The High Road (11 page)

“Well, when it comes together, I’m happy to review and edit. You know, fix any esoteric grammatical crimes that may have been unwittingly committed,” I said.

“That would be great if you could, in all that spare time I know you have right now. What’s new on the campaign?”

“Oh, not too much, beyond learning that Angus has twenty-three arrests in his past and Flamethrower Fox is surely going to make us pay for it.”

“Ouch! You’re kidding! What has Angus been hiding in his history?”

“That’s the thing. He hasn’t been hiding anything. In fact, he’s proud of them,” I replied. “He was never convicted, but he was arrested twenty-three times at pro-choice rallies back in the day, when our laws weren’t quite as enlightened as they are now.”

Lindsay just smiled and shook her head in admiration.

“I love him. I think I’ll vote for him,” Lindsay said. “So what’s the plan for when Fox drops that bomb on us?”

“Angus doesn’t really care. He’s happy to talk about it. But I think we need to take the initiative away from Fox. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but if we play it right, we’ll turn what the Flamethrower thinks is dirt into gold.”

“So how did your little chat go with Normy?” she asked.

“I was all ready to pitch early, hard, and often but he stepped
up before I was even into my wind-up. It was the easiest sell job I’ve ever done,” I reported. “He’s agreed to raise funds for the campaign and he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem to bring in $25k.”

“Wow. Well, he
does
owe Angus big time.”

My phone again. I looked at the display and saw
Lib. of Parl
. on the small screen. I looked sheepishly at Lindsay and pointed at the phone. She waved me onto the call.

“Daniel Addison.”

“Hi, Daniel, it’s Lucille at the library,” said a familiar voice.

“Hey, Lucille, and how’s my favourite bookworm?” It pays to be nice to those who toil in obscurity.

“I’m just fine, but I thought I’d break every privacy protocol in the book and give you a heads-up now that the battle has started.”

“Hmm. That sounds ominous. Has my library card been revoked?”

“Nope, you’re fine, but I thought you might like to know that someone has just checked out about ten books by a particular author you might have heard of,” she said, drawing it out.

“The suspense is killing me.”

“Some hefty guy has just walked out of here with every book we have written by … Marin Lee.” She let it sink in.

“It’s started. Fox isn’t even nominated yet and it’s already started. Can you bend the rules a little more and tell me who signed them out?” I asked ever so politely.

“Bend the rules? I broke the rules when I picked up the phone to call you. I forget the name, but he works in Tory Research. Hang on a sec.” I waited and held up my index finger to Lindsay to indicate I was almost done. “Ramsay Rumplun. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you, Lucille. I really am grateful. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t give you up if they tore off my fingernails.”

That night before I fell into bed, I picked up
Flamethrower
and flipped to the index. Whenever a political figure writes a memoir,
everyone on the Hill rushes to the bookstores and scours the index, searching first for their own names, and then for those of others in their circle. Eventually, a few people may even end up reading the book. The name Ramsay Rumplun rang a bell, and not just because he shared a rather uncommon surname with the miserable Dean of Engineering. I discovered why soon enough. Ramsay was mentioned on several occasions in the book and appeared in one group photo. He was a shortish, youngish, chubby man with jet-black hair slicked straight back with enough petroleum product to lubricate a V8. Not that one should draw conclusions on the basis of a single photograph, not to mention family lineage, but he did not look like a nice man. So I switched over to Google and uncovered about a dozen more images that made me much more comfortable declaring him a jackass. Over the years, I’ve become quite adept at spotting the jerk, based purely on appearance. Ramsay Rumplun sure looked the part. He was the spitting image of his father.

The look on the Hair and Makeup woman’s face was priceless as she first laid eyes on her next subject or, more accurately, her next project, perhaps even her life’s work. Angus and I had just arrived for a taping of CBC’s flagship public affairs program,
Face to Face
. As Angus settled in the chair facing the light bulb–bordered mirror, Sally, as her name tag revealed, stood behind him and just shook her head.

“Time to break out the heavy artillery,” she said before disappearing out the door.

Angus gave me a puzzled look in the mirror.

“Sally clearly hasn’t worked on anyone lately with quite your sense of style,” I ventured.

Angus looked at himself in the mirror and tried in vain to quiet the riot roiling on his head.

“I cannae help it. My hair has always been a wee bit … mutinous.”

Sally returned, rolling a cart with an array of tubes, jars, and aerosol cans, some of them still wearing their Home Depot price tags. That wasn’t a good sign. There were also a few plug-in devices, including what appeared to be a giant industrial curling iron and what I took to be a hair straightener, its large, flat paddles poised for battle. Jammed in the corner of the cart was a cardboard box filled with what looked like bathing caps of various sizes alongside a paper coffee cup of bobby pins.

Sally had slipped into a green smock and was pulling on rubber
gloves when a younger woman, similarly smocked, arrived on the scene drying her hands on a towel. She, too, donned rubber gloves. They faced Angus and me with their hands held up in front of them like surgeons before operating.

“I’m Sally and this is Rebecca. We’re in tough this morning, so she’ll be assisting me every step of the way,” Sally intoned.

“Are you fixin’ to give me a heart transplant?” Angus inquired.

“I wish it were as simple as a heart transplant, but our first priority this morning is to tame your hair so that we can actually get it all into the shot without having to rent an IMAX camera. And we have exactly thirteen minutes. Battle stations!”

