ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

She was in her electorate office, in shorts, t-shirt and sandals and
waiting for the seat to be declared, when she got a call from the
Premier. As her electorate officer put the call through they looked at
each other, wondering what she had done wrong. Even after all these
years she felt like a schoolgirl facing the principal. Introductions were
brief.
“So, you gonna win?”
“It’s pretty close, but I think so, yes.”
“You’d better. What do you think of the cabinet so far?” It was
an interesting question, as none of the cabinet names had been
released—was it a test?
“Ah, well, I’m not sure who you have yet, apart from the obvious. Lots
of factional warring, no doubt?” She was feeling stronger, feet up on
the desk, chewing the fat with the Premier!
“What about you, would you be interested?”
She laughed a little too loudly as her tummy did a backflip. “Yeah
right.” She then went into an unprovoked tirade on what needed to be
done in the party and in her electorate—the naivety of an accidental
politician.
“Yes, we will talk about all that. Can you come into the office now?”
“Now? Yes, I’m in shorts.”
“See you within the hour.”
By this time her legs were off the desk, and she felt dread at being
summoned. Her electorate officer handed her the car keys. “I’ll
organise a car space.”
The executive building was a seventies high-rise, the carpark
subterranean, the Premier’s office on the fourteenth floor.
She drove down to the carpark. “I have an appointment with the
Premier.”
“We were expecting you. If you could proceed to bay forty, please.”
*
She smiled and did as instructed. There were ministerial drivers
cleaning their cars in readiness for their new ministers. She waved
casually as she walked past them on her way to the lift. The lift driver
was as old as Methuselah and the size of a house; he had been in this
position for a lifetime. He took her express to the Premier’s floor.
Security were expecting her and let her through. She walked into
an opulent waiting area, now feeling decidedly underdressed. Why
hadn’t she gone home to change? Her lipstick did match her shoes,
though.
Sitting on one of the four couches were two members of the right
faction, dressed appropriately in suits, their heads close together.
She doubted they were whispering sweet nothings to each other;
more likely who was going to the thrust the knife and into whom.
She smiled nervously. The look they gave her could only be described
as the look someone gets when they’ve trodden in dog shit. It was
fleeting, and when they tried to be warm it came out tepid.
“Hello. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been summoned by the man who will be obeyed.”
“Really? Right, okay.” Their faces said it all: What the fuck is SHE
doing here? And back they went to whispering. She sat down on the
opposite couch and awaited her fate.
When it was her turn she was ushered into the inner sanctum. The
Premier and his chief of staff were behind the Premier’s desk. She
sat in the chair opposite and curled her bare leg underneath her. The
Premier looked serious; his chief of staff wore a poker face.
“People tell me you are going to win, so I am offering you a cabinet
position. I need an answer quickly; I’m being screwed by the factions.
They won’t like my decision, but I need another woman and it’s you.”
Her lip was curling into a smile. She had to stop herself from letting
out a chuckle. “You’re joking, right?” Here she was, sitting in the
Premier’s office in shorts and being asked if she wanted a ministerial
position. If his face hadn’t been so serious she would have thought it
was a joke. “Um … the arts?” she asked.
“No, the arts is a senior portfolio and will go to someone experienced.
We have created a new position I think will suit you down to the
ground. It’s not going to be easy, but I will surround you with good
people and you will have me; I will look after you. So, what do you
say?”
Her heart was racing. “Can I make some calls and let you know in an
hour?”
“One hour it is,” the Premier responded with his trademark Cheshire
cat grin. Lambs to the slaughter. The Premier and his chief of staff
looked at her and looked toward the door. It was time to take her
leave. She made it to her car, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or
sing or scream or … Best to breathe, she told herself.
Back at the office, her electorate officer stared at her in disbelief. “But
you haven’t won yet.”
“Apparently they think I will, so you know what this means, don’t
you? You will have to come to the ministerial office and we will
replace you here. You have to come, I’m not going without you.”
The electorate officer looked at her with a maternal look, her hand
trying to pat the mass of curls on her head into place. “We will cross
that bridge when we need to.” Always the steady hand.
She rang her partner. “I can’t talk about it on the phone. It’s not bad—
well, it depends on how you look at it. Can you come over straight
away?”
“Now you have me worried. I will be there in fifteen.”
Within those fifteen minutes she and her EO discussed, dissected,
screamed, laughed, stared, and finally she made up her mind.
If only someone had said, ‘don’t do it’. She was non-factional, which
meant she didn’t have any heavyweights to caution her. She only had
an actor’s ego, a partner who was thrilled, and an EO who probably
knew better but didn’t let on.
In that month of February, with the Premier’s ducks all in a row, new
and returning MPs were called to a meeting in the members’ reading
room of Parliament House.
*
As all the elected and re-elected members walked across the
promenade from the annexe to the ‘old house’ for the meeting,
journalists were swarming. The usual suspects—ABC, Channel 10,
Channel 7—were all on a first-name basis with many of the long-term
members. This time around it was her name that was being called,
with microphones at the ready. “What’s it like to be a minister? Your
seat hasn’t been declared yet? Be embarrassing if you don’t win?
Have you thought of that? Are you confident? Anything to say?” She
smiled, being pushed along the path by the momentum of the others,
no time to talk. There was that question though, with many of her
colleagues thinking the same thing—what if you don’t win? There
was still no word. At last count they were two hundred votes ahead,
and that’s about where it remained.
She had coveted the arts portfolio, having been an actor and in the
creative industries for a lifetime. Arts, always an addendum portfolio,
historically went to a senior minister who often had little connection
to the field apart from accepting free tickets to opening nights and
reading the odd poem. To fit her into cabinet they created a new
portfolio: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy (ATSIP). It came
as a surprise; she was known for her strong opinions on the subject of
our first Australians, but felt it was being politicised. She was not an
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