The Best Laid Plans Part 21

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Ottawa is one of the world's coldest capitals, and we're used to it now. The snow falls early, often, and heavy, yet slows the city rarely and barely. When I lived downtown during my years in the Leader's Office, I walked to the Hill every day. In the deepfreeze of winter, I legitimately feared frostbite during my two-legged, one mile commute. To avoid hypothermia, I would plot a route that pa.s.sed through the lobbies of several office buildings and one shopping concourse. It was the only way to go stretches of six or seven minutes of crystalline cold, punctuated by brief respites of welcome warmth. Few Canadians are more relieved to reach their offices in the morning than Ottawa walkers.

None of that prepared me for the city I surveyed from the window of our room in the Chateau Laurier on Monday morning, December 9. Flying in the face of meteorological convention, the high winds and heavy snow of the day before persisted throughout the night and still raged at sunrise, leaving the streets, buildings, and Parliament Hill itself virtually unrecognizable. The open lawn on which huddled Centre Block, East Block, and West Block, offered the perfect staging area for the gale-force gusts. In places, the drifts reached the second floor in all three buildings. The back door to East Block had disappeared beneath a steep slope of snow left in the wind's wake. I watched a small snowplow try in vain to clear a path from the Wellington Street driveway to the entrance of the House of Commons. It made it half way, slowed, struggled, and then stopped. It could go no farther. Steam or smoke or both rose from the stranded jeep. The driver smashed his fist onto the hood and trudged towards Centre Block, his legs disappearing with each step.

The Weather Channel promised relief in the early afternoon when the storm was to flag. Lindsay had nothing till two o'clock when she was scheduled to lead a first-year poli-sci tutorial. I a.s.sumed the university, like the rest of the city, would be shut down anyway. As agreed, I left her asleep as I made my way to Centre Block at around 9:30. By that time, a second, more powerful snowplow had completed the northwest pa.s.sage to the Peace Tower and the doors beneath. The scene looked surreal.

I found very few people in Centre Block, although the stalwart Commissionaires were on duty, protecting Parliament's perimeter. I heard nothing but dead silence, outside and in, as if I were there at dawn on Sunday instead of at midmorning on Monday. I never really minded working the odd Sunday. With the phone silent and interruptions rare, I could usually achieve more in a couple of hours on a Sunday than I ever could in a full day during the workweek.

By noon, I noticed more activity in the halls, but nowhere near the normal level. I kept the television in my office tuned to the local Ottawa CTV affiliate and watched as the cancellations rolled in. All primary and secondary schools were closed. Most child-care centres were closed. Libraries, community centres, munic.i.p.al offices, and federal departments all closed. Buses weren't running, either. The House of Commons would have to open briefly until unanimous consent could close it for the day.

Somehow, the newspapers had made it through the storm and to our office door. I flipped through the Ottawa Citizen and clicked through several other Canadian dailies on the Web. Influential opposition to the Tory mini-budget was mounting first, the Globe panel on the weekend and now, scathing editorials in the Citizen, Toronto Star, the Calgary Herald, Edmonton Journal, Halifax Chronicle Herald, and the Winnipeg Free Press. Favoured words included "opportunistic," "irresponsible," and the ever-popular "deceitful" and "cynical." Columnists also weighed in on both sides of the debate with the lonely two Government supporters crushed under an onslaught of informed and articulate opposition. It was the kind of coverage that could turn public opinion in a matter of days. I suspected anxiety levels would be running in the red at the PMO. They had clearly miscalculated the high backfire potential of the tax-cut mini-budget. It went up light and fluffy on December 2 but amidst heavy flak was coming down fat and fast on the ninth.

At two o'clock, I called Angus. Andre Fontaine had arrived at noon for their nine o'clock interview. I was surprised he'd even tried the trip, but Andre wanted that feature piece, and he couldn't complete it without the interview. Angus didn't care. He was marooned at home, anyway. He told me they were having coffee and watching the storm as it finally abated. I had one eye on the television where the House of Commons materialized at about 2:05, following the daily prayer, which was not broadcast. My spidey senses were tingling.

"Hang on a sec, Angus," I said into the phone as I turned up the volume.

