The Speechwriter by Martin McKenzie-Murray (latest books to read .TXT) 📗

platform, Toby,’ Ms. West said. ‘But there are times when ambition is best served by subtlety.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been thinking about your path to office.’

‘We destroy the opium trade?’

‘Jesus, Toby, you’re 11 years old.’

‘‘‘Of all the talents bestowed upon man—”’

‘Toby, shut up and listen to me. There’s only one path. In a crowded field, you’d be invisible. You’d be lucky to get three votes. But this is different. It’s A versus B. And you’re not popular, but you’re not despised either. Pete could only win by scaring off the competition. But he failed because you stood up. Now, this is our gamble: that their hatred for Pete is greater than their indifference to you. Until now, the kids have been too scared to show it — but they’ll have no problem expressing their contempt by secret ballot.’

‘They hate Pete?’

‘Bingo.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘Let Pete be Pete. Let him expose his cynicism and ineptitude. It’s as easy as letting him speak.’

‘So I should do — nothing?’

‘The playground isn’t looking for a saviour, Toby. But I think enough of them are looking to hurt Pete.’

‘But what do I stand for?’

‘Isn’t it enough to stand against Pete? To stand against cruelty, ignorance, and nepotism?’

‘I’ve studied rhetoric.’

‘I want you to play to your strength. And your strength is that you’re not Pete.’

‘What about my golden rays?’

‘You can harness them when you’ve won.’

‘How do you harness light?’

She sighed heavily.

Ms. West’s analysis was persuasive, but depressing. It was difficult to accept that I might be tactically advantaged by being less like myself. I was depressed further when, without my requesting it, Ms. West wrote my debate talking points:

* DO NOT refer to drug trafficking, human trafficking, sweat shops, the environment, the United Nations, Santa Claus, animal cruelty, or anything else more ambitious than improving the quality of the canteen’s sausage rolls. They don’t care, Toby.

* DO NOT mention that you glow with the light of Christ. It will be obvious enough to the faithful, and no one likes a braggart.

* DO sell your three policies: Lunch extended by 10 minutes, a seasonal canteen menu, and fountains that offer chilled water in summer. No more, no less. You are not Vaclav Havel.*

[* ‘What’s a fucken Vaclav Havel? One of those Belgian beers those root-fearing monks make? Potent shit, they are.’]

* If asked why you want to be school captain, SIMPLY TELL THEM that you think we have a wonderful school — but that it could benefit from some modest improvements.

* If asked why you think you’re fit to be school captain, DO NOT REFER TO PETE’S CHARACTER. Just tell them that you are honest, humble, and committed. Tell them that you are kind and fair. That’s all. You are NOT an aggressive candidate, Toby. And you are NOT a revolutionary one, either. You are the candidate that is NOT PETE. Don’t forget this.

* P.S. DO NOT mention the Devil. Best not to invite controversy or his wrath.

Even though they diminished me, I found the notes very attractive. They were simple, uncontroversial, and easily memorised. They would subtly contrast the two of us, without me having to assert a personality that Ms. West had almost convinced me was unelectable.

But if I was pledging honesty and fairness, how honest and fair was it to enjoy the secret patronage of Ms. West? I could assume that Pete was improperly receiving his father’s counsel — but wasn’t I the candidate that wasn’t Pete? But then my sense of rectitude would slow, twist, and turn back: what good was noble ambition without an office to express it? I could harness my light after I’d won.

Debate day came.

Onstage, Pete and I shook hands. He maliciously squeezed mine and grinned like a lobotomised ape. A hundred students and teachers sat before us in a draughty hall festooned with blue and gold balloons and crepe paper. In the front row, my political Svengali was nervously fingering her rosary beads. A lectern stood centre-stage, flanked by desks for the two candidates. At the foot of the stage sat the debate moderator, the deputy principal. Pete’s father had recused himself.

‘Pete, per the coin toss, you’re up first. You have two minutes to tell us why you’re the best candidate for school captain. Your time starts now.’

I watched him coolly. He was alone and self-conscious — behind the lectern, there was no emboldening circle of sycophants. My hand was swelling now, but I sensed that his discomfort was greater. And I relished it. ‘Yeah, I’m Pete,’ he said, and sniggered nervously. ‘You know me. I mean, what else is there to say, you know? Hey, watch this—’ and he cupped his hands to his mouth and made fart noises for a whole minute before he resumed his seat.

‘Thank you, Pete,’ the moderator said. ‘Toby, you have two minutes.’

I knew then what to do. I’d be Churchill, not Chamberlain. Defiantly, I closed Ms. West’s notes. I was too young to volunteer for my own diminishment.

This is what I said: ‘For years, Pete has terrorised us. And to confirm his contempt, we’ve just had this performance. He thinks so little of us, and so much of himself, that he thinks he can just stand here, make fart sounds, and become school captain. Pete has confused fear for popularity …’

I’m fucking with you. I never said that. Rather, my early mastery of rhetoric produced this: ‘Pete just did a pretend wind, but there is a real smell here. Can you smell it? It is a bad smell. Right now, in a faraway place called Mesopotamia, there is an army fighting a bad man. The fight is called Desert Storm. We have our own bad man. He is a boy called Pete, and this election is our Desert Storm. Pete does not gas people to kill them, except maybe with his bum, but he is still our bad man and we can stop him together if you vote for me. Actually, no, Pete has not killed anyone with his bum. That