For a week, Ottawa’s townspeople had been collecting material to burn: stray wood, packing cases, tar barrels, old newspapers, anything. They had assembled it all in a gigantic pyramid in Major’s Hill Park, overlooking the river to the east of the Parliament Buildings. At exactly noon it was set ablaze. At the same time, from their drill shed in Lowertown, the Ottawa Field Battery fired a 101-gun salute. It looked like an inferno and sounded like war.
Conor watched the fire and wondered what to do next. He probably should simply go home, hang up his suit, read a bit and try his luck at a Confederation party that night. Or maybe he should help his father out at the bar, give the old man a rest and make some money in tips.
Then everything stopped.
In the fire’s glow, he saw a girl with shimmering black hair weave through the crowd. She was tall, stately and alluring. He was spellbound. She was dressed in a hoop skirt pulled tightly around her waist. Stylish and modern, definitely not a dress made by an Ottawa seamstress. She stopped to talk to … Conor craned his neck to see who it was … It was Will Trotter. Why was she talking to him? Her right hand brushed her hair, and he glimpsed her profile. But only for a tantalizing second. My God, she is beautiful, he thought. He summoned his courage.
“Will, what’s next?” he called and moved toward them.
“Conor, how are you? Say, have you met my sister, Meg?”
So that’s who this vision was—Meg Trotter. She had changed so much that he hadn’t recognized her. He tried not to stare. He hadn’t seen her in years; he wondered if she would remember him, or if she had ever noticed him.
Thomas O’Dea had worked upriver from October to April and, like many loggers, moved to Ottawa in the off-season, so Conor had spent most of his summers in town. But he had never really been part of any “crowd.” He was quiet and shy and had accumulated few friends. He spent the summers reading, doing odd jobs and trying to keep Thomas away from the bottle. And, of course, he studied the people who lived in Uppertown, people like Meg Trotter. She had always been one of the prettiest girls in Ottawa, but now she was stunning. Her long black hair struggling to pull free of the combs framed a face both strong and delicate. Porcelain, Conor thought, was the word they used for her kind of complexion. Her eyes were sky blue, an uncommon colour with such black hair, but there was nothing common about this woman. She had a wise, inquisitive pout, which he desperately wanted to transform into a smile. He affected a tone of confidence. “Hello, Meg. We may have met last year …” She returned his gaze with those blue eyes that commanded attention, and his confidence withered.
“Last year, I was in London,” she corrected him. “No, I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
While he was tripping over his words, she was looking him over. Red hair, green eyes—very Irish. Tall but not lanky; fashionable whiskers, she supposed, in an American sort of way. His clothes spoke more of Portobello Market than Savile Row, but he was clearly trying. There was something interesting about him. She surprised herself when she added, “I’m sure I would have remembered you.”
“So, umm … how was London?” he said, trying to ignite conversation and recognizing that this was a feeble start. He wondered how she could afford such travel, but remembered Will saying something about a wealthy aunt.
“London is like nowhere else,” she enthused. “It’s the centre of the world.”
Conor wondered about the people she would have met there, the parties and balls, and considered the backwater she was in now. He started to feel like the low-rent son of a lumberman. He hated that. But he persevered. “Are they still building the statue of Lord Nelson in London?” He had read about the extraordinary construction.
She looked at him, confused.
“I think they were going to call it Trafalgar Square.”
“Dear me,” she said. “That was finished years ago.” Unlike Will, she had a slight English accent. “It is quite magnificent.”
Damn it, he thought. Why are my hand-me-down books and magazines so old? Sometimes he mispronounced words because he knew them only from seeing them in print. It made him sound ignorant. And now he wasn’t up to date. He stared at her, considering what to say next. Something current. Something upper-crust. She seemed to take some delight in watching him squirm.
“The Queen,” he said, trying to restrain his Irish accent. “Queen Victoria. How is she? I mean, is she still in mourning for Prince Albert?”
“Well, I didn’t actually look her up,” she said with an upturned eye. “But Her Majesty seems to be back in society a little more.”
Nelson. Victoria and Albert. What else? He was babbling to fill time, to sound learned, but he was going blank. “And why were you in London?”
He could have asked, “To study what?” or “How long were you there?” or even “How did you like your studies?” But he was afraid to engage her in a conversation in which he couldn’t keep up. Instead, he turned to Will. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I don’t have to work. Some of us are going swimming.”
Pause.
“Maybe have a picnic by the river.”
Another pause.
“Do you want to come, Conor?”
Finally!
Conor regained his composure. “Will you be coming, Meg? I’d love to hear more about London.”
Her eyes sparkled like sapphires and there was a glimmer of a smile. “You know, I might. I just might.”
WALKING back to Lowertown, Conor was in a daze. Everything about the day’s political spectacle now seemed dulled compared to the moment he saw Meg Trotter. He had never felt sure of himself around girls. There weren’t any women up in the lumber camps. The women the loggers chased in the off-season were nothing like Meg. He would have to improve his performance if she was going to buy his act.
