‘No, but we will need to ensure we don’t scare the other side with any surprises. We wouldn’t want them to suddenly not support you and vote against any legislation. It could create chaos in the chamber and could spark a no-confidence motion in the government, which you would lose on the current numbers.’
‘This is why you are in the chair, Zara.’
‘But, I have no chance of stopping a no-confidence motion. A successful vote against you will mean you automatically lose the government benches, and James Harper will be prime minister, God forbid.’
‘You will need to assure me you will do all you can to ensure this bill gets through without opposition dissent, and we do not lose a vote.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. I will do my best.’
‘Your best is always appreciated, but it will not be enough to save your job if this planned legislation doesn’t pass.’ Gerrard left no doubt about what he wanted her to do.
Gordon closed the door quietly behind him as he left the speaker’s office. He passed the framed photographs of the previous speakers displayed along the pale green corridor. As he passed, he looked at them and reflected on those he had served, making a mental note to send each of them a retirement message of thanks; resolving to let them know he was grateful for their support during their term, no matter the length of service.
‘Good morning, Gordon.’ Barton Messenger had walked up quietly behind him.
‘Oh!’ Startled, Gordon glanced over his shoulder. ‘Good morning, Mr Messenger.’
‘I was just coming to see you. I need to discuss procedure for next week. Have you time for a coffee at Aussies?’
‘Not right now, I’m afraid.’ Gordon was rarely, if ever, seen at Aussies. ‘In your role as manager of opposition business, I’d like to discuss various issues with you. Come to my office now if you like.’
‘I’ll just get my pager and will follow you up.’ Messenger veered off into the security entry hall as Gordon began trudging upstairs to his first-floor office.
Messenger greeted the security team and extracted his pager from its numbered position. Only a few units remained, which meant most politicians were in the building. He noted the eight, desolate, unclaimed pagers – a stark reminder of parliament’s tragic loss. Clipping the pager to his belt, he followed O’Brien to his office. Always keen to maintain his fitness, he skipped up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.
Messenger was expected and ushered into Gordon’s office. As he entered, Marjorie Earle, who had been taking instructions, finished her notes, collected her papers and left, politely closing the door behind her.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Messenger.’ Gordon finalised papers with a signature before carefully placing them in a tray. ‘I wanted to talk to you about next week.’
‘Yes, I have a few questions.’
‘The circumstance in which the parliament finds itself should not provide a political opportunity for you or the government, and I wanted your agreement that nothing will happen to undermine the promise your leader has made to the prime minister.’
‘Which is?’ queried Messenger.
‘Mr Harper has assured the prime minister that there will be no challenges to the authority of the government.’
‘We will not bring forward a censure motion, if that’s what you mean.’ Messenger sat further back in his chair and crossed his legs.
‘The government will be putting through various pieces of legislation. They are currently on the notice paper, including appropriation bills such as the Supply Bill, and they are all uncontroversial and needed before Christmas.’
‘Seems reasonable, I suppose. Of course, we will reserve our rights on calling for a division until we see what is tabled.’ Messenger said.
‘Of course, this is to be expected and is standard procedure. Are you concerned about anything in particular?’ Gordon asked, referring briefly to his notes.
‘Nothing in particular. We assume the speaker will follow normal parliamentary process, including motions for debate on various issues. We may pursue some lines of inquiry during question time, which you would agree is to be expected, although I would not think we would be too vocal, given recent tragic circumstances. We are of the view we need to ask the government to continue to explain their actions on mining royalties, for instance.’
‘I am sure the speaker will continue to allow these types of questions and motions, so long as they don’t threaten the government’s standing in the parliament by forcing a vote. Otherwise, she will shut down debate, so be careful and chose your motions carefully.’
‘Wise advice, I’m sure.’ Messenger slowly nodded his head.
‘So, we can count on you and your colleagues to maintain the status quo of the house until the end of next week?’
‘Yes, we will agree, so long as there are no surprises.’ Messenger was a traditionalist, as most members of parliament were. He believed that community order depended on the nation’s elected representatives recognising, and accepting, the rules of parliament. When the Whitlam government was sacked by the governor-general, there was a gossamer thread between stability and revolution, at least that was his view, even though Whitlam had encouraged the community not to overreact by taking to the streets. Demonstrations followed but Whitlam insisted their rage should be shown through the ballot box, not on the streets, and the community had supported this leadership, although they had rejected him at the ballot box.
‘If there are changes to the notice paper, I will let you know.’ Gordon stood as a sign the meeting was over. ‘I wish you well during this troubling week, Mr Messenger. May your sorrow not cloud the important role you play in the parliament.’
Messenger extended his hand. ‘It’s unfortunate this tragedy has placed a dark cloud over your last two weeks here, but do try and enjoy them, and we will try our best not to create too much grief for you … so to speak.’
‘Indeed.’
CHAPTER SIX
FRIDAY 9.30 AM
‘Are you not going to the memorial service?’ Marjorie Earle entered with a cup of peppermint tea for Gordon. For almost ten years, at the same time of day, she had brought the same tea, in the same precious cup. It was white bone-china Wedgewood with navy blue and ochre decoration, rimmed in gold, a gift from his mother. She carefully placed the cup on his desk and waited for a response. Nothing. ‘Gordon?’
