"While I care precious little what the voters think, I do believe I've a duty to explain my views with clarity and candour," he noted. "And that's what tonight's about educatin' the ma.s.ses."

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, let me be clear and candid. You're committed, you're compelling, and you're persuasive," I observed, "but tonight, you'll be standing between taxpayers and their hard-earned money. Tonight, if we're lucky, being right will only get you verbal abuse and maybe another melon hurler with a better arm. And if we're not lucky, well, I'll park near the door and leave the engine running."

"I dinnae think yer givin' the great citizens of c.u.mberland-Prescott enough credit," Angus replied.

"Angus, you're tilting at windmills on this one. They don't want any more credit. They're looking for cold, hard cash."

By this time, I'd pulled into our prime parking s.p.a.ce on the Hill.

"Very clever," was all he said as he climbed out and walked towards the back door of Centre Block, not bothering to wait for his loyal Sancho Panza.

Still, I stressed about the town-hall meeting. And I was right to worry. As with the meeting of the aggregate workers three days earlier, I arrived at the church an hour before the meeting. The two Petes were already there, disguised as normal citizens, trying to control the flow of placard-waving const.i.tuents into the room so we could arrange the chairs, two floor mics, and the podium at the front. Muriel and Lindsay had wanted to attend, but I had insisted they stay clear, given the fireworks that were likely to ensue. To my amazement, they reluctantly agreed.

I brought the coffee decaf, of course and doughnuts with me, courtesy of the local Tim Hortons, and not a moment too soon. Nothing calms bellicose belligerents like free food. And until we evolve a third hand, protestors simply cannot swig coffee, chew on Boston cream doughnuts, and pump a placard all at the same time chapter 14 of the "Creative Crowd Control Handbook."

The church caretaker helped as we aligned the chairs and warmed up the temperamental PA system from the early days of radio. Eventually, even the most cantankerous const.i.tuents sank into seats. The church minister hovered at the back, wringing his hands and hoping horse-borne riot police were not in his future.

At ten minutes to seven, Angus made his entrance to a chorus of boos and foot stomping. Obviously, people could still stomp their feet while dipping their doughnuts. The vehemence of the crowd seemed to startle Angus I could tell by the way his eyes widened for a split second before he gathered himself and headed to the front. I met him at the podium and smiled in a way that shouted "I tried to warn you." I tilted my head towards the emergency door with the crash bar at our end of the a.s.sembly hall. "The Taurus is just outside," I whispered. He nodded, looking grim. He'd actually thought I'd been kidding when I'd mentioned proximal parking in our earlier chat. Always be prepared. I leaned into the mic. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and "

"It may be good for you, a.s.shole, but we're p.i.s.sed!" yelled an enlightened and courteous const.i.tuent.

Normally, such a rude heckler would be shouted down or at least "shushed" by others in the room. Well, we were a long haul from normal that night. Emboldened, the a.s.sembled throng cheered. I caught Angus glancing at the emergency exit.

"Um ... welcome to Angus McLintock's first town-hall meeting, and thank you for coming." I'd reserved the room till ten o'clock, but at that moment, three hours seemed unduly long torturously long. I improvised. "Just a housekeeping note, this room is booked at eight o'clock for a seniors' tae-kwon-do cla.s.s. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm certainly not eager to anger a group of aging martial-arts experts, so we'll have to wrap up by eight o'clock if that's "

"This won't take that long, a.s.shole!" Same guy, same reaction from the crowd.

I saw Andre Fontaine in the back, standing because no chairs were left. He flashed me a grimace of sympathy and fingered the shutter b.u.t.ton on his Canon Sure Shot.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll now ask Angus McLintock, MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott, to take the floor. Ang "

"Oh, don't worry, a.s.shole. He'll be taking the floor all right." That guy was beginning to bug me.

"Nice setup, laddie," Angus muttered as he pa.s.sed me on the way to his crucifixion.

At the mention of his name, the crowd thrust their placards into the air primitive but effective, handwritten signs. They never get old.

IT'S OUR MONEY!.

GIVE IT BACK!.

TAXES BAD! TAX CUTS GOOD!.

KEEP THE PROMISE.

$AVE OUR TAX CUTS!.

Etcetera, etcetera

Angus stood at the podium and rocked back and forth, releasing anxiety from foot to foot. The crowd simply would not let him start. Every time he raised his hand or tried to speak, the chanting reignited. "Taxes, no! Tax cuts, yes! Taxes, no! Tax cuts, yes!" Their creativity left much to be desired. They even dusted off an old chestnut: "What do we want? Tax cuts! When do we want them? Now!" How lame.

Angus was about to blow. The crimson tide flowed up the back of his neck, and his knuckles oscillated from white to red as he gripped the lectern. He was ready to take them all on just how you want your MP to react in such situations.

