The High Road (5 page)

My tailbone hit the icy deck and I slid on my back towards the railing faster than a bobsledder on the Cresta run. The origin of the term “breakneck speed” dawned on me.

The Building Code was amended in 1985 to require crosspieces in outdoor railing design to prevent the hapless from sliding underneath and injuring themselves. A sensible change, to be sure. But as I hurtled underneath the railing into space, I remembered Angus telling me he’d built the boathouse in 1983. On instinct, my final act before leaving the landing altogether was to snag the rolled-up
Cumberland Crier
on my way past in case I had time for in-flight reading. I noticed the spare key for the boat-house apartment hanging from a small brass hook on the underside of the railing as I slid by. Good to know.

Mercifully, the relentless and heavy snowfall of the past two weeks meant a feet-first, featherbed fall into a massive drift of wet packing snow some ten feet below. A perfect dismount – and I really stuck the landing. And I do mean stuck. When the dust … er, snow, settled, only my neck and head protruded above the surface of the snowbank. It held me tight. I could feel the pressure from the snow on my chest as my breathing approached hyperventilation. My right arm was free, still holding the
newspaper high and clear of the snow. Always protect the newspaper.

Had I not been so unaccountably late for Angus’s newser, my little mishap would probably have been exciting, even fun. I might well have repeated the stunt recreationally. But entombed neck-deep in snow, with only a copy of the
Cumberland Crier
to save me, I was a little miffed, completely unable to move, wet, and heading fast from chilled to frozen. Boots, mitts, a hat, and a proper winter coat might have been a good idea given the weather, but I hadn’t planned on impromptu arctic survival training. On the bright side, I was very much awake. Full immersion in packing snow had elevated me to a higher plane of consciousness than even the Hare Krishnas promised. At one point early in my incarceration, I felt my BlackBerry vibrating in my pocket but I was powerless to reach it.

I’d never felt claustrophobic in small elevators or even when I managed to lock myself in the trunk of the family car when I was just a child. Okay, I was sixteen at the time, researching a project on Houdini; I really thought I’d be able to escape. Even when I’d gone spelunking with a friend at university, I’d been quite comfortable in that dark, dank, and cramped subterranean world. But being held fast and frozen up to my neck in the snowbank’s viselike grip, with only my head and arms in daylight, really seemed to push my panic button. The novelty of my predicament wore off quickly. I not only needed to get out fast, I desperately wanted to.

“Stay calm,” I said aloud to myself. Actually, it may have been more like “STAY CALM!” as every bird singing in every tree within a hundred-metre radius burst into flight in unison. It was quite a striking sight.

The appendages that weren’t buried and already numb seemed to be working properly. Barely controlling my anxiety, and using the folded sports section of the
Crier
as a scoop of sorts, I was eventually able to claw and crawl my way out of the snowbank and race for the car. I was soaked to the skin and so was my poor BlackBerry. The screen flashed anemically but there was no cell signal and no way to alert anyone that the cavalry was on the way. The car started right away, on the twelfth attempt, and I was off, fishtailing out of the driveway, shivering and shedding clumps of snow onto the front seat. Despite the heater in the Taurus, I still couldn’t feel my legs.

On the ten-minute drive out to the Cumberland Motor Inn, where I knew Angus would already be standing at the podium announcing his retirement from politics, I had an epiphany of sorts. I realized that there really was never any hope of sitting this one out. If I were really honest with myself, for all my big talk, I didn’t
want
to sit it out. I’d already tried to leave the brutal and cynical world of politics to nurse my public service calling back to health in the relative serenity of academe. I’d tried and failed. I’d always assumed that restoring my faith in our democracy would be possible only away from the crucible of Parliament Hill. It really never occurred to me that my political rehab might unfold successfully within the game itself. That the alcoholic could dry out while still in the tavern. But that’s what the honesty and integrity of Angus McLintock seemed to
have made possible. Lindsay’s stiletto questions and Muriel’s glare had also helped.

