The Best Laid Plans (30 page)

I was late. Our meeting with a delegation from the Alliance for Canadian Women (ACW) – the largest and most active lobby group for women’s rights – was nearly over as I burst into Angus’s office at 2:45 the next afternoon.

I was returning from Place du Portage, a government office complex across the river in Hull, where I’d been meeting with Industry Canada officials on the Sanderson Shoe file. I’d wrapped up the meeting at 1:30 or so, leaving plenty of time for the five-minute drive back to Parliament Hill and our two o’clock encounter with the ACW. I was halfway across the Alexandra Bridge when the articulated public-transit bus in front of me braked hard and swerved to avoid a lime green Yugo that had abruptly cut in front of it. Never having seen a Yugo actually moving under its own power, let alone weaving in and out of traffic at high speed, I could certainly understand the bus driver’s surprise. As the two sections of the bus screeched to the left, a dump truck, which was clearly racing to a fire, nudged the back end to complete the now classic “three-lane bus-bridge wedge.” The bus slid transversely across all southbound lanes and finally came to rest, its front squished against the east railing, its rear crunched into the west guardrail. It looked not unlike an elongated squeezebox, completely occluding a major traffic artery from Hull to Ottawa – the one I’d chosen as the quickest route back to the Hill. I slammed on what was left of the Taurus’s brakes and stopped four and a half
inches from the midsection of the bus and the wide-eyed woman in the window above.

Thanks to my recent stress-induced sphincter-clench regimen, I managed to maintain control over my bodily functions in a moment of life-threatening drama. As I surveyed the faces of other drivers around me, it appeared to me some were not as fortunate. Miraculously, no one was injured on the bus or in the 137 cars now compressed into an area designed to hold about 125 cars. There’d been no pedestrian casualties, either. While the Taurus hadn’t been hit, I saw many fender-benders behind me on the bridge all the way back to Hull.

An hour later, I’d given a brief statement to the police, extricated the Taurus from the blocked bridge, and zipped back to Centre Block via the Portage Bridge to the west. I’m not sure what unsettled me more, the action-movie accident directly in front of me, or the thought of Angus on his own for 45 minutes in a meeting with Rhonda Atkinson – the charismatic and relentless head of the ACW. I’d had no time to brief Angus for the meeting. He was walking into a buzz saw, and it was my fault.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Rhonda Atkinson was a passionate bully. No one was more committed to her cause; yet, in my view, she lacked the finesse to read the room and adopt the approach that would take her furthest in each situation. Rhonda had only one speed – full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes. In her 15-year reign as president, the ACW’s annual lobby day on the Hill had evolved from a series of polite but pointless MP meetings into a cage-match marathon, for which politicians would train for weeks. Not only did Rhonda live by the phrase “take no prisoners,” but legend had it she actually coined it years ago before politically knee-capping a member of Cabinet she had aptly dubbed the “Minister of Misogyny.” She had put the ACW on the map as a potent and powerful lobby and had spearheaded dozens of legislative and judicial reforms to advance women’s equality in Canada. She was a shining star in Canada’s pantheon of advocates.
I like to think of myself as a committed feminist. But Rhonda had a knack for making even the most progressive and enlightened man feel like a polygamous porn magnate fighting universal suffrage.

Camille shot me a worried look as I rushed past her desk and threw open the door to Angus’s office. My worst fears were confirmed when the first thing I saw was Rhonda and Angus locked in mortal combat while the four other women in the delegation watched from ringside seats. They didn’t need to help. Angus already looked overmatched. I’d been in several meetings where Rhonda had verbally abused MPs, but I’d never actually seen her physically attack one. She had Angus in a fierce bear hug and was rocking him back and forth. Outdated and rather boring for the fans, that technique was still an effective submission hold, and I half expected one of her colleagues to step up and count Angus out. I noticed a large hardcover book in Rhonda’s hand that would make a formidable bludgeon. The fight would soon be over if she started swinging that weighty tome.

I was about to tag Angus and take my own chances with Rhonda – as any loyal executive assistant would – when I noticed that both of them were not actually grimacing in mutual combat but smiling in mutual affection. It was a subtle distinction, particularly in my frazzled condition. They were, indeed, locked in a bear hug, but not of the Hulk Hogan variety. Then, Rhonda misted up, and Angus followed suit.

