The High Road (10 page)

“You can totally blame the Tory government and your predecessor for neglecting Cumberland’s infrastructure,” I said.

“I’m not hankerin’ to blame anyone. There’s enough blame to go around. The Liberals did nothin’ about it when they, er … we, were in office. I just want to talk about solutions and help citizens feel like their vote actually means somethin’.”

“That’s all very nice, Angus, but Emerson Fox is going to toast you every chance he gets with whatever ammunition he and his dirt squad can dig up on us,” I replied.

“Okay, you’re gonnae have to explain to me what you mean by dirt squad. And I’m not certain I even want to know.”

“Emerson Fox created the dirt squad concept some twenty-five years ago and all major parties now have them. The aptly named dirt squad is a team of committed partisans who dig deep into the backgrounds of their opponents in the hopes of turning up that one embarrassing, humiliating, illegal, unseemly, and horrific event, deed, or even photograph that can kill a campaign cold. It is the very foundation of negative campaigning. It is what allows Flamethrower Fox and his acolytes across the country and around the world to
go negative
,” I explained. “And the worst part about this whole sorry and often tragic approach is that it usually works. Many voters buy it. Even those who don’t are often so disgusted by the entire process, that they simply withdraw from democracy and fail to exercise their franchise on election day.”

“Well, I’m not gonnae play his game. I won’t,” Angus intoned.

“And that’s what will separate our campaign from anything Flamethrower Fox has ever encountered. He’s used to opponents who counterpunch fast. And by the middle of the campaign, no one can remember who started it all.”

“I cannae promise I won’t punch out his lights at an all-candidates meetin’, but we’ll not be havin’ a dirt squad in this campaign,” Angus decreed.

“Just to be clear, I was using ‘punch’ as a metaphor. You will not, I repeat will not, ever physically strike Fox, even though he’ll surely deserve it. Skipping in
sult
, and moving directly to in
jury
is not a winning strategy.”

Angus seemed to be biting his tongue. He just nodded in resignation.

“While we’re on this topic, Angus. Have you ever been arrested?”

Even though I considered it a formality, I had to ask. I’d run a dozen campaigns in my political past and had always asked this question. I am pleased and relieved to report that I’d never ever received an affirmative response to this important question. No campaign manager ever wants to discover after the writ has dropped that the candidate had actually done time for
shoplifting, impaired driving, B&E, fraud, or tax evasion. It would make for either a very long or mercifully short campaign.

“Now, why would you be askin’ me that?”

“Flamethrower Fox has probably already compiled an investigative dossier on you that would set J. Edgar Hoover all aquiver. I just want to know what’s in it so we can be ready,” I replied cheerfully.

Angus paused, considering the question. My heart rate soared. No, no. This is not happening.

“Do you mean have I ever been convicted of anythin’?” Angus asked in earnest.

Oh no, no. You have got to be kidding. I tried to remain calm, or at least give the impression that I was calm.

“No Angus, I mean have you ever been arrested? Emerson Fox doesn’t need convictions to launch his offensive. Arrests easily suffice. So should I be worried? Do you have an arrest record?”

I confess my voice was operating in a higher register than normal, though I tried to control it. Angus eventually sighed.

“Aye, I have been arrested, but not for quite some time.”

And there it was. The elephant that I didn’t even know was in the room had just sat down on my chest.

“Did this happen in Canada or was it a youthful indiscretion from your cricketing days in Scotland?” Remain calm. We can get through this.

“Well, there were a few times in Scotland, but most of my arrests occurred on Canadian soil,” Angus said casually.

Holy crap, there was more than one arrest. Okay, breathe. Relax. Don’t let on that this is a problem. Stay calm. Think Zen, yoga, transcendental meditation. That’s it. Just relax.

“Holy crap, there was more than one arrest!”

Angus recoiled at my outburst.

“Don’t be leapin’ off the deep end, man. I’m proud of all twenty-three of my Canadian arrests, and I’d not change a thing were I to live it over.”

What a joker. I laughed and shook my head before returning my “you almost had me” gaze to Angus. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. Then the room shimmered in front of my eyes and my knees turned weak and wobbly. Then I dropped onto the couch beside Angus. Breathe.

