The Senate Vacancy

The evening was normal enough for May. A slight chill in the air; crisp stars set low enough to be sighted between the few tall buildings that Brisbane boasted back in the seventies, and in the background the old river trolled along, barely noticed. The first exodus of city workers had slowed to be replaced by the night shift while scattered groups of movie-goers and window shoppers were arriving on schedule. Outbound traffic headed steadily for the sanctuary of suburbia, cold-shouldering pedestrians mooching along the dimly-lit streets; no need for them to hurry in staid (some said shabby) Brisbane, where all seemed calm and collected.

Not so in a nondescript building in Creek Street, though passers-by gave it less than a blink. Even if they were aware this was the headquarters of the Liberal Party of Australia (Queensland Division) it was hardly an address to evoke leaps of excitation unless you were a Party member, summoned on important Party business.

One hundred and fifty-two Party members answered the summons; they were delegates to a selection council, convened to select a Party member to fill a vacancy in the Senate. Most of them had already decided which of the five candidates they would favour with their vote this evening, but then you never knew. Some were still heard to remark that they had open minds; that they were willing to listen to the candidates address the delegates before their minds closed.

Adding to the numbers in the crowded, smoke-filled headquarters were anxious friends and family, miscellaneous parliamentarians, Party officials and of course the candidates.

One of the candidates, a tall woman, fiftyish, with dark hair and a pale complexion, stepped from a taxi outside headquarters and hurried across the pavement as a gentleman ahead of her pushed open the door, standing back to allow her to enter.

“Ready for the fray, Noelene?”

She nodded thanks for his courtesy; gave him a warm and winning smile, eyes shining.

“Oh yes. I hope so. You’re looking well, Graham.”

“Thank you. I’m over that tummy upset at last.”

Soon she was caught up in a noisy elbow-to-elbow throng and surrounded by well-wishers effusive in their greetings. As a Vice-President of the State Executive, years of experience had taught Noelene Wheeler that this show of support for her candidacy might not tally with the end result but she couldn’t help being heartened. She wanted to believe them. Desperately. For years she’d worked, dreamed of making it to the Senate, and now she was only a step away.

She took her time moving about the room, chatting cheerily to this one and that, at the same time noting that a couple of state ministers were holding court in a nearby office. The considerable influence they wielded on these occasions set her nerves jangling. They knew she was a talented performer in the political arena but she still hadn’t been able to count either of them as definite supporters. Damn them!

Noelene couldn’t be sure she had the numbers for an outright win, but then who else had? She doubted that any of the other hopefuls, waiting in the wings, could pull it off at first count either.

When she’d submitted her name as a contender for this Senate seat, there were only two other starters: the State Member for Albert, Bill Heatley, and Neville Bonner.

To her mind Bill was a lightweight and over-fond of the tipple. Neville, a friend, was a capable candidate but he’d had his chance. He’d stood for the last Senate election and lost. Maybe folks were just not ready for an Aborigine in parliament yet. His time would come eventually, Noelene reflected, there was no doubt about that, but she had been around the traps a lot longer and she was convinced this was her time. She deserved this chance.

Disregarding the crush, she grappled for a cigarette from her handbag and managed to light it. The first drag on the smoke was heaven, rescuing her from an abyss of nerves.

At that time her chances had been excellent. But then two other people had thrown their hats in the ring, Joan Voller and Sidney Hamilton, and both of them were colleagues on State Executive. She was furious with Joan.

“How could you do this to me?” she’d complained. “You’ll split the women’s vote, as well as that of delegates who believe a woman should replace Dame Annabelle.”

“We’ll see,” Joan had shrugged.

Nearby a woman commented on Noelene’s outfit. A navy slacksuit. With a Hermes scarf. Borrowed.

“That’s a nice suit, Noelene. Is it new?”

Of course it’s bloody new. Cost me the earth.

“Yes,” she allowed. “Thank you. It’s hard to know what to wear on these occasions.”

“Don’t worry. You always look nice. Is your daughter here tonight?”

“No. She couldn’t make it.”

Couldn’t? Wouldn’t, more like it.

That resurrected another concern. Did it look bad that she had no family support? She’d hated having to write “divorced” on the application form. Felt it lost her points.

At ten to eight there was a sudden surge as the crowd in the lobby all headed for the conference room where the votes would be cast. Noelene went with it in a daze, shuffling along as if being escorted towards a scaffold. She wished she could lay her hands on a whisky.

Sid Hamilton loomed up beside her. “Won’t be long now,” he nudged.

