~ 65 ~

Friday, May 21st Ottawa, Canada

He hung up the phone, left his office and walked down the marble staircase, down to ground floor, and along the corridor, to the security desk by the back door of the Centre Block of Parliament. He nodded to the security guards and the RCMP detachment, pushed open the back door, and walked down the short ramp. As he walked past the Parliamentary Library he could not help but marvel again at its beauty, its leaded glass windows and its copper domed roof, aged by time to a beautiful green. The Library of Parliament, where he had spent so many hours researching in the archives – in the treasures of the history of Canada. The beautiful gothic extension on the back of Centre Block had been the only building to survive the tragic fire in 1921 that had destroyed the rest of Parliament Hill. The Library had survived only because of the quick thinking of a clerk who had slammed the iron door shut as he ran past.

The Prime Minister had searched for an iron door to slam that would save Canada. There had been none.

He approached the walkway, towards the wrought iron fence with filigreed spear heads that kept people from the edge of the escarpment that fell away as a cliff edge.

He looked across the fast moving Ottawa river towards beautiful Quebec – which was now the State of Quebec – and still beautiful.

Mr. Underwood would arrive in Ottawa, with the documents, Sunday night. "Whenever you are ready, Prime Minister, the landing is yours," he had said.

Mine to land, eh?

He picked up a flat river stone, sailed it out over the escarpment and listened to hear if it had landed in the river, 50 metres below. Laughing at the futility, he turned and walked along the path that wound its way around the grounds – towards the statues of his predecessors, the former leaders of Canada.

He sat on the bench near Sir John A. Macdonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada, and wondered if the Americans would erect a statue of Canada’s last one.

He thought about George Balderson. He understood the reasoning, and why he’d taken his own life, but surely the man knew he did not cause the end of Canada.

He stood and continued down the path, alone in such great company. "Balderson just did what he could, as the peoples’ leader, to make the best choice for them that he was able to make. What is the best choice I can make for my people now? Do we hang on as a nation with the guts ripped out of us?"

He had thought there may have been a chance to stop this if Ontario remained a Province, but, there was never really any doubt which way they would vote. He chuckled and wondered if the biggest fish in the little pond will now enjoy swimming in such a big lake.

"Well," he said to the last statue, "if it is mine to land, then it will be the best I can do."