Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  Justice. This was how it felt. Billy was right. Remarkable.

  Nick the Stick turned and pushed his way out through the ring of people. His cheeks were red and his ears glowed with humiliation. He turned back, his eyes hard as steel, and with a voice full of venom, said, “You’ll pay. You’ll pay for what you’ve done. My father will see to it that none of you ever work again! When you’re looking for a job, when you’re trying to find someplace to live, when you’re looking for something to eat, just remember who runs this town. We’ve put you down once and for all. Don’t say we didn’t warn you, you disgusting revolutionaries!”

  But the gang of people around Cassie ignored him. There were much bigger forces at play than a little bully like Nick the Stick. And anyway, if this was how the Russian rulers had treated the people, they’d been right to have a revolution, and maybe there was one needed in Canada too.

  “Know what they’re calling today?” said Billy solemnly to Cassie, as everyone watched Nick angrily stomp away. “Bloody Saturday. Last count there were more than thirty people wounded by the Mounties.”

  “Worse than wounded. I saw a dead man. I almost stepped on him.” Cassie shuddered at the memory.

  Her brother gave her a gentle hug.

  “Has anyone seen my mother?” Mary asked softly.

  “Haven’t caught up with anyone else we know yet,” said Billy. “Soon, I hope. The crowds are breaking up. We should get home, maybe see our families there. How’s your head now, Cassie?”

  “Sore,” she admitted. “I’ll probably need to lean on you like Freddy needs Mary. Since when will you two even look at each other, anyway, let alone practically cuddle?”

  Freddy tried again to stand up without support but still couldn’t manage it.

  “Oh, stop fussing,” said Mary. “I’ll take you back to Cassie’s and we’ll get you a bit of … well, oatmeal, I suppose. And clean you up before we send you home. But let’s hurry. I want to see if my mother was caught in the …” She trailed off, not sure how to describe the day.

  “I guess you could call it a massacre,” said Billy. “The Mounties are calling it a riot, of course. Putting the blame on us. Like they didn’t ride into the crowd with their clubs swinging and their guns firing, alongside all those Specials. Imagine, policemen behaving that way. But I’m sure all our parents are fine. They got away quickly.”

  The group began to move slowly toward the Hopkinses’ street. Cassie, dizzy and sore, leaned on Billy’s arm. She was behind Mary and Freddy, and she could hear Mary talking.

  “You know, Freddy, since I have you here …”

  Freddy groaned.

  “You should stop sucking up to your bosses. They’ve shown their true colours, don’t you think? Nick knows you work for his father’s friends and he had no trouble nearly killing you.”

  “I wouldn’t have let them kill —”

  “You know full well they would’ve kept going if Cassie hadn’t distracted them. The only thing they hate more than an alien is a girl who doesn’t know her place, and a lucky thing that is for you. You know, you could get the other newsboys together and start a union! Bet you could make more money. You’ve got some power. They need someone to sell their papers for them. And,” she said grudgingly, “you do a good job of it, even if the papers are full of lies. They’re lucky to have someone like you on the corner. Why don’t you make them pay you more, enough that you could feed your family a little better?”

  “Nobody’s gonna make me do nothin’,” said Freddy.

  “That’s my point. Nobody’s making you. It just makes sense, that’s all. And once you newsboys are unionized, you’ll be making the bosses do things, do right.”

  “Oh, I’ll think about it. How about that?”

  The ragtag group stumbled back to the Hopkinses’, where, to the great relief of the children, they found Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins as well as Mary’s mother. Mrs. Smith cried out when she saw Mary’s clothes covered with blood and was visibly relieved when she realized it had come from Freddy’s nose. Freddy clearly tried not to be offended. She swiftly set to tending his wounds while Mrs. Hopkins guided Cassie to the parlour and had her lie down on the Chesterfield.

  Cassie had never enjoyed being fussed over so much in her entire life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cassie slept heavily that night, and although she was a bit woozy in the morning, she insisted on returning to the street to sell the bulletin.

