Chapter Six of the Beehive Bit** memoirs
CHAPTER SIX
It's like a fucking maze getting through the tables and bunting to reach Nobby and then dragging him back out to where Alix is by the bar.
Nobby, flight to Wellington this evening.
Alix looks up from her phone. - He won?
Congratulations Nobby. Not a huge margin but enough that the specials won't change it.
Alix’s eyes turn to saucers. Her first exposure to the feeling that winning a campaign is better than any class As. She turns to me. Is there meant to be a hug? A cheer? A fist bump. FUCK NO. We are classy bitches. Keep your shit together till we are out of here.
To Wellington we go Nobby.
- But I have to...
Shuttity fuck trap, we're going to the only city that counts. There's work to do. Get on the stage, two minute speech, thankety thanks thanks, hugs, kisses, watch the purse clenchers trying to go for the lips. Then taxi.
Alix, sort the flights.
- Caroline will need me to start making arrangements.
No she won't. Let's not pretend you've made an adult decision since the day you got married. She knows what she’s getting into. Long distance relationship with the occasional visit to the constituents, starts tonight.
A cheer erupts from the side of the hall. One of the youth wing must have received a breaking news alert.
Get on that stage Nobby. Feel the glory for exactly one hundred and twenty seconds and then get in the taxi.
Half the hall looks like they are about to fall off their chairs in surprise. He actually fucking did it. By which I mean I fucking did it.
Oh shit, some of the Mormon-incel-wannabies, on the pretence of going to the bar for a celebratory pint, are trying to share a congratulatory group hub with Alix. She might be about to go down under a fog of Lynx. Swat them away. That's it, swat and wriggle. Hold that head high. And stride. Stride girl.
Watch the rugby back slaps on the starboard side. Stride girl.
You're going to need to duck under the arm of the Rotary Association head. Where the fuck did he get a selfie stick from? Stride girl.
Do not let Mrs. Singh get a hold of you. She'll be looking for expense receipts. Stride girl.
Almost there.
Stride with me out the door.
And breathe. We are the fucking queens.
IT’S A glorious descent into Wellington. Bumps of turbulence turning Nobby green but they’re vibrating through my bones and making me feel alive. Alix looks high. Maybe she is high. Stomach dip as we round Lyall Bay. Big lappy waves welcoming us home. Last of the sun rays dipping under the hills.
Waiting for us at the office is a bouquet of flowers and a hamper. Congratulations from the PM says the card. But the hamper has a cheap bottle of Prosecco and a bag of Whittaker's chocolates. The Press Sec must still be pissed off that I wasn’t answering her calls. Let it go bitch. Everything is on track just as I promised.
Just wait till she sees the souvenir mugs I brought back from Napier. One for everyone in her office.
Here, Alix, take the hamper home with you. You must have flatmates you can share it with.
- You don't pay me enough not to have flatmates.
Weesht youngin. When I was your age I was stuck in the photocopy room for 16-hour days with bum pinching from the associates as the only light relief.
Reminds me that I need to move some of the trust fund money around. Who would have thought that crypto would be so much more fun than wrangling laboriously through tax havens. So many things to teach you Alix. So many things. But for now, be grateful that you have a paycheque every fortnight and I didn’t take you on as an intern. Fucking interns. Never worth the hassles. The one rule in life is you get what you pay for. And right now, I get exactly what I pay for with you Alix. Too much salary and I’d be paying for an ego that I do not want.
Before I walk into the Press Sec’s office with mugs galore I sit in my favourite spot in the Beehive: the sofa on the corridor outside the PM's office. The doors to the offices are always open. Desperate attempts to air out the century and a half of turgid politicking and pompous effluent. In my favourite spot my favourite thing is the gossip about me. Somehow, the staff sense me. The walls vibrating with my exact reverberation tweak at their pores and they can help thinking about me.
Whisper whisper.
- Why is everyone so afraid of her? She's just another middle-aged woman with a funny accent
That accent is cultivated from five different continents, two international schools, an Oxbridge education, and a world of experience BITCH.
Whisper whisper.
- You know she rolled the leader?
- I thought --- rolled the leader?
I categorically did not roll any of the Party's leaders. There is not a shred of evidence on any hard drive, email system or phone log DICKWAD.
Whisper whisper.
- Did you know she once euthanized one of her dogs by shooting it in the head after it had been in a hunting accident?
