The Insatiable Maw

by Mick Lowe

  Wardell thanked her and hung up, expecting a wait of indefinite, though likely quite prolonged, duration, but to his surprise the Minister called back the same afternoon.

  “Harry!” Wardell was taken aback at the cordia-lity of McSorley-Winston’s greeting. He hadn’t realized they were on a first-name basis, but what the hell?

  “Hello, Reg, thanks for returning my call. Listen, I wonder if you’d be good enough to take the time to meet with one of my constituents to discuss the situation up at the Copper Cliff smelter?”

  “And this constituent of yours—does he have a name?”

  “Yes, oh sorry, yes. Of course. Paul Samson. He’s with the Steelworkers Union.”

  “Name’s familiar. Just happened to see it on a letter that crossed my desk only last week.”

  This admission surprised Wardell. Maybe they were getting on the radar, after all. But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something somewhere. McSorley-Winston’s sudden bonhomie, his familiarity with the file, the fact he’d returned Harry’s call in the first place, all of this just didn’t quite add up.

  Still, he wasn’t about to look this gift horse. . . “How about next week?” he pressed.

  There was a momentary pause as McSorley-Winston pondered. “Ye-es, I’d like to get my senior staff in on this, but yes, I think next week could work for us.”

  “Excellent! I’ll let Paul know right away so he can make travel arrangements.”

  The date, time and venue were quickly arranged, and the call ended as cordially as it began, leaving the MPP for Sudbury as bewildered as ever about his apparent change in status, and about the sudden elevation in profile of the entire matter.

  12

  A Chance Encounter

  Just as they took turns cooking dinner every night, so, too members of the Gilpin co-op alternated the weekly chore of grocery shopping, and today was Jake’s turn.

  He had just turned into the cereal aisle when Jake thought he spotted a familiar figure at the far end of the store, but his back was turned, so he wasn’t sure. Intrigued, Jake quickened his pace, perfunctorily grabbing items off the shelf and throwing them into his buggy—Harvest Crunch cereal for Foley, rolled oats for porridge for practically everyone else—in an effort to catch up to his quarry.

  Jake hurriedly turned up the next aisle, and found himself within earshot of the elusive figure he’d spotted earlier—or so he thought.

  “Bob?” he ventured in a voice pitched low enough not to draw the attention of perfect strangers. But it was no use. The white-haired figure in front of him simply continued his own shopping in his comfortable, unhurried pace.

  “Bob! Hey Bob! Jake repeated, louder now.

  Eventually, finally the older man stopped, turned, and broke into a broad smile.

  “Jake! Is that you?” Bob Jesperson extended his hand and began pumping Jake’s own with evident, unabashed pleasure. “How are you feeling? Did you ever come back to work, finally?”

  Jake nodded, and began looking his old work partner up and down. Bob’s lively blue eyes were unchanged, but something about his glasses had. A horizontal line now crossed the lenses, partially obscuring Bob’s beaming blue eyes. Bifocals, Jake realized.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, but the doc wouldn’t let me go back underground, so I’m at the smelter now. Been there for a while now. But what about you? Still at Frood?”

  At first Bob, who now seemed frailer than Jake remembered him, and slightly stooped, leaned in toward Jake. “Eh?”

  Jake swallowed, felt dismayed, and was beginning to repeat his question when Bob, at last, responded.

  “Naw, they force adjusted me out to Levack.”

  “Levack?” Jake was stunned by the news. The mine at Levack was a good forty-five minute drive from Sudbury on a notoriously treacherous highway. “Levack! Wow! Helluva drive out there, huh?

  “Eh?” Again the man who’d taught Jake the art and science of mining seemed to have trouble hearing him.

  “Oh. Yeah the drive’s a bugger, for sure.”

  “Especially in winter.”

  “Especially in the winter for sure,” Bob affirmed solemnly.

  “What’s it like down there now, Bob? You know, working underground?”

  Jake’s former mentor smiled ruefully at the question. “Ever’thing’s changed, Jake. You’d hardly recognize the place. There’s way fewer men than there used to be. . .” Bob shook his head, deep in thought.