But there were practical matters to deal with—endless practical matters. A picnic meant food. He could get some from his father at Lapierre’s. No, he’d pick something up at the Byward Market. Better yet, he would come late—fashionably late—and say he had already eaten. That would save him some money. A bathing costume? He’d never owned anything that unnecessary. Growing up in the North Country, you went into the cold river waters to wash, not play. And if you swam at all, you swam naked. A bit risqué for an Ottawa afternoon. He would just have to say he didn’t want to swim. He would bring a book, some bread and a beer. He would come armed with clever stories and bright repartee. He would not betray his simple background and clumsiness. And, most important, he would try not to babble on this time.
THE market was still bustling with activity, but the smell had hardly improved. No regular night soil pickups here. The middle class would travel below the salt to Lowertown to shop for food and then retreat upwind as soon as they could. The upper class would send their servants. Conor was heading home.
There was a lineup at a butcher’s stand. He looked at it with dismay. He hated waiting in line. One summer when he was about ten years old, his father took his hand and announced, “We’re going to get some new clothes for you.” Conor hoped that they would go to one of the new dry-goods stores on Rideau Street, or maybe a proper tailor shop, but they headed in the other direction, down Sussex to the Élisabeth Bruyère Church. The Grey Nuns were handing out used clothes to Ottawa’s poor. When Conor saw the line of people outside the church, he stopped. He yanked his hand from his father’s grip.
“You said new clothes.”
“They’ll be new for you, and they’ll fit you better.”
Conor looked at the people in the queue: orphans, beggars, the waifs and strays of Lowertown waiting patiently to get something for nothing. He saw children he knew standing uncomfortably with their mothers or fathers, shuffling their feet, trying to preserve their dignity. Humiliated, but in need.
“I won’t wear someone else’s discards.”
“You’ll wear what I tell you. You’re growing like a weed, and this is all we can afford.”
Conor figured that his father had squandered his winter’s wages gambling or drinking or something worse. He saw the look of shame in his father’s eyes. He could have taken pity, been understanding, but there was no way he was going to line up with the others. He was not desperate. He would never allow such a disgrace. He ran away, furious and determined.
It was the first time he defied his father.
“CONOR, do you want an apple?”
He knew the voice. Her name was Polly. He wasn’t sure of her last name. Ryan, maybe. Or Reagan. She was friendly with Thomas. Polly was a washerwoman of dubious reputation. She was a widow, but there was talk of a mysterious past. A bit of the scruff, in Conor’s mind. She repeated, “Would you like an apple?”
“No, I’m fine,” he answered and kept walking.
Was he a snob? Sure. He didn’t like Polly and he didn’t care if she knew it. But he did smile at Mrs. O’Connell as he ambled toward her stall. “I’ll be t’anking you again for the breakfast, Mrs. O.”
THERE weren’t many people on the banks of the Ottawa River. The Rideau Canal was a safer place to swim, but Meg had always liked the drama of the river. It was a place of stories and adventure. By mid-afternoon, she had grown bored with sitting by the river with her brother’s dim-witted friends. She had found that Conor character interesting, with his clumsy talk of Nelson and Victoria. She rather liked watching the boys get flustered around her, but she had a sense that this one wouldn’t stay flustered long. There was a resolved look behind that scrubbed face. But those whiskers! Who did he think he was, General Burnside?
She had acted as if she didn’t know him, but she did remember him from Ottawa summers, his face always hidden behind a book. Her mother had recently told her about D’Arcy McGee’s bright young assistant. An Irish boy without a chip on his shoulder. A very promising young man pulling himself up from the dirty streets. Meg thought the Irish were a homesick people who prayed and swore and drank too much. In London, they were always causing trouble with their appeals for Home Rule and their violent ways. They were colourful, she’d give them that, but curious, too, with their extravagant churches and pompous priests. She stopped herself. This is terrible. “Live and let live,” was how her mother had brought her up. “Be respectful of others.”
She had been raised as a Protestant—a Methodist, actually—by her father, but she hadn’t been to church since his funeral five years ago. At his death, her mother turned away from organized religion and declared herself “a free thinker.” She didn’t reject the existence of God, but took a dim view of the practice of religion.
Will was never really interested in philosophical discussions, but Meg embraced the freedom of her mother’s eccentric and, to some, heretical beliefs. She read Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, the transcendentalists from New England, who believed that the individual was the spiritual centre of the universe. That made sense to her. People, not priests or pastors. Like her mother, she found power in poetry and the divine in the miracle of nature—and there certainly was a lot of nature in this wild country. Her father would not have approved of these ideas. In fact, most people didn’t, so the Widow Trotter and her free-thinking daughter usually kept their radical views to themselves.
Meg looked at the river and up to the beautiful Gatineau Hills. Rather far from windswept Galilee or the busy River Thames. These Canadians wanted to create “Westminster in the Wilderness.” They saw themselves as empire builders, more British than Yorkshire peers. What rubbish. Why didn’t they accept the wonders they had? The vastness of the land. The wild green forests. The freedom of open spaces. London was grandiose, with its statuesque buildings and magnificent promenades, but this land was glorious, with its untamed beauty and changing seasons. Better to worship nature’s might than perpetuate old prejudices—or fight yesterday’s wars.
