The four women leave the boarding house early on Monday in order to arrive in time for the announcement, which they look forward to with varying degrees of interest.
For Mildred, her observations will amount to crisp copy for Eddie, while for Gracie and Gwendolyn, Stalker’s announcement might have a direct bearing on their future. Miss Carr expects nothing but another pack of lies from a liar-in-chief.
As they walk down the hill toward the Legislature, they make sporadic conversation about nothing much, until Grace mentions the untimely death of Gordon Cunning.
“It was a dreadful thing to happen,” Grace says. “Poor Mr Cunning.”
Miss Carr throws her a skeptical look: “He was a terrible man by all accounts. When a terrible man dies, I don’t see why one should waste one’s time feeling sorry.”
“Boris Stalker is worse,” Grace says.
“He certainly is,” Gwendolyn agrees. “He gives me the willies. Walks around the Leg like he owns the place.”
They stop while Grace extracts a stone from her shoe. “Maybe he plans to,” she says.
“When he doesn’t like someone,” adds Mildred, “he makes them disappear.”
“He sounds positively Russian,” Grace says, and they continue on their way.
“I should never date a Russian,” Gwendolyn says. “They seldom smile, and they’re too fond of dill…”
The city appears below them, uniformly grey except for Captain George Vancouver, glittering in the mist. To their right is the grandiloquent Empress Hotel.
In front of the Legislature they can discern perhaps a hundred people milling about, giving out a steady murmur like a gentle washing machine. Most are members of the press—reporters in shabby suits and misshapen fedoras, photographers with their Speed Graphic cameras and pouches full of spare bulbs. When the four women reach the perimeter of the lawn, they see that they are the only females present, other than the bronze Queen Victoria who has turned her back on everyone.
On the Legislature steps, a platform has been rigged to provide a flat surface wide enough to accommodate dignitaries; front and centre are a lectern and a microphone whose wires snake down to the bottom of the steps. There a table has been set up to hold a varnished wooden box with knobs, switches, coloured buttons and a semicircular dial. Perched on a stool by the table is a man wearing rounded metal headphones, smoking a cigarette.
On either side of the platform, flagpoles fly the Red Ensign and the Union Jack. On the front of the pedestal is a placard containing another image of the Union Jack, together with the legend Keeping the Faith.
On the lawn near the steps are six men in band uniforms, chatting, smoking cigarettes and blowing spit out of their horns—trumpet, alto horn, tenor horn, euphonium and tuba.
The event occurs right on schedule: as the twelve o’clock gun sounds at Work Point Barracks, the musicians break into an abbreviated version of “The Standard of St. George.” With the concluding quarter note, Attorney General Stalker strides out of the building onto the platform in a light grey kilt (presumably the Stalker tartan) with a matching tie and a dark tweed jacket.
“Dear Lord, he thinks he’s Robert the Bruce,” Miss Carr comments.
Through the door a retinue emerges, consisting of a dozen or so dark-suited backbenchers along with the two members of the Liquor Control Board, Alan Beaven and Chester Munn.
Over to one side Bertram Bliss supervises the scene, like a stage manager before the curtain rises on Act I.
The Attorney General turns his head from side to side, nodding to some and pointing with his forefinger to indicate that he recognizes someone (whether he does or not is another matter) while he waits for the applause to die down, which doesn’t take long.
After tapping the microphone gently, and upon receiving confirmation from the radio technician at the bottom of the steps, he produces a sheaf of paper from an inside pocket, places it on the lectern, smooths out the folds, clears his throat and begins his prepared statement.
Greetings to you, citizens of British Columbia. And greetings to you, gentlemen of the press. I extend special greetings to the radio audience, sitting by your receivers.
I shall move straight to the point. The reason I have called you here is to announce my candidacy for premier of this great province.
After long and hard consideration, after consultations with some of the best minds in the Commonwealth, I have determined that we British Columbians stand at a critical moment in our history.
My friends, the province is in a crisis—a crisis of leadership.
We live in exceptional times. The foundations of our traditional way of life are cracking under pressure. Fundamental Christian values are eroding. Waves of foreigners pound our shores. Rule of law is under siege by radicals and agitators.
In short, the centre is not holding. Without decisive leadership, things fall apart. Anarchy will be unleashed on our world…
Miss Carr turns to Mildred: “Who said that, Miss Wickstram? It sounds familiar.”
“Yeats, actually. We memorized it at Badminton. In fact, every phrase he utters sounds like something I’ve heard before.”
“You know,” Gwendolyn says, “I think Mr Stalker is wearing shoe lifts.”
My friends, as a great man once said: “Exceptional times require exceptional actions, and exceptional actions require exceptional men…”
“Heaven help us, now he’s stealing from Samuel Smiles,” Mildred says. “Can Wellington be far behind?”
Sadly I say to you that, here in British Columbia, at present, we are not led by exceptional men. We are being led by ordinary men. Men who should be tilling the land and plying their trades.
Fine men. Honest men. Hardworking men. But not exceptional men.
My challenge to the leadership of the Liberal Party has one purpose and one purpose only: to create a team of exceptional men who will lead this province to an exceptional future.
Here at the edge of the world, we will create a bastion to defend the British way of life...
At this moment, Mr Stalker pauses, then looks up from his text with a puzzled expression. A dark red blotch appears beside his tartan tie, followed by the shriek of a rifle, and he crumples to the floor.