River City

by John Farrow

  “Gentlemen,” Sir Herbert pointed out to them, “need I remind you—I daresay that I do—that if this bloody thing proves to be of long duration, two years or three, as some say, no one at table will be around to do his part. No one at table will be partaking in the obvious opportunities, either during the war or after, and neither I nor either of you has a snowball’s chance in Bermuda of seeing the thing through to any conclusion, be it victory or defeat.”

  “Oh, victory, surely,” Sir Edward piped up, aghast.

  “Rather,” Sir Charles concurred.

  “Victory, then. Even so, you will not live to see it,” Sir Herbert intoned.

  Sir Charles sipped his gin. “Rather,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  “I say,” Sir Edward said, “jolly good humour today, old chap. Jolly good.”

  “Not altogether,” Sir Herbert agreed. “Do you know why the military permits me an escort, the four stout lads outside? I don’t pay for the privilege.”

  “It’s been my observation, Sir Herbert,” Sir Charles chuckled, “that you pay for very little in life.”

  “Not so. The military, you see, is concerned for my safety, as they desire to keep me alive as long as possible—so that I might requisition things, you see.”

  “What things?” Sir Edward inquired, interested. He himself had worried about the combat-readiness of the Canadian forces. They were deemed to be in dire shape, in poor position for war.

  “I’ve agreed to purchase for the air force a squadron of fighter aircraft. Spitfires. They’re quite anxious that I live long enough to sign off on the allocation.”

  Both men were still. No one really had any idea as to the full extent of Sir Herbert’s wealth, yet to be seated with a gentleman, an old friend, wealthy enough to purchase a squadron of aircraft, momentarily stunned their senses.

  “The least I could do,” added Sir Herbert, to fill the pause in conversation, “given that I won’t be seeing the nasty business through. I presume you are both making your own plans to offer support, ahead of the game. You’re unlikely to be of much good if you wait too long.”

  “That’s jolly good of you,” Sir Edward noted. He was duly impressed, and agreed that Sir Herbert’s tack was the correct one. If death should seize him in his sleep, his heirs were more likely to hoard their benefits than deposit them in the cause of war. “I’d rather like to purchase a tank or two, help the army along.”

  “I suppose the navy could use assistance,” Sir Charles consented, although he didn’t want to get into any fundraising competition with these two gentlemen.

  “A ship? A frigate—perhaps a destroyer,” Sir Herbert suggested. “Munitions, I was thinking.”

  “Think harder, Sir Charles. This is a time of war, and as they say, you can’t take it with you. It’s our legacy at stake. By that, I do not refer to my reputation or to yours, for I’ll be remembered as the dastardly chap who turns off the lights at night and the heat in winter. But our society, the companies we have built, the institutions we have seen take shape—all will be forsaken if the war is lost.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” Sir Edward wholeheartedly agreed, and while he did not thump the table, his resolve was not to be denied. “Two tanks it is.”

  “I think that I should rather like to buy the tanks,” Sir Charles suggested, “to leave you free to purchase a frigate. After all, you are in the steamship business.”

  “By Jove, you might have something there. We’ll look into that, Sir Charles.”

  Their first round had been finished and the next arrived, followed by the soup, a French onion. Sir Herbert seemed preoccupied during the course, failing to hear questions asked of him and failing to respond when they were repeated. As the soup bowls were being taken away and they awaited their succulent roast pork, Sir Herbert broached another issue that had been occupying his mind.

  “I have in my possession,” he began, then corrected himself. “Not altogether in my possession, you understand. I have under the aegis of one of my companies, Sun Life Assurance, a certain relic, a cultural heirloom from a bygone era. I am at a loss as to what to do with the artifact, as I’m told it has significant historical relevance. I’ve had it appraised, only to discover that it has significant commercial value as well. The item is said to possess near magical powers, for anyone who has held the relic in his or her possession enjoyed prosperity. Some would argue that this did not bode true for that fellow Radisson, who had it, but kept trading it to his in-laws to help him keep his wife. The in-laws did rather well. When he finally took it back, well, his life was over, but at least he got to die in his sleep. An achievement for a man like him. In any case, prosperity came to Sun Life. By extension, it’s also true of me. The artifact was acquired by a Sun Life representative in exchange for an insurance policy, paid in full, for which the representative had to endure a scolding by his supervisor for making a questionable deal, until he managed to bring to his attention the diamond-gold handle. Now the item is worth at least as much as a squadron of Spitfires—” “No!”