Finally, Gordon looked up from his papers. ‘I have been thinking, we really shouldn’t be putting any money bills through the parliament until the by-elections are held. It isn’t fair on the opposition if they can’t dispute and object to something as important as this, especially such a significant money bill.’
‘So, you aren’t going to the memorial service?’
‘What? Err, no.’ Gordon didn’t much care for the pomp of parliament, preferring to stay in his office when official events were held in the Great Hall. ‘There is far too much to do here. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to attend – they won’t miss me. I’ll try and get to the funerals though.’
‘You won’t have to, you’ll be finishing up next Friday.’
‘I keep forgetting … so much to do.’
‘What are you worried about?’
‘Do you find it unusual the government wants to rush this Appropriation Bill through the parliament to provide a bonus for the good citizens before Christmas?’
‘What’s wrong, Gordon?’ Marjorie looked at him, waiting for a clue. ‘What concerns you?’
‘I don’t know, it just seems a little strange to me, that’s all. It all seems a little hasty.’
‘The prime minister announced yesterday why he wanted it done. It sounded fine to me. The extra cash for families will be good for them, especially for Christmas. I know I’ll be grateful.’
‘I get the politics. I even understand it will be good for the economy. I just don’t know why we need to rush it through the parliament when he doesn’t have the numbers.’ Gordon sat staring at the gover
nment announcement before him, unconsciously gnawing at a fingernail.
‘Why are you worried? You’ll be gone in a week.’
‘Doesn’t mean I should stop caring today.’ Gordon looked up at Marjorie. ‘Gerrard is up to something, I know it. I can feel it in my gut. I just don’t know what or why.’
‘Ours not to reason why.’ Marjorie tossed a familiar line back at Gordon. ‘A wise old man once told me that.’
Gordon flopped back in his chair, rocking it, and smiled. ‘I’m going to miss your gentle prods.’
‘Drink your tea while it’s still hot, and then get to the service. You should be there.’ Marjorie left, thinking how much she would miss him, too.
Gordon took a cautious sip from his cup, testing for heat. It was the little things he’d miss. The tea from Marjorie every morning was a small but important moment of pleasure in a life dedicated to the parliament.
The Great Hall of the parliament was an immense room and had hosted many events since its opening by Queen Elizabeth last century. Presidents of the United States of America had been feted in a room full of obsequious guests, as had other world leaders, but without quite as much pomp and ceremony or quite as many guests. The room was often booked for graduation ceremonies by the three universities in Canberra, and many formal dinners had been held when parliament was sitting. It was hired to corporations for events, and even a local dance company held their annual contest in the hall.
The rich red-brown cedar floors shone from their daily polishing, and the enormous tapestry at the opposite end to the entrance was one of the biggest in the world. The renowned Australian artist Arthur Boyd had worked with weavers for over two years to create the stunning depiction of his beloved Australian bush. Boyd wanted to emphasise the importance of the environment and his beautiful work did just that, dominating the hall.
Black, purple and maroon drapes hung from the first-floor gallery to the floor below, transforming the Great Hall from a cavernous hall into a chamber of reverence. The Canberra Orchestra assembled below the tapestry dressed in black without a speck of colour, and began to play Samuel Barber’s beautiful Adagio for Strings, adding to the thick air of sadness that hung over the room as mourners assumed their position. It was music that had been chosen for many of the funerals of the great and famous.
The king had sent his eldest son, and the president of the United States of America had sent her secretary of state. China had sent their foreign minister. Distance precluded other world leaders from attending, but ambassadors abounded. The prime ministers of Malaysia, Japan and New Zealand attended as did many of the Pacific Island leaders. President Amir Surriento had returned to Australia for the service, having left the country soon after his meeting with Prime Minister Gerrard on the day of the tragedy.
Gordon took his place in the second row. The prime minister was positioned prominently on the podium, directly in front of him, and he immediately regretted his decision to accept Marjorie’s advice to attend. A program of service had been left on his chair and he scanned through it hoping there would be some early respite.
The department had included in the program short biographies of the deceased politicians and Peter Wilson, whom Gordon had originally employed as an intern in his office. He had shown great willingness to learn and Gordon had little hesitation in recommending him for a position within the parliamentary committee support office.
As he contemplated his former trainee, Gordon became aware of an unexpected welling in his left eye and hoped it was not the start of unwanted emotion. During his early career in the parliament he was mentored to believe that he was the safety valve of protocol; he needed to show little emotion, going about his duties in a stoical manner. He scorned any evidence of self-pity. As he leaned to his left to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, a tear leaked down his cheek. This prompted Gordon to move a little faster to stop any further embarrassment, and he swiftly swiped the tear and dabbed his eye before folding the handkerchief into the palm of his hand, just in case.