Liberal House Leader "d.i.c.khead" Warrington had risen to seek unanimous consent to close the House due to the storm. Very few MPs were present in the chamber. The Speaker rose, looking bored. "Is there unanimous consent to suspend these proceedings until tomorrow at this same hour?"

A chorus of "Aye" rang out, and then, after a slight pause, a lone "Nay" sounded. The dissent came from the Government House Leader himself, who then stood to be recognized. "Mr. Speaker, we have a very full agenda, and despite the weather, I see no reason to delay this Parliament's important business." He then sat down. The Speaker raised his hands in surrender. Unanimous consent meant exactly that. One dissenting voice could turn back the majority. I lowered the volume on the ensuing boos and heckles and slid the phone back to my ear.

"Sorry, Angus, but the Government House Leader just killed the motion to suspend today's sitting."

"You mean the whole region is shut down, and he wants us to gather in the chamber and carry on as if it's just another day?" asked Angus.

"Yep, that's exactly what I mean." I heard nothing but Angus's breathing on the other end.

Finally, he spoke. "No no, I cannae believe they'd stoop to that depth."

"What are you talking about?"

"Daniel, the Government may be playin' us for fools. How many members do we and the NDP have in the House?"

"By the looks of it on TV, not very many. The Government benches seem a little fuller," I noted.

"Then, I suggest you get off the blower with me and get to the Leader's office. I reckon the Government's tryin' to force the mini-budget vote when they've the numbers to win it," Angus said, his voice rising. "The slimy sons o' brigands!"

"Angus, relax. That vote's not till tomorrow. There was all-party agreement on the debate schedule," I reminded him.

"I'm well aware of the schedule but you dinnae understand what I'm sayin'. The tide is turnin' against the Government. I'm sure you've seen the papers this mornin'. They could lose the vote when everyone shows up tomorrow. But they could very well win it if it's held today when so many MPs are s...o...b..und," he explained.

"But Angus, it can't be done, there was all-party agreement. They wouldn't dare mess with that," I countered.

"My boy, all-party agreement is a whisper in a wailin' wind to this Government. They're desperate. I've told you before, the rules of the house favour the governin' party. The budget motion is already sittin' on the Order Paper. The Government House Leader has only to call it, and the despicable deed is done."

Angus had become quite the procedure geek since joining the Standing Committee, but I was still unconvinced. "But that would mean violating all-party agreement, not to mention parliamentary tradition," I replied.

"Daniel, the way their mini-budget's unravelin', it may well be their only hope of survival. I feel it in my bones. They're about to swindle us."

It still sounded far-fetched, but discretion was the better part of valour. I called and warned Bradley Stanton, giving Angus the credit for unearthing the Tory stratagem. He, too, was skeptical but had always survived by a "take no chances, take no prisoners" approach to politics. So the call went forth across the land to all Opposition Members, Liberals, and NDPers alike, wherever they were, to brave the blizzard and make it to the House by six o'clock. If the Government were actually going to renege on its promise and call the vote 24 hours early on a snow day, to boot I was convinced history would view it as the Pearl Harbor of political sneak attacks. December 9 would live in infamy in the annals of Canadian politics.

With so few MPs in the House, and even fewer Ministers, question period that afternoon was not the spectator sport it often was. The chamber was so spa.r.s.ely populated that inexperienced backbenchers were called upon to pose the lead-off questions. It was generous in the extreme to say the questions were boring. Mildly put, the performance could have rendered a charging rhinoceros unconscious before the second supplementary. I stayed awake to witness the pivotal moment as question period drew to a close. The live broadcast of the House proceedings offered a very narrow slice of what was actually going on in the chamber. The cameras stayed trained either on the Speaker or on whichever Member was on his or her feet. Little else could be seen on TV. So I zipped over to the Members' gallery for an all-encompa.s.sing view and made it just in time. As the Minister of Veterans' Affairs droned on in response to what the clock confirmed was the last question, my heart rate rose as I watched the Government House Leader stand up and approach the Clerk's table. I was forced to concede that Angus might well have been on to something.

The Government House Leader finished his brief conversation with the Deputy Clerk, who was standing in for the vacationing Clerk, leaving the black-robed parliamentary expert looking as if he'd just slipped off his bicycle seat onto the crossbar below. The Tory House Leader resumed his seat, looking cool and calm. The Deputy Clerk conferred briefly with the Speaker, who listened but then shrugged his shoulders in submission. Following Routine Proceedings, the Speaker stood once more. "Orders of the Day."

