The Marmalade Files (8 page)

Elizabeth Scott had not just broken the glass ceiling – she had destroyed it. Born into a wealthy family on Sydney's moneyed North Shore, she had the talent to make the most of her privilege and, by forty-two, had amassed a personal fortune topping $100 million.
Business Review Weekly
tagged her ‘Australia's most formidable business figure' and splashed her arresting image across its cover, her athletic body wrapped in figure-hugging fencing gear. With her chestnut hair spilling to the shoulders of her white jacket she looked dazzling and dangerous.

The business world was staggered when, in 2004, she turned her hand to politics. Everyone immediately assumed she was on a relentless path to the Lodge.

A seat in Parliament did not come easy. She'd had to blast out a sitting member from the blue-ribbon electorate of Warringah on Sydney's northern beach strip. So by the time she arrived in Canberra, Scott already had more enemies than most.

It was in the spring of 2006, a year before his demise, that John Howard had elevated Scott to the newly created portfolio of Water and Climate Change, pleading with her: ‘Elizabeth, just get me back in the environmental game.'

The nation was in the grip of a crippling drought, water restrictions bit deep into every bathroom and garden and the bushfires came savage and early. The steady pulse of suburbia quickened as fear grew that climate change posed a real and present danger. John Howard, tapped into the values and aspirations of middle Australia, recognised the political dangers of doing nothing. The doctors' wives were in revolt and he needed a safe pair of hands, a believer in climate science and, critically, someone the public would trust.

Elizabeth Scott fitted the mould perfectly. But the Libs were starting well behind Labor, and its crafty new leader, Catriona Bailey, was using climate change as a totemic part of her pitch for the future. She had handed responsibility for the portfolio to one of her best, Martin Toohey.

There are many quirky relationships in politics, none more so than those between Ministers and their shadows. One has all the resources of government at his or her disposal and their job is to manage a particular area of state. The other, with the aid of a handful of staffers, spends all their waking hours stalking and trying to destroy the Minister.

Yet the incestuous nature of politics means they spend a good deal of time in each other's company, attending the same events or trudging to the same dismal dinners in all parts of the country.

Toohey's close study of Scott's character convinced him that, despite her obvious brilliance, she would never cut it in politics. Her two fatal flaws were a lack of political judgement and impatience.

Their first meeting was at the reception desk of the Embassy Motel, in the inner-south Canberra suburb of Deakin. Scott could have easily afforded to buy a luxurious home, but instead preferred to let it be known that she stayed in cheap digs. But she had another, purely sentimental, reason for choosing the Embassy. She had once attended a dinner there hosted by Bruce Ruxton, the curmudgeonly head of the Victorian Returned Services League. After a word in his ear, she had been seated next to Dame Pattie Menzies, the widow of Australia's longest serving Prime Minister and the founder of the Liberal Party.

And what a night they'd had, the two women forging a close bond over an average three-course meal. Dame Pattie had delighted in recalling her role in lobbying her husband to ensure the capital got the attention it deserved. After struggling to push her granddaughter's pram over a dirt track from the Lodge to a nearby shopping centre, she'd greeted her husband's arrival home that evening with, ‘Bob, you have to do something about this town.'

But of all the stories Dame Pattie told that night, the one that moved Scott was an anecdote about the former Labor Prime Minister Ben Chifley. Apparently, his direct phone line was once just one digit different from the butcher's at Manuka. Sometimes the phone would ring, the Prime Minister would answer and on the other end would be a woman with her order. Chifley would dutifully write it down and ring it through to the butcher.

It sounded like a beautiful piece of mythology but Scott wanted to believe it. The relationship between Chifley and Sir Robert was certainly no myth. Dame Pattie said they enjoyed a great friendship and would often meet for a chat behind the Speaker's chair during parliamentary sittings.

Dame Pattie grew wistful as she recalled the exact moment when Menzies was told of Chifley's death during a State Ball in the King's Hall of Old Parliament House. He had closed down the evening with a solemn declaration of loss for his old friend.

 

Years later and now working in government, Scott was musing that cross-party friendships were much rarer these days when she heard a familiar voice.

‘Minister, you must be lost. The Hyatt is on the other side of Parliament House.'

Scott knew who Toohey was, of course. The tall Victorian had been a player in Federal politics for years. He had been a junior Minister in the Keating Government and had held a number of senior shadow ministries since. He was well liked and well regarded, considered a decent man by both sides of politics. But all agreed he lacked the venom needed to take leadership.

‘Well, now it
is
clear that I'm slumming it,' Scott responded. ‘But it's too late to move.'

‘See you about.' And he sauntered off.

And see him about she did. The Embassy's staff played a long-running in-joke on them, rooming the two political up-and-comers next to each other whenever they were both in Canberra. Many a time, Scott would be fumbling with her room keys close
to midnight when Toohey's familiar silhouette would come striding down the hall towards her.

‘Night, Minister,' he would say. ‘Hope that dreadful policy of yours doesn't keep you awake.'

