The Speechwriter Read online

  But then the Bessie stuff happened.

  Even as a child, I never really understood the Bessie thing. I suppose I felt some pride that Perth held the world’s only moray eel then breeding in captivity, but it seemed like a pretty tenuous and obscure thing to hang a city’s pride on. Even more obscure — but of infinite fascination to the city — was the species’ capacity for sequential sex-changes.

  Images of Bessie the Hermaphrodite Eel were ubiquitous. She was on T-shirts, bumper stickers, billboards. In the city’s mall stood a statue of Bessie balancing five beachballs on her tail, and after it was harmlessly wreathed in toilet paper, laws were passed mandating five years imprisonment for the statue’s ‘defacement’.

  I suspect the popularity of Bessie began as provincial insecurity. A highly self-conscious quirkiness, performed for the indifferent citizens of bigger cities. See how charmingly eccentric we are, smug denizens of the East? But it got out of hand. What began as an ironic, performative admiration gradually morphed into a frighteningly sincere devotion. Bessie became the city’s sacred totem, a mix of Don Bradman and the Turin Shroud.

  And three days before the school election, my father killed her.

  That afternoon, our classroom’s speaker crackled. ‘Beloved staff and children,’ the principal said, ‘it is my mournful duty to inform you that Bessie — our Bessie — has died in an aviation incident. Teachers, given the historic importance of this moment, you may turn your televisions on if you believe the news broadcasts won’t be too painful or provocative. Children, we are putting on extra chaplains if you need someone to speak to. Please be kind to each other.’

  An aviation incident? Why was Bessie on a plane? Was Bessie flying the plane? Maybe Bessie was exceptional? My thoughts were broken by the wailing of peers. Then our teacher’s.

  The facts, as determined by the state coroner some months later, were these: on a bright Wednesday afternoon, Geoffrey Ruskin sat behind the controls of his Cessna Skylark awaiting clearance. He was an experienced pilot, but never in his 4,000 hours had he shared the cockpit with his wife — that is, until their 50th wedding anniversary. The flight was his gift to her.

  My father gave Ruskin clearance. The weather was ideal, and the couple flew some circuits over the river. It had taken a while, but husband and wife were finally up there together — contemplating fresh vistas of their city and, just maybe, their wedding vows.

  Then Geoffrey’s heart stopped.

  The Skylark has a dual instrument panel, which meant Dorothy didn’t have to dislodge her limp husband from the controls. They were right in front her — she just needed to know how to use them. From the control tower, it was my father’s job to teach her. The following transcript was released by the coroner:

  GEORGE BEAVERBROOK: My dear girl, we’re going to look after your husband, but first we need to get you both down.

  DOROTHY RUSKIN: Okay.

  BEAVERBROOK: I need you to straighten up a little — just gently bring the yoke down to your left.

  RUSKIN: Okay.

  BEAVERBROOK: Perfect. Now, we want to bring the plane down slowly — you’ll see in the distance a green field.

  RUSKIN: But that’s near the zoo.

  BEAVERBROOK: Does that matter?

  RUSKIN: I don’t want to jeopardise Bessie.

  BEAVERBROOK: It’s an old landing strip, my dear. It’s perfect.

  RUSKIN: It’s too close to Bessie.

  BEAVERBROOK: Dorothy?

  RUSKIN: Yes?

  BEAVERBROOK: You’ve never flown a plane before.

  RUSKIN: That’s correct.

  BEAVERBROOK: So an eel isn’t our priority right now, okay? Our priority is getting you and your husband down safely.

  RUSKIN: I just don’t want to hurt—

  BEAVERBROOK: Dorothy.

  RUSKIN: Yes?

  BEAVERBROOK: Listen to me. You can land this thing, okay? But I need you—

  RUSKIN: But Bessie—

  BEAVERBROOK: Dorothy.

  RUSKIN: I’m listening.

  BEAVERBROOK: You’re pushing the nose down too hard. I need you to straighten up a little, take the …

  The Cessna Skylark plunged into the zoo’s aquarium, killing Dorothy, Bessie, untold tropical fish, and making doubly sure of Geoffrey’s demise. On televisions everywhere, the city’s most trusted news anchor, Strobe Holland, delivered his culturally defining monologue:

  ‘In breaking news: my heart. Bessie the Hermaphrodite Eel, mascot and beacon, has died aged 27. Bessie is survived by 10,000 larvae. I can’t believe I’m saying this. We’ll bring you more details as they come, but so far, we understand a light aircraft has crashed into the zoo’s aquarium, killing the pilot, sole passenger, and our Bessie. I don’t normally go off script, but I can’t see the teleprompter for my tears. My God, we’ll miss you. The quicksilver wit, the athletic grace, your soulful rebellion. Oh, Jesus … I understand we’re crossing to Parliament House now, where the Premier is about to address the media.’

  ‘British Coward Kills Hero’ read one headline, and talkback radio was consumed by an urgency to reinstate capital punishment. The city’s grief sharpened into a very narrow rage, which was pointed at my father. He went into hiding, which unfortunately for him meant staying at home while the airport was picketed by wild mobs. ‘I despise this country,’ he said.*

  [* Garry was enraptured by this section. And silent, except when he rhetorically asked himself what was wrong with Perth. And I felt great. It made me feel like a real writer, to be honest. And I realised that I wanted his praise.]