  “. . .It’s the new machinery we got now. . .You wouldn’t believe these new jumbos, and there’s scoops don’t even need drivers! Trammers stand off to one side and run ‘em by remote control, just by pushing around this one button attached to a controller box attached to their belt, somethin’ they call a ‘joy stick’! Damndest thing!”

  Jake had heard of such things, which were much ballyhooed by the Company, whose Public Affairs Department loved to tout all the latest technological advances in its operations. These wondrous new devices were so photogenic! That they often also led to the elimination of jobs wholesale while at the same time boosting both productivity and profitability was a factoid there was no great need to mention, but behind closed doors in Copper Cliff and the Albany Club this was bruited, and all those in the know agreed that the overall calculus computed perfectly.

  13

  Lock, Stock and Barrel

  Just as they had agreed, both Harry Wardell and Reginald McSorley-Winston worked hard to hastily convene a meeting of key players—except the Company—concerned with conditions at the Copper Cliff smelter.

  The meeting was held at a splendidly appointed board room in an historic limestone tower facing the Legislative Assembly known as the Whitney Block. All McSorley-Winston’s Deputy Ministers were there, along with many of their Assistant Deputy Ministers, also known as ADMs. Facing this solemn, highly paid assemblage across the imposing hardwood table that had been burnished and polished to a warm, nearly reflective sheen were the two lone Sudbury reps, the gangly Wardell and the rumpled Samson, who looked as if he had just emerged from a cramped, turbulent flight from Sudbury, which he had.

  Once they were all seated McSorley-Winston called the meeting to order, and after a brief round of introductions, he re-stated the purpose of the meeting.

  “Paul and Harry, I wanted to kick off this thing by sharing with you a letter that contains a written statement of our latest and best thoughts on the matter at hand.”

  With that, the Minister slid each of them an official-looking document, printed on Ministry stationary, that had been typed out in dense, single-spaced text blocks. The verbiage was so lengthy that it couldn’t fit onto a single page. A second page was attached.

  Wardell glanced at his copy with studied indifference, in an effort not to appear impolite to McSorley-Winston and his minions. He flipped over the top page out of idle curiosity to see who had signed such a weighty missive and found McSorley-Winston’s signature, penned with its usual flourish.

  Samson, on the other hand, picked up the document and began reading with intense interest.

  Soon after Harry felt a tapping on the top of his right foot. It was Samson, signalling him surreptitiously under the table. Harry cast a subtle sidelong glance at his friend. With a barely discernible motion with his head, the Steelworker nodded at the door—signalling he wanted to meet with Wardell in private.

  Harry cleared his throat. “Will you gentlemen excuse us for a moment?”

  While clearly nonplussed at this unexpected delay in his meeting, McSorley-Winston had no choice but to comply. He smiled icily at Harry. “Certainly.”

  Samson grabbed his briefcase and the Ministry statement letter off the table and the duo made a hasty exit. Once they were clear of McSorley-Winston and his clique, Samson excitedly fished a paper from his briefcase and laid it on a table next to the Ministry’s newly-released statement.

  “I knew it, I just knew it!” Samson exclaimed. “I’m seeing it, Harry, but I’m not believing it! Here! L
ook here! And here and here!”

  The union man was pointing to several paragraphs mid-way down the Ministry’s document.

  “Do you remember me telling you I wrote the Company a letter weeks ago, and all I got was a vanilla letter in reply?”

  Wardell nodded. “Sure I do, Paul, but what’s this all about?”

  “Just look, Harry! Compare these two, tell me what you see! I knew I’d read this before!” Samson was pointing at the Ministry document, so bland it had bored Harry to tears. But now he bent over the letter on Inco letterhead, squinting at it for the very first time.

  It was addressed to Paul Samson, United Steelworkers of America, (and was copied, Wardell noted, to the Ministry’s District Engineer in Sudbury), and it purported to address “union complaints regarding gas and dust conditions in the Roaster Building of our Copper Cliff smelter. . .”

