The Best Laid Plans (6 page)

Eventually, Angus walked me down to the boathouse in the dark to spend some time in his workshop. More accurately, I floated half asleep, and Angus jitterbugged down to the boathouse, the two of us united in relief. He slipped the key into the ground-level door and waved me inside. I would much rather have climbed upstairs to bed, but he would not be denied. He turned on the light, and I stuck my head in. The skeleton of what I assumed to be the hovercraft – but to my untrained eye looked to be a boat – rested on two sawhorses in the middle of the room. Two large doors formed the north wall and obviously opened onto the river. A workbench, with what looked to me like tools of some kind strewn on it, stretched along the western wall.

It’s probably worth noting that I’m not exactly what you’d call a handyman. For instance, four years earlier, I’d won a fancy, chrome-and-steel gas barbecue at a charity golf tournament. The barbecue required assembly. I gamely tried my hand at putting it together and worked steadily at it for my entire two-week summer vacation. In the end, it never became the barbecue pictured on the side of the box. In fact, when I gave up, it looked more like a miniature Frank Gehry opera house. I was left holding a bag with thirty-seven forgotten parts, some of which I figured must be important. I let the good folks at the Salvation Army figure it out and have since limited my do-it-yourself projects to replacing lightbulbs and setting up the card table, which I can now do inside of four minutes (though I need assistance putting it away). I’m still several years away from venturing anywhere near IKEA.

Along the back wall, I saw a small desk, on which lay a large, brown, leather-bound notebook, open to what I assumed were the personal scrawlings of Angus McLintock. A battered wooden stool rested on the floor beneath. He discreetly closed the notebook and
slid it into the top drawer. A small gas furnace squatted in the southeast corner with ducts heading up to my apartment. Two smallish windows in the east wall and four bright lights, suspended from the ceiling, completed the functional and cheerful workspace.

I looked for a long time at what Angus had been building, trying like hell to divine which end was up. I also fought valiantly to keep my eyes open. Lateral ribs stretched across the vessel at two foot intervals, leaving only an open compartment in the middle that I took to be the cockpit (if
cockpit
is the right term in a hovercraft). Plywood covered the bottom as well as parts of the upper surface of the craft. An engine of some kind was positioned just behind the cockpit on a raised mounting bracket of some kind. I could see a fan housed in a duct beneath it. Two vents, open at either end, ran from stem to stern on either side of the hovercraft and seemed to open into the middle of the chamber immediately beneath the engine and fan. I noticed twin vanes in both ends of the two vents, which, I assumed, were there for steering. A rubber material had been sewn and attached to the periphery of the vehicle, making it look a little like a deflated Zodiac boat, minus the Greenpeace activists.

“I’m glad that you know something about hovercraft. So few do,” Angus remarked as he rested his considerable keister on the edge of the workbench.

My twenty minutes of Internet research on hovercraft had fed me the Christopher Cockerell card (which, at that moment, I regretted playing) but in no way equipped me with even the slightest idea of what I was looking at. Nevertheless, I stepped closer and feigned unparalleled interest, running my hand along the smooth plywood decking and battling the urge to sleep.

“So this is it?” I said as I eyed the half-finished craft but visualized my bed.

Aye.” Long pause.

I yawned towards the engine. “And this would be the motor, no doubt.”

“Aye.” He was smiling now.

“I see.” I nodded and pursed my lips in a gesture of understanding. Angus just let me twist. After a few minutes of this, he must have grown bored.

“You have absolutely no idea what you’re lookin’ at, have you?” Angus declared, the second and third tumblers of Lagavulin taking their toll on his enunciation.

“Absolutely none,” I quickly conceded, relieved to be put out of my misery. I was exposed, but nothing could dampen his mood.

“It’s actually very simple,” Angus explained. “Simplicity is one of the hovercraft’s primary assets. Whether it’s cars or boats or bicycles, friction is the arch enemy of efficiency and locomotion. The greatest friction of all is that which exists between the vehicle and surface on which it is movin’. Hovercraft virtually eliminate this friction by supportin’ the vehicle on a cushion of air.”

I was exhausted. I was struggling. I was halfway to coma town.

“Hovercraft are really aircraft that fly just above the earth, benefittin’ from what we call the ground effect,” he mercifully concluded.

I had to hold my end up. It was the only honourable thing to do. I stumbled back into the fray. “Does your hovercraft do anything differently?” I asked. “Are there any advancements or noteworthy innovations?”

“Kind of you to ask. Yes, there are two principal innovations staring you in the face. First of all, most small hovercraft are powered by two engines. One for lift, stationed at the front, and one for thrust, positioned at the back. Two engines mean twice the noise, twice the likelihood of breakdown, and with two propellers fore and aft of the driver, twice the danger.”

How absolutely riveting. Drifting … drifting, I could no longer feel my legs.

Are you still with me, Dr. Addison?”

