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ONE

“He wanted them, I didn’t,” was Emmie’s reason for her divorce.

“Babies, or little babies, are beautiful,” she continued, “but like Ogden Nash’s kitten they grow up an’ then become noisy an’ run around disrupting work, reading and parties. No thanks. At least with the animal you can wring its neck.”

She had begun her remarks as she confidently drove his car along the highway out of the harsh bush land onto the plateau above Merimbula and he first glimpsed the ocean off this popular coastal holiday destination. Below the rooftops of houses clinging to the steep hillside Order saw what appeared to be part of a lagoon of still water separated by a narrow strip of sandhills and beach from the shining sea.

“Far from the madding crowd,” Emmie had exulted, looking at the view.

“Victorians up here are called Mexicans,” she earlier had volunteered unexpectedly.

“From south of the New South Wales border?” he asked.

“Queenslanders say the same about the New South Welsh,” she confirmed.

“Surely discriminatory?”

“No. State residency doesn’t count. Only discriminatory if you’re black or maybe ethnic,” she had said with a laugh. “As was my ex-husband.”

And before John Order could ask further, Emmie had added: “He had this hang-up about kids. Seemed to think they followed marriage like night follows day.” Then she had explained why the marriage had ended.

My sentiments entirely, thought Order, middle-aged, now single and a successful member of the Australian Capital Territory parliament, as they began the moderate curving descent into the town itself.

But he didn’t say so. He enjoyed Emmie’s company and was looking forward to a quiet week alone with her after the hurly-burly of the government-winning election campaign, which saw him substantially increase his own 176 vote by-election majority.

However seven days not a lifetime of her presence was all he wanted for the time being, compatible as they were about the difference between sex and reproduction. An enigmatic schoolteacher, Jay, was still around, even if the looming Christmas school holidays would prevent lunchtime liaisons because the secretive woman had to look after her child and maybe holiday somewhere with him and her husband. If the last holiday period was any guide she’d have a message on her mobile as to when she’d again be available and Order didn’t want to miss out.

“I’m going to drop you at the house,” Emmie said, interrupting his thoughts as they drove through the shopping centre. “I promised to call in an’ see my gran at Pambula. Shouldn’t be too long.”

Such discretion was something else he appreciated about Emmie: how many divorced women would keep a relationship with a bachelor politician private?

Now through the town they climbed a steep hill and over the crest Emmie swung the car into an unpaved driveway.

“An’ here we are, just we two,” she said, giving his right leg an intimate squeeze. “I’ll be as quick as I can. The keys are in the letterbox an’ if you think we need more pillows or bedclothes try the flat behind. It can get chilly here in November. ‘Bye for now.”

On the third attempt Order fitted a key into the weatherboard cottage door lock and found himself in a messy lounge room. Newspapers and gossip magazines lay beside two lounging chairs, which in turn sat beside small tables with full ashtrays. In the kitchen through an archway he could see dishes piled up in the sink and an unwiped Formica-topped table.

The bedroom off from the other side of the lounge room was no better. Tangled sheets and an open wardrobe door, another dirty ashtray and more dog-eared magazines, even an empty beer can. The spare bedroom with two bunk beds unsuitable for their needs appeared unused while the water splashed bathroom called for the same thorough clean as the rest of the house.

Emmie had told him on the three hour drive from Canberra that the holiday cottage had been let for the previous week but the tenants had to be out by ten o’clock Saturday morning, changeover day. Whoever it was were untidy people, thoughtless for the comfort of the next occupants.

It was the sight of the bed sheets which most repelled Order, thought not from any prudish attitude: he simply didn’t fancy having sex with Emmie anywhere near them. If there were pillows and warm bedclothes in the adjoining flat, perhaps there was clean linen too?

The back door off the kitchen led to a covered veranda, further along from which another room stood at a right angle. Playing trial and error with the keys set finally produced a result and Order stepped into a spacious room with two single beds and adjacent night tables, a complete wall of built-ins and a man’s body lying on his back outside the open door of one wardrobe.

In Order’s opinion very dead and, despite the colour distortion of the face, unquestionably very recognisable.

TWO

The association began with the coup.

It was the Monday of the second week in August with most of the parliamentary members returned from the mid-winter recess, a more than usually welcomed respite following the early election campaign scare: an election political observers claimed was only prevented from taking place when the government’s leader, old Paddles Porter, broke his leg at a grandchild’s birthday party.

As nobody wanted to fight a campaign in the middle of winter, most of the parliament silently gave thanks and took a break from their duties.

Most but not all.

“Rob Glasson wants to see you, John,” Liz, Order’s efficient middle-aged secretary said quietly from the doorway to his office, using the first name appellation they adopted when alone. “Can you spare a minute?”

Along with Tim Forbes, the Opposition’s police spokesman, Glasson was Order’s closest mate in the parliament: an environment known more for acquaintanceships than friendships.

