The Best Laid Plans (39 page)

“Aye, I grant you that. We know what they’re goin’ to say. But that isnae why we’ve called the meeting,” said Angus.

On instinct, I nodded in agreement. I eventually stopped nodding as my thinking caught up. “So remind me again exactly why we’ve called this little gathering if not to solicit your constituents’ views on the mini-budget?”

“I’m not lookin’ for their input on this. Quite the contrary. Frankly, I couldnae care less what my constituents think,” Angus countered.

“Friendly suggestion, Angus? Keep that thought to yourself at the meeting,” I counseled. “Some voters might not rush to embrace your isolationist perspective on democracy. Crazy as it sounds, some constituents might even think you should be interested in their views. I know it’s a radical notion, but there it is.”

“Sarcasm really doesnae become you,” Angus chided. “I believe I understand the traditional relationship most MPs have enjoyed with their voters, and I’ve little interest in perpetuatin’ it. I was elected. I will advance my views as I see fit, guided as I always am by my conscience. This budget is a fiscal disaster, poised to wreak
havoc on our economy and spill red ink all over the nation’s books. Against that backdrop, I care not a fig for the selfish views of greedy constituents lookin’ to cash in their tax cuts.”

I held up my hands in surrender, at least until we drifted over the centre line. “Message received loud and clear. But my question stands. Why put yourself through a town-hall meeting that will probably degenerate into nothing but a Salem witch trial with you playing the role of lead heretic?” I asked.

“While I care precious little what the voters think, I do believe I’ve a duty to explain my views with clarity and candour,” he noted. “And that’s what tonight’s about – educatin’ the masses.”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, let me be clear and candid. You’re committed, you’re compelling, and you’re persuasive,” I observed, “but tonight, you’ll be standing between taxpayers and their hard-earned money. Tonight, if we’re lucky, being right will only get you verbal abuse and maybe another melon hurler with a better arm. And if we’re not lucky, well, I’ll park near the door and leave the engine running.”

“I dinnae think yer givin’ the great citizens of Cumberland-Prescott enough credit,” Angus replied.

“Angus, you’re tilting at windmills on this one. They don’t want any more credit. They’re looking for cold, hard cash.”

By this time, I’d pulled into our prime parking space on the Hill.

“Very clever,” was all he said as he climbed out and walked towards the back door of Centre Block, not bothering to wait for his loyal Sancho Panza.

Still, I stressed about the town-hall meeting. And I was right to worry. As with the meeting of the aggregate workers three days earlier, I arrived at the church an hour before the meeting. The two Petes were already there, disguised as normal citizens, trying to control the flow of placard-waving constituents into the room so we could arrange the chairs, two floor mics, and the podium at the front. Muriel and Lindsay had wanted to attend, but I had
insisted they stay clear, given the fireworks that were likely to ensue. To my amazement, they reluctantly agreed.

I brought the coffee – decaf, of course – and doughnuts with me, courtesy of the local Tim Hortons, and not a moment too soon. Nothing calms bellicose belligerents like free food. And until we evolve a third hand, protestors simply cannot swig coffee, chew on Boston cream doughnuts, and pump a placard all at the same time – chapter 14 of the “Creative Crowd Control Handbook.”

The church caretaker helped as we aligned the chairs and warmed up the temperamental PA system from the early days of radio. Eventually, even the most cantankerous constituents sank into seats. The church minister hovered at the back, wringing his hands and hoping horse-borne riot police were not in his future.

At ten minutes to seven, Angus made his entrance to a chorus of boos and foot stomping. Obviously, people could still stomp their feet while dipping their doughnuts. The vehemence of the crowd seemed to startle Angus – I could tell by the way his eyes widened for a split second before he gathered himself and headed to the front. I met him at the podium and smiled in a way that shouted “I tried to warn you.” I tilted my head towards the emergency door with the crash bar at our end of the assembly hall. “The Taurus is just outside,” I whispered. He nodded, looking grim. He’d actually thought I’d been kidding when I’d mentioned proximal parking in our earlier chat. Always be prepared. I leaned into the mic. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and –”

“It may be good for you, asshole, but we’re pissed!” yelled an enlightened and courteous constituent.