“Sorry, I must be hearing things in the trauma of the moment. It almost sounded like you said you’d been arrested twenty-three times and I know that can’t be right. I’m calm now, and I’m seated, and I’m listening carefully. How many times have you been arrested?”

“Your hearin’ is fine, laddie. I’ve had the cuffs on twenty-three times.”

“Wonderful. That’s just great news. And you’re worried about a funny photo on the front page of the
Crier
. This isn’t just tripping on the way to the starting blocks. It’s more like a double leg amputation. Fox is going to crush us with this, and it’ll happen soon.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. I cradled my forehead in my left hand. Angus crossed his arms over his not inconsiderable chest and looked at the ceiling.

He spoke quietly.

“Daniel, I was part of a pro-choice alliance with some other young academics. All twenty-three of my run-ins were civil disobedience arrests in the sixties, protestin’ Canada’s archaic abortion laws. It wasn’t drug dealin’, racketeerin’, or prostitution, it was civil disobedience. Twenty times we were forcibly removed from the lawn in front of Centre Block, and thrice from the House of Commons visitors’ gallery.”

He was still looking at the ceiling as if it were a portal to the past.

“Did you know that under the legislation of the day, offenders could be imprisoned for life? It was an outrage. It could not stand,” he said. He paused for a moment and when he spoke again, his tone had softened. “It was a long time ago and we were never convicted. You know, the first time I met Marin, we were
both in handcuffs. When Trudeau brought in the new laws in ’69, we retired from the front lines. The new law wasn’t perfect, but it was a great leap forward. I have nary a regret.”

We sat in silence for the next five minutes or so, mulling. It was time to start sewing a silk purse. Time to start making lemonade.

“Okay, we have to be ready to hit this head-on when Fox presses the big red button,” I started. “He’ll think this will sink us. I think this can lift us up if we play it right.”

“I don’t see it as a strategy that we have to play right. I intend to answer all questions truthfully. I’ll not apologize. I’ll not recant. I’ll not soft-pedal my own convictions. In fact, I’m proud of what we did.”

I nodded.

“Say it just like that, but without using the word
convictions
, and we might just turn the tables on him,” I commented. “Okay, I’m now back from the brink. Clearly, you’ve been involved in a series of perfectly respectable arrests.”

“Aye, that’s how we always viewed it.”

“So Marin dragged you to your first rally?” I asked.

I could tell by the way he turned on me that I may have misinterpreted his story.

“Why does everyone always assume Marin turned me into a feminist? I was at that particular rally of my own volition. I didn’t meet her until the end of the demo,” he thundered. “I’ll have you know Marin earned only nineteen arrests and never spent a night in jail.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I just have never met a male feminist who got there on his own, particularly an engineer.”

“Watch yourself there, laddie.”

“So after all these years, why haven’t you sought an official pardon so that your arrest record is expunged? I figure you’d be a perfect candidate for a full pardon,” I suggested.

“You seek a pardon when you’re ashamed of somethin’ you’ve done. There’ll be no pardon.”

I left an hour later after working through several scenarios in which Flamethrower Fox and his team might spring Angus’s twenty-three arrests on him. My money was on the first all-candidates meeting. “Strike early” was a credo sprinkled throughout Fox’s book.

Though many businesses were still shut down for the holiday break, Sanderson Technologies was hopping. There were still two Dumpsters in the far end of the parking lot filled with sensible-looking shoes of varying sizes. A big truck from Goodwill was backed up to them and two men were literally shovelling shoes into the back of it.

Norman Sanderson’s office was on the second floor with a wall of glass overlooking the manufacturing line below. I had a quick glance as I entered his office and saw that the shop floor was cleaner than my boathouse apartment. I half-expected the workers to start eating off the floor now that it was nearly time for the afternoon coffee break. Workers in pale blue smocks and funny hats staffed the conveyor belt, adding the final few parts to the wave router by hand. It seemed that even the state-of-the-art automated assembly line had its limits. Nevertheless, it was an impressive sight.

“They’re so much happier and more productive making the router than they ever were making desert boots,” observed Norman Sanderson as he watched the afternoon shift of workers below. He’d arrived behind me as I stared out the window.

