Let your opponents wallow in the swamps of generality, stick to the farm subsidy. Do you know anything about the farm subsidy?”
‘ “My God,” I exclaimed, “I’ve always been involved in urban property. Why, I’ve never heard of it before. Should I bone up on it?” I queried.
‘ “No, no,” the PM said hastily. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll get a few set speeches for you and some questions and answers to read through. These’ll be enough. Just stick to ’em and you can’t go wrong. And above all-don’t improvise! Don’t get carried away with personalities or general views. Remember commit yourself to nothing, except of course, the farm subsidy. Commitment is dangerous and a threat to the integrity of the party. You know, between ourselves, don’t take it personally, old chap, I’m not reproaching you, but there have been rumours, but ...” and he smiled knowingly.
‘My face had long gone numb in the mist of his waffling. The PM was renowned for concealing his ineptitude behind a fog of generalities, a trait he had inherited from his predecessor; and he had successfully done it again. Now I eased my facial muscles into what I hoped was a smile of, of, well, of complicity. After all we were in the same boat and had to pull in the same direction. This I thought was certain, though as I stared into the face of my old school chum, I had to keep a snarl from my voice. I met innuendo with innuendo.
‘ “Perhaps, there are other and more pertinent rumours circulating,” I stated, as if I was privy to such rumours, though as a new chum, I was denied the corridors of power; but then I had other contacts. “It seems,” I stated, “there is the matter of a lack of timing. If the Government hadn’t acquiesced in that steep rise in interest ...”
‘He interrupted me with a dry laugh, almost a cough, and said with an air of superior detachment: “We are talking about different things, old chap. You see, I’m covered by my position. Any accusation is a political attack, and as for the interest hike, that is not your concern.” Thus, having put me in my place, he swung back to the forthcoming campaign. “You only have to remember the farm subsidy and the adjustment against the rate of inflation which naturally has calculated in it any interest rises. Push that down their ear holes. Don’t deviate one iota from it and you’ll get the white vote, and as for the black vote ...”
‘That was where your detective came in, of course. Then, after arranging for funds to be forwarded to me, he pressed my hand, offered me the certain luck of the draw, then showed me the door.
‘I faithfully followed his advice before I discovered that it was completely worthless. My opponent not only crushed me with a huge majority, but at one time I was in danger of losing my deposit. I attributed this defeat not only to the disastrous economic climate and the saddling of me with an Aboriginal bodyguard which drew prejudice towards me (I was seen as soft on the Abos and therefore against the rural interests), but also to the abysmal scheming of the PM and his failure to come to my rescue when the campaign took on a personal tone and I was reeling under attack from all sides.
‘I became a witness to how a victim is set up in this great country of ours. Only Jackamara stood by me. He said that the local blacks were 100 per cent behind me, but demanded a statement on land rights. Not bloody likely! I hummed and hawed and lost even that base. My opponent, a wealthy landowner who had dismissed his black employees when he had to pay them a decent wage, pointed the finger of scorn at me. He became the hero of the piece as he laughingly contrasted conditions on a clapped-out station which had been passed over to the blacks with the thriving nature of his own properties.
‘ “Yes,” he declared, “I admit I have made a somewhat comfortable living from my land ... but this has come through hard work,” he shouted out at the church fetes and sheep sales. “And what I have done, they could do,” he yelled in a great shout which echoed in the greedy hearts of all those farmers struggling as much as the blacks were struggling to make a success of their farms.
‘Evading the issue, I flung what I considered the reality of the farm subsidy, cents against dollars, which he adroitly turned against me as a hidden means of keeping off the market the property on which the blacks were trying to scrape out a living. He ignored the farm subsidy and concentrated on the sudden rise in beef prices. His posters fashioned like hundreddollar notes flashed his complaisant face as they screamed: “MONEY COMES FROM LAND WELL WORKED AND MANAGED.”
‘If only they had stopped and thought, but in the town pubs, his agents shouted drinks all round while they trumpeted: “Well, he knows what he’s talking about.” Drunken heads would nod into their drinks and soon this man, seen as one of them, was acclaimed with a frenzy which increased by the hour. Who needed a subsidy when beef prices remained steady at the new high? Market forces were triumphant!
‘My opponent achieved wellnigh divine status when the Brisbane newspapers exposed certain dealings. Now it was country against city, and his victory was assured. My own past, though not my identification with the city, remained all but buried. I found myself at the head of a small minority on the side of accountability in politics. One evening, towards the end of the campaign, I went into the pub in a small town with Jackamara by my side. It was the usual crowd, good-natured in grog, and they even allowed me time to say a few words from the band platform. As I knew the town was dirt poor, I began speaking on the farm subsidy and how it rose in relation to the official inflation figures. This, I declared, would help the weaker rural sectors in which I unfortunately included the Aborigines.
‘ “Fuck ’em, they get too much already,” someone shouted.
‘ “This is untrue,” I unwisely shouted back. “I have seen how these people live, and by my side is one who can tell you about the third-world conditions.”
‘This was too much for the men to take. I had unwisely settled on a taboo topic. A glass whizzed by my ear and splattered on the wall behind me. Others followed and I hit the deck. I huddled there fearful as a hail of missiles flashed over me and beer splashed down. Desperately I called for Jackamara, and then other missiles came from the reverse direction. There was a shout of “Get the buggers” and the bar became filled with large black bodies and fists. Jackamara had enlisted the blacks from the segregated black bar to come to my rescue. A running battle ensured huge headlines detailing a “Race Riot”. With a bruised face as dark as those of my allies, I saw myself going down to defeat. It was then that I knew that I had been set up: I would never become the Minister of Aboriginal Affairs!
‘This became clearer in the final hours of the campaign. My election committee, which at the beginning had been very accommodating, now refused to meet and consider my complaints, or even to plan an alternative strategy. I pressed them to honour their pledges, only to find that there was a serious shortage of funds and rumours that certain moneys had been diverted to buy the black vote. It was then I tried to get in touch with the PM. He was unavailable. At the beginning of my campaign, he had promised to make a whirlwind tour of my electorate, but since then not a single word from him. In desperation, I threatened to go to the media and even tried to plant a few stories which might embarrass, but not harm the election prospects of the party. In return certain newspapers attacked me. It was said that I had sent a truckload of grog to an Aboriginal settlement. Under cover of glib journalese, daggers of wounding allusion slashed out. To the party, I was a lame duck. Real or imaginary polls now revealed that my party would be returned to power; but each and every poll showed that my seemingly safe seat was not only in doubt, but lost owing to my ineptitude. I sat fuming as I crashed to defeat. My only apparent friend at the time was my minder, Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara, but even he had proved a liability. He, after all, was a blackfellow.
‘Well, now I have detailed the first period of acquaintance with that policeman. I doubt that he was privy to the plot; but the sight of him beside me on each and every occasion was an element in my downfall. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief when his job was over and he returned