Thirty seconds later, the two Petes and I put the "crash" in crash bar and literally dragged Angus from the hall in a hail of doughnuts. We took several direct hits before we made it out the door. Angus had red jelly in the middle of his forehead and two honey-glazed Timbits enmeshed in his beard.

"Just be glad I brought doughnuts and not cocoanuts," I commented as we fishtailed out of the parking lot. In the rear-view mirror, I watched as Pete2 calmly pulled a half a cruller from Pete1's shoulder and crammed it in his mouth.

"Barbarians!" Angus exclaimed. "Whatever happened to respectful and civil debate?"

The two Petes sat in silence in the back seat, unwilling to enter the fray. We dropped them off at their punkhouse and headed home.

My heart was still pounding. "The next time you want to have a public meeting to explain your opposition to a Government policy everybody loves, let's just write an article in your householder and be done with it," I proposed as we climbed out of the car. "Think of the money we'd save on dry cleaning." I pointed to the four-inch blotch of chocolate on the left lapel of his ill-fitting blue blazer.

"Aye, you've made yer point. No need to pound it till it stops breathin'."

We parted paths in the driveway and headed for our respective sanctuaries. I dreaded the front page of the next c.u.mberland Crier.

The following morning, heavy overcast skies turned the frozen river slate grey. The wind had again cleared a smooth ice path in the middle that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. On that ice, a lead pa.s.s and a breakaway could take you all the way to Ottawa.

I cherished my Sat.u.r.day mornings. I usually luxuriated in bed until about 7:30. (I'd lost the ability to sleep in when I had turned 30.) Then, at first light, I'd read whatever novel I had on the go for an hour or so. Then I'd get up, pull on sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and settle into my leather couch in the living room to devour the newspapers. I loved the Sat.u.r.day papers. That Sat.u.r.day, though, I had a better idea. I really didn't want to open the papers yet, anyway and certainly not The Crier.

I knew he was up. I could see his lights on inside. I wrestled both his latte and my hot chocolate into my left hand, freeing my right to rap on the door.

"Starbucks delivery," I said as he opened the door. He took the latte; I just caught the hot chocolate before it slid out of my hand.

"Ah, mornin', Daniel. I thank you. I could use a boost," Angus replied, waving me in.

I headed for the chess table and gave him a face full of arched eyebrows as I inclined my head towards the board. He seemed discouraged a reasonable reaction to the previous night's debacle. Perhaps he'd already forced himself to peruse The Crier. I hoped not, and didn't ask. To his credit, he nodded and took his place opposite.

As usual, I moved e2-e4. He replied with e7-e5 this time, and we were off. Through the centuries, chess has been a wonderful diversion. As the game develops, your cerebral resources, by necessity, shift from your problems in life to your challenges on the board. It is unalloyed escapism. By the time Angus skewered my rook on move 24, he seemed to have returned to his customary demeanour. In the succeeding two hours, he beat me twice while I actually took game three. Thrilling endgame. One of my real weaknesses is a p.a.w.n-heavy endgame. I always seem to mess up the late-game p.a.w.n advance and end up losing mine and promoting my opponent's. But that day, I managed to marshal my brain power and promote one of my p.a.w.ns for a queen. Six moves later, I'd thwarted any and all attempts by Angus to move his p.a.w.ns onto my back rank. He conceded.

"Well played, laddie," he offered. "It all turned on one move you made with yer king to protect that pa.s.sed p.a.w.n about ten moves ago. From there on in, 'twas done."

"Yeah, but I'll be a basket case for the remainder of the day. I've not a single synapse of brain function left."

Angus looked past me out over the river with that faraway focus that made me think he was looking at nothing at all. "I really thought that if I could just explain the fiscal folly of the mini-budget that they'd be right there with me," he said slowly and quietly. "I obviously underestimated the power of a few dollars to blind reasonable people."

"In this selfish age, I suppose it is asking too much of voters to look beyond a modest windfall and consider its longer-term cost. We're really not built to think that way, yet," I suggested.

"Aye, and that's why it's in the public interest to elect someone who is built that way someone who can help them navigate this twistin' road to understandin' and acceptance. That's precisely what I planned to do last night. I knew they were mad. But I thought I could turn 'em if I could just have their ears for a wee bit."

"Angus, you're really way out in front on this issue. I think we're going to need some time and some allies before people on the street come around. It doesn't mean we should stop fighting the tax cuts; it just means we should pick our spots and accept modest progress as success," I reasoned.

"Aye, I cannae argue with you. Feel free to remind me what it feels like to face a rabble like that the next time my confidence clouds my judgment."

"That's my job."

