The Best Laid Plans Part 14

I was sequestered in my office, watching on television. Why be a sitting duck in the Members' gallery, inviting free shots from the Leader's staff? To the extent possible in influencing Angus and his actions, I'd instructed him to slip out right after QP and return to the office. I watched with tired ambivalence as our Leader and the NDP Leader asked their typically loaded but 100-percent-substance-free questions. I watched as the Prime Minister responded with shopworn rhetoric, nevertheless landing a few blows in the process.

Then, towards the end of question period, I heard my cue to put the phone on "do not disturb" and break into a cold sweat.

"The Honourable Member for c.u.mberland-Prescott," intoned the Speaker.

The camera swung up to the backbench as Angus rose in his place, no notes in his hand or on his desk. Recognizing that this was Angus's inaugural question in the House of Commons, several of his seatmates thumped their desks with open palms and cried "hear, hear."

"Mr. Speaker, 'tis the first time I've partic.i.p.ated in the cut and thrust of question period, so do bear with me. I'm a wee bit nervous," Angus began.

Angus and I had gone back and forth on what question to ask and to whom he should pose it. Because Remembrance Day was quickly approaching, I'd suggested getting his feet wet by asking the Veterans' Affairs Minister about long-delayed funding for a war memorial in c.u.mberland. But Angus had already spoken to the Minister on this issue and had been given an a.s.surance that the funding was forthcoming. So he thought it redundant to ask a question that had already been answered, particularly if it embarra.s.sed the Minister who had approved the funding in the first place. No, Angus wanted his question to go straight to the PM. Excellent.

"Mr. Speaker, I've been sittin' quietly and listenin' carefully for the last three quarters of an hour, and it's now perfectly clear to me why this part of the proceedin's is called question period and not answer period. But hope springs eternal, Mr. Speaker. I have a question for the Prime Minister."

Angus's opening prompted appreciative snickers from the Liberal benches, stern harrumphing from the Government members, and a wry smile from the Speaker himself. In antic.i.p.ation of what might come next, I clenched my sphincter so tightly it's a miracle it didn't fuse shut permanently. Clearly, I needed to work on my coping skills.

"Mr. Speaker, does the Prime Minister consider himself to be an honourable and trustworthy man, whose word is his bond?" Angus sat down and fixed the Prime Minister with a steely gaze.

The PM seemed taken aback by the brevity and simplicity of the question. Normally, Opposition members droned on and on before posing an unfathomable question that generally defied response. In reply, Ministers usually ignored the question anyway, and seized the free air time to hammer home a few more key messages about all the wonderful things the Government was doing to make Canada a better place. Caught off guard, the Prime Minister hastened to his feet, looking as if he'd blown a tire somewhere on the road from perplexed to befuddled.

"Mr. Speaker, I appreciate the newly sworn-in Member's question and welcome him to this place. I want to a.s.sure him that this Government is committed to fulfilling the vision and the plan laid before Canadians yesterday by the Governor General in the Throne Speech. It represents a balanced response to the challenges we face as a nation, and I appreciate the support the Honourable Member yesterday declared for it." The PM took his seat and inserted his ear phone.

"Supplementary?" invited the Speaker. Angus again stood up.

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker. Well, it appears the Prime Minister has declared this chamber an 'answer-free zone,' but we on this side of the floor will keep tryin'."

"Hear, hear," exclaimed the Liberal backbench, accompanied by more desk drumming.

"Order, please, order. Supplementary?" The Speaker shut down the heckling Angus had triggered.

"Mr. Speaker, I am new to this game and perhaps am easily confused. So my supplementary question is simply this: Could the Prime Minister please clarify which plan his Government intends to pursue? Is it the carefully contrived and perfectly balanced Throne Speech we heard yesterday, or is it the Conservative Party's 'Blueprint for Canada' on which the Prime Minister and his candidates campaigned so slavishly a mere four weeks ago? Mr. Speaker, I ask only because these two doc.u.ments present utterly divergent visions," Angus said, before sitting back down.

Much hooting, hollering, and heckling ensued until the Speaker once again restored order. I unclenched and calmed down. Angus was finished on his feet for the time being. But the Prime Minister had yet to respond.