I executed a perfect four-wheel drift into a snowbank in the parking lot and came to rest as close as I could to the door to the meeting rooms. The door was locked. I sprinted back around to the front of the motel and into the lobby as fast as my frozen pant legs and straight-legged gait permitted. I didn’t stop to seek directions, I knew exactly where I was going, and goose-stepped my way, panting, to the other end of the building where the Confederation Room beckoned. I got some strange looks from the guests and staff milling in the lobby but I was beyond worrying about such minor considerations. I burst into the room at the point of passing out from exhaustion. Muriel was at the podium and Angus looked stone-faced standing behind her. This meant only one thing. I was too late. Angus had already announced he would not seek the Liberal nomination and Muriel was about to close the proceedings. It was 10:34. I was too late. Shit. What a failure I was.

I still couldn’t speak. I felt sick but willed myself not to throw up, although it might have improved the look of the carpet. I bent over, feeling as if I might never breathe again. Then I straightened up and puffed for a time, holding my hand in the air to interrupt Muriel and claim the floor. Apparently, I was still completely covered in snow, as an expanding pool of water soaked into the carpet beneath me. One reporter later described my entrance as the first ever sighting of the rare and elusive Cumberland yeti. All eyes turned to me, including the bulging peepers of Angus and Muriel.

“Wait … stop! Please wait!” I gasped for air. “There’s been a horrible mistake and a terrible misunderstanding,” I said, slowly gaining control over my lungs and voice.

“Ignore what Angus has just announced. It’s all my fault. Angus McLintock will, I repeat
will
, be seeking re-election as the Member of Parliament for Cumberland-Prescott and I’ll be running the campaign again, with Muriel Parkinson providing her
expert leadership and guidance as well.” I heard clicking behind me. “Sorry about barging in late but I had a little run-in with a snowbank.”

“Looks like you lost,” a reporter in the back said.

“Muriel, back to you to finish up,” I managed and dropped into the nearest empty chair.

“Well, thank you, Daniel, for your rather unorthodox entrance and declaration,” Muriel replied. Something wasn’t sounding quite right. Neither Muriel nor Angus looked as happy as I thought they would. Pete1 scurried over and whispered in my ear loudly enough to do drum damage, and for most of the reporters to hear.

“We had a problem with the PA system so we couldn’t start on time. We just got it fixed now. Muriel was just about to start the news conference when you landed,” he hissed.

Excellent. Fantastic. I looked up at Muriel and Angus and brought my hands together in prayer, mouthing sorry, while trying to make myself as small as possible. Though moving was difficult with still-frozen pant legs, I lurched to the back behind the cameras. André Fontaine gave me a sarcastic thumbs-up, his Nikon hung around his neck. I then realized what the clicking sound earlier had been.

“Um, good morning, everyone. Why don’t we just start all over again. As I was saying, I want to thank you for coming up to our little gem of a town on the shores of the Ottawa River. I am Muriel Parkinson, secretary of the Cumberland-Prescott Liberal Association. Some of you may know that I also carried the Liberal banner unsuccessfully in five elections against the seemingly insurmountable Tory tide. I figured I’d seen it all in Cumberland-Prescott. That is until Angus McLintock let his name stand in last October’s election. At eighty-one, I had thought that I’d exhausted my capacity for shock. I was wrong. When this wonderful man, Angus McLintock, found himself the new MP for Cumberland-Prescott, I was very nearly overcome with as strong a sense of contentment and joy as I’ve ever
experienced. And not because a Liberal had finally won this seat. But because Angus McLintock had won this seat. We’ve never seen an MP like him. Canada has never seen an MP like him. But it is my fervent hope that we will have many MPs like Angus McLintock in the coming years. His honesty, his integrity, his commitment to the national interest above all else is what we need to restore Canadians’ faith in our democracy. Though he doesn’t see it, I believe Angus McLintock is the vanguard of a new political movement for which so many of us have been longing. Yesterday, my happiness at his October election victory was matched when he told us he wanted to run again. The whole country is the better for his decision. Canadian democracy needs Angus to run and to serve again. I cannot tell you how proud I am to introduce the current and future Member of Parliament for Cumberland-Prescott, Angus McLintock.”

