Beach Reading

by Lorne Elliott

  At the back of the hall the Arsenaults looked up and flushed under the attention, unaware till now of this connection with Wallace, which was understandable considering that it was entirely fabricated for the occasion.

  “Very good, Mr. MacAkern,” said Ben Malone. “And now, if you would be so kind as to come to the podium, I will tell you when to start your opening remarks.”

  Robert Logan Head, seated with a clipboard on his knee, drew out from his inside pocket reading glasses and put them on his nose, then extracted an expensive looking pen, removed the cap and looked up, ready to take notes. Wallace stood up and walked empty-handed to the podium.

  “First, then, we will hear from independent candidate Wallace MacAkern.” There was applause, then quiet. “I’m starting your three minutes…now.”

  “What you’re all here for,” said Wallace, “is the debate.” He looked around for agreement and seemed to receive it. “And I have far too much respect for your time to waste it with the usual political platitudes. (I’ll let my honourable opponent supply those.) So what do you say we let him drone on for a bit, then we’ll get to the good stuff?” And he turned, walked back and sat down.

  Ben Malone got to his feet. “All right, then…And…my, that was fast, Mr. MacAkern. Mr. Head, are you ready?”

  Robert Logan Head had been taken off-guard. He fumbled with his papers and the reading glasses around his neck.

  “Need some help?” said Wallace.

  “No, no,” said Head. He got to his feet, dropped a paper, picked it up, walked to the podium, coughed and took a drink of water. Ben Malone introduced him and he received applause.

  “As any Islander will tell you,” he started, “Islanders have a long history of helping fellow Islanders. It’s the Island way. And on the Island, as all Islanders know, any fellow Islander, be they from the west of the Island or the centre of the Island or here on the dear eastern part of the Island, well, if Islanders know anything, they know that the Island is above all our home. On the last Island Day, do you know where I was?”

  “The mainland?” said Wallace loudly. There was laughter.

  Ben Malone made to intervene but Robert Logan Head answered back, “No, Mr. MacAkern. I was on the Island.”

  “Which one? Bermuda?” said Wallace, which struck home neatly. Two winters before, when PEI was snowbound after a massive storm, Robert Logan Head had sent a television message to his constituents saying that he wished he was back on PEI at this time to help out. The message was sent from an oak-lined room which was strongly implied to have been in Ottawa, but as it turned out the segment had been videotaped in the Governor’s mansion in Bermuda, where Head was vacationing. When this was revealed there were strong anti-Head mutterings on the Island, and the name “Bermuda Bob” had started to gain currency.

  “No interruptions, Mr. MacAkern,” said Ben Malone.

  “Sorry, Ben,” said Wallace. “This is my first debate.”

  I looked at the crowd. Everybody in the room was smiling. And I understood something about Wallace then, the source of his political capital: people liked him.

  “The candidate will refrain from further commenting.”

  “Absolutely,” said Wallace. Which he absolutely refrained from doing, although as soon as Head started to speak again, Wallace’s body language yelled volumes. Within thirty seconds of Robert Logan Head’s starting in again on his speech, Wallace had adopted a look of accepting patience, which gradually turned to an expression that said that with all the good-will in the world, he found it impossible to pay attention to such non-stop thudding boredom and frankly unbelievable nonsense. He looked at his watch, held it to his ear to see if it was possible that it was still running. He shook it, tapped it, then assumed that it was doing its job and forgot about it, folding his arms and adopting a mildly contemptuous air. After a few heavy sighs, Wallace then slumped in his chair, crossed his legs, recrossed them, adjusted his position a few more times, then opened his jaw and moved it around like a boa constrictor swallowing a sheep, in a yawn that threatened to suck out all the oxygen in the room. Finished, he settled back, folded his arms again, leant his chin against his chest, and started blinking rapidly as though only a monumental effort of the will was keeping him awake. Then he seemed to succumb to the inevitable, and you could see him lose the battle with himself, close his eyes for several moments, snap them open, try to pull himself together, find it impossible, and then close his eyes finally as though for good. There were stirrings in the audience as they wondered whether they should wake him up, but just as attention was shifting back away from this beautifully executed sideshow toward Robert Logan Head, a snore like ripping canvas shook the hall, and seemed to wake Wallace himself. Audience, Ben Malone and Head all turned to look at him. “Sorry,” said Wallace. “Continue.”