"Mr. Speaker, it is our responsibility on this side of the House to govern within the context of the economic and political conditions we confront at any given time. Since the election, it has become clear that the economy has not only slowed but has nearly come to a complete halt. The Throne Speech presented yesterday represents the Government's most up-to-date program for overcoming the economic challenges we now face as a nation. With this in mind, I am pleased to count on the support of the Honourable Member opposite. I also remind him that there is plenty of room on these Government benches to accommodate the Honourable Member at his convenience."

The Prime Minister sat down, the picture of smugness. His caucus rose in a standing ovation as the Speaker did his best to maintain at least a semblance of authority in the midst of such revelry. For a brief instant, the camera panned the Liberal benches, and I caught a glimpse of Angus, nodding and smiling as if commending the Prime Minister's recovery.

"Well, that was great fun," noted Angus as he flopped down on the chair in front of my desk after strolling along the north corridor from the House. "The PM appeared ill-prepared for my first question but put me in my place on the supplementary, I thought."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call your effort particularly sharp or penetrating," I commented, leaning back in my 1970s-era, purple swivel chair.

"Aye, but Daniel, I wasn't hurlin' a spear at him, I was simply askin' for a straight answer to a straight question."

"I get it, Angus. But there's no way your exchange with the PM will make the cut on any newscast tonight. It was just too bland and congenial. No one was mad. No one was upset. No one was insulted. It was altogether too civil to be of interest to the pack of wolves in the press gallery," I explained.

"Aye, 'tis a sad state of affairs when constructive and respectful debate is subordinated by cheap theatrics and mock outrage."

"Welcome to your new world."

It turned out I was wrong about what the media would choose to run that night. Angus did make the news in a CBC "The National" story on rookie MPs and how they were adjusting to life on the Hill and in the House. The reporter dwelled on the "Angus as maverick" angle and used a clip of his question in the House as corroborating evidence of his atypical approach. Unbeknownst to me, Angus had been intercepted as he left question period and scrummed about his thoughts on party discipline. His clip in the story that night sounded like this: "Aye, well, I am a member of the Liberal caucus, and I'm beginnin' to understand what that entails. But first and foremost, I'm here to serve the nation's interest if that coincides with the party's fortunes, all the better."

Thanks, Angus. I turned off the TV and reached to unplug the phone just a few milliseconds after it started ringing.

Friday. Const.i.tuency day. Angus and I spent the morning on Parliament Hill but returned to c.u.mberland after lunch for our first official afternoon of const.i.tuent meetings. When we entered the Angus McLintock const.i.t office, Muriel greeted us and we took in the repurposed Purple Rain Cafe that had folded a month earlier. A pair of red IKEA reception chairs flanked a white, plastic, modernist end table, circa 1961, on which were stacked back issues of Reader's Digest and Today's Senior magazines stamped with "Property of Riverfront Seniors' Residence." A leftover fluorescent violet counter that more closely resembled a runway stage in a strip bar separated the office's waiting area from its working s.p.a.ce. We saw seated at a desk farther back a rather clean-cut young fellow I couldn't quite place, which troubled me somewhat since Muriel and I had done the hiring together. He gave me a friendly and familiar wave. A few Liberal Party posters left over from the campaign adorned the cheerful yellow walls. The faint scent of paint was only partially masked by the 13 solid air fresheners I counted in a quick scan of the front room. The painting party had adjourned at midnight.

When we had first arrived, Muriel had been leaning on the counter, talking on the phone, rolling her eyes, and shaking her head, yet sustaining a congenial and helpful patter. "That's right, Mr. Archibald, Eric Cameron is no longer your MP. Angus McLintock is." (Pause) "No, you'll have to deal with your paperboy directly on that. The federal government does not regulate delivery times." (Pause) "No, that's not a federal responsibility, either. Your driver's licence is issued by the Ontario government. Yes, I like the old blue better, too." (Long pause as Muriel laid her head on the counter while still holding the phone to her ear. Angus and I waited patiently, not daring to venture farther into the office until she had given us leave to pa.s.s through her checkpoint.) "Mr. Archibald, I'm afraid I must take another call now, but if you turn the oven dial all the way around until it hits Broil and then bring it back to Bake, you should be able to brown the top of the macaroni while it's cooking." (Pause) "Yes, that's right, but you'll have to watch it carefully so it doesn't burn." (Pause) "Yes, I agree it's not the same without ketchup. Good day, Mr. Archibald."

