William turned to Father. “At times like this, I am most relieved to have only sons. I think I will take my pipe and go for a walk. Join me, Doc, if you like. It sounds like the ladies have this well in hand.” Father hesitated only momentarily before following Uncle William down the remaining verandah steps. Ina shrank into Mother’s arms.
“Charlotte, why do you say that he is unsuitable?” Aunt Lil asked. “He appears to be a nice boy. He comes from an old Brampton family.” In those days, an “old Brampton family” was a proxy for a “good Brampton family.” This was not to say that newcomers could not also be good Bramptonians—they just had to work harder to prove their worthiness. “Things like that don’t matter to me,” Aunt Lil continued, “but I know they matter to you.”
“Yes,” Aunt Charlotte replied. “They matter a great deal but…”
“His family is an old Brampton family. His great-grandfather was brother to John Lynch, one of Brampton’s first settlers.” In her history teacher sort of way, Aunt Lil laid out the key facts. John Lynch had settled in Brampton 1819. He was a great promoter of the area, prodigiously writing advice to early settlers as to what to plant, where to live, and what to build in order to make their life in the colonies a success. Together with his brother-in-law, John Scott, in 1839 he established a brewery and an ashery. Within fifteen years, he left that business and became a real estate broker and land conveyancer, coming to own great tracts of Brampton land. He advocated for the incorporation of the village and became its first reeve. He was an active justice of the peace for twenty-five years and was instrumental in bringing the railway to Brampton.
“None of that matters to me, of course,” Aunt Lil concluded. “What matters is that he is kind to Ina, which he seems to be, and that he makes her happy, which he seems to do.”
“I am glad you noticed that,” Aunt Charlotte replied, in a scandalized tone. “Did you notice the team he played for today?”
“Of course I did. The St. Mary’s team.”
“Exactly. That young man is a papist. And a relation of John Lynch! Heavens. The Lynches aren’t just any Catholics. They are the preeminent Catholics of Brampton.” Then, demonstrating that she too was once a teacher, Aunt Charlotte continued. “Was it not John Lynch who in the mid-1860s donated the land on Centre Street for the construction of Brampton’s first Catholic church—Guardian Angels—and its Catholic cemetery?”
I recalled what I knew about the Guardian Angels Church. It was burned to the ground on Orangemen’s Day, July 12, 1878. The devastation of the fire was complete in part because the rope in the bell tower of the fire station was off its runner when the fire was first reported.
“But what is the harm if he is Catholic, Charlotte?” Aunt Lil queried. “Why should that matter? You are all Christians. I have never understood your commitment—or our brother’s commitment—to this Protestant–Catholic divide.” I looked at Ina. Her face was buried in her hands, resting on Mother’s shoulder. I liked Michael Lynch, and I did not care that he was a papist. I also liked the new Ina—the Ina with Michael as a beau. She was much nicer to be with. She was almost kind to me. I did not relish a return of the old Ina—the Ina without Michael. So I ventured into the discussion, recalling facts I surreptitiously learned many years ago.
“I agree with Aunt Lil,” I said. A minor could go very wrong in our family in disputing the position of an elder, but one generally had a hope of avoiding censure when the view was supported by at least one adult in the conversation. “There are other good Catholics in Brampton, and some of them are even of old families. And if Ina and Michael marry, then he will become Methodist.” In Brampton, it was the custom that the husband joined the wife’s church after they wed. Astonishment greeted my declaration. Even Ina raised her head and uncovered her face to hear my oration. Believing I needed to educate my sister, mother, and aunts, I went on.
“Look at Mr. Gilchrist,” I offered slightly louder, more confidently. “He was born and raised a Catholic. He became a Primitive Methodist later in his life, and look at all of the good things he did for Brampton. He was a town councillor and a Member of the Provincial Parliament and a businessman who employed many people. And he donated the concert hall to the town.”
They continued to stare at me. I thought more examples were needed, so I continued. “And even though he was not Baptist, he donated the land down the street to that congregation for the construction of their church.” The fact that he also donated the land for the Primitive Methodist Church did not seem particularly noteworthy, given that he was of that congregation. So I did not mention it.
They continued to look bewildered, and so I offered my last salvo. “And even though he was born Catholic, he donated the stone that was used for the construction of the Presbyterian Church.”
At that Mother stood up. Mother was a model of tolerance. Many people told me that she was the sweetest person they knew. She certainly was the sweetest person I knew. Although she was sometimes stern with me, she was never cross. I knew that she did not share the prejudiced views of Aunt Charlotte and Father. As she walked slowly toward me, I rose to receive the embrace I was sure would accompany a compliment on my brave and principled stand.
But Mother stopped her approach too far away to take me in her arms, and her eyes, when cast upon me, were anything but proud.
She lifted her right hand and slapped me hard across the face. It was the first time anyone had ever struck me. My eyes filled with tears. My hand rose to touch my smarting cheek. “My dear,” she said in a cold voice I barely recognized, “wherever did you get those notions? That man made no such donation to the Presbyterian Church. Don’t let me or your grandfather ever hear you speak that way about that man again!” She turned and went inside, the screen door slamming behind her.
Ina stopped seeing Michael Lynch. When the Turners left for Winnipeg the next day, Ina went with them. It was a long time before I again uttered the name of Kenneth Gilchrist. But Mother’s admonition never left me. “Don’t let me or your grandfather ever hear you speak that way about that man again!” Had Mother just given me a piece in the puzzle that was the mystery of my grandfather and the Presbyterian Church? I did not know, but I was once again determined to find out.
Chapter 4
THE KNITTING CLUB
The declaration of hostilities that brought an immediate call to arms for men brought a no less immediate call for women. In the case of women, the call was for arms, or more particularly, for their arms and their hands. Though feminine hands could be put to many useful pursuits in support of the war, among my family and friends the initial pursuits revolved around sewing and knitting—neither of which appealed to me in the least.
As local militia regiments began to parade, waiting for their eventual muster, the president of the local Women’s Institute sent a telegram to Colonel Sam. It announced the willingness of the Institute’s members to immediately commence the creation of housewives (small cases to hold needles, thread, and other sewing notions), holdalls (shoulder bags to carry personal possessions), and stomach belts (that would similarly carry personal possessions, although at a different body location), all items found particularly useful by the local men who had fought in the Boer War. Replying through his director of clothing and equipping, Colonel Sam expressed his appreciation to the ladies of Brampton but advised that such items, should they be required, would be obtained through government contracts. He would gladly advise them if their services were required at any point in the future.
The Brampton women did not await his further advice. They knew nothing about the director of Clothing and