  “By Jove, the man’s good fortune. You ought to pay for lunch on occasion, Sir Herbert.”

  Sir Herbert looked across at him, unsmiling, without comment. “What is the relic?” Sir Edward inquired.

  “The Cartier Dagger, it’s called. Initially acquired by Jacques Cartier himself from Indians right here on the island of Montreal. Legend has it, in any case.”

  “That would indeed be of rare value.”

  “Complete with gold and diamonds in the handle, as I say. Stuffed away in a storage box. The company was clearing room for more office space when it was discovered. Good thing a man didn’t just walk off with it. I never would have been aware of the loss, yet it would have been grievous.”

  “Indeed. Good on you, Sir Herbert, to have found such a thing.” Sir Charles made a mental note to send employees scrounging through the archives and storage rooms of his companies, to see what treasures might be lurking there.

  Sir Herbert explained how the knife had come to be in the hands of Sun Life Assurance, when once it had been held by the Hudson’s Bay Company. As he rarely had opportunity to tell such a tale of high adventure, he relished every turn and nuance. He felt at one moment that the Cartier Dagger must indeed possess magic powers, for suddenly he was seen as the storyteller in the group. His friends were all ears, and delighted in the daring ascribed to Sarah Hanson.

  “The dagger remained within her household for a few generations, until a dolt of a great-grandson traded it to Sun Life in exchange for an insurance policy. So it’s languished with us to this day.”

  His companions shook their heads, unable to comprehend the extent of this man’s luck.

  “But what to do? You see my dilemma. It’s not the sort of thing you leave to family. A recalcitrant grandson-in-law of mine will be pawning it before I’m fully comfortable in my grave. Shall I donate? But to whom? That’s the issue.”

  Sir Edward, who valued his title, for it secured his station in society at a time when, if it were more known, his homosexuality would mark him as an outcast, suggested that Sir Herbert consider giving the artifact to the British monarchy. “King George plans a visit, raising spirits for the war effort. It would be a gesture.”

  Sir Herbert rejected the idea out of hand as he bit into his pork. “I am loyal to the Crown. But I am an Irishman by birth and a Canadian by way of my good fortune. I cannot bestow a relic that remains of monumental importance to my adopted land to the Old Country, which is already stuffed with ancient treasure. Besides, the knife has been in the possession of the British monarchy in the past, apparently. Obviously, they gave it up, the silly, inbred dolts.”

  “Give the knife to Canada, then,” Sir Charles advised.

  “With that oaf, Mackenzie King, as our prime minister? I’d rather give it to the man who delivers my coal. King would receive the dagger and make himself the centre of the ceremony—use the event to win more votes. No! He’s taken away the possibility of
knighthood from our younger peers, and the three of us, we’d be lords by now if not for him. For that reason alone, he cannot receive the relic. Canada’s loss, but nothing’s to be done.”

  “King,” Sir Edward scoffed, “has declared ten times that we will not go to war in defence of any nation. Did you hear his speech? No foreign wars, he says. We all know he’s lying. All to win votes in Quebec, the scoundrel.”

  “Meanwhile,” Sir Charles took note, “the air force is collecting promises for fighter aircraft from our friend over here.”

  “The government is building the military for the defence of Canadian soil,” Sir Herbert pronounced. “The military has been given free rein to prepare for our national defence through private resources. It must be done, but it’s all such nonsense, half-measures, and it’s all that blackguard King’s fault. He tells Hitler he’ll fight on the side of Britain, that’s fine, but tells the people of Quebec he will not fight at all. Hitler takes solace, I tell you. No one else does.”