The congregation was solemn as final places were taken. Nigel Nelson, Gordon’s friend and colleague from the senate staff, dressed in his ceremonial black rod uniform, took his place next to him, patting Gordon’s knee reassuringly in recognition of the sombre occasion, knowing his friend could be troubled by the emotion.
‘Where’s your outfit?’ Nelson whispered from the side of his mouth. ‘I look like a goose.’
Gordon placed his hand in front of his mouth and whispered, ‘I wasn’t going to come, so I didn’t have time to change. You look rather pretty in your ruffled shirt and stockings.’
‘You are a wicked man, Gordon O’Brien. Now behave yourself, this is a serious occasion.’
Archbishop Bryan Johnson conducted the service, and Prime Minister Gerrard delivered the eulogy. The congregation listened to the dignified words commemorating the lives of dear friends lost in the tragedy, paying homage to their service to the parliament and the nation. Gordon appreciated Gerrard referring to Pete Wilson sympathetically, and respected him for having done so.
All federal members and senators of the national parliament were in attendance, as were state government leaders and representatives. Some family members of the politicians killed had the courage to attend the service, and there were the usual business and social leaders.
The Adagio produced precisely the atmosphere the prime minister had intended. He wanted the country to feel deep sorrow for the loss of the members of parliament, and televising the service nationally ensured many Australians would get the message.
The service concluded with a rousing rendition of ‘Guide me O thou great redeemer’, supported by the Sydney Welsh Choir who were positioned in the gallery above the podium. Gordon watched Gerrard at his distinguished place on the podium singing with gusto and considered him no different from some of the other despots who were in attendance. He couldn’t help but think the message of redemption was wasted on Gerrard.
Barton Messenger shared Gordon’s lack of enthusiasm, sensing that the service was just another political stunt. Gerrard was out the front, while his leader James Harper was three rows back in the congregation, virtually unseen during the broadcast. Barton knew it was an opportunity for Gerrard to parade as a national leader for the people watching at home. No doubt they were more interested in the money they were about to receive from their leader, who they saw as a caring and progressive man of the people. Little did they know. These were the moments he regretted ever getting involved in politics.
After the ceremony concluded, the distinguished mourners filed from the Great Hall, some lingering in the lavish, marble-floored entrance to murmur condolences and news to colleagues. Others climbed the grand stairs to the refreshment stations in the alcoves on the first floor. Barton followed his colleagues to one of the stations, feeling obliged to publicly grieve but uncomfortable about the pretence; the role of a politician was always to be seen at important events. The scones and cream would be too messy, so he plucked a chocolate biscuit from a carefully arranged basket and moved toward the tall windows overlooking the grassy courtyard below.
‘Barton, can I speak to you for a moment.’ The voice was familiar. He smiled as he turned to face Anita.
‘Sure. What did you think of the ceremony?’
‘Proper. Have you read the explanatory memorandum for this Immigration Appropriation Bill proposed by the government?’
‘Not yet.’ Barton put the remainder of the biscuit in his mouth and licked his fingers clean, wiping them on a paper napkin. ‘Why?’
‘It seems a little light on explanation as to where the money is going.’ Anita’s journalistic sixth sense was never far off.
‘I’ll have a look at it. What is your concern?’
‘President Surriento has a history of never making a decision unless there is something in it for him.’
‘That’s a bit severe, don’t you think?’
‘Putting another country’s immigration centres o
n more than one of his islands will not win him many votes at his next election. I suspect there may be other benefits, but I can’t find anything in this initial legislation.’ Anita put her bag on the floor, between her feet that were, as always, clad in running shoes. She took out a pad and flicked through her notes, searching for a quote.
‘There’s not much going through. It’s only seed money at this stage.’ ‘Even so, there doesn’t seem to be much detail, and no-one knows anything.’
‘So you suspect there’s a bit more to the deal?’
‘Something like that. Why was he here earlier this week making all those supportive statements? Don’t you think it all sounds a little odd?’ Anita had built a substantial reputation writing about immigration policy and had been following this one closely since Gerrard announced it in the budget six months earlier. ‘I would have thought you guys would be all over it.’
‘We’ll have a look at it. But this policy is bipartisan. We want these centres to go ahead, and we don’t mind initial funding going through. It’s only around four hundred million, if I recall.’ Barton finished his warm tea. ‘Gerrard never includes us in these types of discussions anyway, but we support this, it’s part of our policy, and if Gerrard hadn’t done it, we probably would have.’
‘All I’m saying is, the total funding doesn’t add up. This is supposed to be the first of four appropriations, and there’s no detail about how it’s supposed to work, and no detail about what this first payment will be used for.’
‘Okay, I’ll check it.’
‘Will you get back to me with a comment? I’m on a deadline.’
‘I can’t promise, but I’ll have a look at it.’ Barton sounded curt.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m a little pissed off, actually.’ Barton placed his empty cup and saucer on a nearby table.
‘How come?’
‘O’Brien has told me we’ll be operating normally next week. Gerrard is unbelievable. We haven’t even buried our mates and he wants us back at work. The government is downgrading the condolences to the Federation Chamber.’
Deceit Page 7