Sally turned to Rebecca and nodded her head in my direction. Rebecca immediately grabbed my elbow and ushered me out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Addison, but unless you’re a family member, you won’t be able to stay for this. I assure you Professor McLintock will be just fine, but it’s best if you wait in the green room.”

I sat down on the couch and watched the TV monitor on the wall as the clock ticked to the top of the hour. In the meantime, Sally and Rebecca sprang into action and did their thing. And they did it very, very well. Despite what I imagine were howls of protest from Angus, they worked a miracle on his unruly cranial shrubbery.

On the monitor, the show opened as usual with the host, Brett Palmer, sitting across a sort of counter from his guest. It took me a minute or so to recognize Angus. He still resembled Angus, but he somehow seemed … smaller. His hair was quite neatly sculpted with what actually looked like a part demarcating the eastern hemisphere of his head. Whatever had been applied to his hair shone under the lights. His usually scraggly beard appeared to have been combed out in a Robertson Davies kind of style.

“Welcome to
Face to Face
. I’m Brett Palmer, and I’m pleased to be joined today by maverick Liberal MP Angus McLintock. Thanks for coming in today, Professor McLintock.”

“I’m happy to be here, but you can just call me Angus, everyone else does.”

“What made you decide to jump into the race and run for reelection when you really had no intention of winning the first time around?”

“’Tis a fair question. You’re right, sitting and serving in the House of Commons was the furthest thought from my mind last October even though my name was on the ballot. But my unexpected stint on Parliament Hill was a revelation to me. I enjoyed it. I felt as though I were making a contribution. I was surprised that I felt fulfilled. And strange as it sounds, I was unhappy at the prospect of surrendering my seat to another when I was feeling as if I were just getting started. When you reach my age, it’s not often that a completely new and interesting strand in your life presents itself. It’s a gift to be explored.”

Angus’s hair still looked pristine. Sally joined me in the green room to watch the interview and fidget.

“So you’re confident you can win re-election despite the very strong Tory tradition in the riding,” Brett probed.

“Balderdash. It would be the height of arrogance for me to be confident about a Liberal winning this seat again. To be clear, I wasn’t elected on my own merits the last time around. A flash of fate put me in the House. This time, I’d like to win the seat in the more traditional fashion, by persuading the voters of Cumberland-Prescott that I am worthy of their support over all the others. I expect it to be a very tough fight, whomever the Conservatives put forward.”

The first signs were imperceptible to me but Sally picked up on them right away.

“Left temple, at the midpoint of his ear. We’ve got a bulge. Shit, we’ve got a bulge,” Sally snapped at the monitor. “In ten years, I’ve never had a stage 4 shellac failure, but there it is.”

And she was right. If you looked closely, you could see asymmetry emerging in Angus’s hair. We were only two minutes in. Beads of sweat appeared on Sally’s upper lip.

“How would you feel if you were to face Emerson Fox in the campaign, as is rumoured?” asked Brett.

“I’m less concerned with the candidate I might be facing than I am with the many challenges Canada is already facing as this recession takes hold. But I have been encouraged to read Mr. Fox’s memoir and it is quite enlightening,” declared Angus.

“Right bulge now,” hissed Sally. “It’s only a matter of time at this point. They’d better cut to commercial soon.”

Of course, she was right again. Angus’s hair was starting to lose its sleek and sculpted look and now had more of a Bozo the clown vibe to it. But according to Sally, it was a very dynamic situation. And it would get worse before it got better.

“But Angus, a typical Fox campaign is comprised of …” Brett started before noticing that Angus had instinctively raised his hand. Brett stopped, as Angus quickly lowered his hand again. “Sorry, Angus, go ahead,” oozed Brett.

“’Twas nothing, carry on,” said Angus.

“No, no, what is it?”

“Well, since you’ve asked, the verb ‘comprise’ is very commonly used incorrectly as you have just done. No problem, though. Just restart the question with ‘A typical Fox campaign comprises’ and you’ll be fine,” Angus said a little sheepishly. “Carry on.”

I watched Brett’s knuckles whiten as he gripped his pen. Nice, Angus. Very nice.

“Uhm … okay. A typical Fox campaign
comprises
muckraking, innuendo, and backstabbing. Aren’t you a little daunted by the prospect of being in the Flamethrower’s crosshairs, given his reputation for politically dismembering his opponents?”

“I don’t intend to play that game. The voters deserve to hear about the issues this country must confront. I really don’t think they’re interested in a campaign driven by personal attacks. We want them to vote, not turn away from democracy. I’ll have no part in a negative campaign regardless of what my opponent might have in mind. And if he does try to appeal to our baser
instincts, I’ll be doing my level best to stay on the high road, however much I may want to punch out his lights.”

Very subtle. Back in the green room, Sally was about to climb the walls. The two side bulges on Angus’s head had burst into a full rebellion. It was as if every hair Sally and Rebecca had carefully flattened was now struggling, with considerable success, to stand straight out and break free from his head. It looked, well, bizarre and other-worldly. And there were no Hollywood special effects. This was one hundred per cent, all-natural Angus.

Sally and I both saw them at the same time.

“Uh-oh,” Sally whispered.

“What are those things?” I asked, squinting to identify the blondish streaks that suddenly appeared on both sides of Angus’s head.

“Toothpicks,” Sally sighed.

“Most people just carry them in their pocket,” I observed. “How did they get in his hair?”

“We needed a little … or rather a lot of structural reinforcement to get his hair to … to comply. Those toothpicks were holding the bulk of his mop flat. It’s a new technique recently developed in a small coiff college in Romania. The procedure is still being perfected.”