Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 23
“It’s just a formality,” said the Chief of Staff, referring to Summer’s introductory meeting with the Prime Minister. The Chief of Staff said this during a phone call four days ago, as Summer was preparing to leave Sydney for Canberra, and Summer had correctly understood this to mean that her meeting with Gail Marcus—which would not be listed in the Prime Minister’s Official Daily Schedule; nor published on the parliamentary website; nor forecast in the Prime Ministerial Quarterly Program—simply reflected a tradition; a long-established practice, an unwritten law.
So if it’s just a custom, Summer asked herself now, as she waited to be shown into the Prime Minister’s office, what’s this internal roil? She sat forward on the sofa and tried to locate the Summer who, just hours earlier, had stood at her bedroom window marveling at the blue blue sky then waving like a child at a rainbow-colored hot-air balloon as it glided lazily by.
The panorama had tempered an uneasiness about the national capital that she acquired quite unexpectedly after her arrival two days earlier. She reflected on it now: The drive to Canberra had been pleasant enough; her landlord’s superb directions had helped to easily locate her apartment two floors above the Griffith Butcher. It was later, after she had unpacked her belongings and while she was jogging around the lake at Kingston that a disquiet came upon her.
She smiled at a couple strolling hand in hand then at a woman walking her dog, and though she couldn’t be certain, she could not ignore the looks of suspicion that her gestures returned. Even a group of Tai Chi enthusiasts enjoying the last days of autumn seemed to look the other way when she nodded as she jogged passed. She questioned her judgment then admonished herself—you're imagining things. But later at a cafe in Manuka, she ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea and an ANZAC cookie and again she felt conspicuous, as if other patrons were whispering about her.
Back in her apartment, the feelings abated amidst the familiarity of the evening news bulletin and the comfort of her things around her. The stone Quan Yin statue that she had purchased as a memory of her visit with Frankie to the Chinese Gardens in Sydney, now stationed on the window ledge; the Laughing Buddha she routinely laughed back at that now occupied the corner shelf in her bathroom. And her Peace Lily, Spaffy, who she thought of as family having travelled with her from her first home in Kings Cross, through the years at The Daily Tribune, then to a shady spot on the balcony at Jess’s home in Western Sydney.
Summer looked over at Spaffy’s dense verdant leaves flopped over the column-like stand.
“Happy?” She asked Spaffy, which was a shortening of the botanical name, Spathiphyllum Sensation. The name had come about after she arrived home with her plant from the garden shop in Kings Cross and April, who abbreviated everything, had pounced on her purchase insisting the plant be given a name. Oddly, April never reducted Summer’s name, but then, she mostly addressed her in euphemisms such as “Lovey” or “Doll” or “Gorgeous.”
“I’m happy,” she told Spaffy.
On balance, Summer was happy. She had arrived at the dawn of a new career. Politics. Real politics—not the propaganda she had had to churn out during her final days at The Daily Tribune—and she was energized by this; ready to embrace the urgency that was the Prime Ministerial universe and fully prepared to engage with the ambition and betrayal she knew encircled
“You’ll have to be able to navigate insane amounts of ambiguity,” the Chief of Staff had emphasized during her interview. And this too had emboldened Summer.
But now, as she picked a ball of fluff from her new black woolen pants and flicked it onto the pale gray sofa in the Prime Minister’s waiting room, her conviction abandoned her. In its place was the overwhelming sensation that she was an imposter.
She took her thoughts to her arrival at Parliament House, just fifteen minutes earlier, when she had stood before the magnificent boomerang-shaped building and stared in awe at the massive spire upon which Australia’s flag flapped and snapped in the crisp autumn squalls.
She had bounded across the ochre-colored paving that sweept the vast façade, then split off from the throng of visitors to be admitted to Parliament House through the staff entrance. Here, she engaged in light banter with the checkpoint guard before slipping into the entrance hall that was echoing with the loud chatter of schoolchildren; the high-handed commands of their teachers; the singsong recitals of Asian tour guides.
She recognized the lobbyists, conspicuous with their airs of importance: smart briefcases, furrowed brows, and a unique ability to slither around unsuspecting tourists then silently disappear into one of the structures four thousand and seven hundred rooms. She lingered before the majestic marble staircases then slipped behind a discreet partition and into the Members Hall—the sanctorum where the political pulse of Australia beats in time with the nation, or so the nation likes to think.
Her heels clicked loudly on the highly polished jarrah floors and she sensed a sudden change in the environment—another kind of business existed behind the scenes; more artful, less revered. She thrust her shoulder back as she marched past the Kookaburra Café, where she had first met with the Chief of Staff weeks earlier. It had been late in the afternoon; the House was sitting, and the cafe was empty. Except for a mother breastfeeding her baby. But this morning it was crowded and there was a line of public servants anticipating their first coffee of the day. She slowed and regarded the scowl of the leader of the opposition, a short, pompous man with large opinions about the role of women. No one looked her way, and Summer enjoyed the feeling of blending in.
