The High Road (19 page)

I had the voters list for the poll we were in opened on my lap. It was of course laid out by address. But the house numbers were usually by the front door, not on the back of the house, let alone on the dock. So I wasn’t exactly sure where we were when Angus slowed and stopped by the shore at the first house. What lovely homes these were, strung along the river. The nicest real estate in all of Cumberland. Very tony. Very Tory.

Baddeck 1
settled to the ice and we both clambered out. Our noisy approach had aroused some attention as a tall and very patrician older man in a dark blue ski jacket and a fur hat sauntered down the shovelled path and onto the dock to greet us.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Angus McLintock and his even more famous hydrofoil,” the man said in greeting, his face fractured by a warm smile.

He looked familiar to me but I couldn’t quite place him. I stood a few paces behind Angus, as loyal servants do.

“Greetings to you, sir,” Angus said as he climbed onto the dock and offered his hand. “It seems I need not introduce myself, but this is my trusty companion, Professor Daniel Addison.”

“Oh, I know who he is. The Robin to your Batman. I’m pleased to meet you too, Daniel,” he said as we shook hands.

“And to be precise, ’Tis a hovercraft not a hydrofoil,” Angus noted with a patient smile and a wave towards
Baddeck 1
.

I was still trying to figure out which house we were at, so I needed either a name or an address to find out where we were on the voters list.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. uhm …” I prodded, looking to land his name.

“Call me Bert,” he replied before turning and heading back off the dock and onto the path. “You must be frozen. Come on up and we’ll take the edge off and chat for a while.”

“We’ll not outstay our welcome,” said Angus as he followed.

A faint alarm bell was ringing but I couldn’t quite figure out why. The man did look familiar. Bert. Bert. I racked my brain. We were on the heated stonework of the back patio just about to head into Bert’s palatial home when my memory finally betrayed him. Herbert Clarkson. Herbert J. Clarkson. No time to lose. We were almost at the door.

“Angus, my watch seems to have stopped. What time is it, just before we go in?” I asked, stopping them both on the grey flagstones.

Angus looked annoyed but checked his watch.

“It’s just quarter of two. We’ve plenty of time.”

“Actually, we don’t,” I said, boring into him with my eyes.

“Oh, you must come in to warm up and talk. I’ve got a few issues I’d like to raise with you,” Bert implored.

“Well, that’s why we’re –” Angus began before I cut him off.

“It’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. Clarkson” – I emphasized his name while making plenty of eye contact with him – “but it’s later than I thought, and we really have to dash.”

I took Angus by his forearm, something I’d never done before, and gave a gentle tug. My firm grip on his muscular wrist seemed to register my message in his mind. He looked perplexed but held his tongue. By this time, Bert was smiling and shaking his head.

“You’ve got a keeper there, Angus,” Bert said, nodding my way. “Good luck on E-day. You’re going to need it.”

Bert entered his house and closed the door behind him.

Angus was steamed as he pounded back down the path to the ice and
Baddeck 1
.

“You’d best explain why we walked all the way up there only to cut and run when we got to the door,” Angus demanded, stopping with his arms crossed over his chest. “Bert, or whatever his name was, seemed a nice enough lad. I think we could have got his vote.”

“Herbert Clarkson. That was Herbert Clarkson. I didn’t figure it out until we were on the patio. But that was Herbert Clarkson,” I explained.

“I actually heard his name the first time you said it. My hearing and my mental faculties are still with me, mostly.”

“Herbert Clarkson? It doesn’t ring a bell?” I asked. Angus said nothing, but his face creased. He looked about ready to blow. “Herbert Clarkson is the president of the Cumberland-Prescott Progressive Conservative Association. He just attempted the oldest ploy in Machiavelli’s manual.” I shook my head in disgust. We stood on the ice in what I thought was mutual distaste for Clarkson’s gambit.

“Were you plannin’ any time soon on sharin’ the ploy with your candidate or am I to read your mind?”

“Oh, um, sorry Angus, I forget that you’re still a political greenhorn. Bert was trying to get you into his living room so he
could ply you with booze, probably stuff you with some home baking, and engage you in long and tedious political discourse, ideally until the sun sets. He was trying to take you out of play for the entire afternoon. In a close campaign, canvassing hours count. It’s standard operating procedure.”