It sounded to me like he was going to run, regardless of my position.

When Muriel finished and stepped back from the mike, she wobbled slightly at the knees. Angus moved fast and made it to her side before the swaying moved to its logical horizontal conclusion. He armed Muriel to a chair in the front row, and the room actually applauded, helped along by the enthusiastic clapping of Pete1 and Pete2. Having organized and endured more news conferences than I cared to remember, I knew it was rare, and bizarre for that matter, for journalists to applaud.

Muriel sat and fixed her eyes on Angus as he stood at the microphone applauding her. She gestured for him to stop clapping and start talking, but Angus wasn’t quite ready to shift the focus to him. Muriel had hit it out of the park without even a note. Eventually, the room calmed and Angus stepped forward, no notes, no cue cards. He’d tamed his hair and beard so that they looked merely dishevelled rather than chaotic. He’d given up on ties and just wore a suit and a pale blue open-necked dress shirt. Television likes pale blue shirts. I’d been there when he’d bought the suit. But whenever he wore it, it always seemed as
if it belonged to someone else. He rocked from one foot to the other until he was ready, and then looked at Muriel.

“Are you absolutely certain you haven’t a sixth campaign left in you, Ms Parkinson?” Angus inquired to the chuckles of those assembled. Muriel looked cross and wagged an index finger at him.

Angus took a deep breath.

“It is tough to follow Muriel Parkinson as a speaker, and as a candidate. As I have said before to some of you, I will always carry with me regret that events should have conspired to place me in the House of Commons with the ink barely dry on my nomination form, when there had already been five previous opportunities for good fortune to smile similarly on Muriel. It should, by rights, and by history, be Muriel in the House and not I. Nevertheless, the milk is spilt and here I am. Muriel, I thank you for your introduction and I’ll do whatever I’m able to honour the high standards your public service has set.” Angus paused now before continuing.

“Most of you will by now know the story, but four months ago I had no desire to seek public office. On the contrary, nothing could have been further from my mind or my heart. It was only the promise of escaping a duty I loathed, that of teaching English to first-year engineering students, that advanced my name as the Liberal candidate in this riding. It seemed a paltry price to pay to shed an unwelcome burden. History guaranteed that I would lose, thus restoring in mid-October my quiet but satisfying life as an engineering professor. Well, history is not always trustworthy, as I discovered last October 14.

“To be truthful, which I strive always to be, I was angry with my fate and with myself for ever allowing such a scenario to come to pass. I was also quite upset with my co-conspirator, Daniel Addison, though I know he was dealt a shocking hand same as I. But in the intervening weeks, we’ve been on a journey together. I tell you today, that journey has opened my eyes and infused me with a renewed energy and spirit I thought was lost to me. I have always believed that public service is important and
should figure in every citizen’s life. I always thought I’d make my contribution as an engineer in the Third World. It seems fate has given me the rare chance to serve in a different way, in the House of Commons.”

Angus spoke with a relaxed honesty that rang so true that not even the most hard-bitten reporter considered his words to be anything less than genuine.

“I had not expected to be fulfilled by my work on behalf of the citizens of Canada and the voters of Cumberland-Prescott. But I was. I’ve long been dismayed by the practice of politics in this country. It has always seemed that logic and reason are shunted to the sidelines to make way for polls and media coverage as the drivers of policy. I think there is another way. I believe that Canadians want their government to make the tough decisions we confront based on the best interests of the nation as a whole. Not on what is right for one party, for one region, for one riding, or for the short horizon of one election campaign. I think the voters have seen enough of the cynical opportunism that today passes for politics, on all sides of the House. And I’m betting my candidacy that Canadians and the voters of Cumberland-Prescott agree.