  There was talk of postponing the final school debate, but the principal said that ‘continuing our democratic tradition was the best antidote to grief’. Which was convenient for his son. No one was thinking straight — I was finding headless dolls in my school bag.

  The day before the final debate, I visited Ms. West in her office for advice. When I entered, she was weeping silently and staring at the wooden crucifix on her wall.

  ‘I think the feeling in the playground is different now,’ I said.

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘Why did you just swear?’

  ‘If ever there was a child of Christ, it was Bessie.’

  ‘Ms. West, it was just an eel.’

  ‘Say that again, Toby.’

  ‘It was just an eel, Ms.’

  Without taking her eyes from the crucifix, she threw a stapler through the office window, shattering it. ‘Has the Lord given you special powers, Toby?’

  ‘Are golden rays a special power?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll ask again, Toby: has the Lord given you special powers?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Has He given you the power to comfort a city’s soul?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has He given you incorruptible grace?’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘Toby?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You make me sick.’

  And I was alone. Again.

  The second debate looked much the same as the first — except the balloons had portraits of Bessie on them, and the foot of the stage was crowded with TV news crews. Even Strobe Holland was there. At the time, I didn’t consider who might’ve tipped them off, or why they were allowed to stay. I didn’t consider much, other than my acute solitude.

  Pete and I met onstage. Once again, he crushed my hand. Once again, he had little to say in his opening address. But this time he didn’t have to. He needed just one line. ‘Your Dad killed Bessie,’ he said, and the crowd — including the journalists — hissed and booed.

  ‘Now watch this.’ And Pete made fart noises again.

  This time, the crowd loved them. Really loved them. After my Santa speech, it was the funniest thing they’d ever
heard. Pete’s address was short, crude, and utterly devastating. With just four words, he’d focused their anger. Then with some compressed air, he’d relieved their tension. It was masterful.

  ‘Toby, your time starts now.’

  I’d still prepared a speech. It was about how my father hadn’t killed Bessie and about how, despite the tragedy, Pete was still an impulsive goon and unfit for office. It was about how our emotions had recently changed, but our situation hadn’t.

  But as I approached the lectern, stunned by camera flashes, I dimly understood the futility of it. I think that somewhere, in a sub-verbal part of my brain, I recognised that the emotions were the situation and that Churchill was wrong. He should have written: ‘Of all the talents bestowed upon men, none is so precious as the gift of simulating farts.’

  I never gave the speech. The media ambushed me.

  ‘Toby, why did your father kill Bessie?’

  ‘I am honest, humble, and committed.’

  ‘Is he remorseful?’

  ‘I am kind and fair.’

  A bird in the hand

  Father died four years later. The cause of his cirrhosis was obvious to everyone except Father, who, on his deathbed, attributed his condition not to his morbidly accelerated drinking, but to the curse I had afflicted him with after shitting on Churchill’s speeches. ‘You’ve killed me, boy,’ he said, three hours before he passed. His nurse assured me it was just the morphine speaking, but I knew better.

  Despite this, I remained quiet and studious in high school, and left with a report card that commended my ‘mostly benign eccentricity’ and predicted that I might influence society, ‘as a compulsive writer of letters to the editor’. At university, I studied politics, experimented with haiku, and buried my incipient trauma beneath ceaseless work for the campus newspaper and debating team.

  After graduating with a Bachelor of Arts, I briefly considered staying on to write an Honours thesis about Aristotle’s theories of rhetoric. But I was impatient to serve in the pits of democracy, and instead began an internship in the electorate office of my local member, the gout-stricken Stuart Proudfoot.

  ‘Sir, I will give you—’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ Proudfoot said, and turned to his adviser. ‘Robin, what’s that picture stuff called?’

  ‘Photoshop.’

  ‘Can you use Photoshop?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’ll need to learn. Can’t be too hard. Because your first job is redesigning these bloody fridge magnets. Look at my face on them. One half’s in shadow. Fucking awful. I look like a Bond villain. Get rid of it, and maybe brighten my teeth while you’re at it. And remove the phone number for the local animal shelter. It’ll just remind folks of the feral cats.’

  ‘They’ve really got out of control,’ Robin said.

  ‘One for the mayor, Robin. One for the mayor.’

  As I was struggling to learn Photoshop, I heard a commotion at the front desk. I looked up and saw an elderly man, slightly hunched and angrily waving his flat-cap. Robin came over to my desk and told me to ‘pacify the geezer’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go.’

  Nervously, I approached the man.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ he asked.

  ‘Toby.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Toby. My name’s Arthur. I’m a concerned local. What is it that you do here, Toby?’

  ‘I’m just an intern.’

  ‘An intern. Ruddy hell. Son, I mean no offence, but this is the fourth time I’ve been in this office to talk about those cats. And I’ve called and I’ve written letters. And every time I get fobbed off. Now I’ve been given the intern. No offence, son.’

