The Best Laid Plans (42 page)

The Government had fallen.

The next morning, the following story ran on the front page of
The Cumberland Crier
. It was syndicated the day after in papers across the country and even in a few in the United States.

Crier
reporter André Fontaine spent yesterday at the side of Angus McLintock as he made a heroic journey against daunting odds to cast the vote that brought down the Government. Here is his exclusive, first-hand account
.

Angus McLintock, rookie MP for Cumberland-Prescott, is a quick study. As yesterday’s crushing storm finally relented, we were sitting in his living room on the shores of the Ottawa River. Our interview was interrupted when a phone call came from his executive assistant, Daniel Addison, on Parliament Hill. The Government had refused to adjourn the House even though the blizzard had marooned most MPs in their ridings. McLintock had been appointed to the lowly Standing Committee on Procedure and House Affairs and, with an engineer’s mind, had immersed himself in the arcane world of parliamentary procedure. I could see the wheels turning beneath his unruly, grey hair as he listened to Addison. McLintock feared the Government was pulling a fast one and would call the vote on its controversial mini-budget that very evening, one day earlier than originally scheduled. McLintock was livid when he hung up the phone. “Our interview is over, but our time together is just beginning. On with your coat and let’s go,” Angus instructed. The time was 2:10
PM
.

The snow had slowed by this point and had threatened to stop all together. We fought our way through the waist-deep drifts to his boathouse and workshop that sat right on the shore. Inside the workshop, a strange craft came into focus. When my eyes adjusted to the light, Angus stood before me and fixed me with a serious gaze. “This is a hovercraft. You and I are taking it up the river to Parliament Hill. There’s a vote to be won, and I’ll not sit idly by while an unscrupulous Government hornswoggles a nation.” I was given no option. The time was 2:25
PM
.

The high winds had left an enormous snowdrift angled up against the large boathouse doors. Our first task was clearing the doors. McLintock dug out two ancient snow shovels, and we set to work. The snow was heavy and had drifted halfway up the side of the building. I soon discovered, several feet down, that a ramp descended from the doors to the ice. It took us just over an hour and a half to clear the path to the river and break open the iced-over doors. I rested several times during this period, unable to sustain the back-breaking effort. McLintock worked steadily. I am 41 years old. He is 61. The time was 4:05
PM
.

We then went back inside the workshop. He directed me to hold a light on the engine compartment so he could make some adjustments to the moveable vents housed beneath the motor and fan. He draped himself over the craft this way and that with not a grunt, a sigh, or a complaint. He also inspected the rubber skirt that surrounded the hovercraft. Finally, he led me to a closet in one corner of the room where he had stored winter parkas, ski pants, boots, mitts, and hats. Ten minutes later, we were both suited up. We opened the big boathouse doors, and the cold wind rushed in. The time was 4:56
PM
.

He had me hook the steel cable to the eyebolt on the front of the hovercraft while he adjusted the winch. With enough
slack in the line, we then pushed the craft along the floor of the boathouse on two dollies until the rear wheels started down the ramp. McLintock then winched the hovercraft onto the ice. Ten minutes later, we’d extricated the dollies and filled the fuel tank from an old, red gas can stored underneath the workbench.

“Are you ready for a wild ride Mr. Fontaine?” The time was 5:14 pm.

He stood next to the craft and pulled the cord and started the engine before climbing inside. Although cramped, the cockpit accommodated us both on a low-slung bench seat. McLintock directed me to pull up my hood against the wind. He slid what looked like leather flying headgear from World War I over his head and lowered the goggles to his eyes. Next, he pulled up his hood and zippered it all the way, leaving but a small opening through which he would navigate. Then, he patted my knee. “I thank you for coming. I don’t think it wise to make the trek alone.”

At the time, I knew very little about hovercraft, but the essentials became clear soon enough. He reached for the throttle, and the engine roared. At the same time, I could feel us rise up off the ice. The wind had kept the river clear of snow, and a runway of smooth ice stretched to the western horizon. Angus then moved his feet on two pedals beneath the dash and throttled up further. With the engine directly behind us, my ears were ringing. Slowly, we gathered speed, McLintock adjusting the steering wheel as the hovercraft skidded along the ice. The time was 5:26
PM
and nearly dark. The vote was set for 6:00
PM
sharp.

The flight in the hovercraft was cold, ear-piercing, and hair-raising, but beyond that, quite smooth. The plentiful snow lightened the landscape and gave us enough visibility to stay on course. Twice along our river route, low snowdrifts encroached on our ice path. Both times, we slowed down –
McLintock’s feet moving again on his pedals to direct some of the thrust frontwards through the side pods. When we hit the drifts, the fan kicked up the snow, and we found ourselves in a whiteout until we’d passed over.

With Parliament Hill in sight in the distance, I noticed a patch of open water ahead where the current kept the river from freezing. McLintock saw it, too. Rather than slowing down, however, he gunned the engine. The craft hurtled over the water, spray flying everywhere. A moment later, we slid back up onto the ice on the other side, wet but safe.

