is going to read a five-kilo slab of legislation?’ railed Scott, holding his hands half a metre apart as if to illustrate the sheer size of the document. ‘It was just supposed to remove any references to the Crown in our laws. Instead, it’s given us a United States-style presidency.’
It was clear why this was a catastrophe for Scott Braggadocio because it meant that potentially he was no longer the head of the government. It was equally troubling to Grafton because being the functioning head of the government of Australia sounded like an awful lot of work.
‘Can’t you just repeal it?’
Angus and Scott writhed in anxiety. ‘Well, the trouble is, that would involve admitting that it happened,’ said Angus grimacing, ‘which could be … embarrassing.’
‘For all parties, presumably,’ said Grafton, ‘given that no one in the House of Representatives or the Senate apparently read the Bill before voting on it.’
‘Yes, it would be a bipartisan embarrassment,’ said Scott. ‘The whole profession of politics is already on the nose with the public – which is one of the reasons they want a goddamn President. Something like this would only make them vote for more bloody Independents. It would be disaster for both sides.’
‘And,’ added Angus, ‘it would certainly lead to a High Court challenge and that would re-ignite the whole debate …’
‘And the Elect-the-President faction would use it to force another referendum,’ added Scott with a sense of finality.
There was a moment of silence when it seemed as if doom was inevitable. Then Angus leant forward with an up-pointed finger. ‘But there is a solution,’ he said, with a look of optimism tinged with a hint of conspiracy. ‘Under the Act, the President can delegate his powers to anyone he chooses.’
‘Meaning,’ said Scott, ‘You can order the Prime Minister to convene the Cabinet and remain the head of the government.’
Grafton felt a surge of relief. ‘Does that mean that I wouldn’t have to actually …’ He hesitated to say ‘do anything’ and settled on just ‘… govern?’
‘That’s right,’ said Scott. ‘We would just go on the way things are with the Prime Minister as the head of the government.’
‘Although,’ said Angus, lowering the skyward pointing finger by several degrees, ‘it would still be wise for you as President to retain some executive function.’
Grafton felt a pang of disappointment. For one shining moment it had seemed the threat of him having to do more than cut the occasional ribbon had been dispelled. Without betraying the qualms that had checked into his stomach, he tactfully asked, ‘Yes, such as … what might that be?’
‘Well … the one thing that all the different factions seem to agree on is that the President has a role beyond that of being a figurehead. Almost everyone feels that the President is in a sense responsible for the general mood of the country.’
Grafton looked over at Scott, who sat sipping his whisky and watching Angus. He was pretty sure the Prime Minister had no interest in this idea at all and would be happy for the President to be kept in a glass case, only to be brought out on special occasions like the best china. Nevertheless, the PM was savvy enough to listen to his policy adviser who was explaining the political advantage of the plan.
‘Everyone knows that politicians have to make hard decisions. Politicians know they will be unpopular much of the time – probably most of the time. The President, on the other hand, is the father or mother of the nation. They are not there to build roads or hospitals or balance budgets. Their job is build confidence, instil pride, create national unity and raise national morale. They are there to promote cooperation, harmony and a sense of togetherness.’
All these concepts were as foreign to Grafton as competing in the pole vault at the Olympics. Good Lord, he thought. This is going to take some doing.
‘So,’ said Angus, building slowly to the pay-off, ‘what I would think is we should formalise that role by creating a special ministry for which you would have sole responsibility.’
‘And what would that be?’ said Grafton, deeply concerned that there might be toil at the end of the answer.
Angus glanced towards the Prime Minister, who took a deep breath and rolled his eyes as if the whole thing made him feel ill. Angus, clearly used to this reaction, turned back to Grafton who was also feeling slightly queasy. ‘It would be something like the Department of Wellbeing,’ he announced.
This wasn’t as bad as Grafton had feared. ‘Well, I was the Professor of Life Skills and Wellbeing at University of Mangoland,’ said Grafton, warming tepidly to the idea.
‘Exactly,’ said Angus, shooting another glance at Scott, who replied with a headshake of disgust.
*
‘So did you ask what the budget allocation would be for this department?’ asked Janet as she packed baking dishes into a carton while Grafton sat at the kitchen bench relating his conversation.
‘Should I have?’
‘I would have.’ Janet had a way of making a comment that seemed to be about herself but was really a comment about him. ‘What about staffing?’
‘Well, I imagine that would be related to the budget,’ said Grafton, only too late realising that this answer could lead to his being forced to admit he had not asked about that either. But then he recalled something. ‘Oh, I do know I get to appoint a head of the department,’ he stated, glad to have ascertained one tiny fact.
‘Who would that be?’ inquired Janet.
Grafton’s demeanour fell as he realised he had not as yet given any thought to this issue nor even realised he ought to.
‘Um … I don’t know. I think there’s still a lot to be … sorted out,’ he muttered.
‘Indeed,’ said Janet, wrapping their plates in butcher’s paper.
Grafton mused on how a single word such as ‘indeed’ could contain so much meaning.
‘Speaking of sorting things out, how are you going with the packing?’ asked Janet, changing subjects as fast as a Formula 1 driver changes gears.
‘I don’t know. It’s a nightmare. I hate moving.’
‘We all do, but we’re going to have to do it, my darling. We have to decide what we’re taking to Yarralumla, what we’re putting into storage and, most importantly, what we’re throwing out.’
‘Well, all my clothes can be thrown out. None of them fit me anymore.’ Grafton went to the fridge and opened it to find there was almost nothing in it.
‘Why is there nothing to eat?’ he asked.
‘Because we have to empty the fridge. No point in buying food when we won’t end up eating it.’
Grafton felt it almost impossible to imagine any food in a house occupied by him not being eaten but he kept this to himself. Instead, he stood staring into the fridge, as he often did, hoping he could perhaps make food appear
