Bagshaw smiled at Gordon, who averted his gaze and shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  ‘While we can often disagree on the interpretation of rules and standing orders, only an ignorant or foolish person would ignore his advice. He has assisted many members of the parliament, and his advice on legislative matters has often been sought. His long career has been outstanding, and his service will long be remembered. We are here tonight to assure him we appreciate the professionalism he has brought to his work, and the support he has provided to us all.’

  As spontaneous applause erupted, Gordon shook his head slightly as if to challenge the speaker’s assertions, before returning his gaze to his feet.

  ‘We have much to say about you this evening, Gordon, so please allow us to show you our respect for the leadership, guidance and support you have provided to us all. Can I first call upon the leader of the opposition, James Harper, to say a few words.’

  Gordon registered that Harper had been taken by surprise – he would not have shoved a hot spring roll into his mouth otherwise, just as he was introduced. He struggled to get the food down as he made his way to the podium, took a moment and breathed deeply.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to speak, and so I’m afraid I’m not prepared.’

  Gerrard smiled, and ever so slightly inclined his head toward Bagshaw, who returned the gesture with a smirk. ‘But, I do not need a wad of notes to talk about Gordon O’Brien.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ someone yelled, and there was a smattering of applause. Gerrard frowned.

  ‘Gordon is a rock. For over forty years he has been the very foundation stone of our parliament and he deserves the respect we all, as representatives of the wider Australian community, have for him. More importantly, he will be recorded in the annals of parliamentary history as a bulwark who protected the parliament from politicians with too much power, keen to ignore one of the most important institutions of the land.

  ‘We will miss him. I will miss his counsel and the good cheer he provides, despite his rather stern professionalism.’ A few chuckles of agreement came from colleagues. ‘We all know Gordon has other plans once he leaves this place – he loves the challenge of fishing in the Snowy – but he will always be welcome back here in the corridors of power. We thank him for his distinguished service, his discipline, and his courage to say no. Gordon, I wish you well, and may your days include a memory or two of the folks you leave behind.’

  As Harper moved from the podium to shake hands with Gordon, the appreciative applause lasted an embarrassing long time and Gordon was unsure what to do. He nodded his thanks a few times, pulled a disarming face to try to quell the enthusiasm, and looked at his feet yet again. Harper took his hand and shook it with a warmth Gordon respected, and returned to his place, collecting a glass of wine on the way.

  ‘Thank you, James.’ Bagshaw resumed her place before the microphone and referred to her notes to check if she was missing anything from her running sheet. ‘It is now my pleasure to introduce the prime minister. It is fair to say the prime minister and Gordon have had their differences over the years.’ A titter or two sounded among the slight murmur from the guests. ‘Please welcome, the prime minister.’

  Strong applause greeted Gerrard and he waved away the enthusiasm of his supporters, enjoying the moment.

  ‘Thank you – as the cow said to the farmer one winter morning – for the warm hand.’ He had used the joke so many times it was almost a cliché, but his minions laughed obligingly. O’Brien and Harper were not amused.

  ‘Friends, we are here this evening to celebrate a career we all admire. We stand before this gentleman – and Gordon is truly a gentle man; a man to be treasured, a man who is almost an institution.’ Heads nodded.

  ‘Gordon was here when most of us – well, at least, some of you – were still at school. He has presided over this great parliament with the zeal of a lion looking after his pride. He has protected the parliament from those who would have torn it down, and from those of us who strive for modernity within the standing orders of the parliament. Not for Gordon a modern Australia. Who could forget his stance during the republican debates?’

  Certainly not Gordon; it was one of the highlights of his career, foiling the prime minister’s plan to change the entire political system in Australia.

  ‘Australians decided it was not yet time to be a fully independent nation, but no doubt one day we will succeed in convincing our fellow Australians to throw off the shackles of British royalty without worrying about who sits in what chair within the parliament.’ Gerrard turned and looked grimly at Gordon.

  ‘Yes, Gordon, you played an important role in the republican debate, but hopefully your sage, if somewhat quaint advice – if I may speak candidly – will not survive long beyond your retirement. I trust that when I raise the issue during my next term in office, the good citizens of Australia will see the choice more clearly and vote accordingly.’

  Gordon met Gerrard’s gaze, feeling a little irritated by his words. He’d expected as much from one of his fiercest critics.

  ‘It is true, Gordon and I rarely see eye to eye on issues of stuffy parliamentary protocol. He has a reputation for being conventional and conservative and, of course, I am a progressive. Yet ironically, for the last seventeen years, we have managed to work together for the enrichment of our nation and achieve many parliamentary reforms. I point to the recent change to the constitution – parliamentary terms have increased from three years to five – as an example of old structures giving way to new ones. Gordon hated that idea, didn’t you, Gordon?’ Gerrard turned and casually leaned an elbow on the lectern, triumpha
ntly facing O’Brien as he continued. ‘Governments can’t govern effectively in only three years; they need five to set out their economic plans and get things done rather than focusing on polls and elections.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ Various government politicians dutifully responded. Gerrard straightened and addressed his audience.

  ‘Gordon also supported the idea of ministers coming to question time each and every day, but I was of the view that it was a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. The battles we had over that one, eh Gordon? I could write a book. Indeed, such a book would outdo Prince Machiavelli as a work of political instruction on how to get things done within a parliament.’

  Gordon put down his glass and seriously considered walking out on the prime minister, then changed his mind. It would be a serious breach of protocol, but he was sorely tempted.

  ‘We now have progressive and modern standing orders. Prime ministers need only be present for an hour once a week. This is as it should be – there is a government to run, and question time is only ever good for the television news cycle. Let the press gallery go and investigate news I say, rather than report the rather dull questions and unseemly behaviour of the opposition at question time. It was a struggle to get those amendments through, but we did, didn’t we, Gordon?’

  Gordon endured in silence, letting his anger sweep through him.

  ‘However, Gordon has maintained the balance for all of us. We still have the pomp and pageantry of parliament. As you all know, I am a great supporter of the speaker moving back into the robes and ceremonial wig of times past.’ Gerrard acknowledged the murmur of amusement, ignoring the glare from Bagshaw.

  ‘Gordon!’ Gerrard paused for a moment to ensure he had everyone’s attention. ‘You have been a terrific servant to – and for – me. No other has served me as well as you have, and I will miss you and your service.’ Gerrard quickly looked about him, searching for something. ‘Miles, do you have it?’

  Fisher stepped forward with a long, thin colourfully wrapped gift.