obscured it before, but now he could see: Macdonald wore the same sash, the Orangeman’s emblem. The grand master led Sir John and Lady Macdonald into what must be the Orangeman’s Ball.
He heard the prime minister declare, “I say, Cameron, did God ever make a man as distinguished as you look?”
Conor was distressed. John Macdonald may not have attended the parade, but he never missed a party. He had joined the ranks of the intolerant—and the intolerable. He was one of
them.
Once the door was closed and the Orangemen were inside, Conor walked up to Buckley, who was tending to the lead horse and chatting with a woman. Buckley was an Irish Catholic, and Conor had sometimes seen him with Thomas.
“What do you think?” Conor said.
“I’m paid to drive. And keep my opinions to myself.”
Conor thought for a second, and concluded, “I’m paid to think, and I think it’s us and it’s them.”
Until then, Conor hadn’t noticed that the woman talking with Buckley was Polly, the washerwoman.
“Have you seen your father, Conor?” she asked.
“No. Have you?”
She looked down, embarrassed. Conor turned and walked away, leaving Buckley with Polly and Macdonald with his friends.
CONOR considered going to Lapierre’s to try to speak to his father, but he couldn’t bear the rejection. He thought of going back to the cathedral. He had found peace there, but he didn’t seek a state of grace; he wanted to suffer in his own wrath. He stayed in Uppertown and wandered into the seediest Elgin Street bar he could find. It smelled of the common man: tobacco, beer, spit and urine. No white tablecloths here.
He sat alone and kept himself company. “This is no place for a gentleman,” he told his glass of whisky. “Even a fraud with one suit and one tattered pair of shoes.”
It was a mixed bar. There was a group of Protestant celebrants toasting the holy day over Bushmills, not of the class to be invited to the Russell House. A few people he assumed were “regulars” were pontificating about something or other as they sucked down whisky and spit out tobacco. Of course, there were the obligatory local drunks drinking cheap yellow whisky poured from the bucket. They hung on to the bar and stared into space. And there was a vagrant with no friends or family—him—slumped in a chair. Alone. With his drinks. And his resentment.
This day had made so many things clear. Their Orange fraternity of hate held the keys to power. He was a poor Irish immigrant—a bogtrotter—and he always would be. Those who called him an upstart were dead right. He knew life’s surfaces, not its depths.
How had he climbed this ladder leading nowhere? The phrase he once thought could sound clever in a political speech now rang far too true, and all about him.
Thomas O’Dea had slaved and sacrificed so that his son could get an education. Book learning was unheard of among the labourers and drifters in the lumber camps. Thomas paid the bookkeeper as much as he could manage to teach Conor sums and arithmetic. At first, Conor resisted the discipline; gradually, he embraced learning as thenumbers started to make magical sense. Oblate priests taught him the rudiments of reading and writing, but words on a page turned into stories when an itinerant romantic wandered into the lumber camp one January afternoon. He had a mysterious past, which enchanted Conor, and spoke with an upper-crust British accent, which inspired him. All he carried was a sack of books and plenty of tobacco for his pipe. He wore a huge Stetson hat and they nicknamed him Tex. He could spin stories of exotic adventures throughout America and as far away as Australia. Thomas paid him a small fortune to tutor his son. Tex taught Conor the basics of sentence construction, and together they read story after story. More important, he urged Conor to think for himself. Tex was helping Conor take his first steps away from Thomas’s world, and Thomas encouraged it because Tex was
He heard the prime minister declare, “I say, Cameron, did God ever make a man as distinguished as you look?”
Conor was distressed. John Macdonald may not have attended the parade, but he never missed a party. He had joined the ranks of the intolerant—and the intolerable. He was one of
them.
Once the door was closed and the Orangemen were inside, Conor walked up to Buckley, who was tending to the lead horse and chatting with a woman. Buckley was an Irish Catholic, and Conor had sometimes seen him with Thomas.
“What do you think?” Conor said.
“I’m paid to drive. And keep my opinions to myself.”
Conor thought for a second, and concluded, “I’m paid to think, and I think it’s us and it’s them.”
Until then, Conor hadn’t noticed that the woman talking with Buckley was Polly, the washerwoman.
“Have you seen your father, Conor?” she asked.
“No. Have you?”
She looked down, embarrassed. Conor turned and walked away, leaving Buckley with Polly and Macdonald with his friends.
CONOR considered going to Lapierre’s to try to speak to his father, but he couldn’t bear the rejection. He thought of going back to the cathedral. He had found peace there, but he didn’t seek a state of grace; he wanted to suffer in his own wrath. He stayed in Uppertown and wandered into the seediest Elgin Street bar he could find. It smelled of the common man: tobacco, beer, spit and urine. No white tablecloths here.
He sat alone and kept himself company. “This is no place for a gentleman,” he told his glass of whisky. “Even a fraud with one suit and one tattered pair of shoes.”
It was a mixed bar. There was a group of Protestant celebrants toasting the holy day over Bushmills, not of the class to be invited to the Russell House. A few people he assumed were “regulars” were pontificating about something or other as they sucked down whisky and spit out tobacco. Of course, there were the obligatory local drunks drinking cheap yellow whisky poured from the bucket. They hung on to the bar and stared into space. And there was a vagrant with no friends or family—him—slumped in a chair. Alone. With his drinks. And his resentment.
This day had made so many things clear. Their Orange fraternity of hate held the keys to power. He was a poor Irish immigrant—a bogtrotter—and he always would be. Those who called him an upstart were dead right. He knew life’s surfaces, not its depths.
How had he climbed this ladder leading nowhere? The phrase he once thought could sound clever in a political speech now rang far too true, and all about him.
Thomas O’Dea had slaved and sacrificed so that his son could get an education. Book learning was unheard of among the labourers and drifters in the lumber camps. Thomas paid the bookkeeper as much as he could manage to teach Conor sums and arithmetic. At first, Conor resisted the discipline; gradually, he embraced learning as thenumbers started to make magical sense. Oblate priests taught him the rudiments of reading and writing, but words on a page turned into stories when an itinerant romantic wandered into the lumber camp one January afternoon. He had a mysterious past, which enchanted Conor, and spoke with an upper-crust British accent, which inspired him. All he carried was a sack of books and plenty of tobacco for his pipe. He wore a huge Stetson hat and they nicknamed him Tex. He could spin stories of exotic adventures throughout America and as far away as Australia. Thomas paid him a small fortune to tutor his son. Tex taught Conor the basics of sentence construction, and together they read story after story. More important, he urged Conor to think for himself. Tex was helping Conor take his first steps away from Thomas’s world, and Thomas encouraged it because Tex was
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