The Best Laid Plans (34 page)

A sudden thought struck me, and I darted out the door and bounded up the stairs to my apartment. I found it at the bottom of one of my many memorabilia boxes with which I cannot seem to part – pieces of my life, kept and cherished to remind me who I am. I slipped back down to the workshop. I took the diving mask from his hand as he took what I proffered.

“I’d like you to have this and use this. It belonged to my greatgrandfather,” I said with reverence. “He wore it in the Great War over France. It was sent home to my great-grandmother with his personal effects after he was shot down.”

With care, Angus pulled on the faded but soft-as-velvet leather headgear and lowered the flying goggles over his eyes. He said nothing but clasped my right hand in his while his left held my forearm.

I sat across the table from Muriel and Lindsay. We were in Daley’s, one of Ottawa’s best hotel restaurants, just off the lobby of the Westin. Its proximity to Parliament Hill made it a gathering place for the political elite, at least when no tables were left at Mama Theresa’s over on Somerset. We’d come on a whim after Muriel had spent the day in the Centre Block office. She’d never been.

Angus had fussed over her all morning, making sure she was comfortable. At one point, I feared she might swat him, but she knew his ministrations were well-intended. Muriel worked away on copy for our first householder, due at the Queen’s Printers within the week. At about one-thirty I took Muriel’s arm and escorted her, at her own speed, to the Members’ gallery across from where Angus sat. It had been years since Muriel had been in the House, and she craned her neck like a first-timer, taking in the polished chandeliers and ornate stonework.

“It really hasn’t changed all that much since the forties,” she noted, scanning the chamber. “The carpet is new, and the television lights make it much brighter. Other than that, I can almost conjure up Mackenzie King waltzing in to take his place.”

At two o’clock sharp, the Speaker rose from his throne, prompting six young pages, who had been sitting discreetly on the carpeted steps below, to rise in unison.

“Statements by Members,” he intoned. The Speaker immediately looked towards Angus. I had cooked this up with the Speaker’s office
earlier in the morning. “The Honourable Member for Cumberland-Prescott.”

“You’d better not have,” Muriel hissed as Angus stood up. As usual, his desktop was bare. He turned to face the throne.

“Blame Angus. I was just his indentured emissary,” I replied. She scowled but returned her gaze to Angus below.

“Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize in our gallery abona fidelegend of Canadian politics. She is 81 years young with an unbridled zest for life I’d long to have at my age, let alone in 20 years. Muriel Parkinson toiled for Mackenzie King at his height and spent many an afternoon in this chamber observin’ these honourable proceedin’s from where she sits today. Since leaving Parliament Hill followin’ King’s tenure, there has been no more stalwart a Liberal in this land than Muriel Parkinson. Many Honourable Members will know of her exploits on the campaign trail. When no other Liberal would, five times she stood for public office against withering odds. Mr. Speaker, Muriel Parkinson’s dedication to public service is reflected today in her indispensable role as my personal adviser and grand marshal of our constituency office in her beloved town of Cumberland. She already enjoys my respect, admiration, and affection, but Mr. Speaker, I submit she deserves the same from the House this afternoon.”

A chorus of applause, “hear, hear,” and enthused desk thumping followed. My discreet index finger on her hip prodded Muriel to her feet where she waved with palpable modesty before sinking back into her seat. The Liberal side of the House was on its feet. I clapped, too.

“Codswallop,” was all she said under her breath in the midst of the ovation. But her eyes betrayed pride and gratitude as they found Angus below.

“Order, order, please,” commanded the Speaker as he held up his right hand as if in benediction. “The House welcomes and thanks Muriel Parkinson.”

Lindsay had been tied up, teaching a first-year poli-sci tutorial all afternoon but joined us later for dinner. She was crestfallen over
missing Muriel’s tribute in the House. Angus had a rare evening committee meeting he was loath to miss, so just the three of us went to Daley’s.

Muriel’s eyes were alight as the menu competed with the assembled “politerati” for her attention. Four Cabinet Ministers, a former prime minister, two senior political commentators, and three ambassadors were on hand, making it a rather slow night for people-watching.

For Lindsay’s benefit, I provided a detailed account of Muriel’s triumphant return to the House, complete with dead-on impressions of Angus, the Speaker, and the cacophony of “hear, hear” and bongo desk drumming. I had brought the statement Angus had written (he wouldn’t let me near the drafting of it) so that I could give Lindsay the most accurate simulation.

I was just closing with the Speaker’s final comments when our harried waiter happened by. Or perhaps it was his tag-team partner who administered freshly ground pepper with a deft twirl of his right hand. I was having some difficulty keeping them straight.

“Order, order, please,” I performed in my most authoritative voice. To my chagrin, I was interrupted before I could recite the Speaker’s final line for my rapt audience.

“I’m sorry, sir, please bear with us. I’ll take your order as soon as I’m able. We’re quite busy tonight,” replied the waiter before hustling over to another table.

Our burst of laughter earned us some annoyed glances from neighbouring tables, but nothing could dampen our spirits that night.

Except perhaps Rachel Bronwin. Yep,
the
Rachel Bronwin. I caught sight of her dining in a quiet corner with the Honourable “Dickhead.” Lindsay noticed the altered look on my face and followed my gaze.