My eyelids had drooped, so I reached down to inspect the bottom of the craft as if I’d been concentrating on it while Angus had been spouting off.

“Of course,” I countered with only a hint of resentment, “I’m just checking out the finish.”

“That shouldn’t take long. There is no finish, yet.” Angus barreled ahead. “This hovercraft is a single-engine design wherein both the lift and the thrust are supplied by a single multi-wing fan,” he droned.

By that time, I had a pretty good idea of what it must be like to live with narcolepsy.

“Secondly –”

Oh, sweet mother of mercy, he was only halfway home. I nodded mechanically.

“Controllin’ and stoppin’ hovercraft have always been difficult as there is no contact with the ground when you really need the friction. These twin vents provide more precise steerin’ and better brakin’ as I can direct the thrust totally frontwards or through just one side vent or the other. I can even apply forward thrust through the port vent and reverse thrust through the starboard vent at the same time and rotate the hovercraft about its axis while stationary.”

I’ll alert the media. I gave silent thanks that Angus had only two major advancements to describe. If he’d been any more innovative, I’d have been out on my feet. I sidled towards the door. Casual. “How long have you been working on this?” I thought this was an innocent enough question, carefully designed to elicit an answer I could understand without a master’s in engineering. I also thought his response might get me to the door without dragging on too long.

“I’ve had it on the drawin’ board for years but only started to build it about four months ago – shortly after Marin passed on.” He looked at his feet briefly before returning to the present. “Anyway, I figured if my hammerin’ and sawin’ are goin’ to keep
you awake from time to time, at least you should know what’s takin’ shape below you.”

Hammering and sawing my left knee wouldn’t have kept me awake that night. I took that as my cue to leave him. I shook his hand and thanked him for the chess and for showing me his hovercraft. I ascended the outside staircase to my apartment above.

As sometimes happened to me, by the time I’d shed my clothes and crawled between the sheets, I was still bone tired but no longer sleepy. I opened Stephen Fry’s
The Hippopotamus
, which was always good for a late-night laugh, but couldn’t focus on the novel. Stephen Fry requires concentration, and I had none at my disposal. My mind, or what was left of it, kept returning to the night’s developments and how much closer I was to extricating myself from the clutches of politics. Yes, Angus McLintock drove a hard bargain, but at that late date, not to mention hour, I really didn’t care. I was saved. I had actually found a breathing Liberal candidate. In Cumberland-Prescott, we Liberals calibrate success in very small increments.

Through the air vents, I could hear Angus working away and talking though I was certain he was still alone. I turned out my light, surrendered to the fatigue, and eventually, drifted off to what I could have sworn was the sound of weeping beneath me.

At ten o’clock the next morning, Angus and I entered the office of the aptly named Roland Rumplun, dean of engineering. It took about 30 seconds to appreciate the contempt in which Angus held him. What a grade A, 100 percent pure, no preservatives added, free-range prick. I detest that word and reserve it for a precious few. Rumplun had earned it in record time. Angus had warned me that Rumplun had been born with a severe mirth defect; the long-term effects were obvious.

“Yes, Angus, please come in,” Rumplun said. “Can we please keep it brief? I’m due in the president’s office shortly. He’s asked me for my advice on a rather tricky little matter.” I lost sight of him briefly until the pomposity dissipated. Angus ushered me in and made a show of closing the door with great deliberation.

“Good mornin’, Roland. I do hope yer hemorrhoids aren’t too inflamed these days,” replied Angus with an utterly straight face. Both Dean Rumplun and I winced, I assumed for different reasons.

“You can stow the adolescent insults, McLintock. Just sit down and tell me why you’re here. I’m very busy. And who is this?” The dean jabbed a finger in my direction. Angus stood beside me and gestured like Vanna White showcasing parting gifts.

“I give you Professor Daniel Addison, faculty of arts, English department, and a specialist in teachin’ English to Neanderthals.” I flashed a sheepish smile and offered my hand. Rumplun ignored it and looked puzzled, instead. I sat down in one of the two rather
low chairs positioned in front of his raised power-play desk.

“Just get to the point.”

Angus sat down, awash in congeniality, and lifted his smiling face to the dean. “Yesterday, I received yer poison-pen letter, throwin’ me to the wolves again even though I taught English for Engineers last year. You know how much I despise teachin’ that course; yet, you could arrive at no solution other than to dump it on me again,” Angus said in a quiet and measured voice.

“I had no choice, and you know it,” Rumplun said. “Baxter is in chemo, Shamadri is on sabbatical, and we’ve just put Hollingsworth out to pasture. You’re the only one left who knows anything about English.” He smirked. “Look, Angus, let’s cut the crap. I don’t like you. I never have. A lot has happened between you and I over the years –”

“Me,” interrupted Angus.

“What?” said the dean in a hissing tone.

“You meant to say a lot has happened between you and
me
, not you and
I
. Carry on,” Angus invited.