The Best Laid Plans Part 2

When Angus eventually returned to the living room, my rent receipt in hand, I saw his eyes fall again on the coffee table and the letter bomb that had detonated an hour and a half earlier. He stopped short and groaned. I watched him slide back down into his couch and his blue funk. "There's not much I wouldna' do to let this vile cup pa.s.s me by," he breathed in a voice so low I barely heard it.

Idea approaching at ramming speed. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. It all came to me in a matter of moments. It seemed fated. I don't even remember how I broached it with Angus, but I knew that if my idea were to fly, I had to move quickly. I didn't know how long his descent into the depths of despair would last. The man was desperate, and so was I.

Within twenty minutes, the deal was done. Pending the university's approval, I had an extra cla.s.s on my teaching schedule, to which I gave barely a thought that night. More importantly to me, c.u.mberland-Prescott finally had a Liberal candidate at least in name no doubt to become yet another forgotten footnote in the political history of the safest Tory seat in the land.

Angus McLintock was a tough negotiator, and with three days until the gun would sound, I wasn't exactly in a strong bargaining position. Secure in the knowledge that a Liberal could never win this riding, Angus agreed to let his name stand with the following stipulations: He would make no campaign appearances.

He would do no media interviews.

He would do no door-to-door canva.s.sing.

He would attend no all-candidates meetings, debates, information sessions, coffee parties, or individual voter meetings.

He would take no phone calls from anyone other than me.

There would be no Angus McLintock lawn signs.

There would be no Angus McLintock campaign Web site, blog, or podcasts.

There would be no Angus McLintock campaign song (I just threw this in as a freebie to soften him up. I had no plans for a campaign song, anyway just good, old-fas.h.i.+oned, shrewd bargaining).

He would have no contact with the campaign workers (either of them).

Finally, he would not even be required to be in the country, let alone in the riding, throughout the campaign.

In other words, he had to do absolutely nothing, diddly-squat, nada other than sign his nomination form to put his name on the ballot. But rest a.s.sured, this was not a lopsided, one-way negotiation. No, siree. He gave up stuff, too. Here's what I negotiated: We could produce one inane pamphlet for soft-drops.

Yes, I know. It was hardly worth a bullet point. Finally, Angus did accept that while defeat was a.s.sured, we needed to preserve at least the pretence of an active campaign. Or as my former colleagues on Parliament Hill might have put it, we needed to ensure the "optics" were good. I, at least, owed my party good optics.

We signed the napkin on which I'd written up our little agreement and shook hands to etch it in stone. Though poker-faced during the negotiations, Angus looked ecstatic now that the deal was done. He kept walking around, saying, "I cannae believe this is happening. Free at last, free at last, thank G.o.d Almighty, I'm free at last." Or words to that effect. To my chiropractor's great dis appointment, Angus stopped just short of locking me in a bear hug and waltzing me around the room. I managed to maintain a calm and dignified demeanor befitting a junior faculty member and limited myself to two loud "woo-hoos" and a little end-zone touchdown dance of my own creation win-win personified.

After three games of chess and the excitement of the deal, I was exhausted. The events of the evening seemed to have the opposite effect on Angus. He continued to pinball around the room, sporting a face-fracturing grin that was clearly beyond his control.

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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sembly. 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 a.s.sistance 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 a.s.sumed 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 works.p.a.ce.

I looked for a long time at what Angus had been building, trying like h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.kpit (if c.o.c.kpit 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 a.s.sumed, 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 c.o.c.kerell 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 a.s.sets. 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 cus.h.i.+on 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 princ.i.p.al 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.u.mberland-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.

DIARY.

Monday, September 2

My Love,

I have been delivered from h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation by a most unlikely angel. You'll know if you've been near that Dean Rump Roast once again had me in his crosshairs to teach E for E again this term even though I'd suffered through it this past year. When I read the letter, I truly contemplated early retirement, that is, after ruling out homicide (I doubt any fair-minded jury would have convicted me) and then suicide. Rumplun is an a.s.shole, plain and simple. Aye, he is.