  “I’m only letting you so I can keep you closer to me,” said her mother as they walked slowly to Portage and Main. “And I expect you to come in to the café and sit for at least ten minutes every hour.”

  “Yes, Mum,” she said.

  “Especially since Freddy won’t be back,” she said, “and Billy is in more godforsaken meetings all day.”

  “I thought he said meetings were banned now,” Cassie said.

  “Yes,” said her mother. “No big meetings. Which means no Labour Church, and no raising money to feed all our girls. But they won’t find out about Billy’s little meetings.”

  The streets were quiet, as if the whole city were holding an extended moment of silence for the life and liberties lost and the people injured in yesterday’s attack on the workers. Cassie was gazing off down the road and remembering the horrors she’d seen the day before when she heard a call behind her: “GET yer PAYper HERE …”

  She turned. He stood there, bruised and a little hunched over as though his stomach hurt, but standing on his own. “Freddy! What on earth are you doing back?”

  “Can’t stop me from working,” he said. “I’ll work till I’m dead.” Again, the bravado, despite the slight tremble in his voice. He’d been badly hurt the day before. This boy would never admit defeat.

  “Well, glad to have you here to protect me,” said Cassie, and Freddy couldn’t help but grin at that. Then Cassie set to selling the bulletin to the few who wandered by.

  When an hour was up, she kept her promise to her mother and went into the café. It was as busy as ever; Cassie supposed even massacres didn’t stop people needing food. But the volume of conversation was quieter than usual. Cassie could see Mrs. Armstrong in the kitchen, looking sombre and furious. But she shot a quick smile at Cassie when she came out.

  “Your mother tells me you were quite the warrior yesterday, though you should never have had to be. I’m so impressed with you, papergirl.”

  Cassie reddened, tongue-tied. What could she say to her hero?

  Mary emerged from the kitchen carrying a couple of biscuits and two cups of tea.

  “Here,” she said. “These are for you and for the traitor, too.”

  “Really?” said Cassie, glancing at Mrs. Armstrong.

  “Yes, really,” said the older woman. “That boy needs some nourishment if he’s going to be strong enough to be worth recruiting.” She winked at the girls and settled at a nearby table with a paper and pen. Ready to write to papers across the country, Cassie guessed. Ready to tell everyone what had happened in the streets yesterday. Ready to tell everyone how brave the strikers were in the face of armed bullies and military rule. Ready to force everyone to see how wrong the bosses and the government were.

  Cassie carried the biscuits and two cups of tea out to Freddy. He eyed them suspiciously.

  “Bolshevism isn’t contagious, Freddy. The worst you’re going to be is disappointed there’s no butter.”

  * * *

  Cassie kept working for the next few days, but there were fewer and fewer people buying bulletins.

  On Tuesday, June 24, the girls met on Portage and walked together to Main. Cassie waved to Freddy and set up her rock and papers while Mary made her way to the café. But Mary bolted out again a few minutes later, frantic.

  “What is it?” Cassie called, racing over.

  Mary ran, panting and frantic. “Mrs. Armstrong’s gone! She
’s been put in jail!”

  Cassie felt her stomach sink like a rock. It couldn’t be! “That’s not fair!”

  “Apparently they’ve told the women prisoners that because they’re not acting like ladies, they won’t be treated like ladies.”

  Cassie’s mouth hardened. “Well, if being treated like a lady means being paid half as much as a man to work in an unsafe factory, then maybe it’s for the best,” she said.

  Mary took a deep breath. “We just have to keep fighting, right? It’s what she would do. We have to keep on without her till she’s out.”

  Cassie glanced at the café, catching a glimpse of her mother looking distraught. “Yes. It’s what she would do, because it’s all any of us can do.”

  * * *

  “There’s just as many people asking for food,” Mary told Cassie on Wednesday evening as they walked home, “but so much less food to prepare. We’re having to turn people away with almost nothing in their bellies, now that we can’t raise money for the café at Labour Church. My mother — well, you saw her this morning. She’s so weak, Cassie. She’ll get sick. What am I going to do?”