Normally, such a rude heckler would be shouted down or at least “shushed” by others in the room. Well, we were a long haul from normal that night. Emboldened, the assembled throng cheered. I caught Angus glancing at the emergency exit.

“Um … welcome to Angus McLintock’s first town-hall meeting, and thank you for coming.” I’d reserved the room till ten
o’clock, but at that moment, three hours seemed unduly long – torturously long. I improvised. “Just a housekeeping note, this room is booked at eight o’clock for a seniors’ tae-kwon-do class. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m certainly not eager to anger a group of aging martial-arts experts, so we’ll have to wrap up by eight o’clock if that’s –”

“This won’t take that long, asshole!” Same guy, same reaction from the crowd.

I saw André Fontaine in the back, standing because no chairs were left. He flashed me a grimace of sympathy and fingered the shutter button on his Canon Sure Shot.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll now ask Angus McLintock, MP for Cumberland-Prescott, to take the floor. Ang –”

“Oh, don’t worry, asshole. He’ll be taking the floor all right.” That guy was beginning to bug me.

“Nice setup, laddie,” Angus muttered as he passed me on the way to his crucifixion.

At the mention of his name, the crowd thrust their placards into the air – primitive but effective, handwritten signs. They never get old.

Angus stood at the podium and rocked back and forth, releasing anxiety from foot to foot. The crowd simply would not let him start. Every time he raised his hand or tried to speak, the chanting reignited. “Taxes, no! Tax cuts, yes! Taxes, no! Tax cuts, yes!” Their creativity left much to be desired. They even dusted off an old
chestnut: “What do we want? Tax cuts! When do we want them? Now!” How lame.

Angus was about to blow. The crimson tide flowed up the back of his neck, and his knuckles oscillated from white to red as he gripped the lectern. He was ready to take them all on – just how you want your MP to react in such situations.

Thirty seconds later, the two Petes and I put the “crash” in crash bar and literally dragged Angus from the hall in a hail of doughnuts. We took several direct hits before we made it out the door. Angus had red jelly in the middle of his forehead and two honey-glazed Timbits enmeshed in his beard.

“Just be glad I brought doughnuts and not cocoanuts,” I commented as we fishtailed out of the parking lot. In the rear-view mirror, I watched as Pete2 calmly pulled a half a cruller from Pete1’s shoulder and crammed it in his mouth.

“Barbarians!” Angus exclaimed. “Whatever happened to respectful and civil debate?”

The two Petes sat in silence in the back seat, unwilling to enter the fray. We dropped them off at their punkhouse and headed home.

My heart was still pounding. “The next time you want to have a public meeting to explain your opposition to a Government policy everybody loves, let’s just write an article in your householder and be done with it,” I proposed as we climbed out of the car. “Think of the money we’d save on dry cleaning.” I pointed to the four-inch blotch of chocolate on the left lapel of his ill-fitting blue blazer.

“Aye, you’ve made yer point. No need to pound it till it stops breathin’.”

We parted paths in the driveway and headed for our respective sanctuaries. I dreaded the front page of the next
Cumberland Crier
.

The following morning, heavy overcast skies turned the frozen river slate grey. The wind had again cleared a smooth ice path in the middle that stretched as far as the eye could see in
either direction. On that ice, a lead pass and a breakaway could take you all the way to Ottawa.

I cherished my Saturday mornings. I usually luxuriated in bed until about 7:30. (I’d lost the ability to sleep in when I had turned 30.) Then, at first light, I’d read whatever novel I had on the go for an hour or so. Then I’d get up, pull on sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and settle into my leather couch in the living room to devour the newspapers. I loved the Saturday papers. That Saturday, though, I had a better idea. I really didn’t want to open the papers yet, anyway – and certainly not
The Crier
.

I knew he was up. I could see his lights on inside. I wrestled both his latte and my hot chocolate into my left hand, freeing my right to rap on the door.

“Starbucks delivery,” I said as he opened the door. He took the latte; I just caught the hot chocolate before it slid out of my hand.

“Ah, mornin’, Daniel. I thank you. I could use a boost,” Angus replied, waving me in.