I finally grabbed The Crier at about two-thirty Sat.u.r.day afternoon. It was just what I would have run were I laying out the front page. Staring back at me was a full-colour photo of Angus, standing in defiance at the front of the town-hall meeting. The infamous jelly doughnut was about six inches from hitting his considerable forehead. Andre had snapped the photo with such fortuitous timing that Angus's eyes were actually crossed, having followed the flight path of the doughnut till it was right above the bridge of his nose. It was the kind of image that might make it to the annual photo issue of Life magazine, although I prayed not. The shot was as hilarious as it was brilliant if you didn't happen to work for, let alone be, Angus McLintock. The story, however, was reasonably balanced and conveyed the essence of our opposition to the irresponsible mini-budget. It was a good thing Andre had interviewed Angus before the fateful town-hall meeting.

I reached for the Globe and Mail. In its "Focus" section, the newspaper had gathered a panel of eminent economists and respected think tanks to a.s.sess the Tory mini-budget in the context of the deteriorating national and global economic situation. I hoped Angus had seen it. I also hoped every last one of the pack of town-hall protestors had read the extensive article. There's an old joke that tells of what happens when you put 10 economists in a room. Answer: You wind up with II different theories. Having worked with several economists in preparing the Leader to respond to past Tory budgets, I could vouch for the punchline's validity.

But across time, rare events united the most disparate collection of economists. The Tory mini-budget could now be added to that short list. The C. D. Howe Inst.i.tute, the Fraser Inst.i.tute, the Conference Board of Canada, the chief economist from each chartered bank, the former head of the Bank of Canada, and three former deputy ministers of Finance found common ground in denouncing the Government's mini-budget. Common themes ran through their arguments against the ma.s.sive-tax-cut approach. I had never witnessed such solidarity among a group of economists.

Supply-side economics had met with some success in the United States during the 1980s, but that was when the American economy was just rebounding. The optimism of the Reagan revolution gave Americans permission to spend their tax-cut gains and boost consumer spending. In Canada, as the economy deteriorated, the economic thinkers on the Globe panel agreed that Canadians would not risk spending their tax-cut money but instead would, shove it under their mattresses. The Government's promise that the budget would actually stimulate the economy required Canadians to spend their tax-cut dividends and spend fast. This a.s.sumption was dubious at best, ludicrous at worst. Other grounds for agreement among the panel existed, including a unanimous belief that a decade of deficits was inevitable under the Tory plan.

I hoped the piece would be the first of many credible and compelling a.s.saults on the Government's fiscal inept.i.tude. Such thoughtful media a.n.a.lysis would certainly help to turn the tide of public opinion even against the promise of refunded taxes. But it would take time. With the vote set for Tuesday, we had not a moment to lose. At the very least, I hoped the elite opposition emerging in the media would help ally the Liberals and the NDP for the vote.

On Sunday afternoon, Lindsay and I drove through light snow to Ottawa to visit the National Gallery of Canada. Despite working in Ottawa for so many years, I was embarra.s.sed to admit I'd never set foot in the place. For the uninitiated, the National Gallery is a wonderful introduction to the highfalutin world of art. My knowledge of art is somewhat limited okay, very limited. Once past Pica.s.so, da Vinci, Rembrandt, and the Group of Seven, I'm at sea. Lindsay knew much more than I and helped me keep pace with the walking tour, narrated on the electronic headsets we'd donned. Irrespective of my plebian appreciation for art, spending the afternoon with Lindsay was just the respite I needed.

Shortly after we entered the gallery, I watched through the gla.s.s walls as snow began to fall heavily. Two and a half hours later, after we'd viewed a touring photography exhibit and visited a special gallery dedicated to the works of Tom Thomson, we emerged from the gallery into what seemed like the second coming of the Ice Age. The storm had evolved into a full-on blizzard, with gale-force winds. Ma.s.sive snowdrifts had already formed wherever the gusts found room to manoeuvre.

We left the car in the gallery lot and finally caught a cab that shimmied its way south along the Queen Elizabeth Driveway. Taking twice as long as it might have on a clear day, we eventually made it to The Ritz, a comfortable Italian restaurant perched on the edge of the frozen ca.n.a.l. The storm had chased all but the heartiest skaters from the ice and explained the many unoccupied tables. We had garlic bread with cheese, and held hands. I ordered spaghetti carbonara while Lindsay opted for mushroom risotto. We didn't really talk a great deal. We'd moved beyond that. Across the two and a half hours we spent at The Ritz, we watched the storm intensify and the growing drifts consume newspaper boxes and a couple of unlucky cars parked in spots that seemed to welcome the wind and snow.

By the time we paid and left the restaurant, the streets were pretty well deserted. I gave thanks for parking underground.

"I've never seen it like this. It's still coming down," noted Lindsay.