“Hello, Norman. This is quite a place you have here. It looks totally different than it did when shoes were on the menu.” We shook hands. Norman was all smiles.

“This is for you,” he said as he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across his desk to me.

I opened it and glanced at the cheque inside. Jackpot. It was for the maximum amount allowed under the Elections Act.

“This is wonderful and very generous of you, Norman. Angus will be very grateful. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do after what Angus has done for me and for future generations of the Sanderson clan.”

“Well, Norman, I’m delighted to hear you describe it as the least that you can do because I have a favour to ask,” I said, getting ready for the pitch.

“Of course, what can I do?”

I liked the sound of that.

“If we’re going to run a successful campaign in the safest Tory riding in the land, we’re going to need a lot more dough than your much-appreciated donation,” I opened. Norman nodded, so I barrelled ahead while I still held the floor.

“What we really need is someone to take on fundraising and to put the touch on the other local businesses and wealthier citizens. You are one of Cumberland’s most successful business leaders, so I can think of no one better qualified to take on this responsibility than you.”

I tried to make it sound like he was winning out over a dozen other viable candidates when, in fact, I could literally think of no else for this job.

“Hmmmm. Well, I did raise money for the Cumberland Fall Agricultural Fair and that wasn’t too hard.”

“It’s almost the same raising funds for the Cumberland-Prescott Liberal Association, and there’s not as much manure shovelling involved. There’s certainly some, but definitely not as much,” I assured him.

I walked Norman through the current regulations governing political contributions for businesses and individuals while he took meticulous notes.

“I’m hoping that we can raise about $25,000 to cover the cost of our campaign office and operations, and to pay the two Petes for the duration of the campaign. Muriel won’t accept payment and I’m still on the House of Commons payroll so I’m fine. Do you think we, and when I say we, I kind of mean you, can raise that kind of beanery in the next four weeks or so?”

“That’s it? We only need $25,000? I think I can raise that by
the weekend,” Norman replied.

“Norman, this is Cumberland. It’s not exactly the promised land for Liberals.”

“Not to worry. I’m hosting a Cumberland Chamber of Commerce luncheon here on Friday to show off the new facility. And I’ll be laying the credit for this company’s turnaround squarely at the doorstep of Angus McLintock. When I’m done, I’ll spring the fundraising on them. We’re raising dough for Angus. I won’t dwell on the Liberal connection. I think we’ll do quite well.”

It seemed a logical approach.

“Thank you, Norman. I think my job here is done.” I rose and shook his hand.

I left Norman hunched over the phone to some of his Cumberland business cronies, eager to start the process. I asked him to pass any cheques along to Muriel, our official agent for the local campaign. In the decades of Tory rule in this riding, I doubt whether a single businessperson in all of Cumberland-Prescott had ever been asked for a donation to the Liberal Party. I hoped donors might at least be attracted to the novelty of it all.

I was back in my aging, beat-up rust bucket of a Ford Taurus wagon when my phone chirped.

“Starbucks?” the voice asked.

“I just left Norman’s. I’ll be there in five,” I said and flipped the phone closed.

Lindsay was already seated with her standard double tall latte. I stood in line for a moment to land my tall no-whip hot chocolate and took the seat opposite her.

“Hello, stranger,” Lindsay said as we kissed over the table. In my head, the kiss seemed to play out in slow motion to the mellifluous strains of a violin chorus that encircled only us. She had a strange and welcome effect on me.

“What a nice way to interrupt the campaign,” I replied, lowering myself onto the wooden chair. By then, the fiddle section had eased out the door to make it to their next romantic encounter.
Even in U of O sweats and an Ottawa Senators ball cap, she looked amazing.

“How goes your paper?” I asked, unable to look anywhere else.

“Arrrrrgh. Despite constant pleading, it simply will not write itself,” she answered.

“Do you want me to take a stab at it? I would, you know,” I offered.

“I know you would, and I love that you’ve offered, but I’m just not certain that writing a student’s paper is the right way to start off your career as a professor. I’m not sure, but the university may well take a dim view of it.”