run my business as I see fit,” said Douglas. “Stay out of it.”
And before she could say another word, he strode to the hallway, picked up his hat and walked out, not even bothering to close the door. Margaret wanted to run after him, to scream at him in the street, but the neighbours would see and she couldn’t bear that. She stood in the doorway, all the passion of a moment before draining out of her feet onto the chilly floor. Then she slammed the door. She kicked over the chair, ran up to her bedroom, slammed that door and threw herself sobbing across the bed. Soon they would be out on the street, she knew they would be. They would starve.
Down the hall Irene turned her face to the wall and pulled the pillow over her head.
It was mid-October now, and they were blessed with a fine Indian summer. As the day ended, Douglas decided to take a long walk before going home. He was in a slightly bleary fog of whisky and goodwill toward men. He was thankful he was no longer burdened by an automobile. A brisk walk was good for the constitution. He stepped out into the lengthening shadows and took deep breaths of the muggy air. His flask rested against his heart. Although it was a balmy night, he whistled “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” and doffed his hat at ladies.
He decided to walk all the way along Queen Street, maybe as far as University, even up to Queen’s Park and then back along College to home. He strolled along, pleased with himself and the world. As he rounded the corner of Bay and Queen Street he came upon a group of perhaps twenty-five men and five or six women. They were a ragtag group; even in his jolly mood he could tell that. They were lean and serious. The man in front of him wore pants so thin in the backside they were barely decent.
Douglas did not like crowds, especially not crowds of dingy men and especially not on an evening when he felt so full of fellow-feeling. He tried to pass, but he was slightly unsteady on his feet, and someone bumped into him. A man reached out a steadying hand, and Douglas saw that the knuckles were covered in scabs.
“Whoa there, pal,” the man said, his voice friendlier than his hard-luck face. “Steady,” he said and smiled.
“Fine,” said Douglas. “I’m fine.”
“Course you are. Can’t blame a man for taking a snort to make hisself feel better in times like this.” The man looked around and then leaned into Douglas, speaking softly. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a taste thereabouts yer person, do you? For a pal?”
“Certainly not,” said Douglas. He brushed imaginary crumbs from his lapels.
“Ah well, too bad, eh?” said the man.
Douglas was gently jostled into the centre of the crowd. Finding himself surrounded, he thought he might as well listen. No doubt some Methodist preacher calling on the Lord to bring on Armageddon. It might be amusing.
A young man stood on a crate, head and shoulders above the crowd. He was pale and wiry, and didn’t look like he’d be much good at anything that didn’t involve a desk and a stack of paper.
Douglas couldn’t follow the man’s words. He said something about the capitalists and how they didn’t care about the working man, who was starving for lack of food and atrophying for lack of work. He waved his hands about a great deal.
“Now Tim Buck, he’s a man with a difference, let me tell you. He’ll not sell you out the way the Tories have, the way the so-called Liberals have. He’s a man who cares, is Tim Buck. You support him and he’ll support you!”
The man next to Douglas nudged him. “That there’s Tom McEwen, and the guy behind him”—he pointed to a small, clean-cut young fellow who looked like a department store clerk—“that’s Tim Buck. Great man. We’s here for Tim Buck, eh? All of us. Ain’t gonna put up with this no more. Not no more.”
Douglas’s head began to clear. There had been newspaper reports of this Tim Buck, a Communist. A rabble-rouser. A threat to the Dominion.
“Let’s hear it for Tim, friends! Tim Buck!”
“Excuse me,” said Douglas, starting to push through the cheering crowd. He did not want to be among Communists. Methodists were bad enough. He was too hot now and didn’t feel well. He stuck out his elbows.
“Hey, watch who you’re poking!” someone snapped.
“Sorry,” said Douglas and tried to move forward.
“Oh, Jesus,” said someone else. “It’s the cops!” The crowd became very quiet, everyone looking this way and that. The police had come off a side street and were upon the group before they knew it.
“We’ll fix you sons of bitches.” Several policemen shouldered their way through the crowd with far more success than Douglas, who was hemmed in on all sides. Over the top of people’s heads he could see uniformed riders on horses.
“We have every right to be here. You have no legal reason to stop this meeting,” said McEwen. Tim Buck stood at his side, his arms folded across his chest.
People began to mutter about their rights, but there was a hum of fear. A man grabbed a woman’s arm and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
More blue uniforms pushed through, their batons held out in front of them. The horses pranced nervously, their chests thrust out, driven forward by their riders, and people in front of them held their hands up, trying to quiet the animals and keep out of their way.
“This is a lawful street meeting!” McEwen called out.
“Shut that bastard’s mouth!” yelled a policeman, and with that, another cop, thick-limbed and stocky, raised his elbow and used it to abruptly close McEwen’s mouth.
In that instant people started running and truncheons began to fly. The man who had asked Douglas for a drink cowered in front of a mounted cop. He threw his hands up over his head and screamed, “Don’t hit me, I’m an anti-Communist!” The cop cracked him on the back with his baton and said, “I don’t care what kind of Communist ya are.”
Douglas turned to his left and his right, pushing people who were backing into him. He found his path cut off in every direction and he pushed backwards, only to feel hands roughly upon him.
“Right then, Mac. Into the van with you,” said the cop.
And although he protested that he was not a Communist, he was an Anglican, this only made the beefy man laugh. Douglas found himself in the back of a urine-rank paddy wagon with McEwen and Buck and several others. Three men bled from wounds to the head or face. One man’s nose was broken and he cupped his hands against it gingerly as blood dripped onto his shirt.
“I’m not a Communist,” said Douglas, looking from one man to the other.
“You are now, friend,” came a voice from the corner. “Tom McEwen’s the name,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Great Repression.”
Where the hell was Douglas?
Margaret smoked one cigarette after another and practised sending smoke rings into the sticky air. She got up now and again to check whether the telephone was working. She fiddled with the radio dial, listened to Chick Webb and his orchestra live from the Savoy Ballroom. At ten she turned to CPRY to hear Fred Culley and his Dance Orchestra.
