The Daughters' Story

by Cyr, Murielle;

  Murielle Cyr

  THE

  DAUGHTERS’ STORY

  A Novel

  Baraka Books

  Montréal

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  © Baraka Books

  ISBN 978-1-77186-182-3 pbk; 978-1-77186-186-1 epub; 978-1-77186-187-8 pdf; 978-1-77186-188-5 mobi pocket

  Cover Illustration by Bruce Roberts

  Book Design by Folio Infographie

  Editing and proofreading: Robin Philpot, Brian Redekop

  Legal Deposit, 2nd quarter 2019

  Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

  Library and Archives Canada

  Published by Baraka Books of Montreal

  6977, rue Lacroix

  Montréal, Québec H4E 2V4

  Telephone: 514 808-8504

  info@barakabooks.com

  Printed and bound in Quebec

  Trade Distribution & Returns

  Canada and the United States

  Independent Publishers Group

  1-800-888-4741 (IPG1);

  orders@ipgbook.com

  We acknowledge the support from the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC) and the Government of Quebec tax credit for book publishing administered by SODEC.

  à Marie-Jeanne

  Chapter 1

  Montreal, Quebec

  October 1970

  Nadine quickened her step crossing Victoria Square. Everyday rush hour didn’t bother her. The swarm of workers scampering to get home gave her a sense of being part of a larger movement—of being a tiny ripple in a vast ocean.

  This morning was different.

  A swarm of soldiers patrolled the sidewalks, long rifles slung over their shoulders. Each step she took intensified that cold feeling in her belly. The presence of the military challenged her right to walk Montreal streets. She felt like a tiny mouse scurrying across a room full of people—someone was bound to stamp on it. The morning papers advised erring on the side of caution. Arrests were imminent for anybody suspected of sympathizing with FLQ terrorists. No warrants needed. Rights and freedoms were on hold.

  Her stomach clenched at the sight of three army jeeps parading down McGill Street. Armed, menacing-looking soldiers peered at the sidewalk crowd from their moving vehicles. The benches surrounding the statue of Queen Victoria in the square were empty. No one taking advantage of the late afternoon sunshine. No one flinging leftover sandwich crusts at the usual swarm of plump grey and white pigeons. She stepped off the sidewalk heading for Craig Street, stopping in her tracks to avoid colliding with a tall soldier.

  Bulky and imposing in full khaki uniform, he waved her on. “No loitering, lady. Keep on moving.”

  He resumed his robotic policing, not bothering to glance at her as she forged her way through the heavy traffic. His job was to catch terrorists, not to ensure her safety.

  She tightened her grip on her handbag. Why didn’t these intruders go back to their military base? Quebec didn’t need Ottawa to solve its problems. Then again… the Quebec police hadn’t been doing a great job of bringing calm back in the streets. The army presence wasn’t welcomed by everyone, but neither were the terrorists. To fight fear with fear seemed pointless to her.

  Soldiers patrolling both sides of Beaver Hall Street scanned the cars parked along the sidewalk. An army helicopter soared above the buildings with a deafening sound. A red federal mailbox spray-painted with FLQ OUI in large white letters stood cordoned off on the corner. She hesitated before hurrying past it.

  Last year’s string of mailbox bombings by terrorists had put everyone on edge. People avoided using the mailboxes or crossed the street when they approached one. And now two high-profile political people had been kidnapped. First James Cross, the British trade commissioner, and five days later, Pierre Laporte, the Quebec deputy premier.

  She didn’t approve of the violence, yet she quite understood why the FLQ existed. Her mother, from a tightly knit Gaspé family, raised many eyebrows in the staunch Irish-Catholic family she had married into. The worst fault Nadine had been guilty of while growing up was letting her French blood surface too often.

  Prime Minister Trudeau had invoked the War Measures Act in the middle of the night. City-wide arrests of FLQ sympathizers were already in full force before she headed for work. Soldiers were posted in front of government buildings. Others patrolled the streets with semi-automatic rifles. The eyes of people she crossed on the sidewalk reflected alarm at seeing Canadian soldiers circulating among them.

  She passed by the statue of King Edward VII in Phillips Square and crossed Ste-Catherine Street in front of Morgan’s department store. The shoppers and tourists seemed oblivious to the disturbing signs of violence a few blocks away. Streams of people scurried about their business. That’s when she felt most comfortable—as a face among a sea of countless others. No one to ogle at her narrow hips, nor at the horizontal scar on her lower right thigh. The other deeper scar that slanted down from her right shoulder was well hidden beneath her turtleneck sweater. She made sure to avoid wearing anything revealing. The Grey Nuns with their dome-like garments back in her school days had drilled them well. A modest dress and a well-baked pie were the way to a man’s respect. Maybe that rule worked for nuns. But she still got the occasional lewd look or suggestive comment from men passing by no matter what she wore.

  Talk of the FLQ bombings often came up at Nadine’s work, on the subway, and even in line-ups at the grocery store. Now the War Measures Act was about to become the main conversation piece. An invasion by their own people. Arrests of hundreds of innocent people—even the average Joe who hung the green, white and red Patriote flag on his front balcony.

