The Best Laid Plans (27 page)

Still fuming, I finished Angus’s Throne Speech response and took it to him in his office. He was hunched over his desk, engrossed in the House Standing Orders.

“Okay, here are your draft talking points for your Throne Speech response this afternoon. Following question period, you’ll be the fourth speaker called upon to respond to the Throne Speech, so be ready. Have a look at your remarks and let me know if you want any changes.”

I dropped the response on the edge of his desk and headed out the door to my office, which was on the other side of the open reception area occupied by our new administrative assistant, Camille Boudreau. She was a very timid young woman who was raised in a large rural family in the most remote quarter of the Magdalen Islands. Despite her shyness, she was smart and dedicated and seemed to have been inspired by Angus. Her three-month internship in the Leader’s office had left her somewhat disillusioned (small wonder), but she had leaped into organizing our humble office with quiet energy and enthusiasm. She was perfectly bilingual, which really helped, as I was not.

Ten minutes later, a shadow cast by the overhead light and the unmistakable chaos of Angus’s hair fell upon my blotter. It was not a happy shadow.

“What do you mean, givin’ me this to say?” he asked, dropping the speech I’d written in my lap. “We had a long conversation about my views on the Throne Speech, and I dinnae think it unreasonable for me to assume that some of them might have found their way into my response.”

“Angus, the Leader’s office has provided key messages and talking points for caucus members to use in their responses so that we create a unified front against the Government. We can’t forget that
we’re part of a team here and that coordinated action is better than everyone going their own way,” I suggested, ever reasonably.

“Well, I’m all for teamwork but only if I happen to agree with the game plan,” he replied. “You’ve put words in my mouth that exist neither in my heart nor my brain.”

“Angus, you just can’t praise the Government’s Throne Speech up and down. It’s not what Opposition parties do.”

“Balls! Name me one thing wrong with the Throne Speech – just one thing!” Angus demanded.

“The only thing I can think of, and the only thing that really counts in the Leader’s office, is that it’s the Government’s Throne Speech and not ours. We’re Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. We oppose things the Government does, everything the Government does. That’s how it works. You can’t mess with a political dynamic as old as the country.” I was pleading with my heart, not my head.

“Aye, well that’s one of the problems I aim to fix.” With that, he walked back into his office and slammed the door. He wouldn’t answer the door or his phone, despite regular rapping and ringing. Needless to say, I was an assembly of anxieties as the clock ticked. I understood what Angus was saying. If a Liberal government had introduced the same Throne Speech, I’d have been proud to support it. But it was our arch rivals’ speech, not ours. I agreed the system needed to be changed. Hell, that’s why I’d left the Hill in the first place. But change always came with a price.

I’ve never been a big fan of the scorched-earth approach, and I feared that Angus had his flame-thrower locked and loaded when he emerged from his office at 1:45. He was still eschewing paper in the chamber. I could see ink scrawled on both his palms.

“See you later,” he said as he strode out the door and headed for the House. I scrambled to catch up.

“Angus, wait up,” I chirped as I followed him out into the corridor. “I, ah, see you don’t have your remarks with you. What do you plan to say?”

“I intend to give voice to my views on the Government’s Speech
from the Throne. I take it that is my right and duty as a duly elected Member of Parliament,” he replied calmly as he walked.

“Angus, we can help change this place, but if we try to move too far and too fast, we may lose it all,” I submitted. He stopped to face me.

“Well, young man, you seem to forget. Neither one of us has anythin’ to lose. Neither one of us really wants to be here. Neither one of us likes playin’ these asinine games. We both have secure jobs back at the university. So let’s use this rare opportunity to shake the foundations and see what’s still standin’ when we’re through,” he said, trilling the
r
in
through
.

My head caught up with my heart. I could muster no opposing view. I just nodded in surrender. He was right. He knew it. I knew it. And what’s more, he knew I knew it. His face cracked in a mischievous grin.

“Can you give me one good reason not to do what we both know is the right thing to do?” he asked.

“Good reasons? Other than party solidarity, there are none,” I conceded.

“Not there
are
none. There
is
none. None literally means
not one
, so the verb is singular. A common mistake.”

With that, he winked, turned, and disappeared into the chamber. I hustled up the white stone stairs to the Members’ gallery, flaying myself for a grammar error I was forever correcting in others.

I felt as if I’d betrayed the principles Angus laid out in his airport message. His approach was just so foreign. I thought I’d let him down. I was clearly still at least partially captive to the last remnants of my political indoctrination years earlier. As I sat watching the debate unfold that afternoon from my perch above the fray, I was alternately proud of Angus and concerned for my own safety. Not to put too fine a point on it, I knew the Leader’s office would be enraged when they heard about the inaugural speech of Angus McLintock. I suddenly felt queasy. Throwing up on the House
Leader’s rubber plant in the dead of night was one thing; projectile puking onto the floor of the Commons from the Members’ gallery in the middle of the Throne Speech debate was something else again. I kept my head low and breathed deeply and slowly to quell my roiling stomach.