I headed for the chess table and gave him a face full of arched eyebrows as I inclined my head towards the board. He seemed discouraged – a reasonable reaction to the previous night’s debacle. Perhaps he’d already forced himself to peruse
The Crier
. I hoped not, and didn’t ask. To his credit, he nodded and took his place opposite.

As usual, I moved e2-e4. He replied with e7-e5 this time, and we were off. Through the centuries, chess has been a wonderful diversion. As the game develops, your cerebral resources, by necessity, shift from your problems in life to your challenges on the board. It is unalloyed escapism. By the time Angus skewered my rook on move 24, he seemed to have returned to his customary demeanour. In the succeeding two hours, he beat me twice while I actually took game three. Thrilling endgame. One of my real weaknesses is a pawn-heavy endgame. I always seem to mess up the late-game pawn advance and end up losing mine and promoting my opponent’s. But that day, I managed to marshal my brain power and promote one of my pawns for a queen. Six moves later,
I’d thwarted any and all attempts by Angus to move his pawns onto my back rank. He conceded.

“Well played, laddie,” he offered. “It all turned on one move you made with yer king to protect that passed pawn about ten moves ago. From there on in, ’twas done.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be a basket case for the remainder of the day. I’ve not a single synapse of brain function left.”

Angus looked past me out over the river with that faraway focus that made me think he was looking at nothing at all. “I really thought that if I could just explain the fiscal folly of the mini-budget that they’d be right there with me,” he said slowly and quietly. “I obviously underestimated the power of a few dollars to blind reasonable people.”

“In this selfish age, I suppose it is asking too much of voters to look beyond a modest windfall and consider its longer-term cost. We’re really not built to think that way, yet,” I suggested.

“Aye, and that’s why it’s in the public interest to elect someone who is built that way – someone who can help them navigate this twistin’ road to understandin’ and acceptance. That’s precisely what I planned to do last night. I knew they were mad. But I thought I could turn ’em if I could just have their ears for a wee bit.”

“Angus, you’re really way out in front on this issue. I think we’re going to need some time and some allies before people on the street come around. It doesn’t mean we should stop fighting the tax cuts; it just means we should pick our spots and accept modest progress as success,” I reasoned.

“Aye, I cannae argue with you. Feel free to remind me what it feels like to face a rabble like that the next time my confidence clouds my judgment.”

“That’s my job.”

I finally grabbed
The Crier
at about two-thirty Saturday afternoon. It was just what I would have run were I laying out the front page. Staring back at me was a full-colour photo of Angus, standing in defiance at the front of the town-hall meeting. The infamous
jelly doughnut was about six inches from hitting his considerable forehead. André had snapped the photo with such fortuitous timing that Angus’s eyes were actually crossed, having followed the flight path of the doughnut till it was right above the bridge of his nose. It was the kind of image that might make it to the annual photo issue of
Life
magazine, although I prayed not. The shot was as hilarious as it was brilliant if you didn’t happen to work for, let alone be, Angus McLintock. The story, however, was reasonably balanced and conveyed the essence of our opposition to the irresponsible mini-budget. It was a good thing André had interviewed Angus before the fateful town-hall meeting.

I reached for the
Globe and Mail
. In its “Focus” section, the newspaper had gathered a panel of eminent economists and respected think tanks to assess the Tory mini-budget in the context of the deteriorating national and global economic situation. I hoped Angus had seen it. I also hoped every last one of the pack of town-hall protestors had read the extensive article. There’s an old joke that tells of what happens when you put 10 economists in a room. Answer: You wind up with
II
different theories. Having worked with several economists in preparing the Leader to respond to past Tory budgets, I could vouch for the punchline’s validity.

But across time, rare events united the most disparate collection of economists. The Tory mini-budget could now be added to that short list. The C. D. Howe Institute, the Fraser Institute, the Conference Board of Canada, the chief economist from each chartered bank, the former head of the Bank of Canada, and three former deputy ministers of Finance found common ground in denouncing the Government’s mini-budget. Common themes ran through their arguments against the massive-tax-cut approach. I had never witnessed such solidarity among a group of economists.