Finally, forced to sit next to each other on a flight from Darwin to Melbourne, they started to chat properly. About the absurdity of the parliamentary lifestyle. About how much they missed their families. About the tribulations and humiliations of being a public figure.

In the final sitting week before the 2007 campaign was announced, Scott and Toohey had arrived at the Embassy at the same time.

‘Well, it won't be long now; Howard has to announce soon,' Toohey said.

Scott agreed. ‘Then it will be six weeks of hell before we're creamed.'

‘Sounds like a reason to celebrate to me. How about a drink?'

Scott hesitated for a moment. ‘Okay, but not here. And not somewhere we'll be seen.'

‘I know a place in Woden,' said Toohey. ‘Most Federal MPs wouldn't even know it's a Canberra suburb. But you're buying because you're loaded.'

‘Lead on,' she said.

A gentle rain tapped on her umbrella, the first sign of impending winter. It fell softly on the ocean of people silently sweeping by on their bicycles. Young, alone and giddy with excitement, her first venture onto the streets of Peking was a dream come true.

For as long as she could remember she had wanted to stand here, to soak up the history, to be part of this great nation with its flawed, intricately embroidered history. She couldn't think of a time when she wasn't attracted to all things Chinese.

Perhaps the spark had been the tiny Ming vase her mother had treasured. She'd marvelled at its delicate beauty, strictly off-limits to young, inquisitive hands. Much like China itself, a mystery of politics and geography during the long decades of diplomatic isolation until Nixon and Whitlam extended the Western hand of comradeship, just ten years ago.

China had been at the centre of the world for thousands of years. A civilisation making wonders like gunpowder while the
West fumbled in a more brutish age. That was why the recent decades of humiliation at the hands of the West had been so hard for it to bear. She understood that and was angered by the West's oafishness. She knew that when China woke, nations would shudder. And when it woke she wanted to be part of its journey back to its rightful place: the centre of the world.

‘Hey, sweetie!' An Australian accent, harsh and unpleasant, broke her blissful peace.

‘Remember me?' The man standing beside her was stocky, with thick wavy hair. ‘Dinner last night … all that Chinese tucker and not a decent sweet-and-sour to be seen … Anyways,' he gestured to her camera, ‘would you mind taking a snap of us?'

She noticed then the two Chinese men, both in their mid-twenties, and somehow vaguely familiar. Had they been at the embassy as well? There was one other, a beautiful woman standing slightly apart from the others, but clearly attached to the group.

‘Okay, smile for the camera.' She dutifully took the snap of the three men with the Kodak she'd bought in Hong Kong and promised to make a copy for the loud Australian.

And she did, plus another which she gave to a friend she'd made at the Australian embassy. A man who reminded her that while it was good to be friendly with the locals she should still be wary. That while China would rise, you needed to always remember that your first loyalty remained to your country.

It was sound advice, words she would heed. Up to a point.

The Elbow Room had all the charm of a 1970s brothel, or at least what Elizabeth Scott imagined one would look like. It was not a place she would normally dream of visiting, nor did she think she would ever return.

The tawdry lace and satin lampshades ensured the dismal glow that escaped them stained the room rouge. The lounges were op-shop chic and so dilapidated she almost sank to the floor when she sat down.

‘How in God's name did you ever discover this small corner of hell?' she asked.

‘Yes, I like it too.' Martin Toohey, from habit, surveyed the room for familiar faces. ‘It was owned by a mate I played footy with. But for some unfathomable reason he went broke. I come here because no one else in Parliament does. Also, they don't play music so loud that you have to yell to be heard. And, frankly, you
can barely see your hand in front of your face in here, so being recognised isn't an issue.'

He stared at her through the scarlet haze. She looked good in any light but in here the small flaws of age were erased. It struck him, as if for the first time, that she was dangerously attractive: high cheekbones, chestnut hair, haunting grey-blue, deeply intelligent eyes. She was wearing a wraparound dress that clung to her tall, lithe athlete's frame. Add the magisterial grace of her movements and Toohey began to wonder at the wisdom of his ‘let's have a drink' suggestion.

‘I have a question.' He cleared his throat and shuffled deeper into the faux-leather chesterfield. ‘You don't have to answer but I'm intrigued. Are you only in politics to be Prime Minister?'

‘Okay. I'll tell you if you answer this: why didn't you push to be leader over Bailey? You had more support. Do you lack the ambition – or the guts – to lead?'

He bristled. ‘Oh, this is the “Toohey's a weak bastard” editorial I read in the
Australian
once a month.'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Yes, you did. And yes, I did have more support. But not enough. If we got locked in a stand-off then everyone would lose. I would like to be PM. I think I will be. One day. United we have a shot at winning government. If I'd held out, Labor would be the loser. I put my party first.'

‘Sounds noble. Sounds like you have yourself convinced.'

‘So you do think I'm weak. You, of course, the famously tough negotiator, would have held out for everything and won nothing. That's a terrorist's bargain.'

‘I don't think you're weak.' Scott sipped a very ordinary red and shuddered. ‘But I do think we're very different. Yes, you have to risk it all to win it all. And yes: I came here to be Prime Minister. Why would you be a politician if you didn't want that?'