She cradled the receiver gently but with blinding speed before making her way out from behind her desk to greet us. "Welcome, welcome, welcome," she bubbled. "Welcome to the 'Angus McLintock action centre.'" Muriel embraced us both in turn before taking Angus by the hand for a slow tour of his const.i.tuency office. I hung back, deciding I'd better introduce myself to the other staffer.

He looked up as I approached. "Hey, Professor!" The voice rang a bell. Red ink peeked out just above the collar of his dark blue turtleneck, and the pieces fell into place.

"No no no! No way! I cannot believe it!" I was reeling. Pete2 sat before me, looking more like Greg Brady than Johnny Rotten. His hair, though still longish, was precisely combed with a side part straighter than a skate blade. The turtleneck's long sleeves hid his epidermal arm art, and brown brogues rested peacefully at the ends of his grey flannels where Doc Martens usually scowled. It was a makeover worthy of its own MTV reality show. I just stood there and gawked as I rotated his office chair to take in the spectacle from all angles. "So this is the new Pete. What happened to the old one?"

I confess I was somewhat relieved when he pulled open his bottom desk drawer to reveal lime green stretch pants, an orange fishnet shirt, black and white saddle shoes, and a well-worn, blue tartan makeup bag.

"I really need the job. Plus, I'm scared of Muriel," Pete2 offered.

"So am I," I commiserated. "She's very fond of you, though. You'll learn a great deal from Muriel if you watch and listen."

Pete2 just nodded with a kind of goofy smile on his now utterly ordinary face.

I continued back to Angus's office, which stretched from wall to wall in the rear of the old storefront s.p.a.ce. It was the only part of the const.i.t office that was carpeted, courtesy of the very tight budget MPs were given to establish themselves in the riding.

"Old-man Sanderson will be here in a few minutes," noted Muriel as she shuffled past me on her way back to her post, using the wall to steady herself.

Angus was talking to a bookish young woman, who was dressed in what had to be a brand new, off-the-rack business suit. Her suit was clearly off the wrong rack as it looked at least two sizes too big. She moved a little awkwardly and seemed un comfortable in her own skin as if she'd much rather have been wearing something else. Her tangled, jet black hair fell in a shapeless cascade around her shoulders. She looked like a junior engineering faculty member attending her first off-campus business meeting after years of being sequestered in the computer lab which made sense, because that's exactly who she was.

Angus looked up when I entered. "Daniel Addison, meet Deepa Khanjimeer, an a.s.sistant professor in the computer-engineerin' department and the university's newest multimillionaire," Angus opened.

Professor Khanjimeer waved her hand to dismiss the comment before shaking mine. "Very nice to meet you, Daniel." She nodded vigorously and beamed.

"Nice to meet you, Professor. We're very excited about your work and how it might benefit the riding."

Professor Khanjimeer was the linchpin in a creative idea Angus had cooked up to deal with our little Sanderson Shoe Company dilemma. I was learning that Angus was a bit of a lone wolf. He'd been making phone calls to Deepa and Industry Canada officials for most of the week before he'd deigned to let me in on his thinking. Initially, when I'd heard his plan, I had thought it naive and ambitious. (Working on Parliament Hill tends to limit your vision and push you towards the art of the possible, not the ideal, solution.) But the more I thought about his big idea, the more I liked it.

Muriel appeared in the doorway on the arm of a very short, elderly man, who was wearing a camel-hair top coat over a grey pinstriped suit. Despite the current style, he wore a three-piece suit with a small, gold chain that linked one vest pocket to the other. His shoes were so shiny they seemed to emit light rather than just reflect it. At the upper end, his l.u.s.trous bald pate did the same, encircled by a band of grey hair that neatly bisected his cranium.

"Gentlemen, this is Mr. Norman Sanderson," intoned Muriel before ushering him in.

