Sussex Drive: A Novel

by Linda Svendsen

  “Let us in,” said Doc.

  Wheedledee and Wheedledum. She stepped toward the door and spoke very clearly. “Boys. Stay TFO.”

  Then she covered Greg with a Hudson’s Bay blanket and kissed his closely shaved cheek. “Honeydog,” she said. He hadn’t started to snore yet.

  The Tory hub blazed all night. Becky made time to personally call Margaret Lee, leashed to Lise overseas, for a confidential heads-up: how soon could Peggy execute a forced march cum flight on the GG, if necessary?

  On Saturday, Becky attended the launch of Martha’s capstone internship project, after driving between indoor soccer matches (Pablo on the superior Rep team, Peter reluctantly on the level below Bronze—which had its repercussions). The National Gallery exhibit, sculptures of common metallic household objects such as flashlights, foil and pasta claws, included her daughter’s copy in the pricey catalogue.

  “Praise the Lord!” Martha said, taking in the scene. “It’s a big success.”

  Becky, watching the egotistical artist elites hoover canapés, nodded.

  “I’ll miss the NGC,” Martha added. “My internship.”

  “For sure.” Becky was already planning the fastest route to pick up Niko from his pre-Calculus tutorial.

  “But now I can focus on Temptations.” Martha said this without irony.

  “Absolutely,” said Becky.

  Back at 24 Sussex, Becky found Greg in his study. He was lying on the floor under the Diefenbaker and denying reality. When a political situation became dicey, this was a default position.

  “Delay Opposition Day,” Becky demanded.

  “They’re just toy sabre-rattling.”

  “And Ways and Means.”

  “They’re too scared to table it.” He was referring to the non-confidence motion, and the way he said this made it sound like a question.

  “They’ve formed the coalition, Greg.”

  “If we delay, it gives them more time to plan.”

  “They’re going to seize power.”

  “They’ll replace their leader with someone we haven’t defamed yet.”

  “Nip this in the bud, or we’re in Stornoway for New Year’s.”

  Greg sat up. “Where the fuck is Chief?”

  While her nails dried, Becky speakerphoned the campaign chair, comatose in Saskatchewan. She had the plane chartered, the buses reserved, and a catchy slogan flew out to fire up fundraising: Democracies are elected, stupid. One never knew the timing of a premature election.

  After the PMO cancelled the Opposition and Ways and Means day, Becky called in Chief and Doc. Greg, white as the bad starches, braced himself behind his desk. Chief and Doc were buried in a sentimental import—an Ikea loveseat from Greg’s Whitehorse constituency office.

  “We need to retract it,” Becky said.

  “You’re overreacting,” Chief said.

  “There’s no reason to eliminate the right to strike for federal servants when they just agreed to a deal and we gave them a gold star for doing so.”

  “She’s right,” Doc said. “We look mean.”

  “We are,” Chief said.

  Greg said, “Mean is a means to an end. Major—”

  “You need to look as if you’ll listen to reason,” Becky said. “Or you’ll throw it all away.”

  Greg glared at her. She wasn’t sure if he was losing it or had a high fever. “Retract it,” he said to Chief.

  Finance was dispatched to Global to fret about the automotive industry and to mention “stimulus spending” fourteen times.

  The Cabinuts, even though their portfolios were far away from anything to do with the subsidies for political parties, told every program on all platforms at the Corpse that a particular controversial provision about voter funding was doing the disappearing act too.

  That night, Greg was so physically ill and intellectually stressed he couldn’t rise from their bed. Pastor Grant prayed with him on the phone. Greg stared at the stack of dry toast she brought him and dubbed it his doppelgänger.

  If the toast fits, she thought.

  Becky carried on with the four children, including Niko, and they decorated the family tree at Gorffwysfa. In their own teenage wasteland, Martha and Niko stuck together in monosyllabic unity. Peter, in holly berry polo shirt, persisted in pushing Pablo, in complementary holly green, into the beautiful fresh-cut noble fir, until Pablo decked him. Even though she was absolutely thrilled that Peter (Greg Jr.) had had a comeuppance, she reprimanded Pablo.