And where was that Irish boy? She wanted to taunt him some more.
THE walkway behind Parliament Hill was sometimes called Lover’s Walk. Conor walked it alone. It was mid-afternoon when he carefully descended the steps to the river. He quickly spotted Will Trotter’s group sitting by the water’s edge. He knew most of them vaguely, and cared little for them. He preferred the company of older people. In fact, he found most people his age vacuous and a little silly. He had befriended Will more as a younger brother than a contemporary. He liked Will’s sense of humour and they shared a love for the game of politics, but he glanced past Will, ignoring his friends, looking for …
Meg.
She sat calmly reading. The very picture of serenity. It was clear to Conor that she was not concerned about when, or even if, he might arrive. He decided to be forthright and approached her with the lines he had been practising for an hour.
“May I join you?”
She nodded, slightly.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Tennyson.”
Damn it. He’d expected her to say Charles Dickens, so he could go on about the Artful Dodger and sound learned. Or even Edward Bulwer-Lytton, in which case he could show wit and well-placed sarcasm—“It was a dark and stormy night …” She put the book down and filled the pause. “Have you read him?”
“No, I’m not much of a poet,” he stuttered. “But I love to read.”
“And what are you reading these days?” She had already noted with disdain that neither her brother nor his friends had brought along anything to read.
“I just finished Macauley’s History of England, and now I’m reading an account of Wellington at Waterloo,” he said, proudly.
“Nelson. Wellington. Trafalgar. Waterloo. Are you aiming for the service?”
“No, I like studying strategy. And I’m fascinated by the glory of empire.”
Here was his plan: He had rehearsed a conversation about England and empire and queens and dukes—the stuff a pretty, sophisticated girl from London would want to talk about, the stuff she would never expect an Irishman to care about. He would demonstrate the depth of his knowledge, show how much they had in common, and then start asking her about life in London, the greatest city in the world. He would initiate, manage and control the conversation. He would impress.
Instead, she took command. “I don’t know how anyone could think of the glory of war these days after the war between the American states,” she said. “It disgusts me.”
He answered truthfully. “It fascinates me. The willingness of men to run into the fire, of brothers who kill each other, of the power of hate.”
“Is hate more interesting than love?”
“More interesting, but not as appealing.” He was satisfied with his answer. Clever. Sensitive. Even a bit daring. He’d rarely thought much about love, and he was uncomfortable talking about it. He’d never seen love in his father’s life, and he was not sure he would recognize it in his own. The institution of marriage appealed to him. It was proper. He took for granted that he would eventually find a suitable wife who would help guide him up the social ladder. Was that love, or just the appropriate thing to do?
“You are different,” she said and returned to her book.
Will and his friends were talking about some sport called “base ball” that was becoming popular in the United States. Conor considered joining their conversation, then thought better of it and opened his book, pretending to concentrate. Did I go too far with the empire bit? he thought. Probably. He decided to retreat and attack later.
Meg called over to her younger brother, “Come on, Will. Let’s go swimming.” She dropped her towel and stood up. Conor discreetly watched her walk into the water in her long, flowing bathing costume. Not for the first time, he wished someone would devise more revealing bathing garments. After all, they would dry faster.
DOWN the cliff, under the Parliament Buildings, the river was misleadingly treacherous. The current quickened and swirled, and the water turned angry and shrill. The voyageurs had said the water boiled, and named the rapids Chaudière. By the 1860s, there were modern dangers. Stray logs from the rafts upriver floated freely in the river’s current, many bearing lethal, rusting spikes. Those implanted in the river bottom were called deadheads. The worst ones were hidden just under the surface.
Meg confidently swam a few breaststrokes, then turned and floated on her back. Conor watched her intently. What gave her such self-assuredness? Her education? Her beauty? Good Lord, she even swam with poise. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a log right behind her. A deadhead. He looked closer. There was a spike jutting out of it.
“Meg!” he screamed, but she couldn’t hear him. He called to a boy who was splashing around uselessly near her. He screamed at her again. But she kept floating toward the rusting nail, gently kicking and propelling herself toward disaster.
He had to react. And fast. He dove into the water, kicked away and swam frantically toward her. Head up, staring at her, arms pulling water, feet kicking wildly, he was a man possessed. His clothes weighed him down, but he found strength he didn’t know he had. Gasping for air, he reached out and grabbed her. He pulled her tightly toward him, away from the deadhead, away from danger. He felt he was in heaven. Meg Trotter was actually in his arms. Then he saw the look of horror on her face. My God, he thought, she thinks I have attacked her. He coughed water and breathlessly sputtered, “You were going to hit a deadhead.”
She looked behind her and saw the log with the sharp nail sticking out. It was just off to her side, out of harm’s way. She smiled. “Thank you, Conor. Thank you very much. I’ve been in London so long I forgot how dangerous the river can be.”
She held on to him so tightly that Conor thought maybe it really was his birthday.