Just when the black clouds threatened to envelope me completely, Dr. Addison, the young politico turned English professor now living in your boathouse, alighted in our living room and delivered me. I will never again teach the wonders of English to first-year Cro-Magnon engineers. However, in quid pro quo, your dear husband's name will appear on the ballot in the upcoming federal election as the officially nominated Liberal candidate. I can hear you laughing from here. I know it's incredible and incongruous but no more so than expecting me to spend another year babysitting illiterate engineers who think Robertson Davies is a Toronto law firm. Dr. Addison promises me that a Liberal simply cannot win this seat, so in five weeks, I'm scot-free, or a free Scot, as the case may be. Do not trouble yourself. I know what I'm doing. And more importantly, I know what I won't be doing for three hours every week in the main auditorium of the engineering building. Forgive my hand; my feet are dancing a quick highland reel as I write these words.

Baddeck I is progressing nicely and taking shape. I knew that if I could just get started on the infernal thing, the work would sustain me. And it has. The skirt is attached, the engine is mounted, and the integrated lift/propulsion system is nearly complete. I need to finish the plywood decking and then set to work on the c.o.c.kpit controls. I haven't quite figured out how to connect all four rudders to the steering system and whether I'll go with a wheel or a stick. I'm tending towards a wheel.

As I work on the hovercraft in this boathouse, I think often of Bell in his workshop on the sh.o.r.es of the Bras d'Or Lakes as he built his record-breaking hydrofoil. What a man he was, driven by a curiosity so fierce it could barely be contained and never, ever extinguished. It still burns in those who follow.

Tomorrow, I'll hold my nose and take young Dr. Addison Daniel is his Christian name to meet the dean, if I can keep my breakfast where it belongs. There is paperwork the dean must attend to if I'm to slip the E for E noose. I won't hesitate to invoke Montebello if required. Daniel seems a good lad. Beneath some rust, his chess game is adequate and likely to improve. His experience on Parliament Hill should serve him well in navigating the shoal-infested waters of the university.

By G.o.d, I miss you. Every day, I expect to turn the corner and find you in the garden. Every day, I expect this great hole inside me to get just a little bit smaller. Every day, it seems to grow. By G.o.d, I miss you.

AM.

CHAPTER THREE.

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 p.r.i.c.k. 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 a.s.sumed 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 c.r.a.p. 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.

The warning light on Rumplun's head gasket seemed to flicker on. "Don't you correct me in my office. I'm fed up with your incessant pedantry. You're nothing but a grammar-n.a.z.i," he said through gritted teeth.

"But, Roland, I only correct you when you make a mistake, so the frequency is really up to you. In any event, you're single-handedly justifyin' the need to teach English to engineers." The smirk had emigrated from Dean Rumplun to Angus.

"I'm running out of time, McLintock. State your business."

"Professor Addison here has kindly agreed to teach E for E in my stead, and I'm just offerin' you the courtesy of meetin' him before you file the necessary paperwork to make it so," Angus explained, the very embodiment of equanimity.

"What audacity!" Rumplun sputtered. "It's impossible. Absolutely not. I will not have it. The course must be taught by an engineer, and that means you, McLintock."

I just sat there in the middle of the bellicose exchange and s.h.i.+fted as necessary to evade projectile spittle. I worried that this buffoon might put the kibosh on my bargain with Angus.

"Daniel is a first-rate lecturer, understands his audience, and will get all the support he needs from me," Angus replied.

"I don't care if he has a n.o.bel Prize; it's out of the question. Don't even think about it. End of story. Now, I'm nearly late, so if you'll excuse me."

Angus paused and looked to the ground as if deciding how to proceed. Then, he looked out the window with a distant look in his eyes. "Montebello," he said in a voice so low I barely heard it.

"What did you say?" Dean Rumplun spat. His face turned the colour of rust, and his jowls vibrated. I wondered what an aneurism looked like.

"You heard me. You've left me no choice," said Angus. His eyes were two slits trained on his adversary.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Just sign the faculty-transfer form, and you'll never have to find out."

For what seemed like minutes, they stared each other down through tension so thick it would have snapped the knife.

"You are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, McLintock. And after all I've done for you. Who got you your appointment in the first place? It was me!" Rumplun shouted.

"It was I," whispered Angus as he smoothed a wrinkle in his pants.

"What!"