  “Why is everyone mad at Daddy?” Pablo whimpered, off topic. “Why are they bullying him? Will we have to move out of Gorff? Where will we go? Can we stay for Christmas? Why is Daddy yelling at everybody?”

  Peter shoved him into the Nativity. The Leggatt crèche, with shepherds, angels and Three Kings on Mustangs, was curiously life-size and Yukon Territorial. When Pablo landed on top of baby Hay-Seuss, Martha rushed to pick up the doll and gently replace it. As Niko put his arm around her shoulder, Peter grabbed Hay-Seuss and hit Pablo.

  “Hey!” Becky yelled. “Peter!”

  Becky force-marched Peter off into the dining room for a time out. “Martha?” she said over her shoulder. “Take care of Pablo.”

  But it was Niko who moved to Becky’s adopted son; Martha knelt beside the baby Jesus, no worse for the wear and tear, and pressed her face against His head.

  Becky found it meet and right that the Tory Christmas party was being held that night at the Museum of War, 1 Vimy Place, in the icy western armpit of Parliament, off the Ottawa River. They were honouring the new importance of the military, of course; Canada was at war in Afghanistan, and would have been in Iraq if Greg had had his druthers. The crowd was inebriated on Rumour. Conservatives, big C and small, were panicking and staggering around the Voodoo jet, tanks and military vehicles in the LeBreton exhibit. The update from insiders who had text relationships with insiders in the enemy camp: the coalition of Liberals and NDP was making magnificent progress, arriving at cordial agreement on the number of Cabinet seats for the Socialists. They were even tinkering with the nitty-gritty composition of the ABCs—agencies, boards and committees.

  A lesbian socialist might become Finance!

  Someone had heard a pundit on the Corpse report that Greg was considering prorogation, likening this to pulling the fire alarm before the final exam. The Separatists had said that this was an example of “cut and run.”

  A lesbian socialist might become Foreign Affairs!

  It was Becky’s MO to literally rally the troops. She took a call from the Karp-Deem polling firm and scooted upstairs to Regeneration Hall to vet their sample questions. Doc told her that the Toronto Blob columnist was hectoring Greg over his three limp electoral kicks at the can, with the ultimate verdict being that 60 percent of the country rejected him.

  A lesbian socialist might become deputy PM and, if something happened, by default Prime Minister—Becky whispered all this and more in loyal ears. She kissed blanched cheeks, led them in a tearfully enraged anthem, and smilingly, cheekily, hearteningly, inspiringly and unreservedly pinned buttons on over five hundred lapels at the coat check: SAY NO/NON TO THE COUP.

  When she arrived back at Sussex Drive, she found Greg and Martha in the Arctic subzone of the rumpus room, ostensibly watching A Beachcombers Christmas. But Greg was also engaged with his BlackBerry. Can Vox news, already singing in four-part harmony from the Tory song sheet, played silently in a corner of the screen. Becky collapsed on the couch, Martha bumping into the middle. Greg said, “How are the troops?”

  “Drooping.”

  He passed her his BlackBerry. A text from her father. Socialist separatist wankers. Off with their dicks.

  The next morning, Ottawa was a winter wonderland. It was so cold that, on the school ground, Becky’s nose hairs seemed to freeze like stiff trees in a mini-forest. She hadn’t been aware she had so much new growth. Later, while she exercised and overreacted to the breakfast shows, a speedy anchor checked her Skatecam and marvelled
at the seniors steady on their blades, the toddlers toe-tripping, with their pompom toques and pockets full of bonbons, along the frozen Rideau Canal.

  Other than the endless fascination Canadians displayed for their weather, and wreath-making tips, the main event was coalition. The anchor pronounced it first as coercion, then corrected herself and said the opposition was forming a collision.

  Becky met Greg at his Langevin office and took notes as he conducted ten-minute phoners with Brown, Sarkozy, Merkel and finally with his stepbrother in Australia. Berlusconi didn’t call back, which wasn’t unusual; Putin, out of the blue, rang up but Greg didn’t take it, had Firstname Somebody-Hyphenate tell him that he was in the can. Greg had mentioned that Vladimir often gloated because he was able to use force and corruption transparently. Lucky stiff.