  Mary didn’t have to wonder for long. The very next day, on June 26, the strike committee called off the strike.

  Even though people were starving, even though they couldn’t raise any more money to feed people because meetings had been banned, the strikers didn’t want to call it quits. But the strike committee was adamant. The violence on Bloody Saturday had been too much. They needed to stop the strike before something worse happened, before any more people died.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Hurry, Cassie,” said Mary.

  Cassie ran out the door, shoes untied.

  “How is it that you made it to sell the bulletin on time every single day, but our first day back at school in more than a month and you’re going to make us late?” panted Mary as the girls ran toward the Carlton School.

  Cassie groaned. “I don’t know. I need to learn so much, but the thought of being back in school with only days until vacation … Shouldn’t we go fishing down on the river again instead?”

  Mary smiled. “Soon enough. Summer’s almost here.”

  They tumbled through the door of their classroom just as the bell was ringing.

  Miss Parker arched her eyebrows. “Well, well,” she said. “You girls are gracing us with your presence once more.” But she actually looked pleased to see them, perhaps for the first time ever.

  Barbara MacKenzie, on the other hand, stuck her tongue out at them as soon as Miss Parker turned her back. Cassie was about to return the favour, but stopped herself. She needed to sit down and focus. She doubted Mrs. Armstrong had ever been distracted by a snob with a violent bully for a brother sticking her tongue out.

  At recess time, Cassie and Mary found Barbara reading the paper Freddy sold aloud to her friends. “It’s a glorious victory for law and order,” she crowed.

  “Everyone knows the Committee didn’t really win,” said Mary. “Your father and his friends just proved how little they care for their workers, and how far they’re willing to go. They can’t stop progress and they can’t keep us down.” She was fuming.

  Cassie guided her friend gently away from the rich girls. “You’re not wrong. I’d bet money on it. But this isn’t the time. Just a few days, remember? And then we’ll fish and garden and play all summer.”

  “Maybe,” said Mary. “Listen, Cassie. You know I want to spend all summer with you. But there’s something else I want to do too. I’m thinking of helping Mrs. Armstrong organize more girls. There are so many who aren’t unionized yet. I mean, she’ll do the talking. But I know she needs help handing out pamphlets and collecting names. There’s a great deal of work to do.”

  Cassie burst out laughing. “I like this new Mary, you know. Fair enough. Do you think she’d take the help of a raggedy ex-papergirl, too?”

  Together, the friends weathered the last of the school year.

  * * *

  By Sunday, school was over, and the girls were working in the back garden in the sunshine when Billy arrived home from another secret meeting. “Good news, girls,” he said. “Mrs. Armstrong is out.”

  “Already!” said Mary. “That is good news. Is she okay? Was she hurt?”

  “Apparently she’s fine,” said Billy. “I heard it from Daniel, who saw Mr. Armstrong just outside his house after he got her yesterday. She’s hungry and they didn’t treat her well, but she’s home safe and that’s what counts.” He reached over and pulled a plump bean off its vine. “I suppose I’d better get used to this,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” said Cassie.

  “Well, they’re not hiring me back on as a policeman. Not right now, and maybe not ever. And the streetcars are starting back up so there’s no money in the jitney. I’m going to go out to the country and take farm work. I’ll be picking beans all day.”

  Cassie felt her eyes stinging. She couldn’t believe he had to give up policing and go live away from her.

  “Cheer up, Cassie. I’ll be back by November when the harvest is over. We’ll figure it out. You won’t even miss me.”

  * * *

  He was wrong about that. Cassie missed her brother desperately. He wrote her two letters a week, telling her how much he loved the fresh country air and how much he hated roosters (“Stupid and mean,” he wrote. “Remind me of the Citizens’ Committee.”)