  “Due to the nature of roasting and smelting operations and despite thorough and continuing maintenance procedures, conditions involving high SO2 readings do occur from time to time in areas of the Roaster building. As the process is continuous. . . it is necessary to keep equipment operating despite these conditions. . .”

  Wardell switched his attention to the Ministry’s letter, where he found the very same words. The conclusions were also identical: “It would appear therefore that the conditions are highly exaggerated [by the union’s health and safety monitors] and that the complaints are not justified.” Suddenly the light came on, and Harry’s jaw dropped. “You mean?. . .”

  Samson, who was bouncing up and down with excitement, nodded. “Word for fucking word, Harry!”

  Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You mean they didn’t even change the punctuation?”

  “Nope! The Ministry didn’t even bother to re-write the Company’s reply to me! I guess the District Engineer bumped it up here to the Park, and the Ministry just copied it over.”

  “What should we do now, Harry?”

  Wardell’s mind was racing at Samson’s revelation, still trying to fathom its full ramifications.

  “Just leave this to me, Paul. I’ll take care of it. Let’s go back in. Just leave these right here,” Harry pointed to the incriminating documents on the table.

  “Sure, Harry.” And with that the Steelworker activist led the way back into the boardroom.

  Samson returned to his seat, but Harry did not. Instead he paused directly behind McSorley-Winston, who was sitting with his back to the door they’d just entered.

  Wardell placed his hand gently on the Minister’s shoulder. “Reg, could I speak with you for a moment in private, please?”

  Startled, McSorley-Winston turned around awkwardly in his seat in an attempt to see Harry, who towered over him. “What? Oh. Sure, Harry.”

  The two men left the boardroom and were immediately standing over the documents which Samson and Wardell had scrutinized just moments before. Wardell spoke first.

  “Since you signed it, Reg, I’m assuming that you read the contents of the Ministry’s official position regarding conditions inside the Copper Cliff smelter.”

  The Minister shot the Sudbury MPP a sharp “why-are-you-restating-the-obvious-I’m-a-busy-man” glance before shrugging. “Sure.”

  “Well then I’d ask you to look over this other document from the Company, which spells out its own position regarding conditions inside the Copper Cliff smelter.”

  At this McSorley-Winston frowned. “What? Harry, I really don’t see the point—oh, very well.”

  Wardell began to grin as McSorley-Winston began to read. “Notice anything familiar, Reg?”

  At first the Minister was silent as he read the Inco letter, but then, almost despite himself, he began to look back and forth between the two documents. As Wardell’s point sank in, McSorley-Winston’s neck began to redden just above his necktie. Soon the flush had risen to his face. “Well, yes, I do see a certain similarity here, but, so wh—“

  “Similarity?” Wardell thundered, cutting McSorley-Winston off. “They’re bloody well the same! You know that and I know that. You signed off on Inco’s own appraisal of its own affairs! The very workplace you’re supposed to be inspecting, that you’re standing up in the House and telling the people of this province that you’re regulating on their behalf, you let the company hacks in Copper Cliff write your own press release, don’t change a word, not one comma, and you expect anyone to believe there’s an honest, arm’s length relationship here? You’re right in the Company’s pocket, Reg, and this proves it! Dead to rights!”

  Wardell lowered his voice. “You know it, and I know it, Reg, but no on else has to.”

  McSorley-Winston’s face had turned a beet red.

  “But, but,” he sputtered, “you don’t mean—” he stood up tall to confront Wardell, a shorter man struggling to regain both his stature and his dignity. “Why Harry, that’s blackmail! You! Threatening me, a Minister of the Crown?? Really, Harry, I had thought much better of you.”

  “Why you arrogant little son-of-a-bitch!” Wardell was in McSorley-Winston’s face now, spittle flying, startling the smaller man with such vehemence at such close quarters. “My constituents spend eight hours a day in that shit hole, eating that dust and breathing that gas to the point they even start bleeding from their mouths and noses! You reassured the House, the news media, anyone who’d listen you had this file well in hand! What an embarrassment to you, to the whole government, even to the Premier, if this ever got out.”