I stepped forward and did what executive a.s.sistants do. "Mr. Sanderson, I'm Daniel Addison. You've met Muriel Parkinson already, I trust. This is Professor Deepa Khanjimeer from the University of Ottawa, and of course, this is Angus McLintock, to whom I think you've spoken on the phone earlier this week." I finished and shook his hand.

"Oh yes, Mr. McLintock and I have spoken, but I've still no idea what this meeting is about, unless you've changed your tune on subsidies," said Sanderson, making no effort to soften his obvious impatience. "Eric Cameron promised me those subsidies, and our future depends on them," he concluded, as we all sat down around the rectangular table opposite Angus's desk.

"Welcome, Mr. Sanderson. Let's get down to it then, shall we?" Angus started. "Do you enjoy makin' shoes, Mr. Sanderson?" Nice opening, Angus.

"What kind of a question is that? We've been making shoes in this town for 35 years. We've paid millions in taxes, employed hundreds of people over the years, and exported shoes around the world. Eric Cameron wore a new pair of our shoes for every budget he ever presented. h.e.l.l, we put this town on the map," Sanderson shot back.

"Aye, we know all that, but do you really enjoy makin' shoes, and do you really think it's the best way to invest yer time and money?" Angus persisted.

Sanderson's eyes narrowed. "I can't see what you're driving at, but I couldn't care less what we make so long as we're profitable. What is your point, McLintock?" he spat.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Sanderson. You've answered my question as I hoped you would," Angus soothed. "NAFTA and the World Trade Organization prohibit the very subsidies my predecessor promised you, and I'm not convinced they'd serve Canada well, anyway. Any country can make shoes. The real question in my mind is should Canada make shoes? In my world view, such as it is, just because we've churned out footwear for the last 35 years doesnae mean we should continue now that the landscape has changed. Without oversimplifyin' what I know is a complex policy area, perhaps, just perhaps, it's time we stopped makin' shoes and started makin' something else the world needs but can't get from lesser-developed nations. I gather it's called 'movin' into the knowledge-based economy.'" Angus paused but raised his hand to hold the floor. "Now, before you blow a gasket, let me ask Professor Khanjimeer to tell you about her work. And please be patient. There is a point to all of this. Aye, there's a very big point, and you, Mr. Sanderson, stand to gain. Professor?"

Sanderson looked affronted but held his tongue probably because he'd never dealt with an MP quite like Angus. Deepa jumped into the fray, speaking slowly in self-conscious recognition of her Indian accent. "Mr. Sanderson, are you familiar with a company called Canatron?"

"Of course, I am. It's a Canadian electronics manufacturer. I read the business pages," Sanderson replied.

"Well, I have just signed an agreement to supply Canatron with a new, much smaller, and less expensive wireless router for networking computers. I've patented this new wave technology and have a five-year, exclusive deal with Canatron. This new device will initially be sold as a separate product, but eventually Canatron wishes to supply all computer manufacturers with them so that notebook computers will actually integrate the wave router to simplify networks further."

She paused and Sanderson jumped in. "That's all very fascinating, but what does that have to do with me and the price of shoes?"

"Mr. Sanderson, we'd like you to manufacture my wireless wave router in your factory," Deepa said. And the idea was out in the open for all to see.

I would be overstating it to say that Norman Sanderson freaked out but only just. After crafting loafers and imitation Hush Puppies for 35 years, the idea of manufacturing leading-edge technology was so far off his radar that at first, he simply couldn't process it. (So where exactly in the shoe would the router be implanted?) But we wouldn't let him leave until he actually comprehended the plan and its implications.

At the end of the meeting, Angus tied it up into a nice, neat package. "So to bring it all together, while NAFTA and WTO consider the industrial subsidies you were seekin' to be a non-tariff barrier, they do permit grants for manufacturin' transition to help older industries move into more sophisticated and technology-driven product lines. Industry Canada offers just such a program of grants and interest-free loans to help the Sanderson Shoe Company retool and retrain to manufacture the most advanced wireless wave router available anywhere in the world. My preliminary discussions with Industry Canada officials yield every reason for optimism, but only if you're with us. No jobs need be lost. In fact, based on the thunderous response to Professor Khanjimeer's discovery, expansion, multiple manufacturin' facilities, global export, and a world-product mandate are the more likely outcomes. This idea is really a serendipitous confluence of timin', events, and people. In the interests of the employees of the Sanderson Shoe Company and the town of c.u.mberland, let us not waste this opportunity," Angus wound down. "Mr. Sanderson, what say you?"