  “No, that’s all I have to say,” said Robert Logan Head, his big tag line at the end of his speech ruined.

  Wallace got to his feet and approached the podium. He looked at the audience. He looked at Robert Logan Head. “Fascinating speech,” he said, and the audience tittered.

  “Now,” said Ben Malone. “If Mr. Head would approach the other podium we can move to the one-on-one portion of the debate starting with a question from Mr. Head.”

  “I would like to ask Mr. MacAkern why he is even running, since anybody that votes for him will be simply throwing away their vote.”

  “That,” said Wallace, “is a circumlocutious tautology.”

  “It is not a…what?”

  “In essence, all you are saying is that nobody will vote for me because nobody will vote for me. And it makes the a priori assumption that you will get more votes than me.”

  “We will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Historically, an independent has never won in Barrisway riding.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, why have an election at all? I mean why not just say that since the Liberals have ‘historically’ won here, we should just give it to them? Are you saying that anybody who votes for the Conservatives are ‘throwing away their vote’?”

  “Certainly not. I’m saying…”

  “Because if so, it sounds as though you have quite a bit of contempt for democracy.”

  “Nonsense. But Mr. MacAkern, if you are so innocent of the electoral process…”

  “Innocent is exactly what I am,” said Wallace. “And you, sir, are guilty of it.”

  I’m not sure what that meant, exactly, but it seemed to complete the exchange, and both Head and Wallace backed off from their initial parry and thrust. Ben Malone said, “Mr. MacAkern has the floor.”

  “I hardly know where to start,” said Wallace. “But first of all, in the interest of hospitality, maybe we should say that Barrisway riding is truly honoured tonight with the presence of the Conservative campaign manager, Mr. Leo Murdoch, who amongst other things has carved out a successful career as best-selling author Ward Morris. I think it would be very welcoming if everybody were to give him a hand.”

  Leo Murdoch had been sitting in the shadows off to our side with his hand to his chin. He acknowledged the applause, but didn’t rise, just lifted his hand as though he was too shy to do anything else, and then kept his hand up to his lower face.

  “Maybe he could say a few words about how he wrote that truly fine book So You Want To Be An MP?”

  Head broke in. “This is hardly the place to discuss what is after all a work of pure satirical fiction.”

  “Suit yourself. I just thought we should mention it.”

  “Well, if you are going to bring up our staff, I should bring up yours,” said Head. “Bailey Hendershott, for instance.”

  “Absolutely! Bailey. Take a bow.” Wallace looked out. Bailey behaved in almost exactly the same way as Murdoch.

  “Particularly in light of certain rumours and allegations about him which are
circulating.”

  “Of course those rumours are circulating. You started them!”

  “Now, Mr. MacAkern, that’s hardly a fair accusation.”

  “Neither is yours, unless you abandon the presumption of innocence. And anyway,” said Wallace. “I wasn’t attacking what’s-his-name…Leo Murdoch, Ward Morris (I’m sorry, I’m bad with names)… As far as I know, there’s nothing to attack. But since you seem intent on slagging our staff, maybe I should return the compliment by mentioning, oh I don’t know, say, Barry Rattray…”

  “We responded to that situation immediately and we can in no ways be held responsible for it. So let’s move on.”

  “Suits me,” said Wallace, “Although that’s a bit rough on Barry isn’t it? I mean where’s your sense of loyalty?”

  “In keeping with our tough-on-crime policy, we in the Conservative Party have no tolerance for, or loyalty to, anyone who would break the law.”