“It‘s on,” he announced without preliminaries, facing Order across the visitors’ circular table. “Want to join us?”

“I don’t understand you, Rob,” Order was genuinely puzzled at the cryptic statement.

“Fearless Leader’s being challenged at next Monday’s Party meeting,” Glasson explained patiently. “We’re looking for your vote.”

“We?”

“Those of us who’ve signed the letter calling for a leadership ballot an’ for which seven days notice must be given.”

“Risky isn’t it? Tipping off the incumbent he’s under threat?”

Glasson grinned. “Too right. That’s why the seven days notice was put in, to protect people being tossed unexpectedly. But it’s why I’m here too; to tie up your vote before the other side starts their lobbying for support.”

“Is it necessary? The leadership change, I mean?” he added quickly, seeing Glasson’s wary expression.

“We think so, John. When the election scare was on for a July poll, we couldn’t move. Too close to the vote. But when Porter had his accident an’ the election was postponed, probably to later this year, we decided to act.”

“That still doesn’t explain -” Order began.

“Why he’s got to go? Because he’s ineffectual. The government’s in all sorts of trouble, there’ll be an election sooner rather than later an’ we’ve hardly landed a punch in the last session of parliament.”

“We’ve a good chance of winning this time,” Glasson continued when Order remained looking doubtful, “but we won’t do it unless we have a new leader. So how about it?”

“An’ what if you don’t win?”

“The worst that can happen is another term in opposition. Preselections are over, so Party headquarters can’t punish us by putting forward new candidates. Anyway, there’s too many of us an’ I don’t think H.Q. will be upset if we roll him. They’re hungry for power too.”

“You sound very confident you’ve got the numbers, Rob.”

“I am an’ I believe we have.”

“Then why seek my vote?”

“A convincing victory causes less instability than scraping through on a couple of votes an’, for you personally, to be on the winning side would be in your future political best interests.”

“Who’s going forward?”

“As leader? Phillip Keane. He’s business an’ consumer affairs spokesman, as you know, so he’s got the contacts with the big end of town. An’ Jenny Fellows for deputy.”

“Deputy too?”

“A clean sweep. Jenny’s a caring woman, ideal as our welfare spokesman,” Glasson explained, oblivious to the gender contradiction. “She’ll appeal to the bleeding hearts an’ the female vote.”

They’ve done their homework, Order admitted, but he had one more question.

“Where does Tim stand?”

“Our mate Forbes has signed the letter. We’re in this together an’ we’d like you -”

“Okay,” said Order.

THREE

It wasn’t as easy as Rob Glasson predicted. Other members owed their positions to Fearless Leader’s patronage and they fought to retain what they had rather than risk their unknown chances with Phillip Keane. A simple calculation showed if Keane won then to repay his own supporters some existing shadow ministers would lose their jobs.

Self-interest, that powerful incentive, helped clarify intentions and with the votes of frontbench members and the plotters known, attention could be directed to those officially still uncommitted. This group included Order; because signing the letter calling for a leadership spill did not necessarily indicate a particular voting intention but rather that you supported the right of the challenge to be made.

Order found himself wooed by unlikely suitors, including Wendy Wonder aka Wendy the Wonder Woman or VW - three W’s - for short. A bossy, feisty fellow committee member rumoured to be after the Whip’s job, her appeal on behalf of Fearless Leader suggested to Order the Whip himself, Harold Chambers, the man who gave him so much dreary House duty, was backing Phillip Keane. VW’s allegiance also showed that the Opposition’s sisterhood, the parliament’s female equivalent of the Mafia, was not united behind Jenny Fellows.

The conservative members of the parliamentary party too were supporting the status quo and both Paul Severin, a law and order fanatic, and George Graham, a maverick and racist who hated political correctness, called separately to see him.

To each of these visitors Order was non-committal about his voting intentions. He owed them nothing.

The media was in frenzy, speculating daily upon the chances of the contenders, lining up the numbers of supporters and those undecided. This latter group still included John Order and as the long frenetic week progressed the officially publicly uncommitted shrank to five.

Which was when Fearless Leader’s chief of staff visited Order late Thursday afternoon.

Boyd Kipling was a middle-aged man originally seconded from the Treasury to the Party when it had been in government. As happens, a liking for the excitement of being part of the political process or a demonstrated enthusiasm for one’s political master’s policies often makes a return to the sober apolitical world of the bureaucracy unappealing or impossible. Kipling was one such defector, was good at his job and was known for a no-nonsense approach.

“You know why I’m here, John. What’s it to be?” Kipling hadn’t even taken the seat indicated and this impatient superiority, often exhibited by senior staffers, irritated Order.

“That’s my business, Boyd,” he replied, trying to keep his temper.

“It’s ours too,” Kipling said possessively, “an’ if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay with us.”

“For someone touting for votes, you have a very unsubtle method,” Order snapped.