Angus shrugged.

“A wee single malt to warm the core might have been nice” was all he said as we climbed back into the hovercraft.

The next home hove into view five minutes later as Angus throttled down and glided up close. The sun was shining in a near cloudless blue sky so it looked milder than it actually was. Angus climbed from the ice up onto the dock and I followed. We both noticed that the dock was not what you would call rock solid. It listed to the east and moved when we did. I trotted off it and was halfway up the path to the house while I scanned the voters list when I noticed that I was alone. I turned around to see Angus sliding under the dock on his back so that only his legs were visible. It looked as if the dock were swallowing Angus whole. I reversed course and was soon lying on my stomach on the dock looking down between the deck planks.

“Paging Angus McLintock. If there is an Angus McLintock under the dock, could he please identify himself ?”

“Keep yer kilt on,” Angus grunted from the middle of the dock’s crib. “The deck teeters like a sailor on shore leave. I just wanted a quick peek.”

“Well, we’re in deep now. Here comes Mr. Garrettson, and he doesn’t look like he was expecting company.”

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion? This is private property,” Mr. Garrettson demanded as he tiptoed onto his dock.

“Mr. Garrettson, I’m Daniel Addison with the McLintock campaign,” I started. “Um, er, and the candidate himself, Angus McLintock, is just taking a quick nap under your dock before coming up to meet you.”

It didn’t look as if Mr. Garrettson shared my sense of humour, but then he focused on the hovercraft and it all fell into place.

“Angus McLintock is here?” he asked. “
The
Angus McLintock?”

I pointed over the side of the dock.

“Those are his legs right there,” I assured him.

Then a disembodied voice drifted up through the dock.

“I’ll be topside directly.”

Needless to say, Mr. Garrettson was somewhat taken aback when the famous Angus McLintock emerged from beneath and extended his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garrettson, is it?” I confirmed the name with a nod so Angus could launch into his spiel. “Would you happen to have a two-by-four stringer about six feet long and a couple of four-inch lag bolts?”

We hovered away from the house forty-five minutes later, the red ribbons tied all over the dock dancing in the turbulent air from the thrust vents of
Baddeck 1
.

As it turned out, Gil Garrettson and his wife, Lucy, were big Angus fans. They were even bigger fans when Angus fixed their dock, adding a support strut to replace the one knocked out of place by the ice. There were already red ribbons on the front of their house. They’d never thought to put them on the dock for the snowmobilers and cross-country skiers to see. That was a value-added suggestion from yours truly. So we spent nearly an hour convincing a couple who were already going to vote for us that they should feel very good about their decision to vote for us. Excellent use of time, a non-renewable resource the campaign had in dwindling supply. The Garrettsons also got their dock repaired in the deal.

In an exercise that pushed back the frontiers of inefficiency, we managed to hit four, yes four, houses on the river in our long afternoon of hovercraft canvassing. On the other hand, the two Petes’ door-to-dooring team probably made contact with over a hundred voters in the same period. Angus had a great time. Other than the Garrettsons, we met no other Liberals. But Angus did play two chess games with a German landed immigrant who was not yet eligible to vote. At the next house, he spent twenty
minutes arguing an esoteric point of grammar with a retired high school English teacher who didn’t sound like she was going to vote for us anyway. He also took four cross-country skiers for rides, one at a time, only to discover afterwards that they lived in Ottawa-West, not in C-P. By the time we’d hoisted
Baddeck 1
back up the ramp into the boathouse, the light was fading fast. Angus was upbeat. I was just beat. And a little angry with myself. Hovercraft canvassing had been my idea. I should have known it would just slow us down.

“Well now, that was a grand way to spend an afternoon,” said a happy Angus as we swung the big doors closed.

“Unless you hope to be elected,” I replied. “It would be more efficient for you to single-handedly bake, ice, and hand-deliver a cake to each of the 35,000 voters in C-P.”

“Aye, you may be right. But did you split that infinitive just to spite me? There’s really no call for that.”

It wasn’t infinitives I was thinking of splitting right then.

“There’ll be no more hovercraft campaigning. We can’t afford the time,” I said as I headed up to the apartment. “I’ll meet you in the driveway in an hour.”

Angus and I picked up Muriel to head to the second and final all-candidates meeting at Cumberland Collegiate. She had the
Cumberland Crier
with her.