When she reached the square water feature that separated the House of Representatives and the Senate, she tossed in the coin she had slipped into her pocket before leaving home—not for luck, but to fulfill a childish desire to participate in the theater the architecture invited. The fifty-cent piece torpedoed onto the black slate below. Above her, the Parliamentary Historian’s commentary tumbled down the three-tiered gallery. Summer looked up at the visitors spilling over the railing, hungry for a glimpse of the prosaic nature of civic life.
She took a moment to indulge in the celebrity she had acquired since her appointment to the Prime Minister’s speechwriting team. Then she entered the Ministerial Wing and as she padded along the runner toward the Prime Minister’s office, she experienced a crushing shift in her psyche; the all too familiar weight of doubt delivered through a faraway voice that she could not place but whose authority assured her that the skill, diligence, courage, and moral standing underpinning her success amounted to nothing more than a twist of fate, an accident, luck—anything but merit.
She had confided similar insecurities to Nana Laurel once, after she had been offered the job on The Daily Tribune when self-doubt had overwhelmed her. Nana Laurel emphatically told her that the deceitful demon had no place in her life. She ordered her to banish it from her thoughts. But Summer’s demon was clever and frequently took her by surprise, outsmarting her logic and defeating her confidence so that the only pathway to peace of mind was surrender. And this is what she decided to do now as she waited for the Prime Minister.
She let her thoughts wander to a recent conversation with a friend, another journalist, who had been congratulating her on the appointment.
“You’ll be wonderful, darling, you’re such a nice little writer,” her friend said. Then detaching herself from their embrace, she asked, “Was the job advertised? Tina would have been perfect for it, don’t you think?”
Oh, for Christ's sake! Give it a break! Summer told herself, acknowledging the uselessness of the self-inflicted suffering that is unique to her sex. She tried then to invoke the discipline she had learned as a gymnast, forcing herself to attune to her surroundings: the soft antique-white walls decorated with indigenous dot paintings; the contemporary landscapes that spoke to the eerie vastness of the country. She stood and approached the bust of the Aboriginal warrior, Truganini, admiring her strong even features. The figurine looked resolutely back, and Summer felt buoyed by this woman who had understood the art of war. She made her way toward the anteroom that preceded the official entrance to the Prime Minister’s office and laid her hands on the cool bronze of another bust, the feminist Jessie Street. The Prime Minister’s receptionist—with whom Summer would become friends—appeared at her side and offered that visitors regardless of where they are from are always intrigued by the busts more than anything else. The lilt of the receptionist’s voice succeeded in calming Summer, who finally gave in to this cocoon that, she would discover soon enough, was the antithesis of the culture within.
+
“This is you,” the Chief of Staff said, halting at the end of a narrow corridor. Summer, who had been trailing her, pulled up quickly. The Chief of Staff pushed through the door and they entered a tiny room that, for no particular reason, reminded Summer of the reception area she had occupied at Club 99 more than a decade ago. A too-large pine desk was jammed into a corner and a tatty office chair on wheels faced them, as though freshly vacated. Wedged between the bookcase and the wall was an embroidered brown plastic wastepaper bin, just like the one in Nana Laurel’s bedroom at home, only this one was not overflowing with Kleenex.
Summer walked toward the window.
“I love working in natural light,” she said.
The Chief of Staff appeared alarmed and looked out of the window, as though Summer had shouted fire!
“You’ll need to be focused going forward,” said the Chief of Staff, “and vigilant. The Opposition’s ramping up its rhetoric; it’s essential the P.M. retains her lead in the polls.”
Summer nodded.
“So, for the foreseeable future, I’ll need you to dedicate one hundred per cent of your time to the referendum... we’ve got to be one hundred and ten percent certain of a Yes vote before the P.M. announces a date.”
Summer detected apology in her tone.
“Of course,” she said, that’s why I’m here.”
The Chief of Staff passed Summer a thick royal blue folder with the Commonwealth Coat of Arms embossed in the center. The kangaroo and emu facing off against each other reminded Summer of a picture book her father used to read to her. She smiled internally at the memory. In the bottom right corner, a plastic sleeve hugged a business card that carried the same gold insignia with the kangaroo and emu. Just above was Summer’s name and title.
“I’m a speechwriter and an advisor?” Summer said, trying to hide her childish delight.
She ran her fingers over her new title and mentally kicked herself for the doubt she had experienced earlier.
“Everyone in this office is an advisor,” the Chief of Staff replied, looking at her watch.
“Oh well,” Summer said, refusing to allow the moment to be taken from her, “I’ll enjoy the sun while it shines.”
“There’s no honeymoon period in this job,” the Chief of Staff said, misunderstanding Summer’s attempt at effervescence. “You hit the ground running, and you’ll either walk out of here or be carried out in a box.”
