The Best Laid Plans (40 page)

Supply-side economics had met with some success in the United States during the 1980s, but that was when the American economy was just rebounding. The optimism of the Reagan revolution gave Americans permission to spend their tax-cut gains
and boost consumer spending. In Canada, as the economy deteriorated, the economic thinkers on the
Globe
panel agreed that Canadians would not risk spending their tax-cut money but instead would, shove it under their mattresses. The Government’s promise that the budget would actually stimulate the economy required Canadians to spend their tax-cut dividends and spend fast. This assumption was dubious at best, ludicrous at worst. Other grounds for agreement among the panel existed, including a unanimous belief that a decade of deficits was inevitable under the Tory plan.

I hoped the piece would be the first of many credible and compelling assaults on the Government’s fiscal ineptitude. Such thoughtful media analysis would certainly help to turn the tide of public opinion even against the promise of refunded taxes. But it would take time. With the vote set for Tuesday, we had not a moment to lose. At the very least, I hoped the elite opposition emerging in the media would help ally the Liberals and the NDP for the vote.

On Sunday afternoon, Lindsay and I drove through light snow to Ottawa to visit the National Gallery of Canada. Despite working in Ottawa for so many years, I was embarrassed to admit I’d never set foot in the place. For the uninitiated, the National Gallery is a wonderful introduction to the highfalutin world of art. My knowledge of art is somewhat limited – okay, very limited. Once past Picasso, da Vinci, Rembrandt, and the Group of Seven, I’m at sea. Lindsay knew much more than I and helped me keep pace with the walking tour, narrated on the electronic headsets we’d donned. Irrespective of my plebian appreciation for art, spending the afternoon with Lindsay was just the respite I needed.

Shortly after we entered the gallery, I watched through the glass walls as snow began to fall heavily. Two and a half hours later, after we’d viewed a touring photography exhibit and visited a special gallery dedicated to the works of Tom Thomson, we emerged from the gallery into what seemed like the second coming of the Ice Age. The storm had evolved into a full-on
blizzard, with gale-force winds. Massive snowdrifts had already formed wherever the gusts found room to manoeuvre.

We left the car in the gallery lot and finally caught a cab that shimmied its way south along the Queen Elizabeth Driveway. Taking twice as long as it might have on a clear day, we eventually made it to The Ritz, a comfortable Italian restaurant perched on the edge of the frozen canal. The storm had chased all but the heartiest skaters from the ice and explained the many unoccupied tables. We had garlic bread with cheese, and held hands. I ordered spaghetti carbonara while Lindsay opted for mushroom risotto. We didn’t really talk a great deal. We’d moved beyond that. Across the two and a half hours we spent at The Ritz, we watched the storm intensify and the growing drifts consume newspaper boxes and a couple of unlucky cars parked in spots that seemed to welcome the wind and snow.

By the time we paid and left the restaurant, the streets were pretty well deserted. I gave thanks for parking underground.

“I’ve never seen it like this. It’s still coming down,” noted Lindsay.

“Yep, it’s quite the dump. Something tells me we won’t be driving the Taurus back to Cumberland tonight,” I said, curious about her response.

“Sounds like the snow storm corollary to running out of gas on a first date,” she replied, still smiling. “Let’s try the Château.”

Though it was not particularly cold, the wind was unforgiving. There were few cars out and not a taxi in sight. So we walked up Elgin Street, as it seemed more navigable than the canal. The sidewalks were completely impassable, so we stuck to the middle of the street, swinging wide around monstrous snowdrifts that rose out of the road at irregular intervals.

The Château Laurier was built on the eastern edge of Parliament Hill and the Rideau Canal. The Château was aptly named, featuring steeply raked, copper-roofed towers and limestone walls. For nearly
a century, it had been the hotel of choice for political power brokers. I’d stayed there occasionally, too. The lobby was congested, but the line snaking away from the reservations counter moved quickly.

“Any chance?” I asked, leaning on the marble.

“I’ve got two rooms left,” announced the desk clerk. “Would you like a view of Parliament Hill or the river?”

I was feeling kind of excited, not so much about another night alone with Lindsay, but just about sharing the whole stranded-by-snow scenario with her.

The room was perfect – old-world charm with new-world plumbing, not to mention those fluffy robes. Lindsay called her mother. I called Angus. He reminded me that André Fontaine was coming to the house in the morning for a long-arranged feature interview. We’d put him off as long as we could. Angus had gained enough perspective on the town-hall meeting by then to laugh at
The Crier
photo when he’d finally seen it. So the Fontaine interview was still on.

Lindsay and I ordered dessert from room service and turned the small loveseat around in the window so we could watch the ferocious storm’s assault on Parliament Hill. I’m not given to using the word
cozy
. I’m just not a fan. But the shoe fit.

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 passed 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 Château 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 assumed 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 passage 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, municipal 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. André Fontaine had arrived at noon for their nine o’clock interview. I was surprised he’d even tried the trip, but André 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 “Dickhead” 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.