The Best Laid Plans (10 page)

Angus was talking again. “Every candidate in this country should be thinkin’ first about the national interest, second about their constituents’ interests, and third about their own interests. Everyone is more concerned with their own fortunes than with the nation’s. That’s the problem with the democratic institutions in this country. It’s no wonder voters are cynical. Daniel, the national interest is not the sum of each ridin’s interests or each MP’s interests.” He made this statement calmly, even casually, as if the words were self-evident and not worthy of special attention.

I had no idea he’d ever considered such matters. He laid bare the great paradox of Canadian politics. When not influenced by the need to be elected, a person like Angus was free to consider the national interest first. On the other hand, to be elected and
earn the power and privilege to protect and promote the national interest, candidates often had to first support local-community causes that perhaps were not, in the long run, good for the country. As Winston Churchill once observed, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms.”

I knew Angus was right. In this era of free trade, either we needed our factories to compete on an equal footing with other countries or we needed to retool for emerging industries where we could forge a competitive advantage. It was probably time for Canada to hasten its withdrawal from sunset industries and invest in sunrise sectors that promised long and bright futures. I knew he was right, but opposing the Sanderson subsidies would not be welcomed in Cumberland-Prescott.

“Okay, I accept your logic,” I said, “but in the short term, I’m going to try to avoid this issue, because although your position may be the right one, it likely isn’t the winning one locally.”

“I’m not advancin’ a position based on the prospects of victory,” Angus responded.

“I know, I know, I hear you. Okay, what about the Corrections Canada halfway house proposal? Cumberland City Council and Eric Cameron are on the public record opposing it.”

“On what grounds?” asked Angus.

“Well, it’s very simple. They just don’t want it in Cumberland.”

He was unmoved. “Well, I support the establishment of the halfway house for the same reasons I reject subsidies to the shoe factory. The halfway house has to be built somewhere. I assume its location was recommended for sound reasons by people who know more about such things than I. Cumberland should shoulder its share of the burden of rehabilitatin’ and reintegratin’ prisoners who have served their time. I say build it here; it’s our turn. I might be a bit nervous livin’ next door, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be built.” He sipped again, savouring the flavour of his homeland.

I confess I was quite impressed with his views and the conviction and clarity with which he presented them. I realized that I believed
in the same principles and, in fact, had left Parliament Hill because of them. But I obviously had not yet fully shed the instincts and practices engendered by five years with the backroom boys.

“Let me guess the third issue,” Angus interjected. “Ottawa River Aggregate Inc.”

“Right,” I replied. “They want to expand their aggregate operation on the outskirts of Cumberland, right on the river. It means 75 jobs for the next 18 months while the new addition is under construction and 50 new permanent jobs thereafter. Cameron has been a strong supporter.” After local issues one and two, I was not surprised with his opinion of number three.

“No, I don’t think so,” he sighed.

Then I sighed. “Okay, strictly as an academic exercise, what is your problem with creating more than 100 new jobs in a town that could use some good news?” I inquired.

“Any more aggregate minin’ on the shores of the Ottawa River would leave the land lookin’ slightly worse than the lunar surface. The environmental impact would profoundly affect the habitats of several indigenous species of fish, amphibians, mammals, birds, and plants, not to mention compromise the water quality. The company is tryin’ to escape an environmental assessment for the expansion and they’re already fightin’ four occupational-health-and-safety-code violations. Truck traffic in the proposed location is already dangerously heavy because of the neighbourin’ beverage-bottling facility. The expanded aggregate operation would add six tractor trailers every hour of every day. Other than that, I have no problem with the proposal.”

“I see you’ve been doing your homework. I thought you had no interest in politics,” I said.

“I read the local papers, and I know a thing or two about water systems and how delicate a balance must be struck when tinkerin’ with a river’s natural state.”

“Well, I can’t very well argue with your high-minded philosophy, but as your campaign manager, I’m compelled to warn you that by
espousing such positions, you may well cut your support from a few hundred votes down to a few dozen.” Angus seemed very pleased at this prospect. I raised my glass towards him. “Here’s hoping we can skate around these local issues.” I rose to start my trek to the boathouse. “Thank you for the chess lesson and the civics class. I feel beaten down and lifted up at one and the same time.” Angus was still grinning when I slipped out into the warm night.

There was one media call waiting for me when I made it to the boathouse. It was from André Fontaine, the senior news reporter for
The Cumberland Crier
. It could wait until the morning, when the 39-day clock started.

The insanity, the surreal, the bizarre, had officially begun. I sat at my kitchen table, gargling orange juice and wondering how I’d managed to put myself in this ludicrous position. I was running a phantom candidate, in a cash-strapped campaign we were sure to lose, aided by an ailing octogenarian, her attractive granddaughter, and two pierced punks. Our campaign headquarters consisted of a ready-for-the-scrap-heap Ford rust bucket and a government-owned cell phone. We had no lawn signs, no advertising, no marked voter lists, and one cheesy, desktop-published leaflet with no pictures.

It sounded like a sitcom that was cancelled after three episodes because it was just too far-fetched. I picked up the phone and dialed. “André Fontaine, please. Thank you.”