  Wardell paused to let his words sink in. For his part McSorley-Winston was scrambling for cover, but there was none. Wardell was right. His own political future, his dream of a Party leadership bid when the Old Man stepped down that would make him—should he win, of course—Premier-designate of Ontario almost overnight, the Right Honourable Reginald McSorley-Winston, it had such a ring! Why, the thing would love to happen—and now this. The Tory Minister’s shoulders sagged, and he heaved a sigh of resignation. “All right, Wardell, what do you want?”

  Harry smiled at the realization that he and the Minister of Natural Resources were, it seemed, no longer on a first name basis. He held up the forefinger of his right hand. “All right. First, the government introduces stringent annualized maximum atmospheric emission levels for SO2.”

  He held up another finger. “Second, the Ministry sets up round-the-clock monitoring stations for ambient air quality and especially SO2 at the following locations in my riding.” Wardell began enumerating with the remaining fingers of his right hand for emphasis. “One, the Pearl Street water tower, two, the Regent Street water tower, SO2 levels not to exceed certain clearly stated and agreed to parts per million, any and all violations punishable by law.”

  McSorley-Winston nodded hypnotically at each of Wardell’s points. Wouldn’t this uncouth baboon ever run out of fingers? Even if he did, the Ontario Minister of Natural Resources half expected this loutish northern upstart to remove his shoes and socks to begin counting on his toes.

  “Three,” Harry continued happily, “a continuous atmospheric monitoring station to be established on the roof of the Post Office building, corner of Elm and Durham Streets, downtown Sudbury.”

  “Four . . .”

  PART THREE

  Epilogue

  14

  All the Way to Sweden

  Within seventy-two months of Harry Wardell’s confrontation with Reginald McSorley-Winston the Conservative-led government of Ontario introduced legislation stringently limiting atmospheric sulphur dioxide emissions in the province.

  The legislation included establishment of continuous sulphur dioxide monitoring stations in and around downtown Sudbury.

  Inco struggled to comply with mandated ground-level sulphur dioxide concentration limits in the Sudbury area, and, in the early 1970s, began construction of a huge smokestack to waft the toxic smelter fumes well away from the Nickel Capital.

  The gigantic one-thousand-two-hundred-fifty-foot-high smokestack, soon dubbed “the superstack,” was opposed by th
e Research Committee of Steelworkers Local 6500, which argued that it did nothing to solve the ultimate problem: industrial air pollution.

  The superstack did, however, function as intended, protecting Sudbury and its residents from sulphur dioxide air pollution. The sulphur plume from the superstack was traced as far away as Sweden, and it was soon blamed for creating “acid rain,” which led to the acidification of many lakes in Ontario’s Muskoka region, a recreational area prized by many members of Ontario’s elite, including the Premier and Frank Blaney, Managing Editor of The Globe and Mail.

  Soon pinpointed as the largest single source of sulphur dioxide emissions in the Western Hemisphere, the superstack, and Inco’s Copper Cliff smelter, quickly became an issue in U.S.-Canada negotiations to resolve the growing problem of acid rain, which threatened freshwater lakes in both countries.

  In the early 1980s then-U.S. President Ronald Reagan and then-Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney signed a bilateral agreement severely curtailing the air pollutants that caused acid rain.

  As the result of the treaty, acid rain was attenuated, and lake acidification was reversed. Many see the acid rain treaty as a template for a potential global agreement on climate change in the twenty-first century.

  In Sudbury the superstack, along with an aggressive effort to neutralize soil acidification, has resulted in the city earning global renown as a leader in healing industrially-damaged landscapes. The city’s “lunar landscape” is no more.

  Acclaimed Canadian author Margaret Atwood, a frequent visitor to Sudbury, now cites the city as a living example of the potential of human agency to combat such seemingly intractable environmental problems as climate change. “You should see what they’ve done in Sudbury,” she tells audiences all over the world. “If they can do it there we can do it anywhere. . .”