“You both must be thrilled with the editorial,” Muriel said as soon as she settled into the front seat next to me. Angus was in the back seat.

“Right! In all of the day’s excitement, I haven’t even seen it yet. And I don’t think Angus has either.”

“Speak for yourself, laddie. I read it this morning,” Angus volunteered.

“You did? Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I figured my campaign manager would already have seen it, so it didnae occur to me to raise it,” Angus replied. “I would have preferred an endorsement.”

Muriel guided her less than stable hand to push the dome light switch and then slipped on her reading glasses. Worsening Parkinson’s was giving her an almost uncontrollable tremor much of the time.

“Let me give you the highlights, Daniel. You keep your eyes on the road,” Muriel said as she brought the paper close to her eyes and tried to hold it still.

“The headline is ‘No endorsement for any candidate this time.’”

“Yes!” I cried and pumped my right fist into the very hard metallic edge of the dome light. It survived the blow unscathed, only flickering briefly before the steady glow returned. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever have use of my right hand again. My eyes watered, and to the extent my seat belt allowed, I rocked in time to my throbbing fingers.

“Owww,” I howled.

“Hush up, we’re nearly there and you should hear this. André will be there,” Muriel commented, scanning the vibrating paper. “Okay, here are my favourite lines.” She switched into her news anchor voice, which really wasn’t that much different from her everyday voice.

“‘Angus McLintock is as honest as his beard is long and brings a refreshing candour to Canadian politics. He’s thoughtful, dedicated, and trusts his hefty supply of common sense.’ Wait, here’s another one I just love. ‘Carrying a congenital aversion to praise, the modest McLintock has become a hero to Canadians across the country, an honour he neither sought nor accepts.’ The last line sums it up beautifully. ‘The jury is still out on Angus McLintock. He’s still too new to the game. But after decades of supporting Progressive Conservative candidates, this time around, we give the nod to none of them, and leave it to the voters of Cumberland-Prescott to decide.’”

“Wow! That’s more than I’d dared hope for,” I gushed. “Congratulations, Angus!”

“Poppycock” was all we heard from the back seat. “‘The jury is still out …’ my kilted keister it is.”

Just before Angus climbed the stairs to join the other candidates on stage, Muriel took both his hands in hers and brought her face well within Angus’s personal space.

“This could get ugly, Angus. Fox is getting more and more desperate with every red ribbon he sees. Whatever happens tonight, you want to stay on the high road,” she fairly pleaded. “Taking the bait will be our undoing. Leave the gutter to Fox. It’s our best hope.”

Angus listened intently and gave just the slightest nod when she’d finished. He waited one extra second, then turned for the stage. As the candidates settled behind the trestle table and the moderator made her way to the podium, I took in the crowd from my place on a bench along the side of the auditorium. All the seats were filled. If it wasn’t a sea of red ribbons, it was at least a large pond. The red was surpassed by the traditional blue buttons. Spinning further through the colour wheel, the Stonehouse supporters, about a quarter of the room by my estimate, sported bright yellow T-shirts. Unless you lived in the Philippines, yellow meant nothing politically. No Canadian party or movement had ever claimed it, making it the obvious choice for Team Stonehouse over mauve and aquamarine, the other passed-over pastels. The shirts themselves were interesting, too. They featured the classic outline of a church and steeple with the stacked words within:
God’s house. Your house. Stonehouse
. Not bad, I thought.

I was a little nervous at what I saw in the front row. There sat four familiar and elderly women from the GOUT squad, each wearing a bright red plastic fire fighter’s hat and staring down Flamethrower Fox. Upon closer scrutiny, I saw several other GOUT operatives sprinkled throughout the crowd wearing grim and determined looks.

The opening statements unfolded as Muriel and I had warned Angus they would. The luck of the draw had Angus speaking right after the Flamethrower. Emerson Fox took a few shots at Alden Stonehouse but saved the bulk of his time to eviscerate
Angus. He actually waved a copy of Marin Lee’s book
Home Economics and Free Labour
to justify his claim that Angus had some sort of secret feminist agenda ready to unleash on an unsuspecting nation. When he’d finished his vitriolic tirade, his troops cheered, ours jeered, and Angus steamed and stewed.