Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(9)
Members were sifting in now, a few cabinet ministers, Tory backbenchers, the Official Opposition New Democrats, the two dozen Liberals who’d survived the last election, and the handful of Bloc Québécois separatists.
Her own rump group of Green MPs were taking their places behind her. Just three of them, including the whip-smart Indigenous-rights lawyer Jennie Withers, who remained a loyal friend and colleague even while many in the party were rooting for a leadership review. Of course, we all love Margaret. But her sass, her confrontational style — isn’t that holding us back just a little?
Yes, she was confrontational. A couple of thin-skinned ministers had threatened defamation suits; Margaret had had to bow to legal advice and apologize to them publicly. Pundits liked to claim she lacked the give-and-take that greased the machinery of politics. The Conservative strategy was to portray her as anti-growth, anti-industry, against jobs, a downsizer. But she was anti-growth, damn it. There was precious little room to grow on this shrinking, resource-depleted planet. Sustain did not mean grow. The far right had co-opted the word but not the philosophy of sustainability, corrupting it into a flabby oxymoron: sustainable growth.
Wally Hognut, retired grain dealer, Member for Gopher Springs, but more popularly known as Member for Monsanto, rose from his seat. He was proud to introduce twelve members of a 4-H club who had helped a widow bring in her Roundup-ready soybean harvest.
Next up was the Member for Bay d’Espoir, seeking recognition for a foolhardy fellow who’d miraculously survived a plunge into the Cabot Strait while flying an ultralight from Newfoundland to Nova Scotia.
The Member for Trout River sought to introduce a constituent who’d won a Rhodes scholarship, but forgot her name. There was an embarrassing interlude while he scrambled through his notes.
Margaret’s mind returned to Arthur. She should phone him tonight. Their parting a week ago had been incomplete, unsatisfactory, with long stretches of silence on the way to the ferry, then the ritual exchange of affection.
Seats were quickly filling for Question Period. There were a hundred and fifty on the government side, five more than the opposition across the aisle. Another non-confidence motion was expected next week. Would the Liberals, afraid of being wiped off the electoral map, wimp out again, and make sure six or seven of them were absent for the vote? Their previous administration, desperate, mired in corruption, had gambled on a snap vote in the last election, and got punished by losing 131 seats.
The NDP leader rose: Charlie Moss, with his moss-like beard and constant frown, a quick-tempered brawler, a dogged debater, but a seeker of the middle way, a reluctant socialist, touchy about that label, which the Conservatives enjoyed tagging him with as if it was an insult.
“A question for the Transport Minister. Given this government’s oft-stated pledge to end the corruption that infested the previous administration, when will it come clean on the Montreal Mafia’s infiltration of the marine division of Transport Canada?”
The minister stood. “May I remind the Honourable Leader of the Opposition that the matter is in the hands of police authorities. As a lawyer, my learned socialist friend must know it is grossly improper to comment on a case that is going to trial.”
The usual escape hatch. “Hear, hear,” came the Tory chorus.
The port scandal — Waterfrontgate, the media called it — involved a grab-bag of small-time politicians in Greater Montreal, but had spread virus-like to mid-level federal brass. All were out on bail, along with prominent underworld figures.
Margaret stood as the Speaker recognized the Member for Cowichan and the Islands. “Question for the Honourable Minister of the Environment. Given that the proposed Coast Mountains Pipeline would indelibly scar some of the most majestic wilderness on Planet Earth, with a hundred percent statistical likelihood of spills of toxic bitumen, will this government finally find the courage to withdraw its enabling legislation and stop playing lickspittle to the multinational profiteers whose exploitation of Alberta’s tar sands has become a blot on this nation’s once-proud international reputation?”
It may have been the longest rhetorical question in Parliamentary history, but she’d got it out — though found herself panting like a greyhound at the finish line.
Emil Farquist rose with a look of weary resignation. “That the honourable member’s no-growth platform has been rejected by the vast majority of Canadians is reflected in the paucity of support her party earns in the polls. Canadians know that this government will continue to be dedicated to protection of the environment, while at the same time promoting responsible development to ensure the economic well-being of all.”
Applause, table-thumping.
Margaret wasn’t finished. “Supplemental, Mr. Speaker. How can the minister, who is a covert climate-change denier and has spent his entire career in bed with big oil and has never demonstrated the slightest interest in nature — how does he dare talk about protecting the environment when he’s taken a sledgehammer to every bit of environmental protection that this country once enjoyed?”
Applause from the Opposition side, catcalls from across the way.
“Mr. Speaker, the Green leader’s last breathless speech yielded at least four blatant falsehoods, among them an accusation that I am without feeling for nature. I should like her to know that during the annual Easter bird count in Jasper National Park, I identified twenty-three species of over-wintering and early spring arrivals.”