Campaigning

While the Inlet echoed to the exaggerations, invention, and mudslinging that tended to inhabit all political campaigning, Jethro Wallace decided he would pay a visit from his Victoria home. He was curious about the contenders, suspecting that one of them at some future point might possibly challenge his own position.

Wallace was the Independent MLA for the Islands and some surrounding areas, the bulk of voters of which lived in Spinner’s Inlet. He was a former accountant who had been charged with defrauding clients but was acquitted with the help of a Vancouver lawyer who had himself barely avoided censure by the law society over something concerning client expenses. He ran as an Independent after being rejected as a candidate by all parties in the last provincial election; he won the seat because none of the parties nominated anyone to challenge him.

The Liberals had held the seat previously, but their woman had been booed and unnerved on the ferry dock after having mistakenly assumed that Spinner’s Inlet people would welcome a mandate appointing them British Columbia “tourism ambassadors.” This would require them to wear badges and wave BC flags whenever the Gulf Queen docked and unloaded tourist groups, and no potential Liberal had generated the pluck to replace her. “In that place? You’re joking,” had been the repeated refrain.

The NDP had declined after one of their number had attempted a union membership drive among the Cedars pub staff and been escorted back to the ferry by the owner, Matthew Blacklock, who offered certain advice.

The Greens, given the uncertain tenor of things, chose discretion as the better part of valour.

Jethro Wallace happened to arrive in the Inlet as the latest edition of The Tidal Times came off the press, with a feature on profiles of the candidates. It was headlined “Personalities and Platforms.”

Samson Spinner claimed (the aforementioned exaggeration) to have the highest measured IQ of all candidates but would not disclose it as he didn’t believe in belittling others. Finbar O’Toole claimed to be descended from the legendary Irish king Brian Boru, and that subsequent forebears had constructed the Giant’s Causeway (invention), and Randolph Champion marched in front of Gilbert’s Groceries with a placard that claimed “capitalist and profiteer” Gilbert Chen was presenting day-old bread as fresh (mudslinging).

Sheila Martin said that Samson was at best deluded, Finbar was confusing legend with myth, and Randolph Champion was anyway half-baked.

Jethro decided that of that group only Sheila might have the right stuff, if she ever entered the provincial fray, and posed a threat. He asked her if she would like to have coffee, and said, “Another time, then,” after she scowled, “What, with you?”

He was mystified by Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, who had declined any interviews and had made no statements, other than to drive around with her nephews, the geeks, in a spanking new convertible with the geeks holding up a banner carrying the cryptic message “CREAM WILL RISE,” and with glaring ads on the door panels for the Victoria car-sales company that had loaned her the vehicle. It had mistakenly believed she was running for a seat in Ottawa (where they hoped to lobby against luxury-car sales taxes) rather than the mayor’s chair in the Inlet. The geeks glared at Jethro when he threatened to approach, and he retreated.

Silas Cotswold had arranged an all-candidates meeting at the community hall. Jethro offered to emcee it. Cotswold, ever alert to any possibility of political advertising money, but also aware that Jethro’s budget as the lone Independent in the legislature would barely let him rent a cellphone, said the MLA could do it. But he added that he wanted no partisan comments from Jethro and was reserving the right to step in if things became awkward. He gave Jethro a list of the five contenders with a brief bio on each.

The MLA received the obligatory derision due a politician, which he seemed to think was meant in good humour, when Silas introduced him, and there was uniform jeering as Jethro introduced the candidates one by one. The supporters of each were fairly balanced with opponents, and an equal amount of applause and boos ensued when platforms were presented.

Randolph Champion wore a tatty placard that said, “DOWN WITH THE ELITE. POWER TO THE PLEBS.” An audience member asked him when he was going to get a job and pay taxes, like all the other plebs in the community. Randolph said that taxes were nothing but a further burden on the poor and that he would deal with that issue once he took office, and he shook a raised fist toward the interlocutor. The audience response was not something that could be thought of as approval.

Jethro stood and offered appreciative applause as Randolph plodded off the stage. He was alone in doing so.

Finbar O’Toole was next, and he opened with an ingratiating nod and smile before breaking into a mournful and reedy version of “Galway Bay,” or at least the first verse, after which Jethro jumped up and asserted himself by loudly ruling Finbar out of order for inserting music into the debate. Silas Cotswold quietly advised Jethro to keep his opinions to himself as he had been instructed to do, adding, “If you call that music …” Then he ruled Finbar out of order.

Finbar offered an extravagantly knowing smile as he left the platform, and said, “How much longer do we Irish have to be picked on?”

“How much time y’ got?” From a middle seat.

Jethro sniggered and received a hard stare from Silas.

Samson Spinner stepped forward and offered a pointed finger and a scowl at a voice from the back of the hall that said, “For mayor? Really?” The tone was rich in promising what its owner might know that others didn’t, and Samson, despite his seeming confidence and his generally recognized reasonably good character, reacted like those of us who, when presented with the unexpected appearance of a police officer, rake frantically through recent events in a search for any law we might have flouted. His promises of competent and honest practice as mayor thus came off a bit shaky and he left to a low scatter of applause.

Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, who had remained seated in the audience, now rose and was escorted by the geeks to the platform, each of them waving a giant “Number One” foam glove. Annabelle struck a pose that made many who had known her aunt, the late self-appointed conscience of Spinner’s Inlet, shudder. “Tomorrow is another day,” she intoned.

“Margaret Mitchell. Gone with the Wind,” Sheila Martin advised loudly from behind her.

“A new day,” Annabelle continued.

“Celine Dion,” Sheila murmured. “She’s channelling them.”

A flutter of audience laughter.

“Two roads …”

“God, now Frost. And you’re sorry you can’t travel both. We get it. But why don’t you pick one, tell us where you’re going on it, and take those two home.” One of the geeks glowered at Sheila, then checked his watch.

The Bell-Atkinson trio left and Sheila took the podium.

“If those who have gone before me had been incumbents, we would question how they ever got elected. It certainly would not have been by people such as yourselves—aware, responsible, and wise. I know that those qualities will prevail when it comes to casting your ballot for mayor. Thank you.” People looked about, searching for repositories of the values Sheila had credited to those present. They nodded and smiled knowingly to each other, then broke into applause as she left the stage.

Silas Cotswold escorted the MLA down to the ferry.

Wallace shook Silas’s hand and said, “Finally I understand the kind of people who raised me to public office. I believe I can trust them to do it the next time around.”

Silas nodded. “Yes, and good luck with that.”