Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “Minister?”

  “What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)

  “You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”

  “I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.

  “Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.

  Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,

  “I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”

  My delight over my coup outweighs my embarrassment at the reprimand. Later, however, I overhear Mrs. Cleary talking to Margo when I’m passing her office.

  “Her remarks were quite good for a first attempt, Margo, but the poem is utter drivel. It makes no sense at all. Maybe it lost something in the translation? I’m so glad I didn’t read any of his poetry before we honored him at dinner. I couldn’t have kept a straight face….”

  Disappointed, I take comfort from the fact she saw some promise in my remarks. Margo soon arrives to admonish me: “Nice try, Libby.”

  “What do you mean?” (innocently)

  “All material for the Minister must be vetted by me so that I can ensure everything has the proper tone and content. Your draft, incidentally, did not.”

  “Really? It must have lost something in the translation,” I say.

  Margo flushes blotchy puce. “Don’t do it again.”

  I’ve just logged on to my computer to send Roxanne an e-mail when Margo pops her head around my partition to tell me the good news. I’ll be rooming with her on the trip. My shrill protests do nothing to dissuade her.

  “Elizabeth, this job is all about optics. We can’t be seen to squander taxpayers’ dollars. The Minister will have her own room, of course, and the rest of us will double up.”

  I manage to extract from her that the “away team” is comprised of only the Minister, Margo, Laurie, Bill and me. Obviously Bill and Laurie aren’t doubling up.

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: My sad life

  Rox,

  Glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Douglas, although the constant rain sounds depressing. If it’s any consolation, the micro-climate here at Queen’s Park is equally miserable. Remember that trip we’re taking? Margo is making me share a room with her. Since no one else is doubling up, I have several theories about her motivation:

  a) she has a crush on me;

  b) she’s worried I’ll be off writing speeches and slipping them into the Minister’s handbag;

  c) she suspects Laurie and I will plan a mutiny if we spend our nights together; or

  d) two of the above.

  I have every reason to think that Margo hates me as much as I do her, so it’s likely choice (d).

  Well, she’s a brave woman. I will have nine opportunities to smother her while she sleeps. Try to make it home in time for the trial, will you?

  Libby

  I’ve been freakishly hungry since I started this job. My stomach always seems to be growling, despite the fact that my waistband is constantly cutting off my circulation. The day of the pre–road show speech-planning meeting, the internal grumbling escalates to a howl. Although I’ve dealt with the freelance speechwriters for weeks, it’s the first time I’ve met them in person. I’ve already developed a burning resentment of them, simply because they get to write while I “coordinate.” One of the writers is forgettable—or would be if only she’d stop talking about communing with her “muse” (she needs a new muse—her writing isn’t that good). The other, Christine, is considered the “intellectual,” which is reason enough to hate her. She also has a frightening wiglike growth on her head. I promptly christen Christine “Wiggy.”

  Mrs. Cleary is surprisingly engaged in the meeting and Wiggy and Forgettable are vying for her favor. I’m pleased to note that Forgettable is frequently on the receiving end of the blank Ministerial stare— I presumed such moments were my exclusive domain. Mind you, I am totally excluded from the discussion and sit in silence until my stomach speaks on my behalf, gradually increasing in volume until Margo turns to me and says, “Libby, can you keep it down?”

  After the meeting, I realize that what I am experiencing is not hunger, but low-grade indigestion brought on by common jealousy. I never used to be a competitive person, but frustrated ambition has possessed me like a demon, which explains why I’ve been eating for two.

  Fortunately, I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister’s speaking style. I’ve attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won’t wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn’t be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there’s an opportunity.

  “This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Margo one day during a lengthy page-flipper in a high-school auditorium. “She has to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “A teacher in the second row is snoring.”

  “You’ll need a lot more experience under your belt before taking this on,” she advises.

  So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister’s delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.

  The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We’re at a conference for teachers of children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she’s tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn’t read it in advance (as evidenced by the lack of yellow highlighting). By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.

  Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.

  At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.

  “Ask her,” the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.

  “What happened to today’s speech, Libby?” Margo’s voice is calm too.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what size is the font?”

  “I’m not sure,” I hedge.

  “Give us your best guess.”

  “Well, it’s pretty big. Maybe 32 points.”

  “Did you r
educe it deliberately?”

  Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. “Actually, I did. I couldn’t understand why it’s usually so large. It’s difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…”

  “Yes?” Margo asks.

  “Well, flipping that many pages is very hard on a manicure.”

  “Libby, when you’re ready to think for yourself, we’ll let you know. Let’s return to a 40-point font, shall we?”

  Much later, the Minister says, “Margo, you don’t suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?”

  “Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem.”

  Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.

  I’m about to become a glorified roadie. During the Ministerial tour through the eastern townships, I’ll be part of the “advance” team that sets up the show. This could actually be fun, since Bill and Laurie comprise the rest of the advance, but with Margo, nothing comes easily. Bill and Laurie will drive ahead in a Ministry “limo” (a government-issue sedan), while the Minister flies from place to place in the tiny government plane. I really want to travel by car, but Margo apparently considers me “plane-worthy.” I’m certain this has less to do with wanting me on the plane than with not wanting me to have a good time in the car. It’s her “divide and conquer” philosophy.

  This means Bill will often have to leave an event site, pick me up from the closest airstrip, and rush back to ensure all is ready for the arrival of the Minister. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cleary and Margo will stall for time in a separate car with a local driver so that they can make a grand entrance. It’s a pain in the ass for all concerned, but Margo has somehow convinced the Minister that it’s a sound strategy. It’s Margo’s special gift: she can dress up any stupid idea in flawed logic and present it as viable to the Minister. Since the Minister does not appear to be a fool, I assume she has her reasons for accepting Margo’s decisions.

  We three roadies have prescribed tasks. Laurie will schmooze the event organizers and keep the kids calm. They’re always wound up at these events, even though they don’t have a clue who the Minister is. Bill and I are to make sure the auditorium is set up properly, and the sound system is working. My special job is to ensure that the podium is appropriately situated to display the Minister to good effect. Specifically, it must be low enough so that she’s visible and properly positioned to allow the lights to gleam off her burnished locks.

  My biggest challenge is that we require lecterns that accommodate an 8.5 x 14-inch folder, the standard being 8.5 x 11 inches. The Minister has decided, as a result of Project Diminishing Font, I presume, that her speeches will be printed on legal-size paper to get more 40-point text on each page. Besides, this way she’ll barely need to lower her head to read. Looking down is unflattering around the chin line and even having a prominent cosmetic surgeon as a husband cannot completely erase the effects of time.

  Not that I’m totally insensitive on this score. My many years of rebound dieting foretell of early wattle. Maybe the Minister will grow to like me and give me a voucher for some cosmetic work in her husband’s luxurious clinic. I plan to age gracefully, but if the nip-and-tuck were a gift, well, it would be rude not to accept it.

  To: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  From: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  Subject: Roughing it on the Isle

  Hi Libby,

  Bridget Wilkinson refused to come out of her trailer and shoot her scenes today. It all started when the local caterers assumed her request for turkey bacon was a joke. You don’t laugh at Bridget! The executive producer stormed over but despite all the yelling, Bridget never appeared on set. I know how much you love the Diva Report, so I hope you’ll still be able to access your e-mails during your trip.

  Rox

  P.S. I haven’t missed Gavin at all, which doesn’t bode well. I suspect I’ve seen the last of him and his mangy mutt.

  I try reverse psychology on Margo with good results. Fearing she will forbid me to bring the laptop on our journey, thereby cutting off my electronic lifeline to Roxanne, I blithely announce my intention of leaving the computer behind.

  “You must bring it,” she declares.

  “Why?” If she weren’t staring at my shoulder, she’d surely detect the desperation behind the bravado. Rox e-mails often when she’s on location and I’ve been relying on the celebrity gossip more than ever lately to distract me from my woes.

  “Because it will be useful, that’s why.”

  “But I’ll have to carry it around and it’s heavy. It’s not like I need it to write speeches.”

  “You’ll need it to revise the freelancers’ speeches.”

  “Well, okay, but I have back trouble, you know.”

  “You can get Bill to help you carry it, but I’ve made my decision.”

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: Victory

  Rox,

  If they fire Bridget Wilkinson, tell your director I’m ready for my close-up. My superb performance this afternoon convinced Margo that it was her idea to bring a laptop along on our trip. I even managed to look annoyed and resentful when she put her foot down. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since it’s becoming second nature anyway.