  “I have just the ticket,” Sir Edward sparkled. “Oh, this is splendid. Place the dagger in trust, to be given at war’s end to a great Canadian hero. Why not? If the military wants to raise private funds, they cannot say no to an honour bestowed by private financiers.”

  Their discussion, then, became quite animated as they debated the merits and demerits of the notion. Sir Charles was concerned that the knife would be won by a foot soldier who’d then return to his life as a fisherman or a woodsman, only to have his wife use the blade to skin fish or hack apart a moose. That wouldn’t do. “Bit of a pickle that,” Sir Edward agreed. Sir Herbert could not tolerate the thought that a recipient might sell the relic for its exceptional value, something his heirs would surely do, causing the knife to soon appear in the hands of a Swiss banker or “a miner from Bolivia.” That wouldn’t do, either. He noted that many genuine heroes in battle would have neither the resources to secure the relic from theft, should it be given to one of them, nor be able to manage the insurance premiums.

  Yet the idea evolved, and by the time they had finished their succulent pork they had decided that the Cartier Dagger should be held in perpetual trust by Sun Life, or by trustees the company might appoint should the business fail. The relic could then be presented to a suitable Canadian war hero who had become, after the war—this was Sir Edward’s contribution—the president or chief executive officer or chief operating officer of a major corporation. The corporation would then hold the knife in trust until the demise of either the hero or the company, whichever came first, when it would be returned to Sun Life, who would then seek another national hero who was also a business executive to receive the knife on loan. “In this way, the so-called magical powers of the ancient dagger will be put to good use, to the benefit of an enterprise. Nobody will use it for whittling.”

  “Do you know,” Sir Herbert enthused, “receiving the knife could become as significant as receiving a knighthood. Or a lordship. The closest thing to it in our land. Nothing Mackenzie King can do about it either, the oaf.”

  The idea took hold. Sir Herbert Holt and his companions left the Mount Royal Club that day happier than when they had arrived, believing that they had devised a secret legacy for themselves that, apart from tanks and Spitfires and frigates, would allow them to celebrate the victory of their nation in war. Although they’d likely not be alive to join the festivities, they could now gaze out upon the gathering cloud of battle, and upon the larger parade of eternity, with brighter, more expectant, eyes.

  “Good roast pork today,” Sir Herbert mentioned upon reaching street level.

  “Succulent.” Sir Charles smacked his lips.

  Sir Edward had a sudden thought. “I say, Sir Herbert, we’re going your way.” “That’s true, we are,” Sir Charles concurred.

  “Jolly good, then,” Sir Herbert offered. “Fall into step. Look lively now.”

  The three old men shuffled their way east on Sherbrooke Street, enjoying the escort of the four riflemen. They smiled at their friends, waved to those who gazed from windows, feeling that victory was in the air, even that they were somewhat younger again—stalwart lads, heroes returned from the trenches to commandeer their country’s devotion.

  Only when she went out with him did she realize how lonely she’d allowed herself to become. Only when she laughed with Roger did she understand that her spirit had cracked, that she’d been living on a fortitude nurtured deep within herself. She did not recognize her reflection, not as she had appeared back then and certainly not now, this fresh smile in her eyes, this sudden jittery laughter in the throat. Who is this dame? She recognized only her fierce determination to neither succumb nor die. Now she was seeing someone else—the person she might become, but also, the person she had always meant herself to be. Only when she kissed him did she realize that she was worn, that in another month without him, or a week, or an hour, she’d have been worn right down, forever. Only when he held her in his arms under the rear porch light to her home—because she still could not enter by the front door—did she grasp that her life these days was dangerous, that anyone entering her life submitted to danger. The only man who could love her had had to be a man with big fists and a brave heart, and maybe even a pistol on his hip. Who else could survive her existence? So he was perfect.

  His imperfections made him perfect.

