The High Road (23 page)

In his stump speech, while never saying exactly the same thing
twice, he stuck to the major themes that had always underpinned his approach to public life. Honesty, forthrightness, the national interest over the local interest, fiscal responsibility, and social justice. When asked esoteric and irrelevant questions he could not answer, which happened occasionally, particularly if one of Emerson’s emissaries were in the crowd, Angus would never try to skate around it as most politicians would. He’d simply say something like “I really haven’t the foggiest notion” and then look for another raised hand. When he did this at a gathering of the Cumberland Rotary Club, the woman who’d posed an unfathomable and obscure question about particular endangered species was not quite ready to cede the floor.

“Don’t you think you should know the answer?” she persisted.

“Aye, it’s likely I should know something about that, and in time, I hope I do. But there are some limits on what sits upstairs in my brainpan, so I’m concentrating first on the major issues that I believe are most significant to Canadians right now. The economy, equality and justice, our environment, jobs, and the prudent expenditure of our hard-earned tax dollars. When I have additional cerebral capacity, I’ll turn what’s left of my mind to the plight of the pygmy short-horned lizard and the Loggerhead Shrike.”

Many in the audience clapped.

In general, the campaign had unfolded much better than expected. Norman Sanderson had really stepped up on the fundraising front. In week one of the campaign, he delivered $24,000. By the midpoint, another $19,500 came in. On the eve of election day, Norman came through with a final cheque for $27,200. Whatever happened on E-day, all of the campaign’s expenses would easily be covered, with a nest egg left over for the C-P Liberal Association. Few ridings in the country were as flush. Notwithstanding the cash, I reminded myself that winning was still a faint hope.

We were able to nail down the ecotourism–science school partnership to breathe new life into the padlocked and
abandoned aggregate operation on the river. We got great local coverage, and both partners in the deal laid all the credit at the feet of Angus McLintock. To come full circle, the stories also reminded everyone that it was Angus who had shut down the rogue polluter in the first place.

Towards the end of the campaign, it became quite clear that the Angus McLintock red ribbon initiative had taken on a life of its own. Some cars tied such elaborate red ribbon arrangements on their cars that the driver’s vision was somewhat impaired by the flowing red streamers. It became an isolated but legitimate question of public safety, and the Cumberland Police Chief called and asked for our help. I wanted to get on top of this issue fast before the Fox camp caught wind of it and started accusing Angus of imperiling voters’ lives. So I quickly drafted a news release with some guidelines for creative but safe automotive ribbon displays. As usual, I quoted Angus in the release. Everyone else on the campaign team was busy right then so I printed out a copy on our campaign letterhead and passed it to Angus for comments and a final check. As a speechwriter, my credo has always been two sets of eyes on everything. Good thing too. Five minutes later, an agitated Angus was standing nearly on top of my desk clenching the offending news release in a white-knuckle death grip.

“This whatchamacallit better not have yet hit the streets,” he glowered. “I’d thank you to spell my name correctly. You’ve got all the right letters on your bleedin’ keyboard. I can see them from here.”

He dropped the crumpled news release on my desk and stomped out. I smoothed it out and saw that he’d circled the headline in thick red marker. Oops. Careless of me.

T
IPS FOR SAFELY DISPLAYING YOUR RED
A
NUS RIBBONS

“G” added. Candidate calmed. Crisis averted. Funny campaign story created. Funny at some point in the future.

——

Every day, our canvassers tallied the number of Fox lawn signs and Angus ribbons as a kind of bellwether read on the riding. By their estimates, we had at least as many properties represented as did Fox. As well, the Alden Stonehouse campaign had kicked out an impressive number of signs. The more of them the better. Unfortunately, only votes could decide the outcome. All the rest – the ribbons and so on – were just tea leaves for the reading.

Even in the final week, Emerson Fox intensified his nasty and deeply personal attacks on Angus in his speeches, letters-to-the-editor, and more and more radio buys. I thought it smacked of desperation. The Fox team seemed to panic as the campaign wound down, making wilder and wilder accusations about Angus’s background. I kept waiting for them to link Angus to the Gretzky trade to Los Angeles and perhaps even the CBC’s loss of the
Hockey Night in Canada
theme song. Even Angus got used to it towards the end, holding his temper to a slow simmer rather than the roiling boil of the early campaign. Then with six days to go, Fox woke up and realized that Alden Stonehouse posed a greater threat than Angus ever did. It took him a while to reach that conclusion but when he did, the crosshairs shifted to the ultra-conservative independent candidate.