She shuddered. What won’t be long now? Won’t be long before I find out I’ve been kidding myself? I’ve never been lucky in my life. Still, I am a Party Vice-President. Luck didn’t get me up there. Hold on to that and stop undermining yourself.

The conference room was packed but Sid Hamilton found a couple of seats for them. He joked with everyone while Noelene smiled indulgently, determined to appear serene.

Eventually office staff, checking the microphone, managed to eliminate the usual screeches. The State President, Eric Robinson, stepped forward to welcome all and explain the business at hand for the benefit of delegates who might not properly understand the reason for their vote and their part in the procedure.

Noelene hung on every word, though she could just as easily have reeled them off herself. They were informed that since Liberal Senator Dame Annabelle Rankin was resigning there would be a vacancy in the Senate, which the Liberal Party was entitled to fill with one of its own appointees. It was now the duty of the Selection Council to appoint the new senator via exhaustive ballot.

For weeks, Noelene had indulged in daydreams of actually being a senator. Of being whisked away to Canberra where a red plush seat awaited her in the lofty halls of power. It was impossible not to be moonstruck at the very idea of a job like this and she’d examined every aspect, from the huge responsibility she’d be undertaking to the stunning salary a senator could expect. Given that her debts were keeping pace with her age, the salary was of considerable consequence.

There was a clatter of chairs around her and Noelene realised it was time for the candidates to withdraw and allow the voting procedure to begin.

* * *

The five candidates were ushered into the staff lunch room, where the laminated table now featured a tablecloth, a plate of biscuits, and a tea setting for five.

“Someone has made an effort to make our stay a little less trying,” Noelene observed. “Who’s going to be mother?”

Joan Voller did the honours while the others picked over the biscuits. “I’ll have the Iced Vo Vo if no one wants it,” Sid announced.

“Be my guest,” Joan smiled. “They’re always popular, aren’t they?”

Bill Heatley shook his head. “I prefer Melting Moments. These don’t look very interesting.”

Trying to keep out of the chit-chat, Noelene took a magazine from a nearby bench and reluctantly joined her colleagues as they settled themselves around the table.

It seemed now that nobody could think of anything to say, which didn’t surprise her since they were now stuck here as if awaiting execution. Joan nibbled on a biscuit. Sid chewed. Neville finished his tea and dabbed his moustache with a folded handkerchief. Heatley stared into his teacup as if trying to read the leaves.

Noelene looked up from her magazine. “It just occurred to me, Neville, you’re first. How are you feeling?”

He grimaced. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“Me too. But I’m last!”

Any minute she expected the door to open and someone to appear to collect Mr Bonner, but suddenly Neville addressed Bill Heatley: “You don’t remember me, Bill, do you?”

Bill was taken aback. “I beg your pardon.”

“I said: ‘You don’t remember me.’”

The others were instantly alert, intrigued.

“Remember you? Well, I don’t think so,” Heatley blustered. “Should I?”

Neville grinned a good-natured grin. “Probably not. I used to work for you.”

“You did? Where?”

“On your station. I worked on your station. Up north. When I was a young feller.”

“Good heavens! What were you doing?”

“I was a stockman. Good at it too.”

“Well blow me down! You do look familiar, Neville, come to think of it …”

The door opened. A field officer called: “Mr Bonner, if you would …”

In a scramble, Neville was gone.

“And then there were four,” Joan proclaimed, but the others were too interested in the previous exchange to take much notice of her attempt at humour.

“I didn’t know Neville worked for you,” Sid said to Heatley. “When was this?”

“I’ve no idea. How could I possibly remember? We always had blacks working for us.”

“Were they paid?” Noelene couldn’t resist the jab.

“They got their keep,” Bill flared, “and they would have got something. Some money I mean.”

Sid laughed. “I wonder if Bonner intends to dish that up in his speech. Don’t know how he came by it but he’s a damn good speaker. He could crucify you, Bill, and grab a hunk of sympathy votes at the same time.”

“Do you think so, Sid? Maybe I should say something about how well we treated our blacks; sort of counteract him.”

“And dig yourself a bigger hole.”

“I don’t know about that,” Noelene said. “Everyone would be fascinated to hear how you graziers treated your black workers.”

Heatley frowned. “I think you’re being sarcastic, Noelene, and it’s in poor taste.”

“Especially since Bill is next,” Sid reminded them with a wink.

Noelene laughed. “No he’s not. You are!”

“Oh gawd, so I am!”

Noelene looked at her watch. The first candidate should have completed his address to the delegates by this, hoping he had convinced them to vote for him, and would be facing questions from the floor. They all had to do it, but now, at this crucial point, she was inclined to feel demeaned, as if they were being asked to go out there and beg for the job. She wondered if that had occurred to any of the others. Probably not Sid or Heatley, she supposed, with hides like hippos.

