carrots.
Will tried to help. “When will you be going to work with Mr. McGee?” he asked.
“I might not,” Conor answered.
The announcement hit those sitting at the table like a thunderbolt. D’Arcy McGee would need him in the upcoming election. That was his job: parliamentary assistant. And it was a job he loved. Everyone wanted an explanation, but no one dared ask. Not when Conor seemed so despondent.
Instead, Meg addressed the afternoon’s spectacle. “Mother, that Orange Parade was terrible.”
“Much of it is just silly boys acting like stupid men and stupid men acting like silly boys,” Mrs. Trotter responded. But she looked at Conor and thought more deeply. “Tradition can be wonderful, but it can have true dangers.”
Conor stared at his carrots without speaking.
“Customs burn deep in people’s souls,” she added. She’d read that somewhere.
Meg wouldn’t let it go. “Is it customary to hate?”
“Yes, that’s the point, dear. That’s the dreadful point.”
Will joined in, trying to be helpful. “Conor, didn’t Mr. McGee say, ‘Hate, not love, was born in blind’?”
“Something like that,” Conor muttered and excused himself from the table. He didn’t go upstairs to his room, or to the parlour. He walked out the front door.
CONOR roamed the streets. Metcalfe Street. Maria Street. Elgin Street. He used to find Uppertown exciting; now he found it drab and dowdy. The boardwalks seemed to creak with boredom. Maybe there was more money uptown, but it was colourless and monotonous. This was a utilitarian place, a government town. Except for the orange daylilies, which had just started to bloom in front of many Protestant homes, there were few flowers. He found himself drawn toward the great divide between Uppertown and Lowertown: the Russell House on Wellington Street. He peered into the windows. There was some kind of reception going on. He could hear the noise of revelry but couldn’t quite make out any figures through the smoky glass.
“The Russell” was Ottawa’s fanciest hotel. Its dining room served salmon from New Brunswick, buffalo from the North-Western Territory and venison from up the valley on silver plates over white tablecloths. Conor had dined there once with D’Arcy McGee and loved every minute of it. He had felt a little awkward, not quite knowing the etiquette of fine dining, but the lumber barons and politicians at the other tables were so loud and full of themselves that they didn’t seem to notice. McGee had spilt wine all over himself as he emphasized a point by flailing his arms. But that was a year ago, before he quit drinking.
A carriage approached, and Conor stepped back. He watched the driver come into view behind the thunder of the horses. It was Patrick Buckley, Macdonald’s driver. Behind, in the carriage, sat the happy couple. Conor watched with some fascination as Buckley helped them down from the carriage. Sir John A. Macdonald was elegantly dressed with a cape over his formal suit and a top hat over his curly hair. He was sporting a bright red cravat; no one could miss him. Lady Macdonald was in a flowing, dark blue hoop skirt with rows and rows of flounces. It was cut high to her neck, and she must have pulled her corset terribly tight for her waist to have become that slim. She carried a handkerchief in her gloved right hand. It was probably perfumed. Conor had never noticed how regal Agnes Macdonald could look. He was about to approach the prime minister and say hello, but he hesitated when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a man bounding from the hotel’s entrance.
John Hillyard Cameron, the grand master of the Orange Lodge, approached Macdonald, his hand extended, his orange sash glowing as he walked. Conor was keenly aware of who was important, and Cameron was one of Canada’s most prestigious lawyers. Conor stayed in the shadows and watched.
Macdonald warmly took Cameron’s hand. Conor couldn’t believe his eyes. The cape had
Will tried to help. “When will you be going to work with Mr. McGee?” he asked.
“I might not,” Conor answered.
The announcement hit those sitting at the table like a thunderbolt. D’Arcy McGee would need him in the upcoming election. That was his job: parliamentary assistant. And it was a job he loved. Everyone wanted an explanation, but no one dared ask. Not when Conor seemed so despondent.
Instead, Meg addressed the afternoon’s spectacle. “Mother, that Orange Parade was terrible.”
“Much of it is just silly boys acting like stupid men and stupid men acting like silly boys,” Mrs. Trotter responded. But she looked at Conor and thought more deeply. “Tradition can be wonderful, but it can have true dangers.”
Conor stared at his carrots without speaking.
“Customs burn deep in people’s souls,” she added. She’d read that somewhere.
Meg wouldn’t let it go. “Is it customary to hate?”
“Yes, that’s the point, dear. That’s the dreadful point.”
Will joined in, trying to be helpful. “Conor, didn’t Mr. McGee say, ‘Hate, not love, was born in blind’?”
“Something like that,” Conor muttered and excused himself from the table. He didn’t go upstairs to his room, or to the parlour. He walked out the front door.
CONOR roamed the streets. Metcalfe Street. Maria Street. Elgin Street. He used to find Uppertown exciting; now he found it drab and dowdy. The boardwalks seemed to creak with boredom. Maybe there was more money uptown, but it was colourless and monotonous. This was a utilitarian place, a government town. Except for the orange daylilies, which had just started to bloom in front of many Protestant homes, there were few flowers. He found himself drawn toward the great divide between Uppertown and Lowertown: the Russell House on Wellington Street. He peered into the windows. There was some kind of reception going on. He could hear the noise of revelry but couldn’t quite make out any figures through the smoky glass.
“The Russell” was Ottawa’s fanciest hotel. Its dining room served salmon from New Brunswick, buffalo from the North-Western Territory and venison from up the valley on silver plates over white tablecloths. Conor had dined there once with D’Arcy McGee and loved every minute of it. He had felt a little awkward, not quite knowing the etiquette of fine dining, but the lumber barons and politicians at the other tables were so loud and full of themselves that they didn’t seem to notice. McGee had spilt wine all over himself as he emphasized a point by flailing his arms. But that was a year ago, before he quit drinking.
A carriage approached, and Conor stepped back. He watched the driver come into view behind the thunder of the horses. It was Patrick Buckley, Macdonald’s driver. Behind, in the carriage, sat the happy couple. Conor watched with some fascination as Buckley helped them down from the carriage. Sir John A. Macdonald was elegantly dressed with a cape over his formal suit and a top hat over his curly hair. He was sporting a bright red cravat; no one could miss him. Lady Macdonald was in a flowing, dark blue hoop skirt with rows and rows of flounces. It was cut high to her neck, and she must have pulled her corset terribly tight for her waist to have become that slim. She carried a handkerchief in her gloved right hand. It was probably perfumed. Conor had never noticed how regal Agnes Macdonald could look. He was about to approach the prime minister and say hello, but he hesitated when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a man bounding from the hotel’s entrance.
John Hillyard Cameron, the grand master of the Orange Lodge, approached Macdonald, his hand extended, his orange sash glowing as he walked. Conor was keenly aware of who was important, and Cameron was one of Canada’s most prestigious lawyers. Conor stayed in the shadows and watched.
Macdonald warmly took Cameron’s hand. Conor couldn’t believe his eyes. The cape had
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