The Speechwriter Read online

  I am sorry to share this bad news. But there have been bruises done in our minds and we can make the bruises better by telling the truth. We should not be scared because adults lie to us, and some pretend to be magic and have beards.

  I’d thought about this moment all summer. Not the delivery of the speech, but the space after. What would happen when I finished? I’d practised gracefully returning the cards to my pocket, and I’d rehearsed a cool, implacable stare as the audience trembled with their new reality. But what I thought about most was their response. I figured it could go one of two ways: rapturous assent, or contemplative silence. I was prepared for either outcome.

  I stood proudly, pretending to stare above their heads towards the mountaintop, but really keeping a nervous, peripheral eye on Pete. For a while, nothing happened. Contemplative silence it was. That was understandable — my peers would have to painfully reconcile this new truth with their old reality. And perhaps some would briefly resent me for this. I was prepared for that. The truth could be intolerable.

  But then: a thunderous eruption of laughter. It didn’t compare to the previous laughter, inspired by my pratfall and dick-blow. This was unlike anything I’d ever heard. It was alive, berserk, merciless. It possessed several octaves. It dissolved them. They regressed to a delirious primitivism. Some fell to their knees. Teachers clasped their mouths. It was difficult to maintain composure, and I began nervously looking around.

  It took me a while to realise that I’d caused this mass possession. This should have been immediately obvious, but my earnestness was an effective shield against plain conclusions. What I couldn’t understand was why. It took ten minutes for the audience to rediscover their tongues and tell me.

  ‘You believed in Santa!’ Juliet yelled, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘He believed in Santa!’ someone else yelled, inspiring another lengthy collective paroxysm.

  ‘Toby,’ a teacher said. ‘No one in this yard has believed in Father Christmas for years. You’re very late to the party, I’m sorry.’

  They all knew. All of them. But how? And when? At home, I made a small bonfire in the yard and torched my speech and pamphlets. As I lay in bed that night, distracted by my mother’s reading of Revelations, I wondered why my parents had never pierced my faith in Santa — and how it had escaped puncturing by anyone else.

  I was humiliated, ashamed. For a while I wept, and not without pleasure. But my superpower was persistence. I’m unsure of its origin — perhaps a subconscious defiance of my father’s dismal resignation. All I can tell you is that my sense of purpose could (and did) survive severe humiliation.

  So I dried my eyes and renewed my bedtime habit — reading the latest copy of Father’s Time. It was obvious from the magazine that the planet was gravely threatened, but that night I realised that it required my personal vigilance to halt its destruction. Time suggested acid rain and Asian drug cartels as priorities. I took notes.

  One day, a year after the Christmas speech, our school chaplain, Ms. West, surprised me by asking for a meeting.

  ‘I’ve been watching you, Toby,’ she said.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Do you believe in Christ, our Lord and Saviour?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘That’s okay, because He believes in you.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘I can see it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He shines through you.’

  ‘He shines through me?’

  ‘It’s blinding.’

  ‘Is He shining right now?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘It’s not something you see with your eyes,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s something you see in here,’ and she touched her chest. ‘Toby, let me be frank. Your Christmas speech was a courageous beachhead in the repulsion of false idols. You were humiliated, but then most prophets are.’

  ‘But they already knew.’

  ‘No, Toby. They knew that Father Christmas was false, but they didn’t grasp your larger truth.’

  ‘What was my larger truth?’

  ‘That the confection is blasphemous. A cheap, unholy distraction from Him.’

  ‘I’m just not sure why adults lie to children.’

  ‘Because the Devil makes them.’

  ‘The Devil?’

  ‘He finds warm flesh to work through.’

  ‘Warm flesh?’

  ‘Mortals, Toby. Weak humans.’

  ‘And they do the Devil’s work?’

  ‘Wittingly or not.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘They undermine Christ, Toby.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How can I count the ways? By fanning lust, by dividing us, and by denying servants of Christ their reserved car space.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Toby, would you consider me a servant of Christ?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So then would you consider a dedicated space in the teachers’ car park to be a fair recognition of that status?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So do I. But the principal doesn’t see things that way, Toby. He’s removed mine. Said he had to “economise” — now there’s a word of the Devil.’

  ‘Why are you saying all this?’

  ‘You’re brave, Toby. And truthful. You glow with the light of Christ.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And you’re a brilliant speaker.’

  ‘I think a lot about rhetoric.’

  ‘I can tell.’ She paused. ‘Toby, nominations for school captain close in less than a week.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you thought about declaring?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘I’m not popular enough, Ms.’

  ‘You’re afraid of losing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Toby, let me tell you something privately.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘There is currently only one nomination.’ This was confidential information, and I was thrilled it was being shared with me. ‘In all likelihood, the principal’s son will be elected unopposed.’

  The principal’s son was Pete, the thug who had traumatised my junk with some high-velocity citrus. He was cruel, incurious, and smugly immune from the consequences of his barbarism. The thought of him becoming school captain made me sick.

  ‘Do you think I can win?’

