1911 election.
Queen’s Park, Toronto
September, 1916
King realized that he’d been walking around Queen’s Park for some time – hours even. Now it was growing quite late. He sat down on a bench and tried to get hold of himself.
What day was it? What month? What year? 1916, the year. He couldn’t figure out the exact day, but it must be one of the first days of September. His father had died August 30. His mother had left to stay with his sister Jennie that morning. It suddenly dawned on King that for the first time since he was a young man, he had no home in Toronto.
It seemed so impossible. Only a few short weeks before, his parents had been at Kingsmere. King remembered with regret, he had been sharp with his father. He didn’t recall what it was over, but now he was filled with remorse. His father was but an old man. Though nearly blind he’d bravely gone off to teach classes until he had retired just last year. After Bella’s death, John King had done his best to fumble through the streets doing the errands she had once done. His father did not deserve impatience, but that was how Willie had treated him the last time he saw him.
The last time he saw him. King moaned aloud.
How had it happened? Father had eaten something and apparently contracted food poisoning that quickly developed into unbearable pain. He’d died the next day.
It was unbelievable he was gone. Everyone was shocked. John King, the mentor of many – senator and professor at Osgoode, who had instructed over seven generations of law students; author and journalist admired by many editors; lawyer and expert in libel law, lauded by some of the best thinkers in the Dominion.
“And me?” King asked himself. He looked around but could see nothing save a blur before him. Father had steered him throughout his career – advised him to build his connections, to reach further and further. He had edited Willie s book about Bert and was helping him with his new manuscript. He was always thinking of me, sacrificing for me and so proud. Such a good, moral person. King began to cry, not caring whether people or pigeons saw his tears. Dear, dear Father. I owe you more than I can express. King looked at the darkening sky. You, Father, gave me an example of the perfection of manhood. It is an example I will strive to follow.
Kingsmere, Quebec
August, 1917
“How much,” King questioned the nurse, “can one person suffer?”
“Sh!” Nurse Petrie ordered. “She might hear you. Let her sleep now.”
Willie bent near, kissed her forehead, and smoothed her beautiful white curls with a gentle hand.
“Rest, Mother. The doctor will be here later.”
King retreated to the next room and returned to the manuscript in his typewriter. Watching his mother suffer in his tiny rooms at the Roxborough apartment building through the winter of 1917 had nearly driven him mad. After her stroke, the doctor had diagnosed a condition he called atherosclerosis. The doctor had become a regular visitor, coming to drain away the putrid fluids that caused Mother to swell. Yet she seemed to get no better, so he had taken her to the country for a change of air.
What do the doctors know? Let Mother he at Kingsmere, nearer the flowers in the fields, the birds in the trees, the peace of nature she so enjoys. Why, I even carried her to the lake and had her christen the new wharf after Father and the new boathouse after herself, the Isabel Mackenzie King Boathouse. I will see to it that she will rally, gather her strength, and be fit for fall after a summer’s idyll.
A search for personal peace was the second reason King had decamped from the city. When Rockefeller’s business was not tapping at his shoulder, King was engaged in writing a book on labour relations. He needed quiet as he threw his soul into finishing Industry and Humanity. The pages had to contain all his thoughts on the relations between labourers, capital, management, and community. His experiences had led him to believe that government could have an increased role in helping to establish favourable relations between all parties. As the war drew to a close, the book preached a message of industrial peace and harmony that the world was so aching to hear. That was what King wanted –globally and at home: peace, harmony, and healing.
A few days later Isabel appeared much better.
“I knew the country air would set you right, Mother!” King crowed.
“Dear Willie, you always know what’s best,” Isabel demurred.
King squeezed his mother’s hand. His heart swelled with love. “I only want the best for you, my dear. You are so brave.”
He took the spoon from the nurse and finished feeding Isabel her applesauce.
“Mother, dare I speak again to you of my plans, my dream, my vision? You know that I have been called to be the voice of the Liberal party in North York – Grandfather’s riding. I think they’re soon to call an election… in the fall, but…” He looked into the dimming eyes, and was sure he saw a spark burning yet. He had to get back into Parliament. Public service was his life – but so was his mother.
“Billy…” She paused a moment, letting a little sigh of pain and weariness escape her lips. Then she smiled her reassurance and said, “I will be glad if you speak in your grandfather’s voice.”
Roxborough Apartments, Ottawa
December 19, 1917
Grumpily, King paid the driver, arranged his baggage, and entered the Roxborough. He willed himself to change his disgruntled look to one of joyful homecoming. The Laurier Liberals had lost the election. The Liberal Party had split on the conscription issue. King had stayed with Laurier, stayed with the Liberals and the anti-conscription stance that ensured their loss. Borden and the Conservatives had used the Wartime Elections Act to pump up the pro-conscription vote and entered the House to form a coalition government with the Union Liberals.
December 17, 1917 – Election Day. King would never forget it. What a way to spend his birthday!
The day after, he’d telephoned to let Mother, and Jennie, who was looking after her in Ottawa, hear the news from his own lips. He’d wished he had something more cheerful to tell them – Mother deserved to hear only good news.
Resolved to show his best face, he turned the door handle.
“Hello! Mother! I’m home!” he boomed.
Jennie came to the door. King immediately noticed the dark circles under her eyes.
He saw Nurse Petrie scuttling quickly away, carrying what appeared to be a box. Something was wrong.
King smelled the air. The heavy sickroom smell was still about – but it had changed. There was a melancholy note missing and a curiously, unidentifiably upsetting one in its place.
Something was very wrong. King charged towards his mother’s
