The High Road (7 page)

Muriel was back in her regular chair in the lounge looking out on the river, a book open in her lap. She saw me approaching and patted the chair next to her.

“You don’t look happy to see me, Daniel. That can give a girl a complex, you know. I thought that went very well this morning, other than your little escapade at the start.”

“Sorry about that. You wouldn’t believe the night and morning I had. When I finally came to the conclusion that I’d give politics one more try, everything went wrong. Luckily, you seemed to know my decision already.”

“It was hilarious, though. I can’t wait for the
Crier
tomorrow.”

“I’m thinking of buying André off. But we have bigger problems than another funny front-page photo.”

In response, Muriel just lifted the copy of
Flamethrower
from her lap so I could see the cover.

“I’ve known for two weeks now,” she replied, still holding the book up in the air and away from her as if it might set her dress alight. “I’m reading his tripe now for the third time in the last ten days. His approach is despicable, deceitful, nefarious, regrettably effective, and fully laid out for us to see. We know what he’ll do and we’ll be ready.”

“When were you going to tell me about Fox?” I asked, a little hurt that she’d kept me in the dark.

“I was planning on telling you as soon as Angus announced that he’d be running again with you at the helm. I had no desire to give either of you any reason to back out.”

I saw her point.

“But the Flamethrower is going to smoke us. Pun intended. Isn’t he?” I whined.

“Emerson Fox is a little pissant Tory brownshirt who enjoys pulling the wings off flies and barbecuing Liberal candidates. We have his game plan right here. We know what he’s going to do. And I think Angus is going to have him for breakfast. Angus won’t play Fox’s game because he knows it will nourish the voter’s disrespect for Parliament and politics. But that doesn’t mean Angus won’t fight back. But he’ll change the game on Fox. You don’t always fight fire with fire. Sometimes water works pretty well.”

“Poor Angus,” I sighed.

“Poor Emerson!” countered Muriel.

What a marvel this eighty-one-year-old Liberal stalwart was. I was coming to realize that Muriel relished the fight as much as the victory. We laid out a strategy that protected and promoted Angus’s high-road politics and rendered all elements of our campaign fireproof. At least that was the plan. To make it work, we needed honest answers from Angus to the very same questions about his life that Fox’s team would be painstakingly researching.

The Fox issue aside, Muriel and I were worried, now that Angus actually wanted to be elected, that he would regress towards typical candidate behaviour and try to please the voters at all costs. Angus was way ahead of us and had talked about this very issue with Muriel the day before. He accepted fully that the root of whatever political success he’d had so far was found in his rejection of what André Fontaine had called “politics as usual.” To win, he had to be the honour-bound Angus McLintock who put the national interest above all else, even his own constituents’ interests. That was the only way Cumberland-Prescott might, just might, consider re-electing Angus. The voters seemed to like “Angus the maverick” even though he was also “Angus the Liberal” in what had historically been the safest Tory riding in the land. Victory was still a long shot, even if the last few months had improved the odds.

I felt better heading home after cooking up political strategy with Muriel. When I’d arrived at Muriel’s, our humble campaign seemed destined to go up in flames at the hands of a skilled political pyromaniac. Now I thought we might well be singed during the campaign, but not fatally. If all went according to plan, Emerson Fox might well get burned. That happens sometimes when you play with matches.

Angus was in the workshop when I made it to the boathouse. He was upside down in the cockpit fiddling beneath the
dashboard of
Baddeck 1
while his feet waved in the air. I was impressed, but figured holding such acrobatic positions was eased by his low centre of gravity. When he returned to his normal upright position, I handed him his own copy of
Flamethrower
and displayed my most serious countenance.

“I’m now wearing my campaign manager’s hat. Your homework is to read and study this tome as if your future depends on it. Why, you may ask? Because your future depends on it. Meet Emerson Fox, founding father of the negative campaign and almost certainly your Tory opponent in the race.”

Angus eyed the book and nodded as recognition dawned.

“Aye, I seem to recall throwin’ something at my television when he was yammerin’ away on some talk show recently. I figure he’s done more to turn our citizenry off politics than anyone else in Canadian history.”

I liked the combative tone Angus had adopted. Campaign managers seem to have an easier time when candidates carry a healthy dislike for their opponents.

Twenty minutes later, I headed upstairs, exhausted and hungry. Lindsay was still in Montreal. It was quiet and lonely in the boat-house. A can of minestrone soup and then I was down.

Lindsay came home on Sunday afternoon from her Montreal sojourn. She came sailing through the door and into my arms as if we’d been apart a year, not a weekend. I cooked dinner for us. She was very impressed. I played it very cool, leaving the impression that I shop, plan meals, and cook all the time, even though I’d ruined two batches of spaghetti sauce before getting it right on the third. I also needed three trips to the grocery store. Third time’s the charm. I doubt the Apollo moon landings had more elaborate work-back schedules and checklists than my spaghetti dinner. I knew, of course, that my chef charade wouldn’t stand for long. Within a week or so, it would become clear to Lindsay that I was much more adept at making reservations than I was at making dinner. No matter. It was wonderful to have her home and she seemed to feel the same.

“So you made your call. You’re back in the race with Angus,” she warbled through a mouthful of garlic bread. I took it as a sign of our utter comfort with one another that she would pose a question with her mouth brimming with buttered baguette. “I knew you’d come through. I just knew.”

I put down my fork.

“How is it that everyone knew before the guy actually making the call knew?” I asked, genuinely interested in the answer.

“That’s easy. You’re honourable, ethical, and you care about doing the right thing. With that kind of baggage, you really had no choice. Simple deduction. Plus, you can cook.”

