Free Campaign Ruby by Jessica Rudd Page B

residence at Yarralumla,’ said an elegant, almond-eyed journalist, ‘where, any minute now, the new Prime Minister, Gabrielle Brennan, is expected to be sworn in to her new role. At this stage, we are unsure who will take her position as Treasurer. Peter?’
    â€˜Thanks, Anastasia,’ said Peter, back in the studio. ‘Do we have any idea whether Prime Minister, sorry, former prime minister Hugh Patton will be standing again in his inner-Sydney seat at the next election?’
    â€˜At this stage, Peter, we don’t, but it’s highly unlikely that he would serve under his challenger and successor. This was a swift and seamless move on the part of Gabrielle Brennan and her co-conspirators. Very few people expected this day would come quite so quickly, if at all. Everybody is stunned. Peter?’
    Peter pressed two fingers against his earpiece. ‘Right, thank you, Anastasia. Senior Political Correspondent Anastasia Ng there, live in Canberra. We’re hearing now that Hugh Patton is going to doorstop on the steps of Old Parliament House’—bingo—‘evoking vivid memories of the dismissal of Gough Whitlam in 1975. We’ll cross live to that press conference now, where Oscar Franklin’— yum—‘has the latest. Oscar?’
    Beryl arrived with my tea in a chipped Flintstones mug, interrupting my Oscar-related daydream.
    â€˜Thanks.’ I cleared my throat. ‘What happened to Whitlam?’
    â€˜What do you mean, love?’
    â€˜Well, why was he dismissed?’
    â€˜Where are you from?’
    â€˜England.’
    â€˜Oh, that makes sense. In a nutshell, the GG dissolved the House of Reps and the Senate and put Fraser in as caretaker. It’d be like the Queen sacking your PM.’
    â€˜What’s the significance of Old Parliament House?’
    â€˜Why’s that?’
    â€˜Because Patton is about to do a doorstop there.’ I hoped I had used the term correctly.
    â€˜Shit, that’s dramatic.’
    â€˜I should just go,’ I said, grasping the significance of the event.
    Beryl shook her head. ‘Luke wants you to stick around, if you’re interested.’
    Hugh Patton stood on a flight of white steps. He was emotional, supported by his wife, her hand firmly on his back.
    â€˜Ladies and gentleman, people of Australia—they say thirteen is an unlucky number. For my colleagues, my staff, my family and me these thirteen years have been the luckiest of our lives. We have been lucky enough to serve this country—to serve you.
    â€˜We’ve made some changes in health, defence, tax and education. We’ve been a force for good and, of that, I am proud.
    â€˜Sadly, someone else got lucky today. I wish her and her team—my party—well. I bear no resentment. No animosity. Because the fact remains I will always have those thirteen lucky years and that is thanks to them.
    â€˜Now, I’m going to spend some time with my family— if they’ll have me.’ His lip quivered, then his wife’s grip spurred him on. ‘To my constituents in Sydney, I hope you’ll understand that this makes it difficult for me to continue to serve you well.
    â€˜Thank you to everyone who supported me and everyone who didn’t but put up with me anyway.’
    Journalists laughed.
    â€˜God bless,’ he said and walked with his wife down the steps, into a waiting car and away from his career.
    Oscar Franklin broke the silence. ‘And that was the man of the moment, Hugh Patton, soon to be former prime minister of Australia. It’s a solemn moment here at Old Parliament House—none of us quite knows what to say. Peter?’
    â€˜Well, don’t, Oscar,’ said Luke behind me.
    â€˜Luke.’ I stood to greet him.
    â€˜Hi.’ His phone rang. ‘Listen, mate,’ he said into his BlackBerry, ‘I know it’s a big ask, but I need you lot to pull your finger out