Man in the Shadows (7 page)

The boarding house became a favourite of those who liked a lively debate. Mary Ann insisted that conversation around her dinner table be clever, informed and challenging. She was the instigator, moderator and sometimes judge and jury. D’Arcy McGee loved it and fit right in. Once he quit drinking, McGee stayed at her boarding house when Parliament was in session. He often said that she was an argument to give women the vote. Conor found her intimidating and was actually rather afraid of her. Tonight, though, the Widow Trotter treated him as one of the family.

Mary Ann watched Conor gawk at her daughter. Men will always be boys, she thought. She suspected what Meg thought of him, but that was for this impressionable young man to find out, not for her to say.

ACROSS
the park, someone had brought a fiddle. Someone else had a flute. A few people were dancing a country jig. Meg’s blue eyes brightened and she turned to Conor. “Do you want to ask me to dance?”

Conor had grown up watching Irish workers stomp to jigs on Saturday nights in the lumber camps. He could do a two-step, even a rough Morris dance, but that was country music, peasant music, West Coast Irish and Highland Scots. Meg was too sophisticated for that. But she took his hand and pulled him off the ground, toward the music.

She manoeuvred her left hand around his waist, and before he knew it they were twirling to the scampering chords. When time came to change partners, Conor hesitated and lost the rhythm. Meg teasingly
left him, and he found himself with a freckled Irish girl he knew from Lowertown. He moved with her to the music, remembering the pattern, faking some steps, improvising, having fun … and missing Meg. Soon she was back in his arms, just as the sky brightened with a blast of fireworks. They roared in laughter. And she was off, with a musical promise left in the air that she would soon be back. The musicians kept a steady, lively pace and the couples squared off, energetically dancing their rounds. The next time Meg was his partner, he held her a little tighter. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wilted in his arms and said, “I’m getting tired. Let’s join the others.”

Conor sat back on the grass, still feeling the joy of the dance. His hands on her waist, turning her, holding her, touching her. A girl in his arms. A worldly, cultured girl. He realized he was practically swooning.

SIR
John A. Macdonald—that sounded nice to his ear:
Sir
John A. Macdonald—watched the fireworks from the makeshift splendour of the governor general’s box. Normally, he liked such spectacles. They were celebrations, friendly gatherings and a peaceful use of gunpowder. He imagined festivities like this across the county and smiled proudly to himself. Then he glanced over at one of the plain-clothed guards Gilbert McMicken had stationed nearby and thought of the country’s modest financial reserves. He took a discreet sip from a silver flask he had brought along, and growled, “It looks like a waste of ammunition to me.”

Lady Macdonald sighed. The governor general ignored him. The electorate sat below him, unaware of his concerns. It was a fairly typical moment.

It was Canada’s day—or
his
day, as Agnes had said. He had wrangled, cajoled and negotiated the governmental system he wanted:
essential powers in finance and defence staying with the central government. The provinces got powers that didn’t really interest him, like social policy, education and health. He was no reformer. He had resisted any talk of secret ballots at elections. “Stand up and be counted,” he would say. “Don’t be afraid to state your views in the open.” Only those who owned property could vote, and Macdonald wholeheartedly supported that. He abhorred the idea of “mob rule” practised in the United States. People with a vested interest in the country, he felt, deserved power. “The shareholders have earned the right to choose their leaders.” After all, he had invested in this country, although not always wisely. He cringed at the thought of some of his business decisions.

And there was the Senate. He certainly got what he wanted there: a British-style House of Lords with the prime minister—him, to be exact—controlling the gate. “The purpose of government is to protect minorities,” he quipped. “And there are fewer rich people.” The appointed Senate gave him control as long as he had the power, and he couldn’t imagine ever losing it. He still had elected members of Parliament to contend with, though. They could be unruly and undependable. He turned to Governor General Monck, who was avidly watching the fireworks. “Don’t you think I should be able to put members of Parliament in the penitentiary when I want?” The governor general pretended not to hear him, and Macdonald went on watching the spectacle, grumbling to himself about the cost and chuckling at his little joke.