“I am so touched and so grateful,” she said, clutching the mystery book to her heart and dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex handed her by an ACW staffer. “I know you’re with us, so let’s stop convincing the converted and move on to some of your more patriarchal caucus mates.”

“Aye, Rhonda, you’re very kind to use such a benign term as
patriarchal. Neanderthal
is a compliment for some. But I know you’ll set them right, and I’ll work them from the inside as a fifth columnist in this most just of causes,” Angus said gruffly as she gathered her papers.

Her compatriots rose en masse and filed out the door. Rhonda caught my eye as she passed me. “Hello, Daniel. You missed all the fun. You’ve got a real rough-cut diamond in him. Let him shine.” She was still smiling and nodding her head as she dis appeared out our door.

When I spun back to Angus, he’d already regained his composure and returned to the Sanderson Shoe Company initiative.

“Well, do you bring good news from Industry Canada, or is our little plan imperiled by bureaucratic ineptitude?” he asked.

“Wait a second. First things first. What just happened here?” I replied in a voice that occupied a higher register than normal.

“What are you on about, man? We just finished the ACW meeting. As you may recall, you were supposed to join me for it. No matter. It seemed to proceed well enough.”

“I can see that, but how did it happen? Do you have incriminating photos? Did we just give the ACW a million dollars? Did you slip something in her coffee? What just happened here?”

“Hey hey, you dinnae make jokes about drugged drinks when the availability of Rohypnol and the incidence of date rape are both on the rise,” he thundered, shaking his head and looking as if bodily harm was in my immediate future. How did he know all that?

“I … I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying,” I stammered.

“Aye, that was painfully obvious.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough afternoon so far. I was almost killed in a spectacular bus crash on the Alexandra Bridge about an hour ago. And then, I finally make it back here, expecting blood on the floor, and find you’re adjourning the inaugural meeting of the Atkinson-McLintock mutual adoration society.” I sighed. “It’s all been a bit too much to take in.” I fell into the chair in front of his desk.

“Saints alive, were you injured?” he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

“No, I managed somehow to avoid T-boning one of those articulated buses as it wedged itself across all lanes of southbound traffic. But it did leave me somewhat shaken,” I commented. “In fact, was I hallucinating when I saw Rhonda and you in some kind of platonic embrace?”

“Daniel, I’ve known Rhonda since she was a 23-year-old graduate student. Marin was her thesis supervisor, and for three summers she lived in the very boathouse apartment you now occupy. I’m a great supporter of hers,” Angus declared.

“But she can be so … so aggressive. So mean,” I pointed out. “She’s even got her detractors in the women’s movement.”

“Aye, but societal change hasn’t often come through polite and courteous discourse. That approach would simply take too long. Every social cause needs a ‘Rhonda’ to lead the charge,” Angus argued. “And as for yer observation that she is not universally revered among her own constituents, if Marin were here, she’d tell you that the emergence of various factions within the feminist constellation reflects a social movement that is maturin’ and is confident enough to nurture divergent viewpoints. This is the natural evolution of social change. It happened in the civil-rights movement, too. Malcolm X and Dr. King seldom saw eye to eye; yet each made important contributions to their shared cause.”

He continued in this vein for some time, expounding on his theory of maturing movements. I thought I remembered something about this theory in an article Marin Lee wrote for
Saturday Night
magazine a few years back. But by then, I was tapped out and having difficulty processing his theoretical analysis. “What was the deal with the book Rhonda had?”

“I’d been remiss in not givin’ it to her sooner. Before Marin passed on, she inscribed several copies of her new book to a number of women in positions of influence over the feminist cause. The inscriptions were deeply personal.” He paused and bowed his head for a moment before continuing. “Marin was very agitated
before inscribin’ the books but seemed quite at peace when she finished. I think this last task signaled a passin’ of the torch, but we never spoke of it before the end. I figured today was as good a day as any to hand over Rhonda’s copy,” he observed, looking as if he, too, were tapped out.

“Well, she was clearly touched. All I can say is that I’ve seen how Rhonda’s enemies end up, so I’m delighted to count her as an ally,” I concluded.

