The Best Laid Plans (31 page)

“I’m sorry to urinate in the caucus coffee, but I am compelled to inform you that I’ll be supportin’ the Throne Speech as I committed to in the House last week. I dinnae imagine you’ll take kindly to my decision, and I lament this break in solidarity. But my conscience, not to mention common sense, leaves me no choice.”

“How can you prop up this morally corrupt Government?” shouted an MP from the other side of the room.

“I dinnae accept yer premise, sir, and nor should any of you who consider yourselves fair-minded. I’m votin’ for the Throne Speech for three reasons. Firstly, it lays out a reasonable, balanced, and prudent course for the nation. And I defy any one of you to argue otherwise. Secondly, I said I would vote for it, inside the House of Commons and outside. And thirdly, defeatin’ a duly elected Government because its former Finance Minister likes to
‘do the dirty’ in handcuffs and leather while bein’ flogged with a ridin’ crop is asinine, ludicrous, and everythin’ betwixt.” He bowed slightly and headed out the door. “Well, lads and lassies, it’s been grand, but I’ve work to do.”

Angus winked as he walked past me. I scrambled to catch up, but not before the Leader, Bradley Stanton, and about 75 Liberal MPs turned on me and committed assault with a deadly glare.

When I got back to my office, I shut the door and picked up the phone. Michael Zaleski answered on the first ring.

“Z-man, it’s Daniel Addison. Look, I really need a favour,” I opened.

“Hey, Daniel. I figured you’d have gone underground by now, maybe even had cosmetic surgery. You’ve got the Centre pretty pissed right now.”

“Well, they won’t be feeling any better after Angus shot down the Leader’s pre-battle rally speech this morning. That’s why I’m calling. If I were Stanton, I’d be thinking about expelling Angus from the caucus, and I’m sure he’s under pressure on many fronts to do just that. So here’s where you come in. If Stanton and I are going to play chicken, I need to know whether he’s really going to go through with it, or veer off at the last second. Can you help me out?” I fairly pleaded.

There was a long pause, which I took to be a good sign. I could hear him breathing deeper as he weighed his options. After a final sigh, he came back.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t think Angus is going anywhere. We just came out of the field, and your boy seems to be the toast of the country. The gen-pop numbers show Angus to be widely admired – a breath of fresh air at a time when public cynicism towards ‘politics as usual’ is peaking. The cross-tabs are interesting, too. Among Liberals, Angus enjoys very high awareness ratings and mega-strong support. What’s more, he’s incredibly popular among Tory and NDP voters, too. We’ve never seen that before. His appeal transcends party lines. If the Tories have run any
numbers on this, they’ll be hoping Angus is expelled.”

I was stunned for the umpteenth time since meeting Angus. I’d been tracking the growing editorial support for Angus but hadn’t counted on average Canadians jumping on our bandwagon so early and in such force. The airport speech had started a snowball rolling down a slope. Now, a mere three weeks later, it seemed it was time to close down the mountain and call out the Saint Bernards.

Zaleski’s voice brought me back. “Besides, with the seat count so tight, they’d be crazy to lose one and risk Angus joining the Government benches.”

“Well, I doubt our Angus would choose that path, but your point is well taken. Michael, I really appreciate this, and you can count on my discretion,” I said in all sincerity. I didn’t really need the numbers to deal with Stanton, anyway, just the big picture.

When I hung up, I had three voice mails already. My half-hour call with Bradley Stanton went something like this: “You know, we’re this close to kicking your ass right out of caucus! Danny boy, it’s lonely as an independent. No one to talk to. No research staff. No clipping service. And it’s worse than hell in the constit. You really want that?”

“Bradley, in case you didn’t know, Prozac now comes in a convenient, one-a-day formulation.” Nice light opening. “Come on, man, you know I’m not pulling his strings. I’ve got a guy who speaks his mind and is genetically programmed to do the honourable thing. I realize that makes him a freak on the Hill, but he is who he is. You can’t change him. I can’t change him. And I don’t even want to.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Addison. Get him to use some common sense and be reasonable! That’s your job! You’re one of us!”

“Listen to yourself, Bradley. Angus is the only one around here who is using common sense. His position on the Throne Speech is eminently reasonable, and you know it.” Time to fire a gentle shot across his bow. “And what’s more, I think Canadians know it, too. I sense that people on the street like what he’s saying and what he’s doing. Maybe we can all learn something from him.”

The same general exchange cycled through our conversation several more times at varying volumes and with ever more creative profanities but eventually tailed off. I knew the Centre was taking this seriously because I also had calls from the caucus Chair, the Whip, and eventually, even the Honourable “Dickhead” Warrington – our esteemed House Leader and accomplished swordsman and paramour. Ours was a short conversation that neither of us enjoyed. I half-expected Rachel to call, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was busy calming down her boss.

By the time the full-court press had relaxed, it was nearly time for lunch, which I’m told is the midday meal, though I hadn’t recently enjoyed one. I joined Angus in his office for his scheduled call to the Industry Minister. I’d briefed the Minister’s staff, and they’d prepped the Minister for the call. The planets seemed to be aligning. Angus dialed and was put right through. I decided not to risk listening in on the line, and so could only hear Angus. At the last second, he covered the receiver with his palm and whispered to me. “What do I call her?”

“Minister,” I whispered just in time.