“That’s me. What you see is what you get,” Kipling said unapologetically. Like many men of slight build and less than medium height he stood his ground.

“You’re new to all this, Order,” he continued offensively, like a school prefect bullying a first grader. “With your majority - a couple of hundred, isn’t it? - I’d take expert advice an’ stay with the strength.”

“It’s one hundred an’ seventy six votes, Kipling, an’ at least I earned them.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that I won that by-election. I didn’t come into this place on a secondment like you. I might be a lowly backbencher, the lowest of the low because I haven’t been here a full term, but I’m still an elected member an’ I won’t be pushed around or patronised by staffers, no matter how senior.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” Kipling sneered.

“From when I was a staffer? How would you know? Maybe I was always appalled at the way some of you minders manipulated your members. Power without responsibility, Kipling.”

“So you’re not with us?”

“Not now I’m not,” Order confirmed gleefully.

“You’ll be sorry, Order,” Boyd Kipling’s tone was serious.

The next morning, Friday, the media reported John Order was staying with the incumbent for the leadership. This resulted in several telephone calls from those supporting the challenger, including a disappointed Rob Glasson.

The lie could only have had one source and an angry Order made his views known to an amused Kipling outside Committee Room Two, where he encountered the man with Selby, another of Fearless Leader’s staffers.

“I warned you, Order,” the chief of staff said, grinning.

“I’ve issued a denial.”

“That won’t do you much good. Even if they run it, some mud always sticks. It’s a secret ballot, remember? So unless you’re doing a show an’ tell, there’ll always be doubts who you supported. You might as well stay with us.”

Beside Kipling smirked the influential Selby, a tall strong woman and the current Opposition leader’s senior female staffer, responsible for the preparation and allocation of Questions without Notice, with whom Order had argued heatedly earlier in the year.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” said Order, pushing past them to enter the meeting room where several Government members stood waiting, delighted at this spectacle of the Opposition’s falling out.

By lunch the exchange was all around the building, prompting Fearless Leader himself to phone Order to protest about his treatment of Kipling in public.

“I won’t forget this, John,” the man warned.

But it was an empty threat because Phillip Keane convincingly won the following Monday’s Party room challenge thanks to last minute large scale defections, according to gossip, when members realised he was going to win. Insiders disputed this explanation; Keane was always going to win and any suggestion of a real contest was a media beat up.

The rejuvenated Opposition went on to win the general election in October: the healing complications of Paddles Porter’s broken leg fatally delaying the poll as the economy worsened.

Not that even a Lazarus-like recovery by Porter could have saved his government. The smell of defeat had hung around most of the year and continued to do so throughout the campaign. No matter what they did to stay in power, remaining always focused, positive and infallible, admitting no mistakes, conceding no shortcomings, the government was doomed. Even the backbenchers knew this to be the case and displayed that strange frozen behaviour which prevented them from acting as they usually behaved: helping out their ministers, reporting the mood of the electorate, pleading for policy changes. It’s a strange even mystical intangible, impossible to define, but governments know when they’re going to lose and is best summed up by the fatalistic comment: when you’re gone, you’re gone.

For John Order the election was a personal triumph. Not only did he see off a second time the government opponent Darren Bruce, who had declared his Aboriginality to attract the vote of the indigenous and their sympathizers, but he also increased his majority to a comfortable buffer against the inevitable time when his party fell out of favour.

He knew he deserved his win. Ever since the by-election victory he’d worked the streets, the shopping centres, doorknocked and pamphlet dropped, attended as many electoral activities as possible and been diligent in dealing with constituents’ representations.

Yet none of this dedication could ever guarantee success and his return to elected office therefore was of greater personal satisfaction than the return to government of his own party.

He’d won in his own right.

Nothing can compare with the intensity of feeling this achievement produces among those who have not contested a general election. Some parliaments fill casual vacancies caused by a member’s death or unexpected retirement by appointment or by complicated count back procedures, with neither method requiring the chosen replacement to face the scrutiny of the electorate. Even when the electorate is given the opportunity to make a choice and a by-election is held, the successful candidate’s result is distorted by the generous resources of time, money and political personalities poured into the localised campaign.

Such support is not available when a general election is held because finance and manpower must be allocated much more widely. Then both appointees and by-election winners compete for the first time as equals with their parliamentary colleagues and victory is the sweeter for the even contest.

iey

“My gran’s got a place she rents out at Merimbula,” she’d explained. “It’s nothing flash but if we want to get away where it’s a little more private …?”

This was why John Order came to be standing in a flat in the coastal town staring in amazement at the lifeless body of Boyd Kipling.

Published by Vivid Publishing
ISBN:	9781925590579 (ebook)
Series:	Cornwell, Greg. John Order politician & sleuth series ; Book Four.
Subjects:	Detective and mystery stories. Merimbula (N.S.W.)--Fiction.