am pleased to meet you too, sir. I have studied about you in school.”
I am honoured! the voice said with surprise. I lost much in the Rebellion. As my grandson knows, one makes great sacrifices in public life. He works so hard. I worked so hard. But it was different work. These are different times. Time, the voice reflected, does not exist over here. I want my grandson to know that I love him and I will always be with him.
After the séance King took a moment to write up the events of the day. It was so marvellous, he felt, to have such contact, now, during his upsetting period. The Liberal party had been horribly affected by a terrible scandal, one that had sullied King’s personal reputation. Funds had been given to the Liberal campaign from people who had benefitted from contracts related to proposed plans to build the St. Lawrence Seaway. It was made to look as if an interested party, the Beauharnois Syndicate, had paid for King’s hotel bill during a holiday in Bermuda. Although King was eventually proven innocent, some other Liberals appeared less so. “We are in the Valley of Humiliation,” the party leader confessed before the House of Commons. He had promised that all would be set right. Then he took measures to ensure such a charge could never be brought against a Liberal candidate again. He saw that a National Liberal Foundation and office was organized to handle campaign funds and to strengthen the party unity through improved communication. Nonetheless, the taste of disgrace remained bitterly with King.
Patteson Residence
Elgin St., Ottawa
December 24, 1933
King and Joan sat across from each other at a little table. Their hands were placed on its surface palms down, fingers touching lightly. The room was heavy with the smell of Christmas roses, but darkened so that the blooms could barely be discerned. A small light glowed, just enough to illuminate a notepad beside King.
Their fingers began to tap out letters. With his pencil stub, King transcribed Mother King.
“Mother,” King breathed. “It’s Mother.”
Mother King gave her love, and then Joan’s mother sent the same message. Father King soon appeared.
Father: Happy Christmas. Go to bed early. Eat less.
“Good advice!” King said.
“Quiet, Rex!” Joan commanded.
As the knocks began again, King wrote down each letter and “translated” the jumble into the answers to their questions. Since their minds had been opened to the possibilities of communication with those in the spirit world, he and Joan found that through the little table they themselves could have direct contact without going through a medium. Willies brother spoke now.
Max: Go to bed early. Let wine alone. Exercise more.
“Should I walk more?” King asked the shadows.
Yes.
“When?”
At night.
Now it was Joan’s turn to ask the spirit of Dr. Macdougall King a medical question. “Will Godfroy’s hand soon be better?”
Yes.
“Is it cancer?”
No.
The name Laurier was tapped out next.
Learn French. Have someone teach you.
“Does it mean another war?” King queried.
Yes.
“Do you know how soon?”
The spirits thought a war might come in the reign of Edward VIII. As King George V was currently on the throne, this caused Joan to ask if they had “knowledge of the future.” The answer was: Yes.
King’s heroes, the British prime minister Gladstone and his own rebel grandfather William Lyon Mackenzie, were among those who joined in the talk and gave political advice.
Gladstone: Strive valiantly.
Mackenzie Lyon: I will help you.
Blake: Go slowly dealing with Bennett.
Message from all: Keep up your courage.
They tapped until the spirits told them to go to bed late Christmas Eve.
Making his way home to Laurier House, King felt the cold of the night. He was aware that a record number of people on relief were suffering – one million in a country of nearly ten million. Many of these hungry men, King knew, were unhappy that Bennett had not kept his election promises of ending unemployment. They were desperately looking for answers outside of traditional political means and were turning to new theories and parties.
King too, was looking for answers in new ways, but to different questions. Preparing for bed, he thought of the Christmases at Woodside – the way he or Max or Father had dressed up as Santa. Perhaps thinking about them just now meant something. Perhaps he would see his father or Max in a vision while he slept.
Beside King’s bed, Pat stirred in his little basket. “I wonder if he’s dreaming of the Irish terrier on the Christmas card that Mrs. Wriedt sent?” King stretched out comfortably, feeling warm and blessed. “I must make a note to thank…”
Soon, both were snoring contentedly while soft shadows flitted about the room.
Kingsmere, Quebec
July 1, 1936
King and Joan Patteson stood on the lawn at the edge of the forest. “I am going to call this the Arc de Triomphe!” he declared, while placing his hand on a tall column.
“To commemorate the election?” Joan asked slyly.
The Liberals had won the October 14, 1935 federal election. Their posters had proclaimed: “Canada Cannot Stand Another 5 Years of Bennett’s Broken Promises.” The slogan “It’s King or Chaos” garnered the lion’s share of the votes for the Liberals, with some for the new parties: the Social Credit and the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF). Bennett had been trounced.
King’s Arc de Triomphe, the doorway to the forest, had, a short time ago, held up the stone walls of the British North American Bank Note Building in Ottawa. Upon hearing that the building was scheduled for demolition, he had purchased the pillars and had them brought to Kingsmere. Over the years he had enlarged his estate to just over two hundred improved hectares and several cottages. A few years before, he had begun adding pieces of other people’s cast-off buildings, cobbling together “ruins.” He was quite pleased with the effect. Kingsmere looked as grand as any old estate in Britain. The latest addition, this portico, to a part of the forest he called Diana’s Grove, was especially inspiring.
“The Arc de