I’d also made crème caramel. Really I did. But in the excitement of having Lindsay home, I lost track of time and cooked it just a little too long. It tasted fine, but was packed full of so many air holes it had the texture and look of a melting Aero bar. We skipped dessert and just talked, and talked.

Monday morning, Angus and I headed into Ottawa for a meeting he’d already arranged for us.

The Vice President, Administration, of the University of Ottawa, met us in her office. The campus was virtually deserted, as it usually is in the dead zone between Christmas and New Year’s.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, Happy Holidays to you both,” she greeted us warmly as she waved us into her office. We all sat down.

Brenda is a compact woman with tight symmetrical grey curls. Though French is her first language, you’d never know it. In our prior conversations, I’d never detected even the faintest trace of her hometown of Trois-Rivières. A French literature scholar, she is tough, fair, and, according to Angus, very skilled at navigating the sometimes simmering, sometimes seething politics of the modern university. I was glad she was on our side.

“Brenda, I thank you for interrupting your holiday to see us. If it could have waited until after the break, I’d have let it. But I fear it won’t keep till then,” Angus started.

“It’s no trouble, Angus. You know I live just across the way so coming in was an easy call, particularly if you bring the news I’m hoping to hear,” she replied.

“Well, I hope we’re on the same side of the fence with this. I wanted you to know that I’ve decided to seek re-election in the upcom –”

“Yes! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” The VP Administration jumped to her feet and punched the air, catching us a little off-guard. Angus paused, unsure of how to proceed. It didn’t matter, for Brenda continued.

“Angus, that’s wonderful news for the riding and for the university. I hoped for this possibility but didn’t dare to assume it would unfold this way. In hopeful anticipation, I’ve already prepared the paperwork to extend your earlier leave of absence, yours too, Professor Addison, with no loss in seniority for however long you both choose to spend in public life. I could not be happier for you.”

I kept my mouth shut. This was Angus’s show.

“Brenda, you’re very kind, and the university’s been very good to us both. We’re grateful.” Angus looked at me. I took the cue and nodded in assent.

“Very grateful,” I echoed.

“The one remaining fly in the ointment is probably just arriving in the outer office right now,” she said, inclining her head towards the door.

“The Rumper?” Angus asked.

“None other,” Brenda confirmed.

Angus was on his feet, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Defying Darwin somehow, Roland Rumplun had ascended far above his rightful station to hold the lofty position of Dean of Engineering. He is very short and very wide. As near to spherical as any human I’ve ever encountered. I’m sure it was an optical illusion, but his sprawling belly made him look as if he’d be taller lying down. His black hair was really … black, chemically assisted, I assumed. Truculent, miserable, and conceited, he detested Angus with an alarming intensity. It was rumoured that a special task force of engineering graduate students had spent months in a futile secret search for even the slightest circumstantial evidence of Rumplun’s sense of humour. Apparently, they’d found nothing yet. My theory is that he’d had it surgically removed in adolescence. Enough lily gilding. Roland Rumplun is, quite simply, a bloated and blustering asshole, period, full stop.

When Angus had shocked the nation and himself by winning the election the previous October, there was very little that could comfort and console him in the immediate aftermath. But
discovering that Roland Rumplun would have to take over teaching his first-year English for Engineers course almost made winning worth it.

Angus and I signed the documents Brenda had prepared and rose to leave.

“And thanks for your voice mail the other day, Brenda,” I said. “It helped me in my decision. I assume Angus reached out to you.”

Angus looked puzzled.

“No problem, Daniel,” she replied. “And it was Muriel who called me. She was covering her bases and taking nothing for granted.”

“That is what Muriel does.”

I think Angus was starting to see what had happened, but he kept his own counsel.

“We’ll welcome you both back here whenever you choose to return. In the meantime, keep doing what you’ve been doing in the House since you landed there. That place needs a swift kick, and I like the boots you’re wearing.”

Angus and I smiled, shook Brenda’s hand, and then headed out the door.

“Rumplun! What an unexpected nightmare it is to see you,” cooed Angus as we exited the VP’s office. “Have you missed us these last few months?”

Rumplun’s crimson face took on a distinctly evil look as he hoisted himself out of the chair in the waiting area.

“Stow it, McLintock. Your English for Engineers students are breathlessly awaiting your return to the classroom, and so am I. Now that this parliamentary insanity is behind us, I trust you’ll be back on campus next week to immediately take back your infernal class,” Rumplun spat.

I just stayed silent in the background through all this, watching the duel unfold – though “duel” really isn’t the right word. It suggests at least a reasonably balanced battle. Rumplun wasn’t anywhere near Angus’s league. I could tell that, from her office doorway, Brenda was enjoying the encounter, but she made an
effort not to let it show.

“Well Rumper, I see without me around you’ve regressed to splitting infinitives again. I am so sorry.”

You know in those old Warner Brothers cartoons when Yosemite Sam would get so mad that steam would stream from his ears? I swear I saw a few puffs issuing from Rumplun’s fleshy flaps. Angus continued.

“I would hate to deny you the exquisite pleasure of forcefeeding literature to beer-addled engineering freshmen, so I’ve decided to seek re-election.”

Rumplun’s eyes met mine. “Don’t look at Addison. He can’t help you,” Angus chided. “He’ll be on Parliament Hill at my side all the way. I admit I was all set to come back, but then the vision of you teaching Atwood and Richler to hungover engineers in hard hats was just too much to resist. Good day.”

Rumplun wobbled for a minute as the news sunk in. He looked as if he’d just taken a baseball bat to the forehead. Brenda, only just concealing a smirk, shooed us out before escorting the shattered, swaying dean into her office. Angus was quite light on his feet as he glided from the waiting room, with me in tow.