  The executive assistant stammered as he announced each caller on the intercom. “Mr. Prime Min-Min-Minister, are you in-in-in for President Bush?” Bush, in his final weeks in office, was sending Alexander Manson, the fixer Becky and Greg had met at Harrington Lake last August, up by private jet. By now, Becky had ensured that Greg had reneged on every threat in the fiscal update, buttressed by plenty of scrummy chit-chat from Cabinet lackeys about opening the vaults.

  And then, a surprise opposition press conference on the Hill, covered, unsurprisingly, by all the broadcasters. Greg sent everybody out of the room but Becky, Doc and Chief, and told the assistant to hold all calls. He actually locked the door.

  On the TV screen, a tiny, nondescript table and a plethora of Canadian, provincial and territorial flags. A veritable plantation.

  “Count the chairs, boys,” Becky tasked.

  “Three,” Greg snapped. “Oh, praise the Lord, three. They’ve brought the Separatist!”

  Tai Chi, the earnest Liberal, strode into the shot with stapled papers in his shaking hand. Handily defeated in his run for prime minister just shy of two short months ago, he was joined by the Socialist, with his super posture, and—yes, yes, yes—the grim and self-righteous Separatist. They sat down together and faced the press.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you, God,” Greg gushed. “The three musketeers. The three stooges. The three fat ladies fucking sing.”

  While Tai Chi explained the guts of the agreement—that the Liberals would join a coalition with the Socialists, and the Separatists would support this coalition for two years on any confidence votes—Greg sank to his knees on the Capital Commission carpet and commended God the Father. His arms waved in holy motion, his eyes shut, and Chief hit the floor as well, to show his great respect. It was harder for Doc to do this, because of some injury incurred during a visit from his Vancouver girlfriend, but he was finally down with Greg and Chief, chin punched into his chest.

  On screen, the Socialist added his two red cents: that the coalition would vote non-confidence on the fiscal update and then, since the recounts from the last federal election had barely been tabulated and turned into history, they would present themselves to the Governor General, Her Excellency Lise Lavoie, as soon as she returned from abroad, as a worthy alternative to the current ruling party. Greg, Doc and Chief, heads still bowed, now curved around the TV and gripped hands.

  Becky rejoiced too, but there was no time to coast on enemy blunders. She stepped around them and picked up the phone to Larry Apoonatuk. It had been a while. He’d in fact been token fired after the “do-over” Opposition leader incident, and was now with the 24-hour cable news outlet Can TALKS. Failing upward!

  “Apoonatuk.”

  “It’s Becky.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m on deadline. Call you back.” He hung up in such a way that she knew he wouldn’t.

  “Demagoguery isn’t a dirty word,” Alexander Manson said.

  His private jet had been grounded in Buffalo, a wicked blizzard, and Greg was on the phone with him. Becky was conferenced in.

  “Isn’t a dirty practice. If it’s for the public good. Now take you Canucks. Take your own Declaration or Constitution or whatever. How familiar with it are your Joe Blows? Your Sikhs? Your Chinamen?”

  “Not very,” Greg stated.

  “My point,” Manson bit. “What do they know? They get their green card. Evade taxes. Rat on terrorists. Hook up cable. And that’s it. The average person doesn’t want to be bothered with the shit we deal with. That’s why they elect us. Appoint us. Anoint us. ‘You deal, and let me get on with le sex. Le church. Le hockey.’ We’re doing a fucking favour—”

  “I hear you,” Greg said.

  “My man’s president for a few more weeks. We don’t want these Communists. We don’t want Hail Mary pass crap.” He paused. “Demagoguery’s a long word. Because demagoguery takes a long time. And it pays long term.”

  “I hear you,” Greg said again.

  “Good man,” said Manson. “Now take care of that lovely wife, Greg. Or I will.” He chuckled lustily.

  Greg glanced at Becky, then away.

  “More importantly, tuck that colicky country of yours into bed with some Happily ever after. Think Reagan. Works like spit in a pinch.”

  Becky watched Monday’s entire Question Period on CPAC. Her husband made it sound as if the socialist hordes were descending upon Ottawa to eviscerate the organs and eat the heart of the country. Or that the coalition was a conspiracy nurtured by Quebec sovereignists who wanted to cut off the testicles of Parliament. He referred to the coalition press conference repeatedly—pointing out that there were no Canadian flags. An election had been held only days earlier, yet they intended to force an unelected Liberal eunuch loser down the throats of Canadians as the new prime minister. That violated federal law. He didn’t say coup d’état, because it was French and would confuse the lowest common Conservative denominator. He added that citizens would flood the streets. Armies would get involved, closing borders, and perhaps even malls and liquor stores, which would hit citizens where it hurt.

