Campaign Ruby Part 21

'Absolutely.' He didn't seem angry anymore, which was fortuitous because I couldn't have coped with that in addition to everything else.

We made our way through the market, Max and Fred shaking hands and tasting local produce, Sh.e.l.ly complimenting handicrafts.

Under the cover of my dark gla.s.ses, I hadn't been able to gauge whether Oscar saw the night before as a slip of the tongue, so I was relieved when he approached me with a cup of home-brewed ginger beer. 'It's supposed to be excellent for hangovers.'

'Thanks.' I took a quick sip and checked my periphery for onlookers.

'I had fun last night, Roo.' It was barely audible, but resonated.

'I did-'

Flack the Cop startled me with a tap on my shoulder. 'A word, Roo?'

'Excuse me, Oscar,' I said in my most professional voice and followed Flack to a quiet spot behind a Malaysian laksa stall.

'Territory Police have informed us there's a small group of protesters approaching the market.' He removed his curly earpiece. 'They're demanding to speak with Max.'

'What are they protesting?'

'Apparently they're unhappy with the Opposition's immigration policy. We think they're possibly dangerous- they're linked to a white supremacist group and have a history of violence. We're getting Max and Sh.e.l.ly out of here in two minutes.'

'Maybe he should confront them,' I suggested. 'I mean, it wouldn't do us any harm to be tough on these a.r.s.eholes.'

'With respect, I'm not asking your opinion, Roo.'

'Thanks for the heads up,' I said. 'Let's keep this low key-let me tell Max and Sh.e.l.ly what we're doing.' He nodded.

I pushed through the friendly crowd. Max was sampling chicken satay when I reached him. 'We've got to head to the cars now,' I said calmly, smiling. 'Violent white supremacists are on their way. We need to get out of here for everyone's safety. Follow Flack the Cop.'

As he posed for a camera phone with a local supporter, I could see the curiosity in Max's eyes as he weighed risk against political opportunity, then Sh.e.l.ly gave him the sort of look that only a spouse is ent.i.tled to give, a look he reluctantly obeyed.

'Thanks for showing me around, Fred.' Max shook his hand.

'There's plenty more to see,' said Fred, confused.

But Max had already veered off the agreed course and was making his way, smiling and waving, surrounded by cops, towards the cars. They sped off into the sunset as soon as he and Sh.e.l.ly were safely inside.

It was obvious to the media contingent that something was up.

'What's going on, gorgeous?' asked Oscar.

'Do you mind holding this for me?' I handed him my ginger beer. 'Duty calls.'

I found Fred and whispered in his ear. 'I'm Ruby Stanhope from Max's office. On advice from the police, I need you to head back to your office.'

'These are my const.i.tuents, mate,' he declared, raising his voice a little. 'They're expecting me to walk the length of this market, so that's what I'm going to do-with or without Max and his missus.'

We were surrounded by cameramen and hungry boom mikes. Oscar moved closer, his eyes pleading for an explanation. I was stuck. I couldn't tell the world the LOO skedaddled because we got a tip-off that a squadron of skinheads was on its way. I couldn't try to get the media back onto the bus because it would look like a cover-up. It was a case of waiting for the inevitable.

We didn't have to wait for long. Minutes later, a seething mob of crazies marched towards us, surrounded by uniformed police. Carrying vile banners, the protesters chanted maniacally. Cameras lapped up the commotion while journalists emptied their pockets in search of pens and dictaphones.

Too short to see past the onlookers, I watched a sequence of stills on the digital display of a Herald photographer's camera in front of me. One man's back was tattooed blue with a white cross in the centre. A middle-aged woman's face was painted with the Australian flag, but the blue and red had combined in the tropical humidity, turning her an unpleasant shade of violet. I'd seen these sorts of demonstrations back home. Seething haters are the same the world over: ugly. The laksa lady pulled down a roller door to shut up shop, and Fred the MP stood paralysed at the sidelines for a moment before fleeing to his car.

Oscar's satellite truck pulled up on the footpath. With the protest as his backdrop, he used the camera to pick his teeth and readied himself for a live cross.

'Thanks, Peter, I'm reporting live from a Darwin street market in the seat of Forster, where anti-immigration activists are protesting the Opposition's new immigration policy, announced yesterday.' He had to yell above the din. 'The policy would see an increase in skilled migration as a means of boosting economic activity if the Opposition was indeed to win...'

The aubergine extremist bounded into shot. 'Masters wants to let 'em take our jobs,' she howled, 'so we'll make sure he won't get the job he wants.'

'I guess that says it all,' said Oscar, who was very pleased with himself for being in the right place at the wrong time. 'Back to you, Peter.'

My BlackBerry buzzed in my bag.

'h.e.l.lo?' I shouted.

'I just saw your lover boy and his purple friend on telly,' said Di, 'and now my phone's going ballistic.'

I let the lover boy remark slide. 'I know. It's frantic here. Fred fled. What should I do? I can't very well bundle everyone back onto the bus-they're all trying to get as much of this story as possible.'