“Is that her?” she asked.

“Yes, that is she,” I replied, unable to hold back from correcting the grammar mistake daily made by the vast majority of Canadians.

“Well, she’s certainly an attractive gal,” offered Muriel.

I didn’t think Rachel had seen me yet. I thought it was time I closed that book. “Would you excuse me?” I said as I pushed back my chair. “If our waiter returns, I’m having the strip loin, medium rare.”

By that stage in our respective relationships, Lindsay and Muriel had both heard the late-night rubber-plant-rendezvous story in about as much detail as decorum and good taste permitted. Worried looks played across both their faces.

“Calm yourselves. I’ll be right back,” I assured them. The concerned looks persisted. “Don’t worry. You know how I detest confrontation.”

I strode out of the restaurant and across the hotel lobby to the elevators. I ascended three floors, walked along the corridor, found what I was looking for, and returned to the restaurant. After a quick briefing with the bartender, I slipped him a twenty and returned to the still-befuddled Lindsay and Muriel.

“What’s going on, Daniel?” Lindsay asked, looking skeptical. “Are we about to be thrown out?”

“No matter,” Muriel piped in. “I’ve been thrown out of nicer joints than this.” That seemed to slacken the tension. I smiled sweetly and took her hand in mine.

“Fear not. I’m merely putting the past where it belongs – behind me. So it’s easier to focus on the future, if that’s not too maudlin an explanation.”

Lindsay, Muriel, and I all watched as the bartender took a glass of white wine on a tray over to where Rachel and “Dickhead” were engrossed in quiet conversation. She looked up, puzzled, but took the wine glass and placed it before her. He then handed her the rather large do not disturb sign I’d pulled from a doorknob on the third floor. He pointed towards us, and Rachel eventually caught up. When Rachel’s eyes fell on our table, the three of us as if on cue, yet utterly spontaneously, raised our glasses in a toast to her.

We watched the penny drop. Rachel threw down the sign and pushed back her chair with such force that it toppled over, landing on
the foot of an older man at the next table. She stomped towards the lobby and was halfway there before “Dickhead” processed the scene. He shot a malevolent look my way as he trotted to catch up to Rachel. The three of us again raised our glasses to him as he blew by.

“Was that good for you?” Lindsay asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Oh yeah, I think that went quite well,” I responded.

“Game, set, and match,” was all Muriel said with her glass still raised.

“I think I’ve changed my mind,” I commented as I reopened the menu. “I now feel like having the filet of catharsis with a side of flam-béed ‘just desserts.’”

We had a wonderful meal that night and laughed more together than we ever could have apart. I regretted that Angus had missed it in favour of tedious debate over procedure and the Standing Orders.

I escorted Muriel into the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence while Lindsay waited in the idling Taurus. “Thankyou, Daniel dear, for a wonderful day and a delightful time tonight. The dinner was perfect in every way,” she said as she hugged me. “I’m so glad Lindsay was there to see that little harlot’s exit.”

“So was I.” I kissed her cheek and moved towards the door.

“I’ll let Lindsay’s mother know she need not leave a light on,” Muriel offered with a lascivious wink, and I was out the door.

Angus and the Minister of Correctional Services both held those cheesy silver spades used in all ceremonial sod turnings. With Eric Cameron replaced by a Liberal, Cabinet had quickly approved the federal halfway house for newly paroled inmates to be erected on the southern edge of Cumberland. It had been on the Government’s books for the previous three years, but Cameron had easily wielded enough power to stall and, given enough time, even kill the project. With that obstacle eliminated and Angus supporting it, it was sod-turning time, accompanied by the
de rigueur
grip-and-grin photo op
with the Minister. It would make satisfactory fodder for the still-unfinished householder.

The Minister looked a little nervous as she stepped up to the microphone after tossing her shovel-full of dirt to one side. Attending the ceremony were about 20 supporters, 5 or 6 journalists, including 2 cameras, and 60 or so angry citizens of Cumberland, protesting the halfway house. Regrettably, the “not in my backyard” syndrome was a common enough malady in Canadian society bred through the arrogance and apathy of affluence. According to several independent studies, including one paid for – and discarded – by the Prescott Coalition Against Crime, Cumberland was ideally suited for the halfway house. The town offered a reasonably prosperous local economy; a local police detachment, featuring a team of parole officers; adequate distance from the criminal temptations of the big city; and a local community college to help equip parolees with the skills they would need to integrate more easily into today’s society. It just made sense to build the facility in Cumberland, full stop. But when ex-cons are involved, logic seldom prevails in the chosen community.

The Minister spoke only briefly, skipping several pages of her prepared address, and looking longingly at her Lincoln Town Car and driver parked 14 feet away with the engine running and the rear door open. Despite the efforts of her political staff to stimulate applause at the end of each paragraph by clapping like crazed wind-up monkeys, the booing and heckling still drowned her out. She turned her desperate countenance to Angus as a tomato hit the lectern and splattered over the platform party. I was standing off to the side, and eluded the tomato shrapnel. Ever chivalrous, which he argues in no way conflicts with feminism, Angus stepped forward to stand at the podium, shielding the Minister.