  “Supposing he wasn’t guilty.”

  “I have personally reviewed the dossier and after a thorough examination of the facts I am satisfied that justice has been administered.”

  “Not thoroughly enough apparently. I heard that when the evidence was finally examined, it turned out the bottles were filled with nothing but brown pond water.”

  You could see that this new information came as a surprise to Robert Logan Head. He stopped, looked offstage at Leo Murdoch, who looked back with nothing. “Well…I’d have to look at the dossier to see about that…” said Head.

  “I thought you already ‘thoroughly examined’ that dossier.”

  “As I say, we’ll have to look into the matter.”

  “So there we have it,” said Wallace. “A perfect example of where being tough on crime gets you. A loyal employee, working in your own office, for godsakes, finds himself up on charges of buying bootleg liquor, and was immediately and falsely accused by you…”

  “It was the police who…”

  “…I am saying that he was falsely accused to the extent of you firing him from your organization. Where he had blamelessly volunteered out of his own free will! I mean to say, if that’s what you do to your own people who are dedicating their time to try to help you, well, God help the rest of us with your tough-on-crime policy.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. MacAkern, but aren’t you doing the same thing?”

  “Same thing as what?”

  “Aren’t you now making unfounded accusations about us?”

  “So you admit that it was an unfounded accusation?”

  “What was?”

  “Your insinuations about my good friend and campaign manager Bailey Hendershott.

  Head took a deep breath and backed off. “Insinuations?” he said. “I was merely trying to make the point that….Look. Forget the rumours…”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  “…And move on to some more important topic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like jobs, the number one priority of our Government, whose very campaign slogan is ‘Jobs, jobs, jobs.’”

  “And if you create two more you’ll have filled your mandate?”

  This got a laugh from everybody except Robert Logan Head.

  “Very humourous, Mr. MacAkern, but I imagine you wouldn’t find it so funny if you were one of the unemployed.”

  “I am one of the unemployed,” said Wallace.

  “Yeah, well, if you…were…” You could see him trying to bluster his way out of the hole he had dug, and he went on the attack. “If you’re too lazy to try to get work…” and then realized what he was saying. Too late. He looked at Leo Murdoch, who looked back, absolutely still.

  “Oh? ‘Lazy’ is it?” said Wallace. “So that’s the reason the unemployment figures are so high? We’re too ‘lazy’. It’s our fault that the jobs aren’t here? Take note, my friends,” he addressed the audience. “They promise the jobs, they get jobs themselves by claiming that there will be jobs, but when the jobs aren’t there, it’s we who are too ‘lazy’ to find them. We just aren’t looking hard enough. Apparently what we should be doing is hopping into our cars (which we all own thanks to the huge pay-cheques we’ve all been receiving), then taking the ferry across to the mainland to New Brunswick where jobs grow on trees, oh, no, that’s not true. I remember now. Moncton riding, thanks to the Conservative candidate there, has a job market which is about the same as ours, and so I guess we’ll have to continue down the highway to Fredericton, where, oops! Same thing, sorry. It seems we’re going to have to keep moving up the Saint John Valley until Edmundston and then Riviere-du-Loup where the numbers are, in fact, slightly higher, but then they elected an independent candidate, Manny Poirier, if I’m not mistaken. No, Mr. Head. I was up at six this morning preparing for this debate (although I was not paid to do so, as you were), because thanks to eight years of Conservative and Liberal misrule, it is, in this way only, that I at least have a twenty-five percent chance of getting a job, which is better than what your mismanagement of the Island economy has delivered to the ‘dear eastern side of the Island.’” There was some applause but Wallace did not act in any way triumphant. “Thank you,” he said to the audience, and then as though with great grace, he added, “But I don’t want to demonize my respected colleague, the Right Honourable Richard Logan Head…”

  “Robert,” corrected Head. It wasn’t much, a minor slip, but you could see Head wondering if he could use it as part of a handhold to start climbing back.

