Part 33 (2/2)

I pulled the curtains along their runner to reveal the overcast Melbourne morning. The rich brown river was perfectly still and the streets were dotted with zigzagging party-goers making their way home. I grabbed the papers and dialled in.

MAYBE MASTERS, said the Herald. CLIFFHANGER, said the Weekender. The poll was disgustingly close. We were even with the government. If I could have opened the windows at the hotel, I'd have called out to the revellers and reminded them to vote. I was still alone on the conference call. Just me and Mozart. They were seventeen minutes late. Eighteen. I hung up and texted Di.

Where are you guys? R No reply. I tried Maddy.

Are you joining this morning's hook-up? R My phone buzzed.

Dude, no hook up-it's D Day. I'm making sandwiches for the booths in Pratt. Where are you handing out? M Don't we have work to do? Where's Max? R Sandwiches don't make themselves. Max is. .h.i.tting the radios from home. He'll be voting at nine. M There must be something I can do. R Find a booth and work. See you tonight. M The lack of structure did my head in. Hang on, it said, I thought we were going to do the phone hook-up and race around trying to convince people to vote for us like usual. And now you're telling me we have nothing to do?

Which booth? All of my favourite candidates were in other cities. Melissa was in Launceston, Felix in Adelaide, Felicia in Cloncurry. I didn't know anyone in Melbourne. Not a soul.

We need wine, said my head.

Good thinking. I showered, packed, checked out and hailed a taxi.

'I need to go to the Yarra Valley,' I said, jumping into the back seat.

'I'm clocking off in half an hour, love. Sorry.'

'I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars cash to take me there.'

He thought about it. 'Righto.'

We drove past countless polling booths-churches, schools, community halls-each replete with bunting and other paraphernalia from both sides. Rolls of flimsy plastic bearing Max's smiling face were being unfurled by volunteers along fences. Full body shots of the Prime Minister glistened on A-frame stands in the dewy dawn. Our campaign workers wore purple T-s.h.i.+rts and caps with MAX FOR PM in white block letters. Theirs were in black and white.

'You look familiar,' the driver said as we went through Lilydale.

I looked at the rear-view mirror to examine his face. 'Really?'

'Yep. I must have driven you before.'

'I've only been in Australia for just over a month and in Melbourne intermittently.'

'I never forget a face. What do you do?'

'I work for Max Masters.'

'I don't b.l.o.o.d.y believe this.'

'What?'

'You took your duds off in my cab on the way to Tullamarine, remember?'

It can't be.

'No, I think you're mistaken.'

'Nope, I told you. I never forget a face.'

Or other body parts, for that matter.

He winked. 'You've got my vote, love.'

'You can drop me here.' I got out at a tiny weatherboard primary school in Warburton and paid him through the window. 'The polls open in two hours,' I said.

'Good luck, mate!' He sped off with a smile on his face.

Mums and dads were setting up trestle tables. Support the WSS LAMINGTON DRIVE , read a handwritten sign. A man in a deck chair dozed under a purple cap, his thermos holding down a pile of newspapers. I cleared my throat. 'Excuse me.'

He stirred, adjusting his hat to see me. 'Yes?'

'Sorry to disturb you,' I said. 'My name is Ruby Stanhope and I work in Max Masters' office.'

'Yeah, right,' he said. 'Why would Max Masters send a flunky to an unwinnable seat? What are you, media?'

'No, I'm a financial policy advisor, except I've never done any financial policy advice; I seem to play a more miscellaneous role, but that's not the point. I'm here because I want to be. My aunts live locally. And no seat is unwinnable.'

'Do you have a card or something?'

I showed him my parliamentary security pa.s.s. He rubbed his forehead in disbelief. 'Sorry about that,' he said. 'We don't usually get much interest in this electorate, especially not at'-he looked at his watch-'a quarter past six in the morning.'

'I didn't know what to do today and I needed to do something, so I got in a cab and came here. I hope that's okay.'

'Sure,' he said. 'I've been manning this booth solo for twenty years, so it'll be nice to have a bit of company. I'm Graeme, by the way.'

'Everyone calls me Roo.'

Graeme and I stood there all day. We ate lamingtons, drank tea and talked politics under the shade of a purple and white umbrella.

'Max Masters for PM,' we would say, handing our how-to-vote cards to pa.s.sers-by.

'Give Gabrielle a go,' said Phoebe, our compet.i.tor.

When the midday sun was burning my shoulders, Daphne, Debs, Fran, Clem, Pansy and the pups brought us homemade rye rolls with smoked salmon and watercress. Graeme said all his Christmases had come at once. Clem had tied purple ribbon to the pups' collars, which wooed about seven voters by my count.

'Well,' said Graeme at five, 'I guess we had better vote and pack up-why don't you go first.'

Trembling with excitement, I approached the school hall. In London, election days had always seemed so inconvenient- I'd rarely found time between conference calls to cast my vote-but this was different. I couldn't wait.

Inside, under the ceiling fans, eight cardboard cubicles stood proud with Australian Electoral Commission pencils attached. There were two ballot boxes in the middle of the room near a long trestle table, at which sat three plump ladies. Each had a name tag and a cheery smile. 'Hi, love,' said one, 'what's your surname?'

'Stanhope.'

'Do you live in this electorate?'

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