To his credit, Alden Stonehouse seemed to get better and stronger as the campaign rolled on. He never wilted, never wavered, never wobbled under Fox’s withering attacks in the last week. He joined Angus on the high road and looked almost noble, despite a platform that might even have given Jerry Falwell pause. Whatever you thought of his policies and positions, the reverend stayed on message for the whole campaign. As for Jane Nankovich, well, she suffered the worst fate that can ever befall a candidate. In Cumberland-Prescott, she was simply irrelevant from the opening bell.

True to his word, Angus addressed the annual Rabbie Burns Supper on the 25th. He was among friends, so I let him go by himself so I could meet with our E-day team to make sure all
was ready for the big day. Angus made it home quite late in a cab, having enjoyed perhaps a little too much the single malt tasting that closed the evening. I’d been watching for him from the boathouse window and met him as he struggled to find his key in his sporran then stab it in the front door lock. Wobbling a tad on his stone porch, Angus turned to me and slapped one hand on my shoulder while he steadied himself with the other on the door handle.

“I can support that our report among the voters of Scottish descent is monolithic. The ethnic vote is solid.”

“Good to know,” I replied. I made sure he got inside the house.

The day before the election, I thought it was time to check in again with Michael Zaleski to get one more glimpse at the numbers before twenty or thirty thousand voters in C-P started marking Xs on ballots. He answered on the first ring.

“Hey Daniel.”

“Hi Z-man. How are you holding up with one day to go?” I asked.

“I’m counting the minutes till this thing is done. It’s been short but gruelling, and a week in Martinique is looking pretty good.”

“I hear you,” I commiserated. “Look, I don’t want to take up your time, but I was just wondering if you might be able to give me a last look at the C-P numbers before E-day?”

“You got a writing instrument of some kind?”

“My pen is poised.”

“Hang on,” he said. I could hear him clacking away on his keyboard, calling up the spreadsheets. “Okay, the most recent wave is from E-day minus two. So that’s yesterday. You ready?”

“Hit me,” I replied.

“Okay. Fox thirty-two, McLintock twenty-seven, Stonehouse nineteen, Nankovich seven, and Undecided comes in still high at fifteen,” Zaleski reported. “So the gap between Angus and Fox is closing. You’re within striking distance depending how the Undecideds fall.”

“Wow, Stonehouse is kicking ass,” I said.

“He is, but he’s taking his strength out of Fox, while Angus’s growth is coming from the Undecideds. And that’s good news. Fox is headed in the wrong direction. It’s going to be tight. Angus could probably use another week of campaigning.”

Michael didn’t have to share those numbers with me. In fact, he was probably breaking protocol. It paid to be nice to people. I reported the numbers to Muriel and Lindsay, but no one else.

E-day. Finally. The day dawned cold but clear, with no snow in the forecast. Weather would not be a factor. I told Angus he could have an extra hour’s sleep. He deserved it. From his reaction, you’d have thought I’d just given him a winning lottery ticket. I dropped Lindsay off at the campaign office, then headed over to see Muriel. She’d mobilized a phone team of fellow residents to call all Liberal voters. In the last campaign, the two Petes made all the calls themselves inside of a half-hour. This time around it was different. But we still had to get out the vote, that immutable and timeless imperative of all elections.

Muriel gathered about fourteen seniors in the meeting room, including some of the GOUTers. They were each sitting at their own card table spaced around the room to give them maximum privacy when the calling started. It looked like a high school exam room, only more boisterous. Muriel gave them their marching orders, and then, with her holding onto my arm, we ambled around to each table and presented the occupant with a voters list marked with red highlighter, and one of a dozen cellphones I’d requisitioned for the day from our volunteers at HQ.

The calling began when Muriel dropped her arm sharp at 9:00, as if she was waving the green flag at the Indy 500. False start. By 9:20, I’d finished my tutorial on basic cellphone operations and the calling really began. Most of the callers did a fantastic job. They could offer detailed information on polling station locations, when the polls closed, and even how to mark the ballot to avoid any challenges from opposing scrutineers. They could also
talk a good game about Angus if necessary, to close the deal. Finally, we had a system set up to drive voters to the polling stations if they had no other way of getting there.