'Tell them the bus is leaving in five minutes and if they're not on it they'll need to find their own way back to the hotel. And don't answer any questions-not even from your boyfriend. After Dark wants an interview with Max.'

I bit my tongue and did as I was told.

My relentless phone rang.

'Wooby Stanhope?' said a little voice.

'Clem?'

'Yes, this is Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope calling.'

'Happy birthday to you,' I sang, 'happy birthday to you, happy birthday-'

'Please stop singing, Wooby.'

'So now that you're five you don't need to call me Aunty anymore?' I felt the beginnings of a sore throat.

'No,' she said, 'I'm not talking to you, but Mummy made me call you to say thank you for the balloons.'

'Why are you cross? Didn't you like them?'

'No, I did not like the balloons you sent me.' A foot stomped. 'I did not like them one little bit.'

I could hear Fran in the background urging her to show some manners.

'Thank you, Wooby. There, Mummy, I've said it, now can I hang up?'

Fran seized the phone. 'h.e.l.lo, Ruby,' she said, to the sound of a slamming door.

'Isn't it a little early for adolescence?'

'The delivery company came this morning, Ruby. When a five-year-old girl receives a floating ma.s.s of inflated buggies, storks and rattles in an array of blues led by a giant helium baby proclaiming IT'S A BOY ! this is the kind of reaction you can expect.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y Balloons on a Bike. They must have confused the order or something. Somewhere in western London, proud new parents are welcoming their son to the world with a bunch of pink balloons and a helium number 5. It cost me a small fortune.'

'She's inconsolable, Ruby.'

'Put Clem back on for me,' I pleaded. 'I can explain it to her.'

'I can't; she's refusing to speak with you-she now refers to you as "Mummy's sister".'

's.h.i.+t,' I said, 'I don't have time to fix this now-I'm trying to round up the nation's media to distract them from a group of white supremacists.'

'Well, we all have our priorities, don't we, Ruby? I have to go. I have eighty cupcakes to ice, twenty-seven allergy-safe party bags to fill and a pinata to papier-mache.'

She hung up on me.

It hadn't been the best twenty-four hours, what with the Luke reprimand, uncouth canoodling, lingering hangover, pirate breath, warning from Di, white supremacists, Clem cl.u.s.ter-f.u.c.k and the beginnings of man flu. Now, for the finale, Max was about to be interviewed on After Dark about the immigration backlash. And it was only Day Eight.

As the bus pulled into the hotel car park, there was a new text on my BlackBerry. Oscar.

Dramatic afternoon. Can't imagine what this means for your Immi policy? Sorry if the ginger beer was too public. Had fun last night. We must do it again...

But not the worst twenty-four hours either.

Stuffed up.

'Rhinosinusitis,' said the doctor, disposing of the foul-tasting ice lolly stick she'd just shoved down my throat.

'Excuse me?' I sprayed.

'You have an acute case of bacterial rhinosinusitis.'

b.l.o.o.d.y Oscar. My head was quick to blame.

'You know, there are nicer ways of telling your patients they're be-horned and beastly.' I mopped up the slurry of liquids streaming from my nose. I was proud of my little joke, given my condition, but the doctor seemed unamused.

She pa.s.sed me another tissue with her left hand while writing a script with her right. 'It just means your sinuses are stuffed.' She ripped a piece of paper from her pad. 'Here, take these three times a day with food-that ought to clear it-and keep taking paracetamol to keep your temperature down.'

Having tested its limits, I jettisoned my newest tissue, thanked the doctor for her humourless diagnosis and stepped out into the fresh Canberra air.

Yes, Canberra. Two nights earlier in balmy Darwin, Luke had pulled me aside when the LOO finished his gruelling After Dark interview, which had focused almost entirely on immigration, a topic now dominating the headlines. 'Can I have a word?'

'Sure.' What I really wanted was to make a run for it, mortified at the thought that Di had broadcast my lip-locking adventures in Cloncurry-soiling my dinner plate, or however she tactfully put it.

Why should you care? asked my head. It's not as if it's any more unprofessional than, say, interrupting a press conference with a 'ta da' or sending a recording device to its watery grave or allowing a harmless photo opportunity to morph into a race riot.

'I need you in Canberra, mate,' said Luke.

Relief rushed through my arteries. 'Whatever for?'

'One, you look like death and I don't want any of the travelling party catching whatever that is. Rest tomorrow.'

It wasn't exactly a compliment, but understandable given that Maddy had asked me earlier in the evening if I'd mistakenly used a coral lip pencil in place of my usual charcoal eyeliner.

'Two, the debate's on Sunday night and I'd like you to join the prep team.'

Now, that was a compliment. I might not have been in the game for long, but I knew that The Debate was a campaign event trumped only by The Launch and Polling Day itself.