Angus rose after two other Liberals and one NDPer had vehemently assailed the Government for its irresponsible and ill-conceived Throne Speech. Angus then stood in his place with no notes save for the hieroglyphics on his palms. He proceeded, not to applaud the Government, but rather to support the Throne Speech as a well-crafted, balanced, and progressive agenda that seemed more aligned with an enlightened Liberal platform than with the typical Conservative program that worshiped at the altar of free enterprise. He spoke eloquently, passionately, thoughtfully, and briefly, with no words wasted. After about ten minutes, he concluded his inaugural speech in the House with this:

“Mr. Speaker, tradition would have me oppose this Throne Speech for the simple reason that I sit on this side of the House. Well, I cannae yield to that ritual. There are many sheep from Scotland, but I’m not one of them. I will be supportin’ this Throne Speech as it reflects the values and principles that, in my mind, underlie the Liberal Party and offer the greatest promise to the people of Canada. Part of my job as a Member of this Parliament is to support that which earns me favour and to oppose that which does not. On the whole, this Throne Speech, despite its provenance, has earned my support. Mr. Speaker, another part of me job is to ensure that this Government fulfills the spirit, the letter, and the promise of this Throne Speech. Well, I can assure the Government that I’ll be stayin’ right here to keep their feet to the furnace. I thank you.”

As you can imagine, the Government side of the House erupted in chants of “hear, hear,” “come on over,” and “cross the floor.” The Liberal benches were perplexed, but as a group tried to muster an impression that said “we meant to do that.” Throughout the ten minutes of heckling and table thumping, an
endless stream of Tory MPs approached Angus to shake his hand. Finally, about a dozen courageous Liberal backbenchers sidled over to him and offered congratulations. Angus looked distinctly uncomfortable. Mercifully, the Leader was not in the House for the remarks of the Honourable Member for Cumberland-Prescott. Eventually, the next Opposition speaker rose to thrash the Government yet again and restore the natural political order. Back to business as usual.

When we returned to the office, Camille waved 13 pink phone-message slips. Twelve from the Leader’s office and one from Muriel.

I spent the next morning, Thursday, on the phone, defending Angus and wondering how many abusive calls I could endure before I ripped the receiver’s curling umbilicus from the base unit and hurled it out the window. At 10:17, I had my answer: 26. I actually only fantasized about chucking it out the window. I really wasn’t capable of such rashness. The most I could manage was to unplug the phone and toss it gently onto the brown corduroy couch in my office where it landed softly, making no noise at all. I heard the jovial voice of Angus in his office, taking calls, too, though his tone suggested he was getting off easy, or was amused by it all.

Of the 26 calls I’d taken, 19 were from the Leader’s office, including 4 from Bradley Stanton. Effective phone management is a critical political skill to have and to hone. In fact, telephone transactions, be they wooing or whacking, constitute a significant share of politics. I like to think part of my success on the Hill was due to my prowess on the blower. And in my experience, knowing how to “give” on the phone was not quite as important as knowing how to “receive.”

Success often turned on how you handled a bad call, a mad call, a “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” call. When you exercised patience and restraint, listened well, issued soothing sounds at strategic junctures in your adversary’s profanity-strewn tirade, and always maintained a relaxed and quiet voice, even the most crazed caller would eventually, inexorably, calm down and
speak in reasonable, albeit tense, tones. In extreme situations, I would pull out all the stops and play Zamfir’s greatest hits in the background, just loud enough to be heard on the line. Rest assured, the coma-inducing pan flute could quell the rage of a cornered gorilla. I used this calming telephone technique to defuse hundreds of irate calls; it worked even when I was the one who had screwed up and when temper tantrums were justified.

And then, there was Bradley Stanton, the smoke-snorting, fire-breathing, foul-mouthed exception to my rule. To say he was angry that morning didn’t quite capture it. At least twice during our phone calls, I feared he might be in the throes of a stroke. He’d hung up on me three times in paroxysms of rage before we’d finally finished our “conversation” on the fourth call. By that time, Angus was sitting across from my desk, chuckling, shaking his head, and once even giving me a thumbs-up, complete with manic smile and arched eyebrows. He really was enjoying himself. I hung up the phone, exhausted.

“I think it would be a good time for Brad to up the dosage of whatever medication he’s on,” I sighed, laying my head on my desk blotter.

“Dinnae fret yourself, Daniel boy. Young Mr. Stanton’s anger is the surest sign we’re on the right path,” replied Angus as if it was supposed to comfort me. “Have you seen the
Citizen
this mornin’?”

Uh-oh, I didn’t like the sound of that. I’d glanced at the front page when we’d arrived, but with the phone ringing by the time I’d reached my desk, I’d been in the crosshairs ever since. Angus passed me the front section.

“Have a gander at A4,” he directed with a mischievous grin.

With hands near trembling, I opened to the page: “Maverick Liberal Blazes Own Trail” read the headline. “Some backbenchers follow” read the subhead. My mind instinctively conjured up the next day’s headline: “Liberal Leader Orders Former Staffer Crucified on Parliament Hill.”

Obviously, Stanton hadn’t seen the
Citizen
piece, either, or I
would surely have heard about it in our morning calls. In fact, anyone in a 200-metre radius of my office could have heard Stanton’s expletives, exploding from the telephone like bazooka shells. Salt in my wounds was the knowledge that the
Citizen
was owned by a large conglomerate of newspapers so that the “Maverick” article must have played in dozens of dailies across the country. Excellent.