I don't own dogs. Why the fuck would I own a clingy, attention seeking, lick its own balls animal when I'm surrounded by them in the Party?
Whisper whisper.
- Is she having an affair with Norbert Holt?
Jesus fucking VOMIT.
Time to sweeping swan in, mugs proffered, air kiss air kiss. Let me put the mugs on this handy shelf of important looking stuff under a portrait of the dead cunt whose economic reforms allowed my parents to buy their third house.
The Press Sec has no guilty look on her face because she was not a participant in the tawdry gossiping. She is a bitch that gets shit done and wouldn’t waste her time in the office unless she was powering through press releases and prep for the tiles at Mach speed. She’s also a bitch that never feels guilt.
She smiles sweetly.
That’s odd.
What’s up bitch?
The juniors in the office can’t believe I just used the b-word. They can’t believe I just said it to the Press Sec. I can't believe she’s still smiling sweetly.
- The PM needs you to go to Invercargill.
Why do I need to go to the arse end of nowhere? There’s a shit ton of Project Tui work to progress. And somebody needs to keep an eye on fucking Nobby.
The juniors know their cue. They politely exit with handbags over the arms. Off to lunch break even though it’s only 11.30.
- There’s a rather delicate matter.
Everything’s delicate these days. We live in a world of snowflakes and dew drops. An endless cycle of fragility. Who can have their feelings most hurt?
- There’s a dispute between our MP and the branch treasurer about some local fundraising money.
That’s party-side then. Send the President.
- The treasurer’s his sister-in-law.
Of course she fucking is.
I’ll give them a call.
- It needs to be a sit down.
A long silence.
If I concede this, what do I get in return.
Press Sec is one step ahead of me.
- The PM has approved the preliminary design brief and marketing approach for Tui. I should be able to get you a copy once you are back from the South.
Jesus wept.
Off I go.
IT’s ONE of those itsy-bitsy planes. Two seats from window to aisle. Looks like someone’s going to have to hand crank the propeller to get it in the air.
- Welcome Dr. Howard, says the flight attendant with enough posture to demonstrate he was expecting to be flying transatlantic and it will take every ounce of his self-esteem to pretend this is just one step down and not a career path towards serving drinks from the trolly in the old folks’ home.
At least the plane is too small to have any of the fuck wad air safety videos.
I've left Alix in Wellington. There are some things that she doesn't need to see. The parochial bullshit that makes you think it's time to exit the political world entirely. I also don't know how I'm meant to solve this. The Press Sec sent me off with a dossier of emails going back to 2017. The increasingly passive-aggressive greetings and sign offs show a level of carefully cultivated animosity that to the participants likely feels like a work of art.
Touch down and the cold moist air seeps up through the hull.
One of the local branch members picks me up in a khaki green Volkswagen. His name is Squaddie. Why the fuck is your name Squaddie? This better be related to completed service and not a reflection of your paintball trophies.
Oh it is a paintball joke? Twenty five minutes describing black ops manoeuvres in a rabbit filled paddock. The elite squad. Only play at night. When it's cloudy. No moonlight to help them. Jesus wept. Scroll scroll scroll the phone through this drivel. I assume neither the MP nor the branch treasurer partake?
- Oh no. Ha ha ha ha ha. I don't think Mrs S--- could get her leg over the fence to the paddock. That would be a sight to see. Maybe we get her to make some sandwiches. Haven't had any of those since Holdey's better half passed away.
We pull into a - let me peer at the sap stained sign hidden beneath a mahoe tree - tramping club. WHY? Shouldn't we be getting a cup of tea and an Anzac biscuit at one of their houses? Where the fuck is this place?
- They said somewhere neutral, somewhere discreet.
If this is the President’s plan to take me out and leave my body where nobody will ever find it, he’s smarter than I ever gave him credit for.
- In we go. Just need to open some windows and the air will clear. Must be nice for you to be out in the country. A good change from the stuffy halls of Wellington.
I pull three chairs across the wooden floorboards into the middle of the hall. It looks like the most depressing AA meeting in the South Island. Squaddie is whistling as he flicks light switches that don't do anything.
- I'll see if I can get the generator going. Try to crank some heat into this place.
Don't bother. This is a five minute sit down. Expectation setting. Looking forward. I'm not even going to sit down that's how fucking quickly we're getting out of here. Out you pop to the car. We'll be going in ten.
Squaddie looks like he's going to say something but he's been bossed around by enough authoritarian woman in his time.