“Fontaine,” he said, rushed.

“André, it’s Daniel Addison, returning your call. I’m the campaign manager for the Liberal candidate here in C-P.”

“Right, thanks for getting back to me. So you’ve actually found a Liberal candidate to run against Cameron?” he asked.

“Yep, the nomination papers were submitted to Elections Canada yesterday morning, and his candidacy was confirmed by the afternoon,” I replied. “His name is Angus McLintock. He’s an internationally respected mechanical-engineering professor at U of O who’s lived in Cumberland for the last 25 years. He’s thoughtful, well versed on the issues, and eager to serve.” I let my instincts do the talking.

“And you really think you can knock off Cameron?” he inquired, without the decency of restraining his chuckle.

I sighed audibly and shifted into message mode. “Well, Cameron will be tough, but Angus does think he can win; otherwise, he wouldn’t be in the race.”

“Does Mr. McLintock have any history of drug abuse or mental illness in his family?”

“Very nice, André. Let’s keep this friendly, shall we?”

“So you’re the campaign manager, and you share his belief in the possibility of victory?”

“Look, anything can happen in politics and frequently does. So yes, I’m running the campaign, and to pre-empt your next question, no, I’m not on any prescription medication, either. We’re running a serious, albeit somewhat underfunded, campaign. The people of Cumberland-Prescott deserve a real choice on October 14, and we’re going to give them one.” I was spinning so hard I struggled to keep my balance.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. McLintock sometime today if I could,” André declared.

“Gee, I’m sorry, André, but I’m afraid Angus simply won’t be available for interviews during the campaign. He’s trying very hard to knock on every door in the riding. That’s his top priority, so he
has no time for interviews.” (I know, when I die I’m bypassing purgatory and going straight to hell.)

“For a second there, I thought you said the candidate wouldn’t be doing any interviews. I’m holding the phone closer to my ear this time, so can you pass that by me again?” He was getting hostile.

“Sorry, André, you heard me right. Angus is not your run-of-the-mill candidate, and he’s set out his priorities. Look, I’ll pass something along to you that we haven’t yet announced. I’m trying to get a news release out the door, but I’m running out of time. So here’s your Day
I
Liberal campaign exclusive. Angus is a staunch environmentalist with a particular interest in composting and reducing solid waste. Out of concern for the environment and our overflowing landfill sites – and out of respect for the enlightened voters of Cumberland-Prescott – the McLintock campaign will neither produce nor erect any lawn signs.”

“Sounds like a desperate cost-saving measure from a campaign with empty coffers,” he challenged.

“André, it’s not about saving money; it’s about saving trees and our dwindling landfill capacity. It’s about saving our environment. If we’re not part of the solution … well, you know the rest.”

“What’s the URL for your Web site?”

“Web site? Umm, we won’t be having a McLintock-campaign Web site, either.” For some inexplicable reason, I’d completely forgotten about the Internet. It was time to strap on the skates. Silence on the phone. Like a rookie, I filled it. “Uh, Angus has been concerned for some time with kids’ easy access to explicit and depraved content on the Internet. It really is a sewer, so we’re steering clear of the Web.”

“Nice one. Who’s your writer?” he replied.

“Look, André, we’re trying to do things a little differently and not just reproduce what every other candidate is doing.” I’m usually quite a competent skater, but my attempted quad-toe loop on the Web question seemed to have ended in a face plant.

“What do you think about Eric Cameron?” André asked, mercifully moving to safer ground.

“It’s going to be very difficult to dethrone Cameron. He’s extremely popular with the voters, has a great human touch on the hustings, and has done a reasonable job with the government’s finances, though I’m convinced a trained chimp could have eliminated the deficit in this booming economy,” I noted.

“What do you know about Petra Borschart?” he probed.

“Very little except that I don’t much like her,” I commented. “She joined his team a few years ago and has enjoyed a meteoric rise to Chief of Staff. We tangled a few times on the Hill.”

“Something doesn’t quite fit for me, but I can’t put my finger on it. She seems good and tough and clearly has a close rapport with Cameron, but it all happened very fast,” André mused.

We talked for a few more minutes, and I hoped that I’d managed the call well enough to avoid an embarrassing story right out of the gate. Dealing with journalists required quick thinking and steady nerves. That morning, I had neither.

In fact, I knew a little more about Eric Cameron than I’d let on. One of the benefits of being a nice guy was that people opened up and talked even if talking was ill-advised. Across my years on Parliament Hill, I’d managed to weave countless threads of information on Cameron into … hmm … let’s say, a poncho of political insight, to complete the textile metaphor. On first meeting, you’re blown away by his ability to connect with you, to engage you, to make you feel like you’re the only person in his world. The fifth time you meet him, it dawns on you that he has no recollection of the first four meetings; his star begins to lose altitude. After the tenth time you meet him, you want to wash your hands. He seems to understand that his halo can only sustain two or three meetings with the good citizens of Cumberland-Prescott before it starts to corrode. So he limits his contact with individual constituents to no more than a few encounters
between elections so the voters are held in a kind of suspended awe that works quite well at the polls.