  She sped up. The army intrusion promised to be on everyone’s mind this morning. Her notes needed to be reviewed to make sure all the important points were on the agenda, and that no one went off topic during the meeting.

  The garment workers’ union Nadine worked for had invited representatives from a few other Quebec trade unions in hope of getting their support in negotiating their new collective agreement. “Strength in numbers” had been her director’s rallying cry at yesterday’s office pep talk. If they banded together they stood a better chance of obtaining their demands. They expected a large group of like-minded people to back them up.

  The director had called minutes before she left for work to inform her of a change of plans. Five of the invited representatives had been detained during this morning’s mass arrests. A couple of unions had been able to send a replacement, but she’d have to contact those who could not and brief them on the proceedings. More work for her, but she had no choice if she wanted them on board.

  She pulled out a chair from the conference table and settled in for a long meeting. The garment employers had refused all past negotiations. Discussions were at a standstill. A one-day strike wasn’t the ideal solution, but the workers were ready to go ahead. This meant docked pay with no guarantee of compromise from the employer.

  A day’s wages less on the paycheques of the garment workers she represented only spelled bad news. For most of them—single mothers or one-salary families—it meant cutting the food budget or being late with the rent. All the bosses had to worry about was having a little less profit at the end of the year.

  She jotted a few notes in her agenda and slipped out of her shoes. It had taken many years of attending these kinds of m
eetings before she could allow herself to relax like this. A far cry from that scared sixteen-year-old who had started in the garment industry twenty years earlier. She had lost touch with the shy girl she used to be. Memories of her past self still surfaced now and then, only to be pushed back to an era she had buried, if not forgotten.

  The conference participants started to file in and take their places at the table. She glanced up and saw quite a few newcomers besides the familiar faces from previous meetings. The last one to walk in made her heart skip a beat. For a brief moment, she thought it was Aunt Jan’s father—Papi, she used to call him, so as not to confuse him with her other Grandpa. In her little girl’s heart, Papi had been her real grandfather. The one whose stories of flying canoes and the scary loup-garou kept her clinging to his side each time he came down from the lumber camps. The one she ran to with a scraped knee or a bleeding nose. A brown paper bag of pink Canada Mints always waited for her in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Another glance at him. If this man wasn’t Papi, the resemblance was uncanny. He’d be around the same age as this man by now. His presence at the union meeting was unlikely, but not impossible. She remembered his frequent conversations with Aunt Jan at the kitchen table. They spoke often about the harsh working conditions at the logging camps. He vowed one day to help change all that. She lowered her head and pretended to read her agenda again. A few moments later, she lifted her gaze in his direction.

  One sure clue will tell me if it’s him.

  Her eyes darted down to his hands. Her stomach tensed up.

  There. It’s him.

  His ring finger, cut off at the knuckle.

  A chainsaw accident had forced him to stay home to recuperate that winter, allowing him to visit often and to take care of personal matters. One day he had appeared with his late wife Rose’s diamond wedding ring, handing it down to Janette, their only child.

  She kept it with the faded photos of her mother in a rusted red and yellow tin of Vogue tobacco beneath the extra blankets in her closet. Nadine sometimes waited for the odd times her aunt was out of the house to sneak Rose’s ring out of the tin. She’d press it to her chest and imagine the love Papi felt for his late wife surging straight to her own heart.

  She gripped her pen and lowered her eyes. Apart from the creases around his eyes and mouth, and his thick hair now almost completely white, he was still as handsome as he was twenty years ago. Those long years of manual labour in the bush had kept him trim and robust-looking.

  Why is he here? Does he recognize me?

  She scanned the list of participants. Her stomach contracted.

  There: Paul Brault, representative of the Forestry Workers’ Cooperative.

  That makes sense.

  He was well past the age to fell trees. If he was attending the union meeting today, it was clear he was following his dream of improving the lot of his fellow workers—just as she was. Her beginnings in the sweatshops of Montreal’s east-end garment factories hadn’t been easy. She had persisted, determined to learn enough of the business to help make life a little easier for the women there.

  Thinking back, heartbreak had linked her life journey to Papi. The sudden loss of his young wife to the ravages of the Spanish flu at the end of the first war had pushed him further into the isolated forests of northern Quebec. For her part, it had been the mindless piecework on the industrial sewing machines of the garment factory that had been the escape. It had taken many years to detach herself from the broken person she used to be. Papi had been a big part of who she was back then. Meeting up with him now was sure to jar her back to a place she didn’t want to be. Her decision to break all ties to her past had been her lifeline and she wasn’t about to let that go. It just wasn’t negotiable.

  Her gut reaction was to slip out of the room before he even noticed her. She’d ask the receptionist to tell her director she had taken ill. She never took time off. No one would question her. This meeting was the first of three touching on issues she was already aware of. She closed her agenda and was about to slide her chair back when Papi sat down across the table from her, three seats away.