Mrs S--- comes in first. A museum piece. Are those actual pince-nez? Shortly on her heels, the MP Janet Calvary. Of yes, of course she looks like she's auditioning for Country Calendar. They're each carrying a cardboard box full of papers. My stack looks like a piddling puddle of pulp on my lap.
Ladies, shall we set some ground...
- Janet.
Ouch that voice is like nails on a blackboard.
- Janet. I don't think it's appropriate you've taken the chair facing the west side. You know that my astigmatism means I can't have light coming from the right.
What the f...
- Mrs S---. I am very sorry that when I left the house this morning I didn't pack my compass in my handbag as I normally would so I was not aware which side was the west side.
- If you had been born and raised in Invercargill like the majority of us in the branch then you would know that you only have to orient yourself towards the estuary to know...
Jesus wept. Mrs S---, why don't you move the chair to where you'll be comfortable. No don't bring the box with you. We can do this without the papers.
- I think that might have been what the problem with the return was the last time, says Janet with a leg cross that indicates she is just beginning to put her chess pieces on the table. - A distinct lack of papers that we still don't seem to have an explanation for.
- If Colin had provided the catering expenses by the third...
- Colin was working to the date that Sheila had given him.
Fucks sake. None of these names are in the dossier sitting on my lap. Is this 2023 or 2020 or?
- 2006. Or 2007 if we want to be precise about the date the returns were due.
WHY are we talking about 2006? You weren't even an MP then Janet.
- I was the branch chair.
- Acting branch chair.
- Simon was quite clear...
- Simon wasn't following the constitution or the decisions made at the Specially Convened Meeting. Mrs S--- spits out the capital S, C and M so hard that I think she might have burst a hernia.
Who is Simon? Actually, fuck it, I do not CARE who Simon is. Ladies, FOCUS. We are here to talk about the issue at hand. Which is...
- Janet trying to remove me as branch treasurer.
- I am merely trying to bring us into the twenty first century by requiring fit for purpose systems at the local level.
- If Simon hadn't handled the merge with Southland electorate so badly...
Oh fuck. Looks like I do need to know who Simon is. Who is Simon?
- Janet's lover.
Well that word is a blast from the past. Maybe Mrs S--- has been in hibernation since the 50s and that is why her skin is such a palid colour.
- You know very well that Simon is not and has never been my "lover". He and I were friends in university and coincidentally moved to Invercargill at the same time.
Ten points for very smooth and proficient use of air quotes. Minus 20 points for trying to suggest two university educated people would happen to move to Invercargill at the same time.
Oh wait, Janet has not finished. Another definitive leg cross as she delivers - This is a matter that has been dealt with on more than one previous occasion. I think your inability to recollect that may be another instance of your failing memory that many of us are deeply concerned about. And, of course, we want to support you so you do not feel any distress.
The age card. A good solid tactical manoeuvre to move difficult party members out the way. But can also backfire when 80% of the donor base is over seventy.
Mrs S--- removes her pince-nez. I seem to be watching some carefully rehearsed set pieces. Fuck it. Smoke break.
Out in the car park Squaddie is very much not sitting there with the motor running ready to depart after a quick sit down. His seat is reclined and he's reading a Wilbur Smith paperback. I hate it when the locals are right.
I tug on the vape. I do not let the drops of water from the mahoe tree annoy me. I roll my shoulders back. I steel my gaze. I stride back into the hall.
Ladies, let's get to the point. We're looking at the transactions from 2023. We do not need to go back to the twentieth century. Spreadsheet 3, row 10 - I've inherited the stack of papers from Mrs S---. Who returned the $500 from the savings account?
- That was Janet. Mrs S--- nosedives into the stack so that she can thrust another spreadsheet in front of me.
But Janet wasn't a signatory on the account.
- She was using Hamish's log in.
- I wasn't "using" Hamish's log in.
Bad use of air quotes this time. I have no idea what the fuck that means.
Janet does her own nosedive into the papers so that she can pull out a thick wad of bulldog clipped emails.
There are papers everywhere and I'm trying to find out who the fuck Hamish is without giving them ground to go down another rabbit hole.
SOMEHOW time has passed sluggishly and has also slipped through my fingers as we go round and round in circles through the paperwork and endless jibes.
Squaddie pops his head in.
- Sorry to interrupt ladies but I thought you might be getting hungry?
I hadn't realised the light was fading and the hall was getting dim. Last flight flies in half an hour. Jesus wept, I'll need to stay the night.
