The Insatiable Maw

by Mick Lowe

  But the man Jake had rescued died a few days later in hospital. His was an agonizing, lingering death. Like so many second- and third-degree burn victims, he succumbed, eventually, to infection. The man who took the fatal shortcut would not be remembered by name, but rather for the image of a shrinking man running for his life, just one more blood sacrifice to the insatiable maw of the Copper Cliff smelter.

  PART TWO

  Arms to Parley

  6

  Sudbury Goes to Queen’s Park

  Harry Wardell strode confidently, even eagerly, toward the doors of the legislative assembly. As he patted the pocket of his suit coat he felt the reassuring rustle of the CN/CP flimsy there, and suppressed a smile. A few hours earlier he’d attended the daily nine-thirty caucus meeting at which the day’s questions for Question Period were selected. They were always lively affairs, what with each of the delegation’s members jostling and contending to have his or her question chosen to occupy that day’s precious allotment of time to grill the premier and his cabinet over the issues that most affected the province. Although somewhat leery of the process—questions that had been vetted by the party and House leaders would be discreetly shared in advance with the relevant minister and his staff before the start of Question Period so that the minister in question could be briefed—Wardell had argued passionately on the importance of exposing the deplorable conditions in and around the Copper Cliff smelter. He had not, however, felt obliged to divulge the existence, much less the contents, of the telex from his Sudbury informant that he carried with him now.

  Wardell had his quarry firmly in sight—Reginald McSorley-Winston, the Minister of Mines. Handsome, lantern-jawed and the possessor of a perennial tan even during the darkest days of another gloomy Ontario winter, McSorley-Winston was the son of a wealthy Bay Street banker. He was born and bred to rule, raised in the tony Toronto neighbourhood of Rosedale, educated at the very best schools—Upper Canada College, the elite private boys’ school, the University of Toronto’s most exclusive colleges—all just blocks away from these legislative precincts, all of this was the locus of power for Ontario’s ruling elite. McSorley-Winston was a denizen of these waters in which Wardell, a rank outsider from the boonies of Northern Ontario, was just beginning to swim.

  Ever the gentleman, and doubtless aware Wardell represented the largest mining municipality in the province, McSorley-Winston had greeted the newcomer from the north cordially enough, welcoming him warmly to the cozy old boys’ club where power was exercised in the province of Ontario.

  But, Wardell thought grimly, he was no gentleman, as McSorley-Winston was about to discover. Within minutes the benches and galleries were full, the Speaker had called the session to order, and Question Period had begun to unfold like the well-choreographed dance it was. Wardell impatiently awaited his turn.

  At last the Speaker recognized the leader of Wardell’s party who rose to ask his question of the premier. As usual the House was restive, with jeers and catcalls flowing freely on both sides of the aisle. It was a level of disrespect, bordering on hooliganism, that no elementary school classroom teacher would tolerate, but the Speaker, long accustomed to the lack of parliamentary decorum, only frowned. What did it matter, after all? No cameras or microphones were allowed in the chamber and Hansard, the official parliamentary record, would contain only the verbatim text of the questions, and the answers. The richly bound volumes, which would be passed down to posterity, would offer no hint of the infantile behaviour that accompanied the otherwise sombre conduct of the people’s business.

  The ever-smiling premier deftly side-stepped the question from “the leader of the third party,” a slap in the face of Wardell’s own party. As it generally did, the left-of-centre party had finished third in a three-horse race in the last election, an old wound the premier and his far more conservative cronies never tired of re-opening. The premier concluded his long-winded non-answer to the accompaniment of the usual rousing cheers and desk-thumping of his back benches and sat down, basking in the warm glow of approbation that rang from the gilt-encrusted ceiling of the Edwardian-era legislative chamber of Canada’s most populous and richest province.

  Now it was his turn to ask his maiden question in the House, and Harry Wardell nervously gulped a few swallows from a glass of water.

