It was a typically dreary evening at Lapierre’s when Polly Ryan walked in.
“This is no place for you,” Thomas O’Dea told her from behind the bar.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” she said casually.
Thomas liked Polly. He felt a kinship. She washed clothes and cleaned other people’s houses; he washed mugs and filled other people’s glasses. They were about the same age. Both had lost spouses; both were alone and terribly lonely.
“How’s your son?” she asked. “And I will have a beer.”
“You’ve heard, I suppose, that he’s in Montreal with McGee.” He made no move to get her a drink. Her accent was County Clare, his was Galway.
“I’ve also heard that there is no ladies’ section in this bar, and I still want that beer.”
Thomas almost smiled.
“I saw your son about town after your fight. He was looking sad.”
“Aren’t we all?”
There was something mysterious about this washerwoman, but also a sense of strength and resolve. “Don’t lose him, Thomas,” she said. “You’ve already lost so much else.”
“Is that why you came in here? To meddle in my business? I don’t intrude in yours.”
She looked around the bar and then at Thomas. “Forget the beer, but remember what I said. You’re a good man. Be nice.”
MEG was thrilled each time she received one of Conor’s letters. She carried the latest one wherever she went. It was about his mother. She had lost her own father and understood Conor’s longing to know more about this unknown, gentle person named Margaret. The stories of Ireland particularly moved her, especially the unimaginable trip across the ocean. Her family had come to Canada from New York State during the American War of Independence. They were United Empire Loyalists: conservatives who didn’t support the Yankee rebels.
She walked along Metcalfe Street, on the way to the market to buy the evening meal for the boarders. It had been raining for the past two days; the streets were muddy and she stayed on the boardwalk. She stepped away from a carriage hurling filth as its wheels passed. She pictured Conor’s mother sitting up all night with a dying woman … feeling the fevers slowly boil inside her … trying to stay strong in front of her husband and child. She wondered if she could ever be that brave.
“So if it isn’t Meg Trotter,” someone called from behind her.
Another added, “Are you a Papist now, Meg?”
She knew these people from school, sons of Orangemen who had marched in the parade. Quickly, they surrounded her.
“Leave me alone,” she ordered.
“No, you leave him alone,” the largest of the group responded. The others laughed. She recognized the drummer she had waved at during the parade. She had never thought of him as a bully. She searched for his name. Dave? Dan? Doug? Something like that. She looked at him for some sympathy, and he responded solemnly, “Stick to your own kind, Meg. It’s better that way.” It was as if he were reciting a lesson in church.
Meg was terrified but didn’t want them to see her fear. She shoved one of them. He gave ground. She stared at the drummer. He recoiled.
They left as quickly as they had arrived. And she ran down the boardwalk, clutching her letter from Conor.
“MCMICKEN, is there no end to your reports?” The prime minister was sitting in the Rideau Club, sipping on a glass of champagne, reading the Ottawa Citizen and considering buying a new suit he saw advertised. Cartier buys his suits in London, he mused. I am a true Canadian, buying locally when it’s all I can afford. He didn’t really care about affairs of the state on this gloomy August day.
“I have a brief report from the Mother Country, sir.”
“Derby and Disraeli’s problems. Probably Gladstone’s soon. Not mine, so it sounds good to me, already.” He turned the newspaper’s page and nursed his drink. “Carry on, I’m listening as best I can.” Macdonald loved the Old World pretentions of the Rideau Club. It felt so very British. As the club’s founding president, he enjoyed holding court in his favourite overstuffed chair in the large sitting room. It was strategically placed so he could both watch what was going on and be seen by those who mattered. Occasionally, he would smile at friends or frown at enemies. Gilbert McMicken sat beside him, focusing only on the prime minister.
“As you know, there were Fenian uprisings in Ireland last March,” McMicken declared.
“And as you know, the Royal Irish Constabulary quelled them,” Macdonald responded. He loved to have the facts at his fingertips and didn’t conceal his delight in reporting back to McMicken. “Three men were hanged in Manchester, I do believe.”
“That’s right, sir, but it’s more complicated. The ringleader, a man called Tom Kelly, was being taken from court to Manchester jail when his Fenian colleagues intercepted the van, and in the process, a policeman was killed.”
“‘Fenian colleagues’? You mean murderers.” He held up the advertisement. “Do you like the look of this tie?”
McMicken ignored the diversion. “They were caught, convicted of murder and hanged.”
“As I just told you.” Macdonald went back to the newspaper, muttering, “I may have too many red ties.”
“In retaliation, a bomb has just exploded in London’s Clerkenwell Prison. I don’t know how many are dead yet. We just got the dispatch.” Now he had the prime minister’s attention, although Macdonald was determined not to let him know it. He put the newspaper down, but held on to his champagne glass. “A bomb? In London?”
“They are taking the battle for Irish independence out of Ireland and into Britain.”
Macdonald didn’t know what to say. McMicken filled the void. “Tom Kelly is an American. It seems he developed some of these tactics in the Civil War.”
“Is there any connection to what’s happening here?”
“I don’t know. We will try to find out.”
“I fear the Irish fight can only get worse there,” Macdonald sighed. “But here, it’s just a bunch of hotheads getting us worked up for nothing. I know you disagree, and Mr. McGee goes on and on about it, but that’s my view.”
McMicken sensed that Macdonald did appreciate the dangers in this new world of conspiracy and terrorism; he just wished they would go away.