  Too late. The meeting’s about to begin.

  All eyes will be on me if I stand up.

  If he recognized her, he was sure to go after her. A tall, broad- shouldered elderly man sat in the chair beside her. She slid her chair back far enough to block Papi’s view and placed her agenda on her lap. His presence made it difficult to focus on the discussions, but when the meeting ended in an hour, she’d be able to slip out without any fanfare.

  Her neighbour leaned towards the table to reach for his pen. Nadine observed Papi from the corner of her eye. He was scanning the list of participants on the sheet in front of him.

  My name won’t give me away.

  She had stopped using her family name years back when she first applied for work at the garment factory. She didn’t know what had taken hold of her. She had written her mother’s maiden name instead of ‘Pritchart’ on her application form. At the time, she gasped when she realized what she had just done. The manager looked up at her, a puzzled look on his face. It was critical that she land a job right away before searching for a place to stay. Crossing out her own name would make her look foolish, or worse, that she was hiding something. She bit her lip and continued filling out the form. She felt no guilt in dropping the Pritchart name. They had never accepted her as their own. Too much like her mother’s people—too French to live up to their standards.

  Papi lifted his head and glanced around the table just as she leaned back out of view.

  No problem. He only remembers me at sixteen.

  Her hair was short and tapered now, a few shades lighter than the mousy brunette she had been then.

  He can’t know who I am.

  Yet she had recognized him almost right away. She took a long breath and looked down at her agenda. If she listened to the burning pain in her heart, she’d run and embrace him. His visits with her and Aunt Jan had made her feel special, like she belonged to a real family. It was always only the three of them. Uncle Denis didn’t speak a word of French. So whenever Papi showed up, he’d remember, out of the blue, a person he’d promised to look up, and off he’d go. Aunt Jan was always more relaxed and laughed more often once Uncle Denis had closed the door behind him.

  Now wasn’t the time to let her guard down. Cutting all contact with the Pritchart family had been her only way to protect herself from the pain. But that decision also meant hurting the only two people in that family who had ever shown her any love. Aunt Jan, who had brought her home from the hospital after the incident, and Denis’ mother, Grandma Stella. The others were as good as dead to her and she had no intention of reviving them.

  She had buried the link to her past a long time ago.

  I can’t let it resurface. Not without reliving old wounds.

  Not even for Papi.

  Nobody had ever mentioned the incident—at least, not in front of her. Nor had they acknowledged the sadness in Papi’s eyes, or his long lapses gazing out the window while everyone went about their business. Nadine would lean against him and together they’d stare up at the clouds. He never once told her to leave him alone.

  Chapter 2

  Lisette edged her chair back from the screen of the microfilm reader, closed her eyes, and massaged her round belly. Her back ached and flashes of pain shot from her temple to the back of her neck.

  Time to stop.

  She pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. She had spent a little over two hours this morning scouring microfilms of Catholic Church birth records at the university library. A complete waste of time. Meanwhile, her term paper for her political science class needed work.

  Her date of birth and gender were all she had to work with. The name her adopted family had given her was no help. The moment her new parents scooped her out of her hospital cr
ib, all her biological background vanished. Did she even have an identity at that age? Newborns must come into the world with some kind of foetal memory.

  What did I expect to find?

  An obscure reference to a red-faced infant screaming for her mother? Father unknown. Girl child given to the highest bidder. The link to that primal self had been broken long ago.

  Why am I even bothering with this?

  Scrutinizing old church records appeared futile. Yet an urge tugging at her heart pushed her to continue. Somewhere in that cellophane world was a clue to her origins. It wasn’t a mother she was looking for. There had been plenty of those in her life, both adopted and foster. Megaflops, each one of them. The black void part of her existence, that underexposed negative of her birth, kept her searching.

  Her adopted identity hadn’t lasted long. At five years old her parents divorced and placed her in foster care. She had limited her search to the Montreal area, but that was another shot in the dark. She had no memory of ever leaving the city to visit other members of her adopted family. Too many unknowns for her to zero in on any reliable sources.

  She let out a long breath, placing her hand on her belly. Her research had made one thing clear: unwed mothers didn’t have much going for them twenty years back. Either they went to live out their pregnancy with a distant relative, or were banished to a group home away from their own family and the scrutiny of neighbours and friends. If that was her birth mother’s case, the home had most likely forwarded the details of her birth to Social Services. But that they were ready to disclose any information was another matter. Quebec adoption files were harder to crack than police files. The birth mother and the child were denied any information about each other, even when the child reached adulthood.

  She sensed a presence behind her and glanced back, recognizing his usual attire—tight jeans and a black T-shirt. Serge stared at the screen, and by the sound of his short, quick breathing, she assumed he must’ve raced up the six escalators to the reading lab again. The slow-moving stairs spooked him. Makes me feel like a sitting duck on a conveyor belt, he’d said to her. His shoulder-length black hair, sweaty and clinging to his neck and forehead, made his dark eyes appear more intense than usual.