  Can’t say I’m surprised about Gavin. Country boys were never your type.

  Lib

  With the trip less than two days away, my worries about rooming with Margo haven’t diminished, particularly as her food issues become more obvious. We’re constantly being offered refreshments at events and on several occasions, I’ve caught her slipping food into her bag for later, presumably because she never goes home. Or maybe she lived through the Irish potato famine in a former life.

  Today I catch her removing a plastic cup covered with a napkin secured by an elastic band from her briefcase (i.e., there was planning involved). In the cup are a dozen large shrimp in cocktail sauce. I recognize them from the buffet table at an event we visited hours earlier.

  “Margo! You’re not going to eat those are you?” I say. “It’s salmonella waiting to happen!”

  “Never mind!” she retorts, slipping them back into her briefcase and stalking out of her own office.

  No wonder we have a rat problem. And no wonder her clothes are often a mess, with stains and her shirttail hanging out. The Minister frequently whispers, “Margo, your blouse…”

  Still, as much as it pains me to admit it, Margo is actually quite attractive. What’s more, for all her compulsive eating and hoarding, she barely tips the scale at a hundred pounds. Maybe she could get me a similar pact with the devil. I imagine she has some pull.

  “Are you drunk, Libby?” my mother asks when I call to tell her we’re shipping out at dawn.

  “No, why would you say that?” I counter, scooping the ice cubes out of my glass so that their clinking won’t give me away.

  “You seem a little withdrawn, that’s all. And you’re slurring.”

  “I am not slurring.”

  “You’d drink a lot less if you had Mrs. Bingham living next door, monitoring your recycle bin as she does mine.”

  “I don’t drink enough to interest the Mrs. Binghams of the world. Worry about my chocolate consumption if you must worry.”

  “You’ve been miserable since you started this job.”

  “I’m fine,” I slur soothingly. “How’s Desdemona doing?”

  “Desdemona? The Binghams’ poodle? Good Lord, she died in the ’70s!”

  “Yeah, but they had her stuffed and standing by the fireplace last time I was there.”

  “That was a decade ago. I’m sure they’ve thrown it out by now.”

  “Her. Desi was a girl. Maybe they sold her at their garage sale last year.”

  “I think I’d have noticed that. I’d have bought her for your father.”

  “He could keep her beside his recliner.”

  “Don’t suppos
e your diversionary tactics are working, by the way. They may work on your aunt Mavis, but they’re wasted on me.”

  “Not if I’m sober, they aren’t.”

  “So you are drinking!”

  “Mother, you’d be into the bourbon too, if you were facing the week I am.”

  “Never bourbon,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear. And when you get back, I’ll make some Nanaimo bars you can take into the office to sweeten Margo up.”

  They’ll be just the thing to tempt her into the rattrap.

  7

  The Royal Tour is off to a majestic start. Witness this day in the life of the average political speechwriter.

  7:00 a.m.: Libby arises immediately upon alarm, only to have tiny, fleet-footed Margo stampede by into shared washroom and slam door. Boots up computer instead and checks hopefully for e-mails from Rox.

  7:30 a.m.: Showers while Margo throws personal effects into suitcase and races off to all-you-can-eat buffet at motel restaurant.

  8:10 a.m.: Rushes into motel restaurant only to hear Margo announce there’s no time to eat—plane awaits.

  9:00-10:00 a.m.: Another terrifying flight in the provincial crap can with wings.

  11:15 a.m.: Arrival at public school. Royal entourage attends lengthy theatrical production of Harry Potter adventures, tours art and music rooms, and listens to choir recital (songs from Lion King). Lib smiles until gums dry out.

  1:30 p.m.: Lunch in school cafeteria. Mix and mingle.

  Highlight: Student, age 7, asks Minister, “Do you work in a church?” Minister looks annoyed.

  Lowlight: Student, age 7, asks Libby, “Are you pregnant?”

  Result of Lowlight: Baggy sweater destroyed by sundown.

  2:30 p.m.: Departure for school number two. As rare treat, Lib rides with Laurie (Margo evidently has top secret biz to discuss with Minister). School itinerary virtually same as before, except theatrical production is scene from Free Willy. Boy in black-and-white costume flops around the stage as Willy. Choir’s tunes are from The Little Mermaid.