  He sent home money, too. Mr. Hopkins seemed terribly embarrassed about it, but it took him much longer than it took Billy to find work. Day after day he searched, and finally found it washing dishes at the Oxford Hotel, the very hotel where Mrs. Hopkins had been working at the café. He came home every night with his leg aching and his shoulders slumped. It was a step down from his fine work as a police officer, and it was hard on his aging body. Cassie heard the sadness in his voice as he talked to Mrs. Hopkins every night when Cassie was meant to be in bed.

  If there was justice coming, it was taking its own sweet time.

  EPILOGUE

  April 1921

  “Come on, Cassie!” called Mary from the back door.

  Cassie rushed down the stairs to the kitchen and kissed her mother. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” she asked.

  “Quite sure. I’ve had enough of crowds to last a lifetime,” said her mother.

  “Fair enough. I’ll tell Mrs. Armstrong hello from her favourite biscuit maker.”

  Mrs. Hopkins blushed as Cassie pulled on her winter coat and ran outside.

  The girls linked arms as they hurried down the laneway. Mary came to an abrupt halt, yanking Cassie off balance.

  “What are you d —”

  “One!” interrupted Mary, pointing to a small patch of earth where the delicate, tightly closed head of a crocus was just emerging from the crusty late-winter snow that lay everywhere.

  “Already!” said Cassie. “That has to be a good omen, right?”

  “I’d say so.” Mary reached down and very gently touched the bud with the tip of her finger. “For luck,” she explained as she stood again.

  A couple of blocks away, they saw people standing in line.

  “Surely, they can’t be here for …” said Cassie.

  Mary was beaming. “See? They didn’t beat us. We’re still strong!”

  It was true; the people hadn’t been beaten. In fact, George Armstrong, Helen Armstrong’s husband, had been elected to the legislature while he was on a prison farm along with five of the other strike leaders.

  They had served their sentence in a labour camp (“Don’t they see the irony? A labour camp, good grief,” Mary had said scathingly), and now they were coming home.

  And all these people were there to greet them, bundled in their winter coats and stomping their feet to keep warm against the wind.

  “Eighty … ninety … there are
at least a hundred people on that section of Edmonton Street alone!” said Cassie. They hurried on toward the Armstrongs’ house.

  “I count a thousand people in that line,” said Mary.

  As they came to the little house, the rattle and growl of a car carried from farther down the street. Everyone in the line — young, old, women and men, all clearly of the labouring class — stilled. Those on the street stepped aside.

  And up to the small Armstrong house pulled a car packed with men.

  Just then, the crowd around the Armstrongs’ house cleared a little, and Mrs. Armstrong emerged, beaming.

  The engine stopped. The doors opened. Six weathered, lean, bearded men emerged from the car.

  One cried out and leaped toward Mrs. Armstrong. They embraced and the crowd cheered.

  When they pulled apart, Mrs. Armstrong leapt onto a stone by the sidewalk to put her just slightly above the crowd.

  “Welcome, everyone! Thank you all so much for coming! Today we celebrate the return of these six men from their unjust incarceration! We also mark the homecoming of our honourable Member of the Legislature, Mr. George Armstrong!”

  The joyful cheers of the crowds billowed like sheets on a clothesline, buffeting Cassie and Mary where they stood, spellbound at the energy of the crowd.

  They watched as, one by one, the people in the line approached and shook the hand of every returning man.

  Cassie took a notebook out of her pocket and scribbled down what she could see. She’d found herself doing this since the strike, wanting to record what she saw going on around her. She’d become used to reading about the day’s events in the bulletin every day during the general strike, and ever since, she liked to write down the happenings of the city at night before she went to bed.

  She’d even begun trying to turn her thoughts into articles, and behind her back, Mary had shown two of them to Mrs. Armstrong a few months before. Mrs. Armstrong had written her an encouraging note, telling her that her voice was important and that she’d be writing for the papers one day. It was a startling and exciting thought, the idea of becoming more than just a typewriter girl, even. Becoming more like Mrs. Armstrong.