  The press jumped on board, of course. The Corpse knew which side its bread was truly buttered on. Can Vox, with its demands for more specialty channels to the CRTC, cast mild Tai Chi as Genghis Khan. Can TALKS, ditto. The party’s own Conservative pollster was working overtime, phoning citizens in staunchly loyal ridings in every province, and asking red-flag questions, framed with barely perceptible Becky finesses.

  Becky couldn’t have been more pleased.

  The media, however, couldn’t be completely controlled, and she and Greg were becoming very concerned about academic creep. The constitutional scholars at campuses across the country had been dragged by the media out of their tome-ridden research tombs, particularly the emeritus tribe, whose outspokenness wouldn’t necessarily impact research dollars awarded to their institutions. Legal beagles, former Governors General, who in their own minds hadn’t really left the throne yet, and Privy Council diehards with an axe to grind flooded the op-eds, letters to the editor, call-in shows, or bought half-page ads to print their unreadable petitions. In one voice, they were on the record stating that the Governor General, Lise Lavoie, could not possibly agree to prorogue Parliament simply because a minority government would be voted down on a confidence motion. It went absolutely against the ingrained grain of the Canadian Constitution.

  It didn’t matter that Greg was brilliant in Question Period, and that his ministers had been coached by American pros, every inflection rehearsed and key words repeated until they were programmed into the national psyche. On every TV channel, in every newspaper, on every radio station and partisan blog, a pundit harped and harked back to basics: A minority government could only rule when it had the backing of the opposition. If it didn’t have the confidence of the House, the opposition could approach the Governor General, or vice versa, re the formation of a new government. In fact, Greg Leggatt had asserted the exact same principle himself, one short Governor General ago, when he led the opposition. The principle started to take hold, amidst the Tory hysteria.

  “We need to change the conversation,” Becky told Greg.
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br />   Becky had Greg’s aides check with CSIS, CSE and the RCMP to see if any terrorist investigations were ripe for arrests, charges, revelations—any big-ticket headlines. It was a no go; even rogue organizations had been impacted by the financial meltdown. A meteorological boss was pressed for imminent natural disasters such as ice storms, tsunamis, the arousal of a dormant volcano or the mass starvation of wild horses due to blizzard conditions. Only scattered flurries.

  The deputy minister at Foreign Affairs insisted that on his turf it was still the economy, economy, economy, and the constitutional crisis had given him a chance to catch his breath.

  The prospect of a convenient avian flu epidemic had flown the coop.

  Greg took to the airwaves, live, on Tuesday night before east coast hockey. Becky was camped beside the director; the cinematographer’s portfolio (he was a special hire) included corporate work for Apple, Ford and Pfizer. Greg began, “Good evening, my fellow Canadians. In the last few days …”

  Because it was a political speech running in real time, they couldn’t cut in a sweeping shot of the family photographs on the fireplace mantel, but they made sure Becky and the kids smiled contentedly in the background, and Greg’s Jesus Christ Superstar mug was plunked centre stage on his desk, a triple whammy of art, faith and family. Greg’s voice was pitched a tad high, and the stylist had used a shade of lipstick that tilted toward drag, but generally Becky was feeling good.

  Then Doc slipped her a copy of Tai Chi’s speech.

  It was a short and direct hit, an immediate connect with the cortex and solar plexus of an ordinary Canadian, with appeals to the glory days of Prime Minister Pearson’s Nobel Peace Prize, a reminder that the country wisely stayed out of Iraq due to the extrasensory listening skills of the Liberals, of Greg’s amply illustrated totalitarian impulses, and of the legitimate, constitutionally condoned crossroads the country had now arrived at, led by a united, transparent and rational opposition. Tai Chi had the potential to hit this out of the park. Before Greg even concluded his live address to the nation, Becky disappeared from his set-dressed office into the dungeon-like hall and pulled her phone out.