  Wallace didn’t seem to register. “I reiterate, I have nothing personally against Richard Logan Head…”

  “That’s Robert,” said Head, his eyes brightening a little. Wallace, as he had just admitted, had always had a problem with names, but it was beginning to get embarrassing as he ploughed on unlistening.

  “It’s the policies that Richard is espousing that are so damaging to the already fragile Island economy.”

  “Robert,” corrected Head again with a well-played concern that perhaps we were dealing with some sort of serious mental defective. The audience glanced at each other too. “But as to the point you’re trying to make, I, of course, disagree.”

  “As is your right, under that most sacred of documents, the Canadian Bill of Rights, which is after all the basis of our society, along with civil discourse, without which the tenor of politics is lowered, the quality of debate is debased, language is corrupted, and wit becomes non-existent.” As his words took on a life of their own, Wallace straightened up, seemingly unaware of the subtle shift in power away from him. “When I am elected Member of Parliament for Barrisway riding, let me pledge here, that if I can do one service to my constituency and to the Canadian people it will be to bring back to Parliament the grand old days when people followed what was happening in their country partly, of course, because it affected their lives, but also because it was where the most sense was on display. Wouldn’t that be a good thing, Richard?” said Wallace. “I hope I can call you Richard?..”

  “Robert…”

  “…There’s no reason why we should be enemies, is there? I may despise what you stand for while still considering you, as a human being, a friend and colleague. And so I extend my hand and let me say, please, call me Wallace. Or why not let’s be even more familiar? Call me Wally…” and he held out his hand… “And please allow me to call you my good friend, Richard…”

  “Excuse me…” Robert Logan Head started, smiling openly now in anticipation of the blow he was about to deliver, but Wallace marched on, cutting him off.

  “…No,” he corrected himself, “that’s still not familiar enough. Let me here, for the sake of the good-will upon which our society rests, publicly shake your hand and call you my good friend…Dick Head.”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Nobody breathed. The only faint sound was through the walls of the Legion and the intervening space beside the building where, from
the not-quite-soundproof-enough Mobile Media Truck, there erupted muffled joyful yelps of disbelief at what they had just heard.

  On stage, Wallace stood innocently with his hand out, and The Right Honourable Robert Logan Head, with a sallow smile on his face, wondering what had just happened to him, extended his hand tentatively and took Wallace’s in a weak clasp. Wallace played it beautifully, with a bland waiting smile of innocence, absolutely sure that he was doing the gentlemanly thing.

  “That’s Robert,” Head corrected.

  “Sorry?” Wallace asked politely.

  “My name is Robert.”

  “What did I call you?” Wallace was all contrition, lest he have committed some unpardonable faux pas.

  “You called me ‘Dick.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “‘Dick!’ You called me ‘Dick Head.’”

  “Dick Head?” repeated Wallace

  “Yes! Now, let’s…”

  “I don’t think so. Did I?” he looked out at the audience who were nodding and smiling, understanding exactly what he was doing.

  “Yes. Dick Head! You called me that.”

  Wallace looked convincingly befuddled. “Robert it is then.” And in a stage whisper that everybody could hear, he muttered to nobody in particular. “A bit sensitive, isn’t he?”

  It was very infantile, and extremely effective.

  A fissure appeared in Robert Logan Head’s smooth façade, and I glimpsed a scorpion in his eyes as he withdrew the next knife from his sheath.

  “Your uncle, correct me if I’m wrong, is Lennie MacAckern?”

  At the mention of the name the mood of the room shifted suddenly and a low seething mutter emitted from the audience. Wallace didn’t even seem to hear it.

  “Smooth Lennie?” he said. “That old bastard (excuse my French). Everybody still wonders what happened to him. He still owes money to more than one person around here, myself included.”

  “But let me get this right. He is your uncle?”

  “Sure. Or was. Like I say. Nobody knows what happened to him. You wouldn’t happen to have heard, would you?”