The Deputy Clerk stood, holding the Order Paper, which vibrated in his trembling fingers.

"Order number seven, resuming the adjourned debate on the motion: 'That this House approve in general the budgetary policy of the Government,'" intoned the Deputy Clerk in a voice that sounded tense and taut. He repeated his words in French and then dropped back into his chair as fast as gravity permitted.

Understanding slowly dawned on the rest of the House. The Tories had laid down their cards on the Clerk's table in the calculated hope they had a winning hand. The chips would fall in a couple hours but would the Government?

"d.i.c.khead" was immediately on his feet, enraged. "Point of order, Mr. Speaker. Point of order!" he shouted.

"I ask the Honourable Opposition House Leader to calm himself and present his point of order," replied the Speaker, well aware of the ignominious precedent the Government was setting.

"Mr. Speaker, we had all-party agreement to conclude the mini-budget debate and vote tomorrow, not today. It is an unparalleled abuse of office, of our rights and privileges as Members, and of the traditions of this place. It is also an insult to the people of Canada. I ask you to intervene to set things right." "d.i.c.khead" sat down and looped the small audio speaker over one of his elephantine ears to hear above the roar.

"Order, order. I remind the Honourable Opposition House Leader that while calling this motion to the floor today may well violate parliamentary tradition and violate all-party agreement, it does not violate the Standing Orders that govern all that is done in this place," the Speaker decreed. "Resuming the adjourned debate. The Honourable Member for Vancouver East."

With that, the Speaker sat down and a Tory backbencher stood and delivered a pa.s.sionate and partisan defence of the Government's mini-budget.

So that was it. They had really done it and on a day when the elements had stranded nearly half the MPs wherever they'd laid their heads the previous night. Travelling to Centre Block from outside Ottawa was impossible, and making it from within Ottawa was next to impossible. Most streets in the city were impa.s.sable, and all major thoroughfares into and out of Ottawa were closed and not expected to be plowed and opened for up to 48 hours. The airport had been closed since late Sunday night, leaving many MPs trapped in their const.i.tuencies. By my informal head count during question period, the Tories had about 17 MPs while the Opposition parties mustered only about 13. The Standing Orders set quorum at 20, including the Speaker.

The time by then was close to 4:00 PM, with the vote scheduled for 6:00 PM. Both the Government and the Opposition parties had about two hours to get as many of their MPs as humanly possible into the House. The life of the Government hinged on the vote. I rushed back to the office to work the phones. Time was very short.

When I phoned Angus, my call rang into his voice mail. I figured he was on the phone. I hung up without leaving a message and called the Leader's office. They already had a phone tree going. For the next hour and a half, Liberal MPs stuck in and around Ottawa made Herculean efforts to reach Centre Block. Two MPs who roomed together in a Hull condo found an open sporting-goods store and bought cross-country skis. They made it to the House in plenty of time, leaving their new purchases stuck upright in a s...o...b..nk next to the west door of Centre Block. An NDPer snowshoed two miles from deep in the Glebe and made it. A young Liberal MP in his first term, representing Ottawa-Gatineau, roared all around Ottawa on his snowmobile, dragging a trailer sleigh of sorts filled with caucus mates. He considered making the run to c.u.mberland for Angus, but a broken timing belt put an end to that icy side trip. The Tories had their own stories of derring-do as well. It was a race to fill the benches by 6:00 PM.

The speeches in the House that afternoon were as predictable as they were pa.s.sionate. The Government Members defended their tax cuts with religious zeal while the Opposition railed against the Tories' audacious opportunism. Clearly, MPs on both sides of the House had been counting on another day of speech prep and polish. For every dozen well-crafted lines of oratory, I heard at least three stumbles, two sentence fragments, and a non sequitur. Even the Government Members had been caught off guard by their House Leader's procedural gambit.

