In High Places

Despite the presence of an entourage – the three cabinet ministers and his own senior staff, now in the forward cabin -the Prime Minister had spent little time in Washington with anyone except Arthur Lexington.

'All right,' Margaret said. 'I'll send him in.'

Elliot Prowse, who entered from the forward cabin after Margaret had left, was one of the Prime Minister's two executive assistants. Young, athletically handsome, independently wealthy, and an honours graduate of McGill University, he was serving a political apprenticeship in a manner quite usual nowadays for young men whose ambitions lay towards higher political office. In a few years' time he would resign his present job and seek election to the House of Commons.

Meanwhile, the party made good use of his brains and scholarship, while he himself acquired a unique insight into administrative government, which eventually could be a short cut to cabinet rank.

James Howden was never quite certain how much he liked Prowse, who, at times, could be uncomfortably earnest. But now the Prime Minister's glowing satisfaction about the Washington talks prompted him to be expansive. Waving the assistant to a facing chair, he inquired, 'Well, Elliot, I believe you've something on your mind.'

'Yes, sir.' Prowse sat down carefully, his expression serious as usual. 'K you remember, I started to tell you yesterday…'

'I know you did,' Howden said, 'and I'm sorry I cut you off. But there were special problems – some of them you know – and I couldn't take time out.'

He thought he detected a trace of impatience in the younger man. Well, that was something else you had to learn in politics: to become used to talk, a great deal of it unnecessary, but it was the coinage of the business.

'Mr Richardson and Miss Freedeman have both been in touch with me,' Elliot Prowse said. 'It's about that immigration case in Vancouver.'

'For God's sake, no!' James Howden exploded. 'I've already heard enough of that to last a lifetime.'

'It seems they've been hearing a good deal more in Ottawa.' Prowse consulted a sheet of paper in a file he had brought in.

Howden fumed, 'Haven't people anything else to occupy their damn fool minds? Don't they know there are other things – more important issues – going on in the world?' Announcement of the Act of Union, he thought, would effectively wipe anything about immigration out of the news; when word came, the newspapers would have room for nothing else. But it was too soon yet…

'I can't answer that, sir.' Prowse had a habit of always taking questions literally, rhetorical or not. 'But I do have figures on telegrams and mail received on the subject so far.'

Tell me,' Howden grunted.

'Since you left Ottawa, and up to this morning, there've been two hundred and forty telegrams and three hundred and thirty-two letters addressed to you. All but two telegrams and eighteen of the letters are in favour of the man on the ship and critical of the Government.'

'Well,' Howden growled, 'at least there are twenty people with sense.'

'There have also been some new developments.' Elliot Prowse consulted his notes again. 'The man on the ship apparently has a lawyer who, the day before yesterday, obtained an order nisi for habeas corpus. The application is down for hearing in Vancouver this afternoon.'

'The court will throw it out,' Howden said wearily. 'It's an old legal dodge. I've used it myself.'

'Yes, sir; I understand they hold that opinion in Ottawa. But Mr Richardson is very concerned about newspaper coverage. It seems there's been a good deal. He asked me to report that the news stories are increasing in size and most of them are on page one. Some of the Eastern dailies now have their own reporters in Vancouver covering the case. There were fourteen critical editorials following your own remark before leaving for Washington. Mr Bonar Deitz is also making statements attacking the Government at every opportunity. In Mr Richardson's words, "the Opposition is making hay".'

'What the hell did he think they'd do?' the Prime Minister said angrily. 'Come out to cheer for us?'

'I don't really know what he thought about that.'

Howden snapped irritably, 'And why the hell do you have to answer every question?'

'I always assumed you expected an answer,' Prowse said.

The young man's tone expressed polite surprise and despite his own anger Howden released a smile. 'It isn't your fault. It isn't anybody's fault, except…' His thoughts were on Harvey Warrender.

'There's one other thing,' Elliot Prowse was saying. 'Mr Richardson asked me to warn you there'll be more press questioning at the airport on landing. He says he doesn't see how you can avoid it.'

'I won't do any avoiding,' James Howden said grimly. He looked at his assistant directly. 'You're supposed to be a bright young man. What do you suggest?'

'Well…' Prowse hesitated.

'Go on.'

'If I may say so, sir, you're quite effective when you lose your temper.'

Howden smiled again, then shook his head. 'Let me warn you: never, never lose your temper with the Press.'

But later, forgetting his own advice, he had.

It happened after landing at Ottawa airport. They had taxied, as incoming VIP nights usually did, to the public side of the airport instead of the RCAF side from which the Vanguard had taken off. In the private cabin, with Elliot Prowse gone and his own recent anger shelved for the time being, James Howden basked contentedly in the mental glow of a triumphal homecoming, even though, for the moment, his success in Washington could be shared only with an inner few.

Peering from the window, Margaret observed, 'There seems quite a crowd on the observation deck. Do you think they're waiting for us?

Releasing his own seat belt, he leaned forward across Margaret. It was true, he saw at once; several hundred people, most with heavy overcoats and scarves protecting them from the cold, were tightly packed against the guard rail and behind. Even while they watched, others arrived to swell the numbers.

'It's entirely possible,' he said expansively. 'After all, the Prime Minister of Canada does have a certain status, you know.'