“I’m not the best carpenter, you see, so stopping in open water is not in the plan. I doubt she’s seaworthy, let alone watertight,” he screamed in my ear above the engine’s wail.

And then, we were there. He nosed into a snowdrift at the river’s edge immediately below the Library of Parliament. He cut the engine, and we settled back to earth, our bow on the bank, our stern on the ice. The time was 6:12
PM
.

“I fear we’ve missed our mark,” was all he said before heading up the slope. The trees on the side of the hill kept the snow shallow on the ground, so scaling the heights was easier and faster than expected. I had some trouble keeping up with McLintock but was only ten paces behind when he was accosted outside the chamber by two House of Commons guards. He ignored them and barreled through the doors onto the floor of the House with a sentry on each arm.

Bedlam reigned in the House of Commons as this strange figure peeled off his parka and became Angus McLintock, Member of Parliament for Cumberland-Prescott. The time was 6:21
PM
.

McLintock cast the tie-breaking vote, and the Government collapsed at 6:29
PM
.

   Four photos accompanied most layouts of André’s story. The first one showed Angus sitting in his living room, looking as if
he’d like to drop the camera from a great height. The second one featured Baddeck 1, perched at the top of the boathouse ramp. The third one was a shot from inside the hovercraft, looking out at high speed, the inflated skirt dominating the lower part of the photo. Finally, the fourth one showed Angus being borne on the shoulders of his caucus mates just before he cast his decisive vote.

I sat with Muriel on the same plastic-coated couch we’d first shared three months earlier. While we waited for Lindsay, she looked out over her river,
The Cumberland Crier
spread out on her lap, a stern Angus glaring back at us from the front page. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but her look was one of deep contentment.

“You served your party well when you found him,” she said, staring back at the photo of Angus. “What now?”

“Well, I figure the world returns to normal. To start, Lindsay and I are going to Quebec City for a long weekend to hibernate and vegetate. Then, I assume Angus and I will pick it up where we left off in September. We’ll resume our interrupted academic careers, and the last three months will become a bizarre and exciting conversation piece for us both,” I replied.

“You’ve got it all figured out, have you?” she said, her head moving slowly from side to side.

“Well, Liberals are already coming out of the woodwork now that this seat can be won. And we’ve always known how Angus feels,” I said.

“Really.” She adopted a tone that was the oral equivalent of rolling her eyes.

“Come on, Muriel, are you sure you won’t go again? The seat’s yours for the taking. We’d all be there for you.”

“Bite your tongue! I’m done. I’ve told you that,” she scolded. “Have you spoken to Angus about all this?”

“Not yet. He’s sequestered himself in his workshop.”

She turned to look directly at me, taking both my hands in hers. I could feel her Parkinson’s travel from her fingers to mine and up through my arms.

“Daniel, I’ll say it again – time to start thinking about Plan B.”

Writing seems the most solitary of pursuits, particularly late at night when you’re clacking away on the laptop as your family sleeps. But eventually, it dawns on you that, in fact, your ability to bind up your story into a book turns on the support of so many others. My thank-you list is long, and I’ll be forever grateful to the family members, friends, and, yes, to several strangers who helped me.

For being brave enough to read my words when I was barely brave enough to share them, I thank Christine Langlois, Catherine Shepherd, and Kathleen Naylor. For advice and comfort in trying to navigate the publishing labyrinth, John Lute, Steve Paikin, Ben McNally, and Bill Kaplan were there. Camille Montpetit, retired Deputy Clerk of the House of Commons, spent time with me to ensure that the parliamentary procedure portrayed in this story honoured the Standing Orders.

Novelist Mike Tanner, veteran MP Paddy Torsney, CBC’s Tom Allen, and two former federal Cabinet ministers, the Honourable Allan Rock and the Honourable Elinor Caplan, were all more than kind with their cover-worthy quotations. Tom Allison and Gabriel Sekaly helped in this department and I thank them too.

Thanks to my father, Dr. James C. Fallis, for passing on to me a love of our language. To all my friends and colleagues who endure my passion for proper English, you can’t fight DNA, so blame him. I’m quite sure my mother would have loved this book – regardless. As for my identical-twin brother, Tim, I certainly appreciate his
support and encouragement, but wish he would stop telling people it’s his book (unless of course they don’t like it, and then, by all means, he should carry on).

I owe deep thanks, and so much more, to the wonderful members of the Stephen Leacock Association who changed my life as a writer in the spring of 2008.

Finally, were it not for the vision and efforts of Beverley Slopen and Douglas Gibson,
The Best Laid Plans
would still be a self-published novel struggling to find an audience.

Writing – a solitary pursuit? Hardly.

To my wife, Nancy, and our two sons, Calder and Ben, who gave me the time, space, and inspiration to write – this is for you.

   T. F.

   Toronto, 2008