Squaddie’s looking expectantly at me. Janet and Mrs S---are inhaling air through their teeth, ready to exhale their next round of thorny taunts.
Fuck this. We'll reconvene tomorrow. 8am sharp so I can make the late morning flight.
Haere rā Janet, Mrs S---. I assume you can make your own way home. Squaddie, get me out of here before any more of the fungal spores infiltrate my lungs.
- Mrs Howard...
- Dr. Howard.
- You can stay at my place if you like.
God no. I'll get a hotel.
- Might be tricky. The Burt Munro Rally is on. Hotels will be all booked up.
My name is GOOD for a hotel booking. I'll be fine. Just keep your eye on the road while I sort this out. Is that in date?
- The beef jerky?
Yes. Pass it here. Don't say a word.
Shit, there are no hotel rooms available.
- Casa de Squaddie it is.
Stop looking so jovial. I am NOT a good house guest. I'm going to text Alix the address so she knows what's happened if I don't reappear.
Squaddie's house is exactly what I expected. There's a rusting Ford Escort on the verge with the motor missing. The recycle bin by the porch is piled high with the same sad cheap beer cans.
- Here's the spare room for you. I'll put an extra blanket on the bed so you're not cold.
Why the fuck is there a Pamela Anderson poster on the wall. And is that Cyndy Crawford?
- This was my room when I was growing up. When mum died I took her room and never got round to redecorating it.
I put my handbag on the sagging single bed. I better not find any fucking dirty tissues down the side.
- Shall I make you something? I could do you a Marmite or jam sandwich?
No, get me a bottle of Pinot. Don't come back with anything under $50. And when you're back turn the TV up loud. I'll be making some calls in the kitchen.
By the time I've finished making my calls and trawling through the Party's intranet - thanks fuck none of this can be requested under an OIA - Squaddie has fallen asleep in the lounge watching Saving Private Ryan.
A clit flick isn't even worth it in this sad state of an adolescent bedchamber. My dreams are haunted by requests from Pamela to get my tits out for the boys at the surf lifesaving club. The dawn chorus of yaps and howls from the neighbour's dogs are a welcome relief from this sonorous trip to the 1990s.
It's time to get the fuck out of Invercargill.
8am and the drizzle is trying to sneak into the hall through the window that won’t fully shut.
Right ladies. Yes, pull up the chair to whichever point of the compass you care about. No, don't open your mouths. Yesterday was an absolute handful. This is how it's going to go. I will be sending a redacted version of this to you for your records, cc'ing in the Party President. And then I don't want to hear another peep ever again.
Mrs S---, you are going to step down as treasurer and find a low key role on the branch executive. The reason you are going to do this is because I have spoken to Colin McIntosh. Yes, I phoned him in Ireland. I am sure you do not want me repeating what he told me to Ms Calvary or anyone else for that matter. I expect this to buy your acquiescence, and I expect not to see your name anywhere in the coming years unless it is a polite recognition of long-term service to the Party.
Janet, you are not going to speak to or talk about Mrs S--- to anyone from today onwards. If you are at a branch meeting you will politely sit on the other side of the room. If you are asked about anything Mrs S--- is doing or has done in the past you will politely point out that you do not have any information and they should ask someone else in the branch. I know you will comply with this because if I hear otherwise the PM will personally be stepping in to make sure you are deselected from any future candidacy.
Now I want both of you to walk out of this hall in front of me so that I can see that you are taking very seriously my expectation of no more sniping and no more needling. I have a plane to catch to Wellington and no interest in hearing another word on this matter. Yes, get going. Get the fuck out of here. No, don’t try to take the papers. Squaddie will incinerate them.
ALIX IS waiting for me in the office. Everyone else has gone home. I like this twilight time. This is when big boss ideas happen without the minions creating the white noise.
Give me time for a vape girl and then we are going to power through some briefs.
- The President guy is here.
Can you make him go away?
- He's shuffling around trying to look busy. I think he's been waiting for you.
So TIRESOME.
Mr President?
- Welcome back Rebecca. Veronica said it was very productive having you in Invercargill.
Who the fuck is Veronica. Oh, Mrs S---. She was not meant to say a fucking word.
- Did you have a time in mind for rescheduling Norbert's Party induction now we can't do it tomorrow night?
Look of extremely brief confusion in my eyes but he spots it. Damn it.
Lording it over me - You don't know do you?
Know what cunt flaps?