  “The Chair recognizes the Honourable Member from Sudbury,” the Speaker intoned, and Wardell, clearing his throat and buttoning his suit coat, rose to speak, his long frame unfolding rather like a snake uncoiling, about to strike.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. My question is for the Honourable Minister of Mines. Would he be good enough to tell us how the government polices the conditions in the metal smelters in this province and over which his Ministry has jurisdiction?”

  McSorley-Winston, smiling grandly and breezily handsome as ever beneath his leonine mane of silver hair, rose in his place. He turned slightly to address the Speaker before turning to face Wardell. “Through you, Mr. Speaker. As the Honourable Member for Sudbury knows, our province is one of the leading mineral-producing jurisdictions in all of North America. . . as such, all mining, smelting, and refining activity in our province is overseen by inspectors from our Mines Safety Branch, which is charged with enforcing the provisions of the Ontario Mining Act, the statute regulating all mining activity in our province. . . I’m happy to say these inspectors are highly qualified professionals who do their utmost to ensure that Ontario’s mines, mills and smelters are among the safest and most modern anywhere in the world.” McSorley-Winston, well pleased with his answer, shot Wardell a broad smile. His white teeth, set off by his impeccable silver hair and deep tan were dazzling.

  Wardell was on his feet almost immediately. “I’m sure we are all reassured, Mr. Speaker, to learn of the top drawer inspection services the Minister of Mines speaks so highly of. But I do have a supplementary regarding just that, Mr. Speaker. Can the Minister also assure us that his inspectors operate always in an arms-length manner regarding the companies they’re charged with inspecting?”

  McSorley-Winston sprang to his feet, but this time Wardell thought he detected a slight frown beneath the smug smile. “Why yes, Mr. Speaker our highly-trained and ever-professional inspection staff always operate with the best interests of our province’s public in mind, as opposed to the owners and operators of Ontario’s mines, mills and smelters.”

  As the Minister of Mines resumed his seat Wardell could feel a subtle sea change in the room. It might have been a rookie’s imagination, but Wardell could have sworn there was a diminution in the hub-bub that perpetually filled the air of the grand old room. In the press gallery especially, the spectators, sensing that something was afoot, leaned forward eagerly to hear what was about to transpire.

  Wardell was on his feet again, but this time the broad grin was on his face. “Always, Mr. Speaker? Always? Because I have it on good authority that as recently as yesterday the ‘highly trained inspection staff’ were at work in Inco’s Copper Cliff smelter just outside Sudbury, conducting their diligent inspection but only after calling in advance to alert the company that such an inspection was coming!”

  Here Wardell paused, partly to gather himself and partly for dramatic effect, and as he did so he bent his lanky frame low and forward over his desk. It was a visually arresting sight—a dangerous vituperative creature about to strike—and it was not lost on the press gallery. Now here was something novel, something new. The usual snide, cynical asides fell silent for once. Almost despite themselves, they were intent on what Wardell would say next.

  The member for Sudbury suppressed a theatrical guffaw. “I only ask, Mr. Speaker, because I’m curious to learn whether the Minister of Mines is aware of the ah, shall we say close working relationship that currently exists between his minions in my riding and the International Nickel Company of Canada?”

  A barely discernible blush began to colour the Minister’s neck just above his shirt collar as he rose in the front benches to reply. “
Well no, Mr. Speaker, I am not aware of any procedural irregularity in the inspection to which the newly arrived member for Sudbury refers . . . I can and do welcome the member to this House, but I feel I must caution him against making spurious, scandalous, and possibly even defamatory accusations against hardworking members of this province’s civil service just for the sake of making headlines in tomorrow’s papers!” The defiant Minister, jaw outthrust, shot his cuffs and, glowering at Wardell, sat down.

  Wardell was back on his feet in an instant, but this time he had a small piece of paper in his hand. “Oh ho, Mr. Speaker, these are not empty allegations to which I refer.” He waved the paper over his head. “I have here indisputable evidence that the International Nickel Company was indeed forewarned of an inspection by the Minister of Mines just this week!”