  ‘I really want to help you, sir. Can you explain the situation, please?’

  ‘The situation? Have you seen Saving Private Ryan? That’s the situation. There’s corpses everywhere. I saw the bodies of six wrens on top of a bus shelter this morning. On top of the shelter, you hear? How the ruddy hell did that happen? These cats have developed some extraordinary powers of athleticism, Toby. That’s what I said to Margery this morning. I said: “Love, these ruddy cats have developed some extraordinary powers of athleticism.” And you know what she said?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘She said, “I know, love. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years.” Now, I don’t know if this has something to do with modernity, right? If these cats are getting crazed by electromagnetic pollution, or what. I just don’t know. What I do know is that I’m getting ruddy impatient with this office, and I want to know right now what you’re going to do about it.’

  Outside Arthur’s sight line, Robin was holding up a piece of paper on which she’d written:

  ‘1. TAKE EMAIL. 2. SAY BYE BYE.’

  ‘Could you maybe show me the birds?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’ He seemed shocked. ‘You’re the first that’s asked.’

  Arthur had lived in the area for almost eighty years. He had found, lost, and rediscovered love here. As we walked through the suburbs, he pointed out historic sites, places of personal significance, and mounds of graphically mangled possums. In places, whole stretches of footpath were splashed with blood. Finally, we reached the bus shelter. Sure enough, there were six dead wrens on the top of it.

  ‘Where are their heads?’ I asked.

  Arthur couldn’t bring himself to answer.

  ‘We need to do something about this,’ I said.

  ‘I know, son.’

  ‘I’m serious about this.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘Perhaps we should bury them.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  I climbed up, retrieved the headless victims, and suggested the grassed median strip as a burial site. Arthur agreed.

  ‘Individual pits, or one big one?’ I asked.

  ‘A mass grave just doesn’t seem right for these fellas.’

  I nodded, and silently we dug six small trenches with our hands. I slowed my pace to match Arthur’s, who seemed to be struggling, uncomplainingly, with arthritic fingers. When we’d covered their bodies, we planted twigs as commemorative posts at the heads of their graves.

  ‘I’d like to say something,’ I said.

  ‘Very well, son.’

  ‘Little wrens, I’m sorry we couldn’t protect you. But I promise that your deaths won’t be in vain. I will use the power of our office to ensure that. Rest in peace.’

  ‘That’s lovely, son. Margery would’ve liked to have seen this.’

  We shook hands and said goodbye, and I could tell that we were both touched by the moment’s grace — and transience. As I walked back to the office, I knew that I had touched the face of The People, and invoked political office on behalf of the vulnerable and eviscerated. I mused that this process, though unfinished, felt right: first listening to, and being soulfully fused with, The People. Second, dignifying that bond with a practical solution. I wasn’t sure what that was going to be just yet, but I vowed to impress upon my new boss the importance of finding one. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Robin. ‘where the fuck r u???’

  ‘just had a ceremony for the murdered wrens. need to do something about these cats. back soon.’

  ‘ffs. get back + fix these magnets.’

  ‘i’ll try but not really a graphic designer tbh.’

  ‘wtf r we paying u 4?’

  ‘u don’t pay me.’

  ‘wat?’

  ‘sorry, 10 mins away.’

  Back in the office, I emailed Stuart a lengthy field report of the carnage, an impassioned request that he protect the local fauna, and a new fridge magnet design that incorporated a fresh headshot unblemished by shadow — fixing the original was beyond me. Suddenly, Stuart loomed above me.

  ‘Toby, why have you emailed me?’
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br />   ‘I work for you, sir.’

  ‘You’re an intern. Emailing me directly is undignified.’

  ‘For …?’

  ‘For me.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Second, why have you not done as I asked?’

  ‘I don’t follow, sir.’

  ‘The fridge magnet. You’ve changed the photo.’

  ‘Yes, sir. For one without a shadow.’

  ‘But that’s not what I asked, is it, Toby? I asked that you remove the shadow on the old one, not the photo itself.’

  ‘Sir, I’m not sure that’s even possible and, if it is, I’m not capable of doing it. I’m really more of a writer.’

  ‘That’s the photo we use, Toby. I like it. I have a stately jawline in it. Very nicely defined.’ He turned for his office.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about the cats?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about the bloody cats. If there’s a problem we can’t or won’t fix, then we don’t acknowledge it. Understand? That’s what I call the Golden Rule of political communications. I’ve always found that acknowledging people’s anger just makes them angrier.’

  ‘But wouldn’t avoiding people’s anger just make them angrier? If their anger’s justified, wouldn’t acknowledging it make them less angry? Maybe it validates them?’

  ‘We’re not in the business of validating anger, Toby. There’s diminishing returns on that investment. And change that bloody phone number.’

  I was a little confused by the seeming superficiality of my boss, but no less exhilarated by occupying his office. And Stuart’s motivations, I decided, were probably not superficial but inscrutable — the product of a superior political judgement that I hoped, one day, to understand. Maybe nobility wasn’t all cymbals and lightning. Maybe it took its time.

  Still, I’d promised Arthur an update in a week’s time, and I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to tell him. I googled ‘feral cat bait’.