  ‘Only if you nominate.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Toby: you glow with the light of Christ. Pete reeks of the Devil.’

  ‘You think the Devil is inside him?’

  ‘There’s a very good chance.’

  ‘That does make sense. You know, he once threw a tangelo at my—’

  ‘Of course it makes sense. I can smell it as easily as I can see your golden rays.’

  ‘I still can’t see them.’

  ‘Will you run, Toby?’

  Of course I’d thought about it. I’d dreamt of the captaincy. But this was a year earlier than I had planned. I wasn’t ready. I’d only progressed from eccentric pariah to harmless nonentity — definitely an improvement, but not a sufficient one to challenge for captain.

  Then there was my age. The position was open to students in the oldest two grades, but was rarely won by a younger candidate. Pete was a year older. More importantly, he had the support of the family’s influential patriarch and ran a ruthless network of influence. In our school, he was effectively a Kennedy.

  But then I thought of what Churchill wrote as a young man. I had copied the words and stuck them above my bedroom’s desk: ‘Of all the talents bestowed upon men, none is so precious as the gift of oratory. He who enjoys it wields a po
wer more durable than that of a great king.’

  I’d spent many nights imagining myself wielding that power with wisdom and grace, as I cleansed the world of parental deceit and industrial chimneys.

  As I considered Ms. West’s suggestion, I also thought of how Churchill overcame his own deficits. There were plenty. Fat, short, and stammering, he’d had to apply great will to become the hallowed speaker he was in later years. So why was I meekly deferring to my own deficit of popularity?

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll run?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled, and from her desk drawer she removed the nomination form.

  ‘We need a platform,’ she said.

  ‘Stopping Triads.’

  ‘The cartel?’

  ‘And acid rain.’

  ‘Toby, can I suggest you only include local issues? Better water fountains, longer recess breaks?’

  ‘But that’s small stuff.’

  ‘They’re popular and more realistic.’

  ‘What if Triads and acid rain are Devil things?’

  ‘Don’t complicate this, Toby.’

  We can discuss my platform later, I thought. I signed the form.

  The first candidate debate was a fortnight away. Ms. West offered to help prepare me — in fact, she insisted — but staff weren’t permitted to interfere or show favouritism, so we arranged to meet after school under the guise of spiritual counsel. It felt grubby, but Ms. West tried to quell my guilt by reminding me of Pete’s moral turpitude.*

  [* Garry wonders what this word means and if its use is ‘absolutely fucken necessary’, and I’m wondering if the reader’s interest can survive all of his fucking interruptions. ‘You promised me I’d be involved in this book, Toby.’

  ‘You extorted the privilege from me.’

  ‘I don’t fucken see the difference, mate.’]

  ‘I know you want to run on an ambitious platform, Toby,’ Ms. West said. ‘But there are times when ambition is best served by subtlety.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your path to office.’

  ‘We destroy the opium trade?’

  ‘Jesus, Toby, you’re 11 years old.’

  ‘‘‘Of all the talents bestowed upon man—”’

  ‘Toby, shut up and listen to me. There’s only one path. In a crowded field, you’d be invisible. You’d be lucky to get three votes. But this is different. It’s A versus B. And you’re not popular, but you’re not despised either. Pete could only win by scaring off the competition. But he failed because you stood up. Now, this is our gamble: that their hatred for Pete is greater than their indifference to you. Until now, the kids have been too scared to show it — but they’ll have no problem expressing their contempt by secret ballot.’

  ‘They hate Pete?’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Let Pete be Pete. Let him expose his cynicism and ineptitude. It’s as easy as letting him speak.’

  ‘So I should do — nothing?’

  ‘The playground isn’t looking for a saviour, Toby. But I think enough of them are looking to hurt Pete.’

  ‘But what do I stand for?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough to stand against Pete? To stand against cruelty, ignorance, and nepotism?’

  ‘I’ve studied rhetoric.’

  ‘I want you to play to your strength. And your strength is that you’re not Pete.’

  ‘What about my golden rays?’

  ‘You can harness them when you’ve won.’

  ‘How do you harness light?’

  She sighed heavily.

  Ms. West’s analysis was persuasive, but depressing. It was difficult to accept that I might be tactically advantaged by being less like myself. I was depressed further when, without my requesting it, Ms. West wrote my debate talking points:

  * DO NOT refer to drug trafficking, human trafficking, sweat shops, the environment, the United Nations, Santa Claus, animal cruelty, or anything else more ambitious than improving the quality of the canteen’s sausage rolls. They don’t care, Toby.

  * DO NOT mention that you glow with the light of Christ. It will be obvious enough to the faithful, and no one likes a braggart.

  * DO sell your three policies: Lunch extended by 10 minutes, a seasonal canteen menu, and fountains that offer chilled water in summer. No more, no less. You are not Vaclav Havel.*

  [* ‘What’s a fucken Vaclav Havel? One of those Belgian beers those root-fearing monks make? Potent shit, they are.’]

  * If asked why you want to be school captain, SIMPLY TELL THEM that you think we have a wonderful school — but that it could benefit from some modest improvements.