“Enough of this melancholia!” Angus suddenly decreed. “Pray tell of yer visit to our saviours at Industry Canada.”

“Well, everything is ‘go,’” I replied, “assuming Sanderson turns his back on 35 years of family tradition to manufacture a leading-edge technology he neither understands nor will ever use. He is your classic Luddite, a veritable tech-know-nothing. I think he probably contracts out the setting of his digital alarm clock.”

“We’re not askin’ him or his workers to become experts in wireless transmission. He just has to see that this opportunity represents a much more secure and prosperous future than makin’ unfashionable shoes on an assembly line that should be in an industrial museum,” said Angus. “Do you think he’s comin’ around?”

“He’s come a long way since our first meeting. Industry Canada has been very good about it, too. They toured the factory on the weekend. Apparently, the space, the workers, and Deepa’s wireless wave router all seem to fit the criteria for industrial-transition funding. The one fly in the ointment is timing,” I commented. “Deepa needs to show Canatron proof of manufacturing capability in the next eight weeks. To make that happen, Industry Canada has to approve the funding in the next week. Even if the paperwork were submitted today, that’s an ambitious goal.”

“So where does it leave us?” Angus asked.

“Well, I’ve already pulled together the paperwork after spending yesterday on the phone with Sanderson’s CFO. So we need Sanderson to say yes today so we can submit the application and the company’s audited financial statements no later than tomorrow.
Then, it’s up to you and the Minister to move it through the approvals process in record time.”

To his credit, Angus stayed on the phone with Sanderson for an hour and a half that afternoon, convincing, cajoling, arguing, occasionally yelling, and then rebuilding trust until the recalcitrant, old industrialist finally arrived at “Yes.” From the perspective of a distant observer, the decision was a no-brainer, but I could see it was a wrenching choice for Sanderson. Angus played it more sensitively than I’d ever thought possible. His approach presented an impressive display of patient persuasion and deft diplomacy.

“Now what?” asked Angus as he hung up the phone in triumph.

“You need to reach out to the Minister. She’s tough and partisan, but only she can accelerate the funding approval to make our deadline. I’ll try to set up a call with her and will send over the application to Industry Canada and the Minister’s office right now.”

As it turned out, the call could not be arranged until the following morning after caucus. I’d been dreading caucus after Angus’s performance in his inaugural session the previous Wednesday. Though I didn’t want to, I again stayed for the meeting. Angus was quiet through most of it but perked up when the final agenda item was announced – the Throne Speech vote scheduled for that afternoon. The Chair of caucus and the Whip laid out the plan as the Leader looked on, nodding his approval. Finally, the Leader rose to close the deal.

“Friends, we have a historic opportunity today to send this Government packing. I know we’ve all just come through a tough campaign, but our polling confirms that the Cameron scandal hadn’t fully taken root in the public’s conscience by election day. It has now. The numbers say we’d win if a vote were taken today. In the minds of Canadians, Cameron’s twisted morality seems to have cast doubt on everything he did as Finance Minister. Of course, a declining economy has helped, as well. But we must act quickly. Soon,
Cameron’s despicable performance will fade into the past. Our righteous indignation will dissipate. Our outrage will soften. And we’ll lose this advantage and this golden chance. We must strike now. As of this morning, the NDP are with us. Friends, mark well this date in our history, for today’s Throne Speech vote will be this Government’s Waterloo.”

Most of the room rose in a frenzied and mindless ovation of hooting, hollering, and that most fatigued political gesture, good old-fashioned back slapping. Angus just sat with his arms crossed and shook his head very slightly, wearing a thin smile. About six other Liberal MPs also abstained from the partisan histrionics. I sat at the back, programming 9-1-1 into my cell phone speed-dial and charting the quickest escape route. I knew that Angus wouldn’t be sitting for long. Three, two, one … “Mr. Chair, Mr. Chair.” Right on cue, Angus rose as the furor died down. The caucus Chair did his best to overlook Angus but eventually had no choice but to recognize him. It was hard to ignore a solid, bearded, wild-haired, aging Scot, waving both arms in an impressive display of semaphore. With a fluorescent orange vest and a couple of flashlights, he might well have been guiding in a 747.