CONOR
never wanted this day to end. He walked back to the boarding house with the Trotters, falling a little bit behind the others with Meg. He was gaining confidence by the stride, telling her about the morning, about Macdonald’s knighthood, about the ambassador he
stood beside, everything. Along Wellington Street, down Metcalfe, across to the south side of Sparks to the Toronto House.

Mrs. Trotter shooed Will inside with her, and Conor was left alone on the doorstep with Meg. He froze. This was not a moment to talk politics. This was a moment to—

She softly touched his cheek. “Good night, Conor. And thanks.” Then she quickly went inside.

A
man in a long grey coat was standing on the corner of Sparks and Wellington, chewing tobacco and spitting on the boardwalk. He fit right in. They had walked by him, unaware. He had discreetly followed them to the boarding house. He already knew the address. McGee’s address. He had checked out where the turncoat had started living when he was in Ottawa. A nice, dark street because the cheapskate politicians often failed to light the gas lamps. A nearby alley for escape. That must be the landlady and her children. He would have to find out who else boarded there. And he must discover who this young man was, standing in front of the boarding house like a proud peacock. He couldn’t quite see his face, but the girl called him Conor. An Irish name. A Catholic name. Wasn’t that also the name of Thomas O’Dea’s son? The girl certainly was pretty, but he had no time for that. Maybe later.

AS
Conor walked back along Sparks Street, pictures from the day flashed in his head. It was like the light cast by the fireworks or the magnesium the photographers used to capture an instant of life. An explosion, a blinding light and a clear picture. A flash—and he saw Macdonald savouring the excitement of the morning. Another flash—there was the cheering crowd, and again Conor felt the
achievement of being a part of something bigger than himself. Yet another flash and an explosion—and Meg Trotter. Meg swimming. Meg talking to him. Meg holding his hand. Dancing. Holding her. Meg’s breath in his ear when she talked.

It was possible that tonight would be the end of it, that she was just thanking him for the incident on the river. Possible. Maybe probable. But after just a few hours with Meg, he felt happier than he had in his life. He was more than an upstart posing in secondhand clothes; he was a man about town wooing a sophisticated lady.

C
onor crossed Sappers Bridge toward Lowertown. A few Irishmen, like Nicholas Sparks and Daniel O’Connor, had made names for themselves in Ottawa, but the capital was dominated by Englishmen, Ulstermen and Scots. Most Irish-Catholic immigrants worked on the canals, along the train tracks and in the forests, and like Thomas O’Dea, lived in the slums. He looked in the windows of Howell’s Grocery Store and considered how little he had eaten today. As he neared his father’s basement flat, he felt a shiver of dread. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Thomas O’Dea was a mess. After working the day shift at Lapierre’s, he had stayed on throughout the night shift, drinking away the money he had made. “Where have you been, boy?” he drawled, his breath reeking of dusty, cheap whisky.

Conor hung up his suit coat, hoping to avoid a confrontation. He knew his father would be impossible to deal with tonight.

“Did you hear me? I said, where have you been?”

“I was at the Confederation celebrations, watching the fireworks.”

“With who?”

“Will Trotter.” Conor didn’t dare say Meg’s name.

“With some Protestant thug?”

“With a pageboy who happens to be a friend of mine, if that’s
what you mean. Please, Da, let’s not argue.” Tonight, of all nights, Conor wished he could talk to his father. He wanted to share the evening with him, tell him about Meg, ask about girls, about his restless, anxious longing. He had spent many nights making love to his pillows, but tonight he had actually found a girl who seemed to like him. He had saved her life, her mother had called him a hero and he dared not tell his own father a word of it.

Thomas had often said that Conor had his mother’s happy disposition. He had apparently inherited her red hair and green eyes—“the look of the Irish.” Margaret O’Dea, that mystery who bore him … how he wished he knew her and could confide in her.

Long ago, he had stopped talking politics around his father. Thomas’s hatred for England was too deeply rooted for a decent discussion. Conor knew his “Britishness” pushed every nerve in his father’s body. He knew he could be insensitive to Thomas’s pain, but then, he thought, what’s wrong with wanting to fit in? What’s wrong with trying to get ahead? They were in a British country, after all; why not accept it?