The division bells rang at 5:45 PM, calling the MPs to the vote. I left the office and entered the public gallery at the south end of the House so I could count Members on both sides of the chamber. In the intervening fifteen minutes, I found it impossible to get an accurate read on numbers. Members were darting about, conferring with one another and disappearing behind the curtains that separated the House from the Government and Opposition lobbies. I gave up until the Speaker rose to bring the bedlam to order. Everyone took their seats, and virtually everyone in the chamber starting counting as the Speaker and the Deputy Clerk introduced the vote.

I'd smuggled a small message pad into the gallery and shielded it in my lap from the vigilant eyes of the two House of Commons security staff posted at either entrance. I finished my first count: Government 31, Opposition 38. I took little comfort in this margin. The Government House Leader and Whip looked too calm and confident to be seven votes short. They were playing us again.

The roll-call vote started precisely at 6:00 PM with the Speaker calling for the "Ayes." The Tory side stood. Starting at the north end of the chamber, as the Deputy Clerk read each name, the Members, in turn, sat down. As I expected, halfway through the "Ayes," I watched as the Government House Leader nodded once and seven MPs floated in to take their seats in the south end of the House, just in time to record their affirmative votes. The Prime Minister could not contain a Cheshire-cat grin. Government 38, Opposition 38. They had done it. They had their tie, and a tie was all they needed. The Speaker had made his own mental count and looked uncomfortable at the prospect of breaking the tie. But he would, without doubt. He was a loyal Tory soldier, and duty called.

The Deputy Clerk finished counting each standing Government MP and turned to the Speaker.

"And the 'Nays,'" invited the Speaker formally.

The Opposition benches rose, and the Deputy Clerk again started his roll call from the north end of the NDP and Liberal benches. I watched in hope and then in vain for additional Opposition Members to slip into the chamber to break the tie and wipe the smug smile off the Prime Minister's face. But we were stalled at 38. It was over.

About three Opposition Members were yet to be counted when I heard a commotion beneath me. What looked like an Arctic explorer, complete with heavy boots, snow pants, and a bright orange parka with a hood zipped to the hilt, stumbled into view on the floor of the House of Commons, dragging two Commissionaires with him.

"Unhand me. I'm to be here. I'm to be here!" he shouted.

He unzipped and pulled back his fur-lined hood, revealing soft, brown leather and aged goggles. As the zipper descended still farther, a grey and straggly cascade spread onto his chest. It could not be. But there he was. As the leather headgear was removed, so too was all doubt as to the ident.i.ty of the intrepid traveler. I have never heard such noise in the House as I did at that moment. Movement to the right caught my eye. I looked over to the press gallery to see Andre Fontaine, dressed to tackle the final push to Mount Everest's summit, beaming my way. When he took off his soaking parka, his face appeared bright pink, and his eyes were streaming, though not with emotion apparently just from winter's wind. He looked like he'd just gone through a car wash on a bicycle. An ice-encrusted camera swung from his left shoulder. I was at a complete loss. I had no words, no explanation.

Below me, a dozen Liberal MPs gathered around Angus, hoisted him to their shoulders, and carried him to his seat like an Egyptian pharaoh. He did not seem happy about the antics and looked to the Speaker, who was still trying to restore order in the chamber, in apology. Before the vote could be resumed, the Government House Leader was on his feet. The Prime Minister was no longer smiling.

"Mr. Speaker, the Honourable Member for c.u.mberland-Prescott must not be permitted to vote as the roll call was already in progress."

The colour had drained from the Speaker's face as he summoned his Deputy Clerk for counsel. Whispered conversation ensued for several minutes. Throughout, repeated and emphatic head shaking was the Deputy Clerk's response. He returned to the table as the Speaker wobbled to his feet.

"The Standing Orders are silent on the matter, but we are guided by precedent. Provided the Member is in his place before the roll call is concluded, his vote is legitimate and will be counted."

"Mr. Speaker, I demand a formal ruling on this matter before we proceed," barked the Government House Leader. He was waving his hands, grasping at straws.

The Speaker rose again, steadier now. "I have just given the only ruling possible in this situation. In fact, my Deputy Clerk reminds me that last year, the Honourable Government House Leader himself sought and received this very judgment, allowing a tardy Minister to register her vote on her own bill. The vote will proceed." Live by the sword, etcetera, etcetera.