Margaret's expression was non-committal. 'I hope we can get through it all quickly,' she said. 'I'm a little tired.'

'Well, it shouldn't be too long, but I expect I'll have to say a few words.' His mind toyed with phrases:… extremely successful talks (he could say that much without being premature)… an announcement on practical achievements within the next few weeks… striving for closer, cordial (better not say intimate) relations between our two countries… happy to renew my own long-standing friendship with the President…

Something on those lines, he decided, should suit the occasion well.

The engines were stopped, fuselage door opened, and a stairway wheeled in. As the others aboard waited politely, James Howden and Margaret were the first out.

The sun was shining patchily and a chilling north wind gusted across the airport.

As they paused, sheltered partially from the wind, on the platform above the stairs it occurred to Howden that the crowd, no more than a hundred yards away, was strangely quiet.

Stuart Cawston trotted up to meet them, his hand outstretched, 'Greetings!' he beamed, 'and welcome home on behalf of us all.'

'Goodness!' Margaret exclaimed. 'We were only away three days.'

'It's just that it seemed longer,' Cawston assured her. 'We missed you.'

As Smiling Stu's hand clasped Howden's he murmured, 'A wonderful, wonderful outcome. You've done a great service for the country.'

Moving down the stairway, with Margaret ahead, Howden inquired softly, 'You've talked with Lucien Perrault?' -

The Finance Minister nodded. 'Just as you instructed by phone. I informed Perrault, but no one else.'

'Good!' Howden said approvingly. They began to walk towards the airport buildings. 'We'll hold a full Cabinet tomorrow, and meanwhile I'd like to talk with you, Perrault, and one or two others tonight. It had better be in my office,'

Margaret protested, 'Must it really be tonight, Jamie? We're both tired and I did so hope it could be a quiet evening.'

'There'll be other quiet evenings,' her husband replied with a trace of impatience.

'Perhaps you could drop over to our place, Margaret,' Cawston suggested. 'I'm sure Daisy would be pleased.'

'Thank you, Stu,' Margaret shook her head. 'I think not tonight.'

Now they were halfway to the terminal building. Behind them, others were descending from the aeroplane.

Once more the Prime Minister was conscious of the silent, watching crowd. He observed curiously, 'They're unusually quiet, aren't they?'

A frown crossed Cawston's face. 'I'm told the natives aren't friendly.' He added: 'It's an organized demonstration, it seems. They came in buses.'

At that, as if the words were a signal, the storm broke.

The catcalls and boos came first, intensely fierce, as if pent up and suddenly released. Then there were shouts, with words audible like 'Scrooge!' 'Dictator!' 'Heartless Bastard!' 'We'll get you out!' 'You won't be Prime Minister long!' 'Wait until the next election!'

At the same time, with a kind of ragged precision, the placards went up. Until this moment they had been concealed, but now Howden could read:

IMMIGRATION DEPT:

CANADA'S GESTAPO

LET DUVAL IN,

HE DESERVES A BREAK

CHANGE FIENDISH

IMMIGRATION LAWS

JESUS CHRIST WOULD BE

TURNED AWAY HERE

CANADA NEEDS DUVAL,

NOT HOWDEN

THIS HEARTLESS GOVERNMENT

MUST GO

Tight-lipped he asked Cawston, 'You knew of this?' 'Brian Richardson warned me,' the Finance Minister said unhappily. 'According to him, the whole thing has been bought and paid for by the Opposition. But, frankly, I didn't think it would be this bad.' '

The Prime Minister saw television cameras swing towards the placards and the booing crowd. This scene would be going across the country tonight.

There was nothing else to do but continue on to the terminal doorway as the angry shouts and booing grew louder. James Howden took Margaret's arm and forced a smile. 'Just act as if nothing is happening,' he urged, 'and don't hurry.' 'I'm trying,' Margaret said. 'But it's a bit hard.' The sound of shouting diminished as they entered the terminal building. A group of reporters was waiting, Brian Richardson hovering behind. More TV cameras were focused upon the Prime Minister and Margaret.

As the Howdens halted, a young reporter asked, 'Mr Prime Minister, have you changed your views at all on the Duval immigration case?'

After Washington… the parley in high places, the President's respect, his own success… to have this the first question was a final indignity. Experience, wisdom, caution fled as the Prime Minister declared wrathfully, 'No, I have not changed my views, nor is there any likelihood that I shall. What occurred just now – in case you are unaware – was a calculated political demonstration, staged by irresponsible elements.' The reporters' pencils raced as Howden continued, 'These elements – and I need not name them – are using this minor issue in an attempt to divert public attention from the real achievements of the Government in more important areas. Furthermore, I say to you that the Press, by its continued emphasis on this insignificant affair, at a time when grave and great decisions confront our country, is being duped or is irresponsible, and perhaps both.'

He saw Brian Richardson, shake his head urgently. Well, Howden thought, the newspapers had things their own way often enough, and sometimes attack was the best defence. But more moderately, his temper cooling, he continued, 'You gentlemen should remember that I answered questions on this subject, patiently and at length, three days ago. But if you have forgotten, I will emphasize again that the Government intends to abide by the law as embodied in the Immigration Act.'