Summer couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking.
“Well, at least I have a room with a view,” Summer persisted, gazing across the concrete expanse to the row of eucalypts buffeting Capital Hill.
The Chief of Staff looked past Summer into the ministerial parking lot, as though seeing it for the first time.
“I suppose you could call it a view,” she said, dropping a pile of fat manila folders onto Summer’s desk. She tapped her fingers on the folders. “Background material,” she said, walking away.
While her computer whirred to life, Summer leafed through the onboarding materials in the blue folder: page after page of policies, protocols, maps, departmental telephone directories, and lists of agency personnel. In the back of the folder was a document that described how briefing notes should be presented to the P.M.: red folders are for national security, yellow is for anything requiring a signature, green represents urgent matters and should be authorized by the Chief of Staff first. Purple is for the referendum.
Summer swung her briefcase onto her desk and withdrew the Prime Minister’s quarterly program along with her journalist’s notepad, which contained a summary of her discussion with the P.M. just now. In the quarterly program, Summer had circled three upcoming engagements: the mining company, Gaia, where the P.M. would be addressing around seventy executives; the annual meeting of the Australian Association of Responsible Parenting; and the opening of the international conference of the feminist organization Little Women. The topic for all three speeches would be the referendum.
In her notepad, Summer scanned fragments that the P.M. had shared with her about the leadership in each organization. Summer had noted down things that might be useful, seemingly irrelevant facts like family ties; educational backgrounds; who was (or had been) married to whom; political affiliations and personal values; and any sensitivities that, the P.M. had indicated, Summer may wish to either take into account (if they were public knowledge) or avoid. Summer then flipped through the verbatim quotes she had also taken, though she would not use these in the P.M.’s speeches. Instead, they would provide a reference to assist her in accessing the P.M.’s voice—“to help me think in Gail Marcus speak,” she had later explained to April when describing this speechwriter’s tool.
Summer turned to her computer screen and opened a new file. At the top of the page, she typed the referendum which, like most Australians, she knew by heart. She bolded and centered the text:
A Proposed Law: To alter the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Australia so that women are full participants in the drafting of all policies, bills and legislation. YES or NO?
In her notepad, Summer went to where the P.M. had talked about a digital revolution, an event that would surpass the current analog structures and create fundamental changes to the way Australians lived. The P.M. had stressed the “enormous opportunity” of the digital revolution for the nation and said that there would be “no going back.” Then she talked about fairness, a theme in the ‘Gail Marcus For Prime Minister’ campaign that had inspired record numbers of women to attend polling booths on Election Day and give her their vote.
“We owe it to the women of Australia not to become like America,” the P.M. told Summer. “In that country, gender inequality is being replicated every day in the design and creation of new digital worlds.”
The P.M. then spoke of “The Women Problem,” a fiction about the role of women in society that was created to hide the fact that the economy could not function without the free labor provided by more than half of its population. Summer had been surprised to learn that a narrative existed whose sole function was to cover up a truth. But what shocked her more was the effectiveness of this story in subjugating not a minority but a majority.
“Look at it from the point of view of the patriarchy,” the P.M. said. “Imagine the economic disaster if fifty per cent of the nation suddenly demanded to be paid for the services they currently give for free... the childrearing, the caregiving, the cooking, the cleaning.”
Summer had heard this rhetoric before but not in the context the P.M. established during their meeting: women as slaves. The notion intrigued her. She had never thought of her sex in this way; slavery was an American problem and yet she could see how technology that is first imagined then built by men could further entrench the open economic truth about the nature of women’s work; the non-productive activity that contributes neither to the country’s growth nor to its balance sheet.
During this part of the meeting with the P.M., Summer was suddenly reminded of a very funny moment in high school. She described for the P.M. how her teacher had assigned as reading homework a chapter from the United Nation’s System of National Accounts (a globally agreed method for calculating the value of human activity). The chapter was entitled “Informal Aspects of the Economy” and in it, anything related to women’s work was categorized as “leisurely.” The P. M. and the Chief of Staff had both laughed at that, then Summer told them how her teacher had contextualized this type of labor by comparing the term leisurely to the “relaxing act of giving birth!” An analogy that the class of fourteen-year-old girls had found hilarious.
But now, like the P.M., Summer could see the trap in silently accepting a definition that assigned no monetary value to the work her mother and grandmother had done and their mothers and grandmothers before them—indeed, men would not toil or sacrifice without acknowledgement of their contribution. Why should women? At the same time, she understood that in upending the problem of female slavery, at stake would not be the flood of women and girls seeking to pursue new lives but the loss of what men hold dear. Suddenly Summer was seized by a state of clarity.
Of course, she said to herself, it’s so simple. A Yes vote will compel leaders to prioritize fairness.
Then almost immediately, she saw that this was not the real problem. How to get women to want their freedom and how to persuade men to accept it—this would be her challenge.