The Government House Leader had nothing in return. He bolted from the chamber, followed quickly by the Prime Minister, the rest of his Ministers, and eventually, the entire Government caucus. The Tory benches were empty when Angus McLintock, reluctant MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott, took his seat after delivering the coup de grace. Every sc.r.a.p of paper on and in the Opposition desks was tossed into the air as if in tribute to the day's snowstorm. The noise was deafening. Angus sat calmly in the eye of a storm of well-wishers. The Leader himself was first in line to pump Angus's hand, afterwards locking him in a bear hug. The Speaker had already adjourned the House, no doubt to return to his Centre Block apartment and contemplate his less-than-promising future in the Progressive Conservative Party.

The Government had fallen.

The next morning, the following story ran on the front page of The c.u.mberland Crier. It was syndicated the day after in papers across the country and even in a few in the United States.

Government Falls.

Local hero rises ... on a cushion of air.

by Andre Fontaine.

Crier reporter Andre Fontaine spent yesterday at the side of Angus McLintock as he made a heroic journey against daunting odds to cast the vote that brought down the Government. Here is his exclusive, first-hand account.

Angus McLintock, rookie MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott, is a quick study. As yesterday's crushing storm finally relented, we were sitting in his living room on the sh.o.r.es of the Ottawa River. Our interview was interrupted when a phone call came from his executive a.s.sistant, Daniel Addison, on Parliament Hill. The Government had refused to adjourn the House even though the blizzard had marooned most MPs in their ridings. McLintock had been appointed to the lowly Standing Committee on Procedure and House Affairs and, with an engineer's mind, had immersed himself in the arcane world of parliamentary procedure. I could see the wheels turning beneath his unruly, grey hair as he listened to Addison. McLintock feared the Government was pulling a fast one and would call the vote on its controversial mini-budget that very evening, one day earlier than originally scheduled. McLintock was livid when he hung up the phone. "Our interview is over, but our time together is just beginning. On with your coat and let's go," Angus instructed. The time was 2:10 PM.

The snow had slowed by this point and had threatened to stop all together. We fought our way through the waist-deep drifts to his boathouse and workshop that sat right on the sh.o.r.e. Inside the workshop, a strange craft came into focus. When my eyes adjusted to the light, Angus stood before me and fixed me with a serious gaze. "This is a hovercraft. You and I are taking it up the river to Parliament Hill. There's a vote to be won, and I'll not sit idly by while an unscrupulous Government hornswoggles a nation." I was given no option. The time was 2:25 PM.

The high winds had left an enormous snowdrift angled up against the large boathouse doors. Our first task was clearing the doors. McLintock dug out two ancient snow shovels, and we set to work. The snow was heavy and had drifted halfway up the side of the building. I soon discovered, several feet down, that a ramp descended from the doors to the ice. It took us just over an hour and a half to clear the path to the river and break open the iced-over doors. I rested several times during this period, unable to sustain the back-breaking effort. McLintock worked steadily. I am 41 years old. He is 61. The time was 4:05 PM.

We then went back inside the workshop. He directed me to hold a light on the engine compartment so he could make some adjustments to the moveable vents housed beneath the motor and fan. He draped himself over the craft this way and that with not a grunt, a sigh, or a complaint. He also inspected the rubber skirt that surrounded the hovercraft. Finally, he led me to a closet in one corner of the room where he had stored winter parkas, ski pants, boots, mitts, and hats. Ten minutes later, we were both suited up. We opened the big boathouse doors, and the cold wind rushed in. The time was 4:56 PM.

He had me hook the steel cable to the eyebolt on the front of the hovercraft while he adjusted the winch. With enough slack in the line, we then pushed the craft along the floor of the boathouse on two dollies until the rear wheels started down the ramp. McLintock then winched the hovercraft onto the ice. Ten minutes later, we'd extricated the dollies and filled the fuel tank from an old, red gas can stored underneath the workbench.

"Are you ready for a wild ride Mr. Fontaine?" The time was 5:14 pm.

He stood next to the craft and pulled the cord and started the engine before climbing inside. Although cramped, the c.o.c.kpit accommodated us both on a low-slung bench seat. McLintock directed me to pull up my hood against the wind. He slid what looked like leather flying headgear from World War I over his head and lowered the goggles to his eyes. Next, he pulled up his hood and zippered it all the way, leaving but a small opening through which he would navigate. Then, he patted my knee. "I thank you for coming. I don't think it wise to make the trek alone."