“Minister, it’s Angus McLintock. Good of you to take my call.” (Pause) “Well, thank you, I’m enjoyin’ myself despite my, shall we say, unanticipated victory.” (Pause) “I gather you’ve been briefed on our little timin’ problem. We have an opportunity to transform an outmoded shoe factory on its way down into a state-of-the-art technology facility that will produce an advanced wireless wave router to ease computer networkin’. It is a modern marvel of made-in-Canada ingenuity. But as usual, time is of the essence. We need Industry Canada fundin’ approval under what I’m told is called the Industrial Transition Program in the next week or so to meet the ambitious retoolin’ and production deadlines.” (Pause) “Yes, yer officials have been very helpful, and the factory fits nicely into the program’s eligibility criteria.” (Pause) “Of course, Minister, I would insist on your makin’ the announcement. I care not a whit about who gets credit for this.” (Pause) “Yes, Minister?”
(Pause) “Well, yes, as I said in the House last week, I intend to vote in favour of the Throne Speech this afternoon.”

Uh-oh.

“But Minister, I’m not callin’ to horse trade. My decision on the Throne Speech is made. Please dinnae approve the fundin’ as some kinda payback for my support in the House. That’s not how I operate. Approve the fundin’ because it’s the right thing to do.” (Pause) “Aye, I’ve been gettin’ a lot of that lately.” (Pause) “When can you let us know, Minister? You’ll understand that many jobs and livelihoods are hangin’ in the balance.” (Pause) “That’s splendid, Minister. I’m grateful and so are the workers at the Sanderson Shoe Company. You have my gratitude.” (Pause) “Yes, I’ll be in the House. I cannae thank you enough.”

He hung up and rushed to the fax machine. Two minutes later, the fax hummed to life and regurgitated a single sheet – the final page of the funding application with the Minister’s signature, screaming at the bottom.

“Angus, you did it. I can’t believe it, but you did it. You got the rusted and temperamental machinery of government to do your bidding. Congratulations!”

Then he did a strange thing. He hugged me.

By that time, the forces threatening us into defeating the Government were slackening. I knew Angus was safe. I also believed that the Leader and the rest of the caucus would support the Throne Speech rather than risk parading cracks in the Liberal family for all to see. In the end, I was right about that. After Angus had left the room that morning, caucus had debated for most of its three-hour meeting and ultimately had succumbed to common sense. Late that afternoon, every single Liberal voted to accept the Throne Speech. The Leader appeared to be in pain as he spoke in the House. In his brief speech, he actually borrowed lines Angus had used earlier that morning in caucus. My, how that must have hurt him. Only the NDP voted against the Throne Speech.

The next morning, my effigy burning in the Leader’s office was further fuelled by a feature story in the
Globe and Mail
. I had steadfastly declined all media interviews the previous evening when rumours of Angus’s role in the Liberal flip-flop on the Throne Speech seeped out after the vote. Obviously, someone in Angus’s small but growing band of caucus allies was not so discreet and must have spilled the whole story. The piece in the
Globe and Mail
recounted the entire chain of events link by link in excruciating and, I must say, completely accurate detail. It covered the Leader’s caucus rallying cry, the McLintock response, the behind-the-scenes expulsion threats, and the Leader’s ultimate Throne Speech reversal. One large photo accompanied the front-page story – yep, Angus in full colour, speaking in the House during the initial Throne Speech debate. Just my luck, he looked great in the picture. Fierce and fiery. Almost noble.

I phoned Bradley first thing Thursday morning. Perpetuating my run of bad luck, he was there to take my call. “Bradley, it’s Daniel.” I barreled ahead without letting him start in on me. “I swear on a stack of Bibles that I had nothing to do with the
Globe
piece. I had no idea it was in the works. I returned no calls to the
Globe
or to anyone else in the gallery last night. I would not do that to the Leader or to you. The story came from someone else who obviously was in caucus yesterday. It’s important to me that you know that I would not sell you out like that and neither would Angus.” I paused to take a breath. “Bradley? Bradley? Hello?” Shit. And so it goes.

Another smaller but related story appeared in the
Globe and Mail
that morning. Eric Cameron and Petra Borschart had been located by an intrepid reporter, acting on an anonymous tip. They were living in a newly purchased beach house near beautiful Rum Point on Grand Cayman. They declined comment, but the neighbours described them as quiet, pleasant, and permanent, residents.

I picked Lindsay up on campus and then made the short drive to the ByWard Market and my favourite outrageously expensive
restaurant in Ottawa, Le Jardin. Rachel and I had gone there often. It had been “our” restaurant. But just by sitting across from me, Lindsay shoved every thought of my ex into the deepest, nearly inaccessible recesses of my memory. She could do that without trying, without even knowing.

Our conversation ranged from books to politics to popular TV shows when we were kids to my new-found aversion to public transit. We spent fifteen minutes on our favourite
Saturday Night Live
sketches of all time. We seemed to be able to talk about anything with no pretense, no agenda, and no higher purpose other than just sharing the same space and sentences. Here was an intimacy I’d never before known. Though Le Jardin was packed, we were all alone. Later, I had no recollection of the food or even the bill though I’m certain both were remarkable, if not extraordinary.

In a strange way, our comfort with one another was kind of what I’d always imagined it might be like to have a very close sister, though I was an only child. After closing down the restaurant, she suggested we go back to our local MP’s boathouse and watch the stars from the dock. We went inside when frostbite threatened. After that, it wasn’t anything at all like having a sister.