Mr Bonner was back. Mr Hamilton sprang to his feet and was gone in an instant.

“How did you get on?” Noelene asked Bonner, who looked decidedly weary.

“All right, I think.”

“No nasty questions?” 

“No, but it was harrowing. I need some air.” He walked over and opened the back door.

Noelene followed. “I have to know,” she whispered. “Did you mention you used to work for his lordship?”

“No. Of course not. I had more important things to talk about.”

Heatley made no attempt to resurrect the subject and Bonner let it pass, disappointing Noelene. It was such a fantastic turn of fate. She would have to take it up with Neville another time.

After another interminable wait, Sid bounded back to be exchanged for Mr Heatley.

“How did you go, Sid?” Joan asked.

“Great! Really well, sorry to say folks. I got a standing ovation.”

Joan was impressed. “Did you really?”

“In his dreams,” Noelene sniffed. “Heatley won’t get one either. He’s still the State Member for Albert. He won’t get any brownie points for trying to dump his electorate. A lot of those delegates worked hard to help him get that seat.”

Neville rejoined them at the table. “Joan’s next. The ladies will bring a change of pace. By the time Noelene has her say they’ll have forgotten us, Sid.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sid groaned. “But you wouldn’t want to see your ex-boss win, would you? 

“No,” Neville reflected soberly. “I wouldn’t want to see his ex-employee lose.”

* * *

When Bill returned, a bundle of nerves, Mrs Voller left her handbag with Noelene and took a deep breath before sallying forth to lay her claim for a place in history. 

The pressure was becoming too much for Noelene, so she resorted to studying her dog-eared notes to see if there were any areas that might need a last-minute adjustment. She worried that Sid might have the upper hand by this, dragging out his popular themes—opposition to Aboriginal land rights and support for the war in Vietnam—along with his cobwebbed collection of corny jokes.

To counter his strategy she proposed to appeal to issues closer to the hearts of insular Queenslanders, road, rail and hospitals. Also since the audience would contain Gorton followers, still smarting from his overthrow, as well as gleeful McMahon supporters, she would speak highly of both men. Two bob each way. But there was Joan, standing in front of her, reaching for her handbag.

“Thanks, Noelene. Do you want me to mind your bag?”

“What? Yes. Oh yes. Thank you.”

Mrs Wheeler braced herself, walked briskly along the corridor, her Cuban heels clipping neatly on the linoleum, and smiled confidently as the delegates welcomed the final candidate.

* * *

Joan brooded: “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but Noelene’s my main worry.”

“What about me?” Neville teased.

“And me?” from Sid.

“They have to replace Dame Annabelle with another woman,” Joan declared.

“It’s only fair. I thought I did well, but Noelene could change their minds now.”

“She hasn’t got a chance,” Bill said. “Everyone knows she drinks.”

“You can talk,” Sid muttered.

Joan held up her hands. “Now, now. Be nice. We haven’t got much longer to wait.”

* * *

The candidates were ushered to seats in the front row of the conference room. To be in at the kill, Noelene reflected.

A fellow sitting behind her was heard to say: “I wouldn’t miss this for quids.”

“Me neither,” Noelene observed dryly.

She felt numb. Questions reeled about in her head.

Who has won? Could I have done it? Not impossible. Have the women brought me home? Every chance! Oh pray! Pray! Please God, do this for me.

She glanced along the row. Joan’s face was as white as a sheet. Beside her Neville’s dark skin shone with a fine film of sweat. Sid was leaning forward, focused on the empty stage. Bill looked ill, his face a shade of green. Noelene felt a surge of worry for him, afraid that he might faint, but then there was a gasp in the crowded room.

The President was heading across the stage, a sheet of paper in his hand. Robinson spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a senator-elect. Our new senator won on the first ballot, for which he is to be congratulated. Would you step up here, Mr Bonner?”

The applause drowned Noelene’s groan of disappointment. It seemed that all the excitement had been sucked out of her life forever and it took considerable effort to overcome the draining misery of this rejection. Or at least to postpone it.

She shrugged. Ah well. I wonder where I came in the wash.

Neville was up there almost in tears. And why wouldn’t he be? she reasoned as she stood to join in the noisy ovation. He would be the first Aborigine to become a member of an Australian parliament. The first to grace the floor of the Senate. They were all witnessing history here!

Noelene couldn’t help but join in the excitement as the significance of the occasion barrelled through the room. She kept clapping and clapping, aware she had tears in her eyes and with them a wondrous sense of pride.