At the time, I knew very little about hovercraft, but the essentials became clear soon enough. He reached for the throttle, and the engine roared. At the same time, I could feel us rise up off the ice. The wind had kept the river clear of snow, and a runway of smooth ice stretched to the western horizon. Angus then moved his feet on two pedals beneath the dash and throttled up further. With the engine directly behind us, my ears were ringing. Slowly, we gathered speed, McLintock adjusting the steering wheel as the hovercraft skidded along the ice. The time was 5:26 PM and nearly dark. The vote was set for 6:00 PM sharp.

The flight in the hovercraft was cold, ear-piercing, and hair-raising, but beyond that, quite smooth. The plentiful snow lightened the landscape and gave us enough visibility to stay on course. Twice along our river route, low snowdrifts encroached on our ice path. Both times, we slowed down McLintock's feet moving again on his pedals to direct some of the thrust frontwards through the side pods. When we hit the drifts, the fan kicked up the snow, and we found ourselves in a whiteout until we'd pa.s.sed over.

With Parliament Hill in sight in the distance, I noticed a patch of open water ahead where the current kept the river from freezing. McLintock saw it, too. Rather than slowing down, however, he gunned the engine. The craft hurtled over the water, spray flying everywhere. A moment later, we slid back up onto the ice on the other side, wet but safe.

"I'm not the best carpenter, you see, so stopping in open water is not in the plan. I doubt she's seaworthy, let alone watertight," he screamed in my ear above the engine's wail.

And then, we were there. He nosed into a snowdrift at the river's edge immediately below the Library of Parliament. He cut the engine, and we settled back to earth, our bow on the bank, our stern on the ice. The time was 6:12 PM.

"I fear we've missed our mark," was all he said before heading up the slope. The trees on the side of the hill kept the snow shallow on the ground, so scaling the heights was easier and faster than expected. I had some trouble keeping up with McLintock but was only ten paces behind when he was accosted outside the chamber by two House of Commons guards. He ignored them and barreled through the doors onto the floor of the House with a sentry on each arm.

Bedlam reigned in the House of Commons as this strange figure peeled off his parka and became Angus McLintock, Member of Parliament for c.u.mberland-Prescott. The time was 6:21 PM.

McLintock cast the tie-breaking vote, and the Government collapsed at 6:29 PM.

Four photos accompanied most layouts of Andre's story. The first one showed Angus sitting in his living room, looking as if he'd like to drop the camera from a great height. The second one featured Baddeck 1, perched at the top of the boathouse ramp. The third one was a shot from inside the hovercraft, looking out at high speed, the inflated skirt dominating the lower part of the photo. Finally, the fourth one showed Angus being borne on the shoulders of his caucus mates just before he cast his decisive vote.

I sat with Muriel on the same plastic-coated couch we'd first shared three months earlier. While we waited for Lindsay, she looked out over her river, The c.u.mberland Crier spread out on her lap, a stern Angus glaring back at us from the front page. She wasn't exactly smiling, but her look was one of deep contentment.

"You served your party well when you found him," she said, staring back at the photo of Angus. "What now?"

"Well, I figure the world returns to normal. To start, Lindsay and I are going to Quebec City for a long weekend to hibernate and vegetate. Then, I a.s.sume Angus and I will pick it up where we left off in September. We'll resume our interrupted academic careers, and the last three months will become a bizarre and exciting conversation piece for us both," I replied.

"You've got it all figured out, have you?" she said, her head moving slowly from side to side.

"Well, Liberals are already coming out of the woodwork now that this seat can be won. And we've always known how Angus feels," I said.

"Really." She adopted a tone that was the oral equivalent of rolling her eyes.

"Come on, Muriel, are you sure you won't go again? The seat's yours for the taking. We'd all be there for you."

"Bite your tongue! I'm done. I've told you that," she scolded. "Have you spoken to Angus about all this?"

"Not yet. He's sequestered himself in his workshop."

She turned to look directly at me, taking both my hands in hers. I could feel her Parkinson's travel from her fingers to mine and up through my arms.

"Daniel, I'll say it again time to start thinking about Plan B."

DIARY.