  In the Press Gallery competitors from the big Toronto dailies glanced at one another, and first one and then another headed for the exit. Their colleagues from television and radio quickly followed suit, and soon enough the Gallery benches were emptied of onlookers.

  Harry Wardell was as surprised as anyone at the reception that awaited him just off the floor of the legislative assembly. It was a full-on scrum, with a crush of print reporters, notebooks at the ready, foremost, surrounded by a ring of photographers and television cameramen, flashbulbs popping and klieg lights glaring.

  Wardell was quite startled at the crush. The mob was all shouting at once, yelling questions at him, but Wardell quickly gauged the upshot: what proof had he of Ministry-Inco collusion, and could they see it? At six foot seven inches, Wardell easily stood above the throng, and now he drew out the telegram and held it aloft. “As you can see, this telex, which was sent to me by a reliable source in Sudbury, predicts that a Ministry inspection is about to take place. Note carefully the date and time. I can assure you just such an inspection occurred the following day. . . Now my question is did this Minister, and by extension this Government, know this collusion was taking place?”

  Wardell was careful to hold on to the telegram, flashing it only briefly so that the press corps could see the date and time for themselves. They were silent for once as they scribbled the details in their notebooks while cameramen focused their lenses on the paper in Wardell’s outstretched hand.

  * * *

  “Copper Cliff smelter?” Foley Gilpin was momentarily taken aback by the question from Mike O’Neill, his boss and the Ontario desk editor of the Toronto Globe and Mail. “Yeah, sure I’ve heard of it. Why do you ask?”

  Gilpin was surprised at the question because normally the flow of information on his beat was a strictly north-to-south affair. Unless a story made the wires his bosses in the Toronto newsroom were usually in the dark about developments in the Nickel City—unless, that is, he, Foley Gilpin, told them about it, usually in the form of a story pitch. And that was the way Foley liked it—with a two-hundred-fifty-mile buffer from the prying eyes of his bosses.

  “The Leg bureau guys were pitching a story on it in the budget this morning, is all. . .” O’Neill pronounced it “Ledge,” and Gilpin understood this as newsman’s shorthand for “Legislature.” “Thought maybe you’d’ve heard about it. . .”

  “Uh, no. What was the story?”

  “Seems your new MPP from up there, Warden, Woodley? “

  “Wardell.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Well anyway he accused the Ministry of Mines and their inspectors of being in cahoots with the Company—claims they’re tipping the Company ahead of time whenever they’re about to do an inspection. . .”

  “Oh yeah? Did he have any proof?” Gilpin knew that Wardell, while passionate, was not above a little grandstanding when it came to making headlines—or winning votes.

  “He did, as a matter of fact, according to our guys in the Leg. . . Just wondered what you mighta picked up on this?”

  The question caught Gilpin off guard. He immediately thought of his friend and housemate Jake McCool, and the countless horror stories his exhausted and disheartened young friend had recounted after coming off shift.

  “As a matter of fact, I know someone who works in there. He says it’s pretty grim.”

  “Tell me he’s not another one of your union crazies up there, Gilpin?” The words were uttered in a low growl and were more exclamation than question.

  Gilpin knew to tread warily. He had long since learned of the Globe’s anti-union bias—anyone in a leadership position anywhere in the union hierarchy was immediately suspected of a hidden agenda, while all professionals and captains of industry were assumed to be honourable and, above all, credible, men.

  “Why no. Sure, he’s in the union, like just about everyone who works at Inco, but no, he’s not a union officer. Just a regular rank-and-file type of guy.”

  “Figure he can get you any dope on Wardell’s accusations?”

  “Dunno Mike. Let me do some checking.”

  And that was how they left it. To Foley Gilpin’s own amazement he had just been assigned to investigate “conditions inside the Copper Cliff smelter.”

  Harry Wardell was only slightly less amazed at the fallout from his “maiden question” in the Ledge. All of the big Toronto dailies covered the story, which inspired the city’s radio and television newsrooms to do the same. Suddenly an obscure backbench MPP was everywhere in the Toronto news media.