As Luke explained, the politics leading up to it are like those surrounding a mediaeval duel. As soon as there's a whiff of an election date, each candidate races to become the challenger. Once challenged, the opponent must either accept or have very good reason to decline. The debate then becomes focused on timing, venue, format and the like. 'My opponent has expressed a preference for a single moderator-I would prefer a panel of three journalists from the press gallery,' one candidate might say. 'Three journalists?' the other would reply. 'I thought we should invite the audience to adjudicate-they are, after all, the ultimate adjudicators.' And so, the one-upmans.h.i.+p would continue until the minutiae were sorted and the parameters set.

In the present case, the LOO had challenged the Prime Minister to a debate. She had duly accepted, but on the condition that it be held in the Great Hall of Parliament House on the second Sunday of the campaign. The LOO accepted, but pointed out how unusual it was to hold the debate so early in the campaign and requested that his opponent leave open the possibility of a second debate. She had not ruled it out. So if one candidate did badly there could well be another round.

With a pile of reading in my laptop bag, I'd boarded a midnight flight to Canberra. It hadn't been such a good idea to catch the eight-hour flight from Darwin (via Adelaide, where the lounge was closed) to Canberra with nasal pa.s.sages full of ball bearings and eyes that might pop free of their sockets if I sneezed. Business Cla.s.s was full, so I had found myself inexorably sandwiched between a man the size of a Smart Car and a woman with a teething baby.

I wasn't just sick; I was homesick and miserable. My niece was fuming, my sister distant and my aunts a faint memory. Cobwebs and a few hundred quid were all that remained of my bank account because I kept forgetting to sign my employment contract. I hadn't slept properly in a fortnight and I'd been cruelly close to the Barossa Valley and Margaret River on several occasions without picking up a brochure, let alone a bottle. To top things off, I'd fallen in l.u.s.t with the political equivalent of Romeo Montague. As the infant beside me howled through the turbulence, I too had shed a few quiet tears.

It was a glorious Thursday morning in Canberra when I filled my script at the Manuka chemist, a perfect twenty-four degrees. I tilted my head skywards and basked in the gentle sunlight, asking that it warm my face and hair. My prep meeting wasn't until noon, so I had a rare ninety minutes to myself. I probably should have done something productive with them, like find a laundromat or remove the chipped pearl lacquer from my fingernails, but I erred on the side of indulgence. Securing a half-sunned table for one at a tiny cafe, I read only the Food & Wine, Arts and Literature sections of the papers over two lattes, a mushroom risotto and a lightly dusted gelatinous cube of rose and pistachio Turkish delight.

Where in the world is Roo? x.x.x Oscar had staged a virtual invasion of my heavenly peace, the second message since Darwin, but his company wasn't unwelcome.

Sick in Maunka. Rhinosinusitis. As ugly as it sounds. R My initial would suffice. Frankly, there had been enough kisses for now.

Couldn't be ugly on you. I'm a bit stuffy too. Manuka is practically my hood-I live in Kingston. How long are you there for? x I drafted and redrafted my reply. Charming as he might be, I couldn't very well tell a journalist my purpose for being in Canberra. My head praised me for heeding its warning.

Not sure at this stage. Where are you? R I knew where he was. In fact, I even knew where he was headed next, which was more than he did.

Arnhem Land. It's amazing-hope you missed this for something important? Your guy has announced he'll fund trips for school students to visit Indigenous communities in their state-I just blogged my support. Looking forward to seeing more of you. x That was presumptuous. If I hadn't needed to be at Parliament House twenty minutes later, I probably would have spent the next hour wrestling with my aching head about the pros and cons of dating the enemy, but there was a bigger debate to be had.

From newspaper photographs, I'd always thought the Australian parliament had all the architectural grace of a squat hatstand, but as I walked through its main doors into the huge entrance hall, I changed my mind.

Staffers on their BlackBerries traipsed across the vast s.p.a.ce. A travel-weary school group clad in crumpled uniforms marvelled at the high ceilings, their nervous young teacher conducting a solemn headcount. Three pairs of high heels went clip-clopping across the floor, the ident.i.ties of their wearers hidden behind cardboard trays holding dozens of precariously balanced takeaway coffees. An old man stepped out of their way, rapping his knuckles against a marble wall, while his wife browsed the decorative teaspoons in the gift shop. This was the national parliament and there was nothing stuffy about it. The open hall told me a lot about the country I was getting to know.

I approached a staffed desk and said I had a meeting at the Leader of the Opposition's office, giving them Beryl's name.

'She'll be down in a minute to sign you in, love,' said a uniformed man.

'Roo!' bellowed Beryl as she came rus.h.i.+ng towards me like an excited child. 'It's great to see you.' She grabbed my hand and squeezed until my fingers fought for their release. 'Come with me,' she said. I attached a flimsy cardboard UNACOMPANIED VISITOR pa.s.s to my jeans and followed her through a maze of indistinguishable corridors with identical wall clocks ticking in unison.

We arrived at an enclave of empty part.i.tioned offices, each desk in total disarray as if everyone had just stepped out for a fire drill.

'Where are all the people?'