Sanderson had overcome his initial incredulity at the scheme and was thinking hard. I knew his brain was firing on all cylinders because the once-shiny, almost chrome-like surface of his dome had dulled to more of a matte finish, apparently through sheer cerebral exertion.

"You'll have to give me some time to consider this and speak with my family partners about it," Sanderson said. "We need a much more fulsome discussion before we can decide. We've never ever considered such a radical course. But we've also never been this close to the edge before." Sanderson spoke in a tone that suggested he was still feverishly working through the implications.

"Well, you cannae take two months to reach yer decision. Canatron will not wait that long. So stiffen yer spine, sharpen yer wits, and let us know within the week, if you'd be so kind," Angus concluded. "Aye, and you might look up the word fulsome in the dictionary when you get home. You havenae got it right."

Before departing, Norman Sanderson arranged a meeting on campus with Deepa for the following morning, for a fuller briefing on the wireless wave router. I called in a few favours and coordinated a hasty meeting for Sat.u.r.day afternoon with the Industry Canada director general responsible for the manufacturing-transition program. We also all agreed to keep our discussions under wraps. It would be hard enough to close this deal already without having it splashed on the front pages of the c.u.mberland Crier, not to mention the Ottawa Citizen.

Muriel leaned on his arm and cooed as she escorted a clearly sh.e.l.l-shocked Norman Sanderson to the front door. The rest of what little remained of the afternoon was consumed by more mundane but locally important meetings with const.i.tuents on topics that ranged from tax complaints and affordable housing to immigration problems and environmental policy. I sat in on all the meetings and noticed that Angus was more patient with const.i.tuents than I had expected him to be. In the end, nothing unfolded that afternoon that could compete with the Sanderson Shoe Company situation. Angus McLintock's inspired idea had "win-win" stenciled all over it. It was the kind of bold and creative gambit for which I'd entered politics in the first place. It suddenly dawned on me that I was actually having fun again on Parliament Hill, even though I'd left the vaunted heights of the Leader's office to toil for a lowly backbencher.

I called Lindsay that night. We'd only seen each other sporadically since the election, but that fact had been driven only by our mutually h.e.l.lish schedules. I'd been consumed with seeing Angus through his first days on the Hill and defusing the McLintock-a.s.sa.s.sination plots that were hatching daily in the Leader's office. Lindsay had actually been away in Mexico with her mother to escape the cold November winds that were snarling across eastern Ontario. Muriel had given them the trip as an early Christmas present. They tried to talk her into joining them, but she would have none of it. After all, who would organize the Angus McLintock action centre?

"Hey, stranger," I said when she picked up.

"Hi, Daniel, I was just thinking about you."

"Then, you've clearly received my telepathic messages." She laughed. "Welcome home. How was Mexico?" I p.r.o.nounced it Mec-kee-ko.

"Mom and I had a wonderful time, and the weather was awesome. We ate, slept, swam, ate, and then, ate some more. I wouldn't want to live there forever, but a couple of years would suit me fine," she commented.

"Well, I'll look into consular openings first thing Monday morning."

"Gracias, senor. Muriel tells me Angus has not exactly embraced the path of least resistance since arriving on the Hill. How bad has it been?"

"Well, let's just say that Bradley Stanton has me on speed-dial so he can conserve his energy for yelling. But after living through the last week, I can't say I blame Angus. He wants to shake things up, cut a new path, and that's exactly what he's doing. This role of maverick staffer is actually kind of growing on me," I responded.

"Well, none of us should be surprised, I guess. But how are you really feeling about it?" she asked.

"I'm coming to terms with it, and I actually feel quite good about it. My role seems based on very different a.s.sumptions than when I worked in the Leader's office. But why don't we get together in the next couple of days, go out for dinner, and get caught up. You can tell me Mexican 'don't drink the water' stories, and I'll tell you 'how to enrage the Leader' stories."

