“We are awaiting our call to duty,” E.K. said.
Waiting for the high priestess to get out of bed, Thiessen assumed — Clara had been up late. She would go through the motions of asking their advice before announcing the big shuffle. DuWallup was in her inner circle, a key player even in disgrace. E.K.’s job would be to tell her what skeletons were hiding in what closets.
“I understand you’ve already had a little talk with the prime minister.” E.K. spoke low because of the bright acoustics in the room.
“Woke me out of bed at a quarter to midnight. Don’t know where she gets the staying power, she’s an Amazon.”
“Yes,” E.K. said, “the interim P.M. is a woman of impressive fortitude.”
Thiessen heard a slight emphasis on the word interim. The gnome had a way of coding his messages.
As Thiessen’s coffee arrived, E.K. rose. “Must be off to prepare some notes of fulsome thanks and deep regret.”
“That’s got to be one of the toughest jobs.” Letters to the poor bastards being sent to the back of the bus. Thiessen wanted to ask if Gerry Lafayette would be among them, but decided that might not be cool.
When DuWallup began to rise, E.K. motioned him to stay. “Why don’t you gentlemen have a little chat?”
Thiessen watched the little man leave, puzzled. “Chat? What about?”
DuWallup looked him over like a tailor sizing him up for a new suit. “Actually, about you.”
Thiessen snared a roll, fiddled with it, suddenly lacking appetite. “Yeah, really?” What had he done now?
“You know what I admire about you, Charley? You got where you are by playing fair. Never stuck a knife between anyone’s shoulder blades.”
“Yeah, make friends not enemies, I find that works pretty good in this business.”
“Lord knows that’s held you in good stead. Forty-nine years old, raised in the heartland, lovely young wife, three great kids, party member since you were in jumpers, two pluralities in two elections. And the camera loves you. You’ve got the manner, you’ve got the look. Housewives swoon.”
“Don’t forget the winning tackle in the Vanier Cup.”
DuWallup rose, urged Thiessen into one of the alcoves, where they huddled. “A lot of people think you should put your name up.”
Thiessen got a little ego surge when he realized that’s what DuWallup and E.K. had been bouncing around. Gracey faced a confirmation vote as party leader, at a convention to be called soon. Thiessen had expected her to slide through, Lafayette being pretty well out of the picture. This wasn’t something he’d really thought about, except in rambling daydreams. Or when his mom used to embarrass him with her “My Charley’s going to be prime minister one day.”
He was astonished that Gracey’s own chief of staff would plot against her. Maybe it was personal, maybe political — E.K. was hardcore Tory blue, almost to extremes, scared of a leftward drift under Gracey. Also a kind of closet misogynist.
“Yes, your name keeps coming up. Jack Bodnarchuk, just yesterday, he sees you as Huck’s heir apparent. He could bring in Alberta, eighty per cent of their delegates. Most of our western power base, in fact — they’re very uneasy about an ex-economics professor from Toronto running things. That shift away from the oil economy we’ve been playing up, she actually believes in it. And let’s face it, under her watch we’ve seen all the major indexes continue to fall, we’re running a massive deficit. Frankly nobody thinks she’s going to last, even if we win next week’s vote.”
With Huck and DuWallup gone from the House, the non-confidence motion would hang on four votes, maybe only three if a suspected maverick hiding in the wilds of Newfoundland failed to show. He’d shot a few toes off while moose hunting, maybe on purpose. Meanwhile, the Opposition would be bringing in the troops on wheelchairs and stretchers.
“And of course you’d have most of Huck’s gang. New Brunswick, half of Nova Scotia. Your own stomping grounds, rural Ontario, even if Clara has TO and the 905 sewn up.”
Thiessen was intrigued but uncomfortable. Just last night, he’d told Gracey she could always count on him. But as DuWallup continued to muse about where Clara might take the country (snarled relations with the U.S., letting the automakers go under, abortion clinics in every mall), he began to ask himself if maybe his first allegiance was to the party, to conservatism. In that sense, he could hardly be accused of disloyalty.
Thiessen paused under Brian Mulroney’s portrait as he adjusted his tie, shrugged into his coat. There was a similarity: the noble chin, the barrel chest, the hearty booming voice. A standout leader, an inspiration, a model. Yeah, he could be the guy to get the country back on its economic feet.
He pictured himself as an international figure, photo ops with presidents and prime ministers, popes and potentates. Kind of beats being named Grey County Citizen of the Year 1996. Yeah, that smarmy Divisional judge who told him he couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag would be shitting purple. To hear DuWallup, it was a walk. Did he have the balls for it? The smarts? The tools? That he even asked these questions said he lacked confidence. He’d call his mother that night.
He slipped out a side door, past the smokers, determined to avoid the rabble on the steps, that ever-growing mass of pimpled peaceniks and welfare-addicted anarchists with their placards and clown suits and rubber masks. But he couldn’t resist a look back while waiting for the light at Wellington. They had a Laurel and Hardy act going, complete with pratfalls. Women dressed as prostitutes posing seductively for the reporters waiting for that insufferable independiste Chambleau to set up his own ridiculous show in the Press Building.
Thiessen wasn’t going to play chicken and lose face, not Charley boy, the new white hope of the party of Sir John A. and Diefenbaker and Mulroney. Chambleau had publicly dared him to turn up, and he would damn well do that, take the shine off the performance, wisecrack with the press, be ready with some quips if the show fizzled. His sense of humour, that was an asset DuWallup failed to mention. He had his cabinet colleagues in tears sometimes.
He pursued a backpedalling cameraman into the National Press Theatre, plowing through a scrum — there were scores of reporters. He didn’t miss a beat. “Thought I’d just wander through the bazaar and see what they’re selling.”
Near a table at the back, loaded with croissants and jugs of juice, Julien Chambleau was also being scrummed, mostly by the French press. At the podium table were two old grizzled guys, Zandoo the magician and his mouthpiece A.R. Beauchamp, the Paki looking tense, the lawyer leaning back, thumbs behind suspenders, like a cattle boss from some old Western flick.
Party records showed that Beauchamp had been a member as a young man, back in the Progressive Conservative days — he’d followed Diefenbaker in, the great Prairie orator and lawyer, but let his membership lapse. Now he was consorting with eco-terrorists, Flett and Buckett. They were on his payroll.
The guy’s spouse wasn’t here, out somewhere hugging trees. But maybe he shouldn’t be so dismissive of her views, her push for stiff environmental laws. He was confused by global warming, all those theories about the coming big melt, the calamities to follow. His kids, especially his older daughter, were on him constantly about it.
Julien Chambleau paused from working the press to approach him. “So you accepted the challenge, Minister.”
“Hey, I’m just plain old Charley.”
“In any event, we’re delighted to have you among us.”
“Couldn’t resist, heard you were serving baloney sandwiches.” That drew a blank with Chambleau — maybe it was lost in translation or he was just humourless. Thiessen declined the offer of a seat close up, preferring to sit in the raised area at the back with a friendly pundit from the Fraser Institute.