"Yep, it's quite the dump. Something tells me we won't be driving the Taurus back to c.u.mberland tonight," I said, curious about her response.

"Sounds like the snow storm corollary to running out of gas on a first date," she replied, still smiling. "Let's try the Chateau."

Though it was not particularly cold, the wind was unforgiving. There were few cars out and not a taxi in sight. So we walked up Elgin Street, as it seemed more navigable than the ca.n.a.l. The sidewalks were completely impa.s.sable, so we stuck to the middle of the street, swinging wide around monstrous snowdrifts that rose out of the road at irregular intervals.

The Chateau Laurier was built on the eastern edge of Parliament Hill and the Rideau Ca.n.a.l. The Chateau was aptly named, featuring steeply raked, copper-roofed towers and limestone walls. For nearly a century, it had been the hotel of choice for political power brokers. I'd stayed there occasionally, too. The lobby was congested, but the line snaking away from the reservations counter moved quickly.

"Any chance?" I asked, leaning on the marble.

"I've got two rooms left," announced the desk clerk. "Would you like a view of Parliament Hill or the river?"

I was feeling kind of excited, not so much about another night alone with Lindsay, but just about sharing the whole stranded-by-snow scenario with her.

The room was perfect old-world charm with new-world plumbing, not to mention those fluffy robes. Lindsay called her mother. I called Angus. He reminded me that Andre Fontaine was coming to the house in the morning for a long-arranged feature interview. We'd put him off as long as we could. Angus had gained enough perspective on the town-hall meeting by then to laugh at The Crier photo when he'd finally seen it. So the Fontaine interview was still on.

Lindsay and I ordered dessert from room service and turned the small loveseat around in the window so we could watch the ferocious storm's a.s.sault on Parliament Hill. I'm not given to using the word cozy. I'm just not a fan. But the shoe fit.

DIARY.

Sunday, December 8

My Love,

Welcome to Siberia. I've seldom seen a storm of such relentless fury aided by such fierce winds. Heavy snow and a big blow is a potent, paralyzing tandem. I had planned to take another test run in Baddeck I this afternoon, but Old Man Winter's tantrum put the boots to that. Still, with what visibility the storm affords, I can see the winds are keeping the river clear and the ice smooth. Perhaps on the morrow.

You'll be pleased to know, though I'm sure you were with me, the gravel operation you detested so much was padlocked today by the Government's enforcement folks, and we had a hand in it. The outlaws were dumping far more toxic tripe into the river than the rules allowed. Why they'd be permitted to dump any at all is beyond my ken. They'll not soon be up and running again, either. In fact, I think it's well and truly over. G.o.d bless and good riddance.

Sanderson has granted jobs to every displaced aggregate worker and is still wanting more. 'Tis a nice problem to have as the economy dips into a dive. The papers have been quick to cover me with glory; yet, without Deepa's brilliant mind, the win-win everyone's calling it would have been a lose-lose.

I confess my arrogance got the better of me on Friday at the town-hall meeting I insisted on convening against Daniel's advice. I swaggered into the room, feeling like Moses bearing the tablets. I knew my const.i.tuents were mad and wanted the money the Government had pledged them. I reckoned I'd lay the logic before them and they'd see the light and throw rose petals at my feet. As it turned out, they saw red and threw doughnuts at my head. A wee miscalculation caused by my recently enlarged cranium.

I know I'm right on the mini-budget. The Government has made a cynical appeal to our baser instincts of greed and aggrandizement. It seems others with more knowledge of such things than I are now popping up to lend a hand. The paper today was full of smart people decrying the Government's gambit. Let more come forward before the vote on Tuesday.

I took Muriel to lunch yesterday, bless her heart and mind. That Parkinson's is a right b.a.s.t.a.r.d, it is. She knows where she wants to go, but her feet just can't get started. That problem would be the end of me, but she, at least figuratively, takes it in stride. She was mortified to hear of our narrow escape from the town-hall meeting and roundly chastised me for not thinking the whole thing through. She urged me to listen to Daniel. As a neophyte, I'm hardly in a position to know, but Muriel claims Daniel is one of the best, and can help me dodge the slings and arrows of partisan politics.

We played chess this morning. I defeated Daniel in the first two games, and then, just because I'm such a treasure, I purposely messed up my p.a.w.n march at the end so that Daniel took the win. He needed it more than I.

Saints alive, the storm still rages beyond these walls. I fear I'll not be leaving this refuge tomorrow, although I'm to be on House duty in the afternoon. Do you remember the day just after we moved here when the snow shut us down for nearly a week? We never stirred from in front of the fire. We had dry wood, candles, wine, books, and one another. We wanted for nothing. I can think of little else as this blizzard airs out its anger.

AM.