"I'd like that."

We set it up for the following week and then talked for another hour about everything that was on our minds. Time pa.s.sed unnoticed. It was just so ... comfortable.

DIARY.

Friday, November 8

My Love,

This is much more enjoyable than I'd ever antic.i.p.ated. Without the constraints that bind almost every other MP, I am free to go my own way, within reason. I felt some sympathy for young Daniel this week. I can see that he still hasn't yet shed the political instincts that ensured his survival and success when he worked for the nincomp.o.o.p occupying the Leader's office. I'm still taking the lead as he gets used to my unorthodox approach, but intellectually and morally, I know he's with me. He's just trying to catch up.

I asked the Prime Minister a question in question period yesterday and lived to tell the tale. If someone had told me three months ago that I'd soon be standing up in the House of Commons, trading barbs with the Prime Minister, I'd have thought it a load of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Yet, here I am. Anyway, I thought the PM disposed of me quite handily. I was not completely embarra.s.sed, though. After a few more attempts, I reckon I'll be able to hold my own. I freely admit I'm quite taken with the House although beneath a veneer of civility, it's a seething snake pit, particularly in question period with the press gallery circling like hungry hyenas, waiting for blood to be spilt anyone's. The great media machine must be daily fed.

Old-man Sanderson paid us a visit in the const.i.tuency office today. I've concocted a plan that I think will save the man's business, bring him riches that shoes never could, and provide sustainable employment in this riding for years to come. It all fell into place quite beautifully. I pursued it on my own early in the week but eventually brought Daniel in on it. Though Daniel was never explicit, his initial skepticism was palpable. His questions clearly betrayed a view that I'd bitten off more than we could chew. Perhaps we have, but my mouth is great and my appet.i.te greater. Why not aim high? When I told him of my discussions with Monsieur Mailloux at Industry Canada, he started to come around and even grow a little excited, though he maintained a calm exterior. After our meeting today, I think Daniel is fully on board and caught up in the chase, as is Muriel, bless her heart. I've asked Sanderson for his answer within the week, but I foresee a response much sooner.

My early time in this new world has convinced me that the engineer's critical and methodical approach to problem solving is well suited to realms beyond the scientific. What are the knowns? What are the unknowns? What are the constants? What governing laws are at play? It's the scientific method brought to life in a different setting. Interesting. I have a speech to the Engineering Society coming up, and perhaps I'll explore these parallels further and work them into my remarks.

Shame on me. I've not lifted a finger on the hovercraft since the House opened this week. Much work beckons in my workshop and in my Centre Block office alike. I've a new life, my love a life I'd once wished for you. You can still live through me.

AM.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

I was late. Our meeting with a delegation from the Alliance for Canadian Women (ACW) the largest and most active lobby group for women's rights was nearly over as I burst into Angus's office at 2:45 the next afternoon.

I was returning from Place du Portage, a government office complex across the river in Hull, where I'd been meeting with Industry Canada officials on the Sanderson Shoe file. I'd wrapped up the meeting at 1:30 or so, leaving plenty of time for the five-minute drive back to Parliament Hill and our two o'clock encounter with the ACW. I was halfway across the Alexandra Bridge when the articulated public-transit bus in front of me braked hard and swerved to avoid a lime green Yugo that had abruptly cut in front of it. Never having seen a Yugo actually moving under its own power, let alone weaving in and out of traffic at high speed, I could certainly understand the bus driver's surprise. As the two sections of the bus screeched to the left, a dump truck, which was clearly racing to a fire, nudged the back end to complete the now cla.s.sic "three-lane bus-bridge wedge." The bus slid transversely across all southbound lanes and finally came to rest, its front squished against the east railing, its rear crunched into the west guardrail. It looked not unlike an elongated squeezebox, completely occluding a major traffic artery from Hull to Ottawa the one I'd chosen as the quickest route back to the Hill. I slammed on what was left of the Taurus's brakes and stopped four and a half inches from the midsection of the bus and the wide-eyed woman in the window above.