  * If asked why you think you’re fit to be school captain, DO NOT REFER TO PETE’S CHARACTER. Just tell them that you are honest, humble, and committed. Tell them that you are kind and fair. That’s all. You are NOT an aggressive candidate, Toby. And you are NOT a revolutionary one, either. You are the candidate that is NOT PETE. Don’t forget this.

  * P.S. DO NOT mention the Devil. Best not to invite controversy or his wrath.

  Even though they diminished me, I found the notes very attractive. They were simple, uncontroversial, and easily memorised. They would subtly contrast the two of us, without me having to assert a personality that Ms. West had almost convinced me was unelectable.

  But if I was pledging honesty and fairness, how honest and fair was it to enjoy the secret patronage of Ms. West? I could assume that Pete was improperly receiving his father’s counsel — but wasn’t I the candidate that wasn’t Pete? But then my sense of rectitude would slow, twist, and turn back: what good was noble ambition without an office to express it? I could harness my light after I’d won.

  Debate day came.

  Onstage, Pete and I shook hands. He maliciously squeezed mine and grinned like a lobotomised ape. A hundred students and teachers sat before us in a draughty hall festooned with blue and gold balloons and crepe paper. In the front row, my political Svengali was nervously fingering her rosary beads. A lectern stood centre-stage, flanked by desks for the two candidates. At the foot of the stage sat the debate moderator, the deputy principal. Pete’s father had recused himself.

  ‘Pete, per the coin toss, you’re up first. You have two minutes to tell us why you’re the best candidate for school captain. Your time starts now.’

  I watched him coolly. He was alone and self-conscious — behind the lectern, there was no emboldening circle of sycophants. My hand was swelling now, but I sensed that his discomfort was greater. And I relished it. ‘Yeah, I’m Pete,’ he said, and sniggered nervously. ‘You know me. I mean, what else is there to say, you know? Hey, watch this—’ and he cupped his hands to his mouth and made fart noises for a whole minute before he resumed his seat.

  ‘Thank you, Pete,’ the moderator said. ‘Toby, you have two minutes.’

  I knew then what to do. I’d be Churchill, not Chamberlain. Defiantly, I closed Ms. West’s notes. I was too young to volunteer for my own diminishment.

  This is what I said: ‘For years, Pete has terrorised us. And to confirm his contempt, we’ve just had this performance. He thinks so little of us, and so much of himself, that he thinks he can just stand here, make fart sounds, and become school captain. Pete has confused fear for popularity …’

  I’m fucking with you. I never said that. Rather, my early mastery of rhetoric produced this: ‘Pete just did a pretend wind, but there is a real smell here. Can you smell it? It is a bad smell. Right now, in a faraway place called Mesopotamia, there is an army fighting a bad man. The fight is called Desert Storm. We have our own bad man. He is a boy called Pete, and this election is our Desert Storm. Pete does not gas people to kill them, except maybe with his bum, but he is still our bad man and we can stop him togeth
er if you vote for me. Actually, no, Pete has not killed anyone with his bum. That is not fair to say that. But he does do gas at us, and it is bad and makes your eyes wet.’

  Ms. West was mouthing the word ‘No’, but I ignored her.

  ‘I want us all to share the bad things our monster has done. Don’t be scared. Desert Storm is lots of people fighting a bad man, and we are lots of people too. So please put your hand up if Pete has stolen your custard or punched your arm or pulled your hair or scared you with bad words or done some urine on your shoes when you weren’t looking.’

  I waited. The audience was silent, unmoving. I heroically fought the impulse to fill the silence. I waited a beat longer. And then, thrillingly, half of my peers declared their victimisation. I now owned the room.

  ‘Sometimes storms scare us. I get scared by storms sometimes, and dogs get scared all the time — you can hear them cry because they think God is yelling at them. But don’t be scared. Do you know that storms can clean things like streets? They can blow bad things away. I guess now I’m thinking that they can blow good things away too, like fences or small animals. But they can blow rubbish away, and we can be a good storm that cleans the bad smell because it is bad to have urine at you.’

  ‘Toby, you have one minute.’

  ‘I will make a longer lunch for us and better food in the canteen, and I will start a petition for stopping poisoned rain and opium shipments. Also, I think we can do pen pals with the radioactive children in Chernobyl, because they want friends. I have heaps more ideas and you can ask me about them. Thank you.’

  The crowd went mad. They began chanting my name. Ms. West was right — Pete’s authority was hollow. But she had badly underestimated the depth of their hatred. This wasn’t a debate. It was a coup. I was facilitating mass catharsis. So long as I gave voice to Pete’s victims, so long as I humiliated him, I could propose whatever I liked. Shorter lunch breaks, worse food. It didn’t matter. What mattered was his scalp, and I was the boy to help them take it.

  This discovery was accidental, but that didn’t dilute my exhilaration. The noise was so thick I thought I could surf it — all the way to the glittering shore of school captain. Surely, in just over a week, I’d arrive there. And once I did, the world’s industrial polluters and heroin makers would have to look out.