  When she guided him into her bed, she didn’t let him up. She let him know that she wasn’t going to be padlocked under his great bulk. He was astonished by the force of her desire. She told him what to do and how to behave, and he had never heard of a woman like this. He complied until he was unable to do anything other than move with her. She exhausted him first. Later, she let him hold her, drop that heavy arm around her while she slept. Only then did she accept that she now needed and loved this man. If he had ideas in his head she despised, she’d hate those ideas, but she’d still love him. She admitted that she had no choice in the matter. If Roger loved her, too, then she’d be free, and count herself as blessed. If he didn’t—but she could not imagine that, so would not allow herself to try.

  Roger loved her. He said so often. When she teased that all men spoke foolish things to the women sleeping with them, he was nearly apoplectic. He couldn’t stand that she might not believe him. She was still only teasing, just kidding around, when she said, “So prove it.”

  “How?” He’d climb mountains, learn to swim seas, fix her shingles … what?

  “What’s wrong with my shingles?”

  “Don’t change the subject. How do I prove it?”

  “You don’t like my roof?”

  “Have you taken a look at it lately? What can I do to prove myself?” “I dunno. Marry me, I guess.”

  He didn’t hesitate for a second. He immediately dropped to one knee and asked her properly. She then tried to talk him out of it, tickled him and laughed him off and told him to be serious and scolded him for being a big, dumb, well-built thug. She put her hands on her hips and stomped a foot and screamed his name, “Roger!” as if trying to call him back from the land of the clinically insane, but he would not be dissuaded. So she said yes. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she repeated, very quietly, her well of determination surfacing again. Why not? She had never claimed ownership of her life before. Now she did.

  Problems arose that were not typical of most married couples. Roger led a battalion of goons to a picket line, intending to clear the way for thirty female scabs on a bus. The men piled out of their cars with baseball bats and wire cutters to open a hole in the factory fence away from the entrance where the picketers had gathered, when the strikers spotted them and converged. They were all women. The men put their bats down because they weren’t willing to use them on women. Then Roger realized that the voice over the bullhorn was speaking directly to him. “Roger Clément! Get away from that fence!”

  The goons thought it strange that their leader was being addressed by name, and they looked at the woman, then back at Roger, who
said, “Uh-oh.”

  “Roger! Get away from the fence!”

  He walked up to the woman with the megaphone and tried to speak so that he would not be heard by the others. “Carole, what are you doing here?” She chose to speak through the bullhorn. “What are you doing here?” “I’m breaking up this strike,” he whispered. “I’m leading the scabs inside.” She shouted into the bullhorn, “He says he’s breaking up the strike!” Eighty women shouted back, “NO!” “He says he’s leading the scabs inside.” “NO!” the women shouted back as one. “What do you say to that?” Carole asked the throng. “NO!” the women roared back, and circled closer.

  She put the bullhorn right up to his face. “Are you going to use those baseball bats on women?” she asked the strikebreaker. “If you do, mine is the first head you’ll have to crack, just so you know. Are you going to drive that scab bus over our bodies?”

  One of the thugs behind Roger defiantly called back, “If we have to!” “Because I’ll be first to lie down in the road!” Carole called through the horn.

  “That’s okay with me!” the thug shouted back. Roger turned around to face him. “She’s my wife,” he told him. “What?” he asked. Then he told the others. “She’s his wife.” “Carole, come on, what’re you doing here? You don’t work here.” She lowered the horn to her side. “This is what I do. Defend striking women.”

  “Well, this is what I do. I bust up strikes.” “Not today. Not this strike.”

  “Yes, today,” he argued back. But then he caught himself. “They’ll send other guys if I fail.”

  “Fine. I’ll bust their balls, too.”

  The standoff was short-lived. Roger turned to lead his men away, and they all expected to be going at that point. After all, a man could not beat up his wife in public, not even when it was his job.

  Carole called, “Hey.”

  Roger turned to face her again.

  She kissed him on the lips.

  Then she picked up her bullhorn and shouted, “Go home!” The women promptly responded to the cue. “GO HOME!” “GO HOME!”