He found Thomas’s lack of imagination frustrating. His father always wanted to dismiss issues, avoid conversation and damn those in power. Maybe he was afraid he couldn’t keep up, or maybe he had just stopped trying. When he wanted to, Thomas could hold his own at the pub; why not at home? Why did he stay so sullen?

“The fireworks were spectacular,” he said, searching for neutral ground.

“I suppose your fancy politicians were there.”

“Macdonald has been made a knight.”

Thomas didn’t care. “You think this Confederation nonsense is wonderful, don’t you?” There was contempt in his voice. “Well, I think—”

“I know what you think,” Conor interrupted, surprising himself
with his rudeness. “You don’t need to tell me. I know everything—and everybody—you hate.” He had wanted to be conciliatory and reach out to his father, but he had lost the moment and the inclination.

Thomas O’Dea’s face grew red with rage. “You fool. You know nothing, boyo. Nothing!” He spit out two words he knew Conor would hate: “Did you hear me, Bookie? Or is that Cookie?” Thomas persisted, delighting in Conor’s outrage. “You’re a pompous idiot.” In his thick accent, it sounded like
eejit
, an Irish inflection that sometimes had a funny, light tone. Not tonight. Tonight, it sounded like the hiss of the devil.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Conor said, glaring at him; once his anger had been awakened, it continued to rise. “I know that if you hate Canada so damned much, you should never have come here. I know—” Thomas tried to cut off his son’s speech, but Conor’s voice rose even louder. “I know you don’t believe in Canada, or Canadians. You barely believe in yourself. And I don’t care. I really don’t.”

Thomas O’Dea was in his forties, but his mind had withered with ancient hatreds. Conor looked at him with pity and disgust. It was a poisonous mix. “Tell me, Father,” he jeered. “What
do
you believe in?”

“I believe in Ireland,” Thomas answered contemptuously. “I believe in my homeland.”

Conor buried his head in his hands. Ireland. Ireland. Ireland. Why can’t people forget yesterday’s pain? We have a new homeland now. He studied his father. Thomas sat on an old wooden chair beside a battered table, leaning on a cold stovepipe. His shoulders were stooped, his eyes blurry from the whisky. He was the very picture of failure. And Conor felt ashamed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Thomas roared. “I’m not one of your hoity-toity Brits.”

“No, you’re a bitter wreck.” Conor regretted his words as he heard them come from his mouth. “And you’re drunk.”

At that, Thomas threw himself at his son, preparing to strike him, but he stumbled getting out of the chair. Conor held his ground and blocked the blow. He grabbed his father’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “I’m sorry,” Conor said sternly, releasing his father’s arm. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not Cookie, Bookie, boyo or any petty putdown you may come up with. Not after today.”

His father dropped to the muddy floor, a defeated man, sobbing in self-pity. “It’s that McGee. He’s turned you against me. To you, I’m nothing but a worthless barman and he’s,” he said mockingly, “a great politician.”

“It has nothing to do with Mr. McGee.” Now that he had control, maybe he could manoeuvre this dreadful confrontation from spite to reconciliation. “No, Da, it’s not that at all.” Conor’s tone now was soothing as he bent down. “You know what I was thinking today?” he said. “I was thinking about Mother. How she would have felt about today. A new country. A new start.”

Thomas looked up at him from the ground, barely believing that Conor would talk like this.

“Da, think of Mother. Is this how she would have wanted you to act?”

Colour slowly returned to Thomas O’Dea’s pallid face. “Think of Mother,” this boy said. As if he hadn’t thought of Margaret every hour of every day since she died. What impudence. What stupidity. What on earth had he reared? Life was surging into his limbs. How could he make this boy understand? Yes, he was jealous of McGee, with his fancy talk and fancier friends. Yes, he despised the Protestant leaders like Macdonald and their railway cronies. He would admit that. But his anger was deeper than envy. Far deeper.

An old, almost forgotten vitality started to flow into his bloodstream, clearing the haziness of the whisky. This son of his spouted the empty slogans of politics, but he knew the full sting of
British politics, and British politicians. He lifted himself up. This self-righteous boy—yes, “boyo”—hadn’t experienced enough of life to be called a man, yet he dared lecture him about life. About Margaret.