  All this attention took Wardell by complete surprise. Back in his hometown he couldn’t buy even a shirt-tail brief in the local papers about his activities and causes. Try as he might through news releases, news conferences, or photo-ops, he was resolutely shunned by the company-controlled news media. Because he was neither Tory nor Liberal, Wardell was beyond the pale—a parvenu who had won election by bizarre statistical anomaly. In one memorable encounter, he had watched as one of the city’s foremost television news directors ripped his newly-delivered press release to shreds right in front of him, throwing it ceremoniously in the newsroom wastepaper basket.

  But now, in the much larger and media-rich city of Toronto, he was, suddenly, the man of the hour. The company, through its spokesman in the Toronto headquarters office, fended off Wardell’s allegations as best it could, officially stoutly denying any impropriety regarding Ministry inspections before going off the record to dismiss Wardell as a callow newcomer obviously given to grandstanding in a clumsy attempt to make waves and grab headlines at any cost. . .

  . . .But at ground zero the fight wore on. . .

  To the casual onlooker, they appeared just another random group of smelter workers eating their lunch together in the grubby confines of the furnace building lunchroom.

  But, in fact, the dozen or so men seated around the table were anything but random, their lunchtime encounter anything but casual.

  All had been invited by the big, bearded biker-looking type who sat near the middle of the table. Across from him were Jake McCool and his friend Randall McIvor from the furnaces, flanked by carefully selected representatives from the myriad of other workplaces in the sprawling smelter complex. Most were former Mine Millers who Robert “Haywire” d’Aguire knew—and trusted—from Mine Mill days.

  The air was sombre as d’Aguire cleared his throat and silence descended over the gathering.

  “We’re still playing silly numbnuts over in the converters. Same old shit, different pile. Open Number Three when they need production, close ‘er when they take a Drager reading. She’s up and down like a whore’s drawers.” D’Aguire stifled a sardonic grunt.

  His words only deepened the silence around the table. Jake surveyed the gloomy faces around him. “So they play games with the Dragers. . . . What if we were to start taking our own readings?” Jake thought back to his Mine Rescue days. “Underground everybody on Mine Rescue was trained to use Dragers. . .”

  “Yeah, but even if we took our own readings we’re still playing with a stacked deck,” a sintering plant worker protested, “what with the Company having the Ministry in its back pocket, and all. . .”

&
nbsp; “So, who cares?” riposted Jake, warming to his argument. “Why not just take our own readings, being careful to keep a record of the time and place of each reading and any changes in material conditions that could be checked against the company’s own production logs, like whether this or that converter is shuttered?”

  “Jesus, McCool, keep your voice down!” d’Aguire hissed, holding his hands up, palms opened up at Jake, who was momentarily thrown off his train of thought. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, like I was sayin’ if we took our own Drager measurements and kept our own written record maybe we’d at least have some kind of paper trail we could use later. . .”

  “But would anybody but us ever care?” the sinter plant worker asked dubiously.

  “Ya know, there just might be somebody who would,” d’Aguire concluded. He said no more, but Jake could see the wheels were turning.

  As soon as his shift was over d’Aguire climbed aboard his bike, a ’65 Harley Davidson pan head chopper, replete with chrome ape hanger handlebars, a fat-boy gas tank with a candy-apple red metal-flake paint job, upswept fishtail pipes, and a high chrome sissy bar. The extended front forks, which were also chromed, made the thing next to impossible to turn in a tight space, but the bike was Haywire’s pride and joy, built for show, rather than practicality. There was no doubt the big Harley was his proudest possession, and soon enough Haywire had kicked the machine to life, the unmistakable roar of Harley thunder crashing off the red-brick walls of the smelter complex. As he revved the engine the soul-satisfying reverb that began between his legs and echoed off the walls so loudly that it eclipsed even the ubiquitous, ominous low growl of the Copper Cliff smelter caused a tight smile to form on the lips of the dour d’Aguire. As he eased off on the throttle the pop-pop-pop of back pressure in the fishtail exhaust pipes told him that, even running cold the engine was perfectly balanced and in tune.