Muriel and I watched the operation from the front of the room with considerable pride. Demographically, it didn’t look like any other E-day phone bank I’d ever seen, but it seemed to be working perfectly well. I circulated, gathering names, addresses, and pick-up times for those voters who needed drives. I then called Lindsay at HQ where she coordinated the master car-pool list and scheduled drivers.

“What do you mean, you’ve changed your mind?” sputtered Jasper in the far corner. He was wearing the only outfit I’d ever seen him in since we’d met the previous September, a peach safari suit, circa 1971. “You can’t just change your mind, I’ve got you down as a Liberal.” Pause. “Why do you want to vote for that whacko anyway? He’s a nutjob in a nice suit.” Pause. “Well, there’s no need to get belligerent about it – I’m just trying to save you from yourself, you crazy old bat!”

That’s how long it took for Muriel to get to Jasper’s table, snatch the cell from his arthritic hand, and bring it up to her ear.

“Hello, I’m sorry for the exchange you’ve just had with one of our volunteers. He’s very opinionated, as you could no doubt tell.” Pause. “Yes, I do think that’s a good way to describe him. Well put, Mrs. Knickerson,” said Muriel as she stole a look at Jasper’s list. “Of course, you have every right to change your mind and vote for Reverend Stonehouse. That is your prerogative.” Pause. “Yes, that is the address for your polling station. Yes, I always find it easier to vote after dinner when the polling station is not as crowded. Yes, of course the polls are open late. The best time to go is in the last hour, between nine and ten.” Pause. “Oh you’re welcome. I’ve enjoyed it too.” Pause. “My name? It’s Cynthia. Goodbye.”

Muriel handed the phone back to Jasper and spent a minute or two schooling him on proper telephone etiquette.

“Cynthia? What was that all about?” I asked when I helped
her back to her chair at the front of the room. “And by the way, the polls actually close at eight tonight.”

“Thank you, Daniel, I’m well aware of the polling station’s hours of operation.”

“You are evil, Muriel Parkinson. Pure evil.”

Just before I left Muriel and her merry band of phone bankers, I confirmed that we’d booked the dining room of the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence, overlooking the Ottawa River, for our campaign party that night. In view of how much support Muriel had cultivated for Angus in the residence, having the party there at least guaranteed attendance. I desperately wanted it to be a victory party but we wouldn’t know that until about ten that night, or perhaps even later if the race were really tight. The booking was fine, and we could get into the room right after dinner ended at 6:30 to hang some, yes, you guessed it, red streamers. After all this, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to see another red ribbon. Pete2 promised to bring his iPod and speakers so we’d have some tunes. He also agreed to cleanse his music collection for the evening so that the GOUT team wouldn’t have to foxtrot to his favourite Canadian bands like Bile, Putrid Autopsy, and my personal favourite, Shit from Hell. He gave me his word he’d download some Bert Kaempfert, Benny Goodman, and Lawrence Welk too.

I made trips to the liquor store and the supermarket to stock up for the party. Norman Sanderson had popped in to the campaign office the night before and pressed a roll of bills into my hand to underwrite the cost of the party. It was his money. Very kind of him.

Back at HQ, everything was running as expected. In other words, it was a hybrid of pandemonium and bedlam. One can easily discern the subtleties separating the two when you’re as experienced in such matters as I am. I briefly huddled with Lindsay, not so much because I needed to. I just felt calmer when I was close to her. I was really looking forward to peace reigning after the election so that our nights together revolved around something other than updating voters lists, assembling
canvassing kits, and licking envelopes.

“The chauffeur line is ringing off the hook,” she said when I arrived. “I’ve got my team of six drivers fully booked until 4:30 already.”

“Linds, that’s fantastic! Do you need more drivers? I can do a few runs in the Taurus.”

“Ahhh, no thanks. I really think we should stick to cars that have floors.” She held my wrist and scrunched up her face in sympathy to soften the blow as she delivered it. A wave of emotion washed over me at the gesture and I promptly forgot what she said. I kissed her forehead and left her to work her magic. She was just so efficient. It struck me that she might have been a star taxi dispatcher in a previous life.