‘To do something for your country,' Toohey answered. ‘To make a difference. To try and leave things a little better than you found them.'

‘I want to do all those things. And I don't think you can do them in our system without being Prime Minister. And I wouldn't have budged with Bailey because I believe I would do a better job than her. Or you. In the end it's individuals who make a difference, not groups. History is made by the unreasonable man … or woman. I think Bailey understands that; she's certainly unreasonable.'

‘No,' countered Toohey. ‘Here, the mob counts. Your liberal individualism jars. You're like the First Fleet jailers: never comfortable in the land, always looking to the horizon and yearning to leave. Labor was made by the jailed. We pitched our tent here. And we understood that only by sticking together could people thrive. We are the unique Australian political project and we built the fairest society on earth, despite you.'

Scott always enjoyed a contest and Toohey was proving more interesting than she had imagined. She had thought him pleasant but glib. Good with a quick political line but without the depth to imagine the next sentence. Now she sensed another layer and, despite herself, felt a surge of excitement.

As he spoke, Toohey leaned across the too-small table and locked her in his gaze. He had gentle eyes. Hazel. Just a touch
on the green side. Age had weathered him, but he wore it well. The lines around his eyes and mouth suggested he laughed a lot. If it was true that you got the face you deserved by fifty, then he was clearly decent, but sharpened by experience. As he became animated he emphasised points with his strong, finely shaped hands, and a faint hint of aftershave drifted across the table. It was a clean smell, like fresh linen. She was drawn into his eyes and, for almost the first time since she was a teenager, Scott felt her body contract with desire.

It startled her and she realised he had stopped talking and she had paused a heartbeat too long. In fencing, the error would have been fatal. This game was getting dangerous, and she loved dangerous games.

‘Do you lot ever tire of reinventing the past?' She recovered like a champion. ‘It's a fine speech for the True Believers, but please don't delude yourself. This nation is as much a product of my political ancestors as yours. Labor opposed Federation. And the social compact here is Liberal, built on individual rights. A party that genuinely understands that respects everyone, no matter what their race, colour or creed.'

Toohey was revelling in the contest. He hadn't had this debate in years. The pub and the argument reminded him of late nights at uni. And there was that other intoxicant of youth he realised he had been missing for a long time – the company of a beautiful woman.

As his eyes adjusted to the light he began to see the care that had gone into Scott's make-up. Above her eyes was a subtle mix of two shades of shadow and, below, the finest touch of liner.
There was just the hint of blush on her cheeks and her lips glowed an expensive shade of burgundy.

He cleared his throat, again, and tried to clear his head.

‘Australia proved the value of the group. Here the land was hard and settlers had to band together to survive. Here workers had to fight for every single right. We learned through bitter struggle that solidarity was our most powerful weapon. The group makes the weak powerful. And it makes the powerful tremble.'

Scott gave up on the red and leaned into the argument, and Toohey.

‘You can murder millions in the name of the group, Martin. Hitler, Stalin, Mao, all of them championed the many over the individual. The bedrock of the West is the truly revolutionary idea of a personal, individual relationship with God. Our law is built on it. Erase it and everything is negotiable. Yet demolishing our Christian keystone has been the Left's great project for over a century. Congratulations! You succeeded. And put nothing tangible in its place. Is it any wonder we are morally adrift?'

‘Don't pull the cheap debating trick of hitching me to the Left's worst ideas, Elizabeth. Nice sermon but your party uses its precious heritage to justify hoarding the wealth of many in the hands of a few. Mine understands that individual rights have to be balanced with the common good. And I know the Church, I was part of it once. Religion is the best and worst of us. At its worst it has slaughtered legions of innocents across every generation.'

‘It wasn't the Church that was responsible for the mass slaughter of the twentieth century, Martin,' Scott smiled. ‘It was the Messianic state.'

Toohey paused. This was too much fun.

‘If I might offer one gratuitous piece of political advice,' he said. ‘Your impatience to lead and determination to dominate will tear your party apart.'

‘Clearly I don't agree with you – again.'

‘Or me with you. But if there has to be a Liberal Party and someone has to lead it … then it might as well be you.'

‘Thanks … And I think you would have been a much better Labor leader than Bailey. That woman is certifiable, Martin, and I'm afraid you will live to regret not manning up on that one.'

‘You don't think I'm tough enough.'

‘I didn't say that. I think … I think you're … surprising.'

Toohey reached across the table and cupped her cheek in his hand. It was an impulse. She could have resisted, but she didn't. She leaned forward and kissed him gently, her tongue flirting with his lips as she slowly pulled away. The cheap wine tasted intoxicatingly better on him.

She was breathless. Her entire body tingled, her head felt light and the rouge-tinted room swirled for a moment. She wanted more, but knew she couldn't have it. She stepped back from the edge and grabbed the lifeline.

‘I'm married,' she said, holding up her left hand in evidence.

‘Me too.'

‘Pity.'

‘Yep.'

They stared at each other through the gloom for a few breathless moments.

‘It's late,' he said. ‘Let's go.'