Wintersong. The Nickel Range Trilogy • Volume 3

by Mick Lowe

  “So what is gonna happen on this trip?”

  “Jake, I’m honestly not sure. We’re going to the plant gates at GM in Oshawa for shift change this afternoon. How that’ll go down is anybody’s guess. All I know is the Labour Council down there is supposed to have done a little advance work, let ’em know we’re coming …”

  Jake nodded and sat in silent reflection as he absorbed Nelson’s words. He’d never been to Oshawa, a sizeable industrial city east of Toronto. It was supposedly a labour stronghold where the United Autoworkers Union represented the thousands of assembly line workers who built vehicles for General Motors’ Canadian markets, and even shipped cars south, into the U.S. market. But the fact it was a UAW town gave both men pause. Like the Steelworkers, the Autoworkers were organized along industrial lines—they represented all the workers in a given plant or industry, rather than just the workers who specialized in a particular trade or craft—plumbers and pipefitters, stationary engineers, electricians and carpenters. But they were a separate union, and neither Jake nor Jordan actually knew a single member of the big UAW Local at GM personally. How they would be greeted at the plant gates, whether any of the autoworkers even knew, or cared, about the inchoate Sudbury strike was still a complete mystery. How well this thing would go off was dependent on the advance work done by the Oshawa Labour Council where, again, they knew absolutely no one.

  All they knew for sure was that Oshawa, and the great, urban megalopolis that sprawled for miles to the west along the shores of Lake Ontario was southern Ontario, a world apart from the smaller, semi-rural outpost towns of the North, which had coalesced around pulp, paper and lumber mills or hard rock mines. It wasn’t an altogether different country, but it might have been. The south was more affluent, stable, and settled. Even the landscape was different, with the granitic rock of the Canadian Shield far less in evidence, as was already becoming visible outside the bus windows. The sky was opening up and the terrain flattening as they approached the Severn area, where the Trent Canal spilled into the big water of Lake Huron and Georgian Bay. Now, for the first time, there was a sense they really were leaving the North. The landform here couldn’t be described as absolutely flat, but it gave way to gently rolling hills with topsoil evidently deep enough—and rich enough to support agriculture, something rarely seen on the thin, sparse top soils of the North, which often failed to even cover the rocky ribs of the Canadian Shield. The old school bus from Sudbury roared into the rolling hills north of Barrie, toward Toronto, and into the unknown.

  It was milder, Molly reflected as they trooped off the school bus, but the leaden skies had opened, and it was pouring rain. Like most of her Northern compatriots, Molly had dressed for bitter cold, but moisture? Forget it. Their down-filled outer garments soon lost their loft, and they were all soaked to the skin in minutes by a steady, unrelenting cold rain.

  The only bright spot was the greeting that awaited their arrival—a small knot of Oshawa union activists, a mixed group representing the Labour Council and the big UAW Local at GM. They all wanted to meet Jordan Nelson, who was the first one off the bus, Jake marvelled at the change in his friend the moment his boots hit the asphalt of the huge parking lot outside the sprawling GM assembly plant. Gone was the gloomy, introspective Nelson with the weight of the world on his shoulders, replaced instead by a smiling, confident young man, clearly at home with his fellow rank-and-file trade unionists, chatting them up like long lost brothers. Nelson was, suddenly, the centre of attention; he was charismatic in his way, he was their emissary, he was, unmistakably, their leader.

  But Molly found herself mesmerized by a tall, trim black man who towered over Nelson. He introduced himself as Wilson Addison, Recording Secretary of the host UAW Local. Addison spoke with a clipped Jamaican accent still redolent of the Islands. “Welcome, welcome brothas and sistas up from Sudbury!” The man was all smiles and dazzling white teeth, but there was, Molly decided, no doubting the sincerity of his welcome. “Now if you will just give me a master copy of your leaflet, suhs, we have our office staff at the ready, Gestetner machines warmed up, at your service to crank out thousands of copies!” Addison eyed Jordan and Jake quizzically, and for the first time Molly saw Nelson at something of a loss. Truth was, she knew, they had no leaflet—no one had foreseen the need for this simple device to explain their cause to total strangers.

  Sensing their embarrassment, Addison cleared his throat and moved smoothly on to the next matter at hand: the exact positioning of everyone outside the plant gate, and not a minute too soon—the very first of the day shift workers coming off shift were beginning to trickle through the gates.

  Addison had placed them some distance from the gates, back toward the parking lot, so he could interpose himself between the strikers and the gate. As soon as the workers began to spill from the gates, he began his stream of constant, non-stop chatter. “Okay, now ma brothas we got folks down from Sudbury ovah there, be needin’ our support! They’re in vera deep, out on strike against them mean mothafuckas at Inco, which be one evil, mean and nasty Yankee-owned mining company puttin’ it to our Canadian brothas and sistas from up in there! So dig deep, brothas, dig deep, and show them the kinds of men we got here in Local 222! Remember, an injury to one is an injury to all! So dig deep, ma brothas, dig deep!”

  Molly found herself smiling at Addison’s non-stop verbal barrage despite the trickle of cold rainwater that was just beginning to run down her back. But their host’s boundless enthusiasm for the cause was infectious, and, sure enough, each autoworker emerging through the plant gate straightened up, squared his shoulders, and began digging into the pockets of his blue jeans. Soon enough the metallic sound of coins hitting the bottoms of their buckets became a steady, almost symphonic rhythm. “Thanks, brother, thank you, thank you.” Jake, Jordan and Molly began to mutter.

  Everything had just settled into a quiet, smooth routine when it happened. An autoworker had just flipped a coin into Molly’s bucket when she felt him reach out and squeeze her left breast! It wasn’t a gentle fondle, either. Molly reacted, instinctively, as any industrial strength Sudbury union maid would have: with a swift, vicious, unerring kick to his groin. She hadn’t worn her steel metatarsal guard that day, but she had worn her steel-toed work boots, which found their mark in a flash. She didn’t drop the guy, but he did make a funny face, and a funny sound, “Ooooh! Ooooh!” as if he were having trouble breathing. Well, good! Molly was heartily sick of this shit! The harassment on the job at Inco was nearly as bad from the guys on the job, she’d discovered, as it was from the company. No one had really wanted women in hourly-rated jobs at Inco, as they daily reminded Molly and the handful of women who’d been hired with her. She was no bra-burner—not one of your women’s libbers—but she was by God, just as entitled to a decent-paying job to support her family—as much as any man. As it seemed to have a way of doing, commotion and consternation swirled around the quick-witted, sharp-tongued Molly Carruth, and now it had followed her even here, to the plant gates outside a beJeezus big automobile assembly plant in Oshawa, Ontario.

  Jordan Nelson had had his back turned at the moment of the boob grab and the swift retribution that followed, but he sensed there was trouble and quickly whirled around to confront Molly. He eyed the autoworker who was still clutching his privates, still struggling to inhale, not moaning exactly, but still only able to muster a low, mewling almost bird-like sound, “Oooooh, Ooooh.”

  “Jesus, Carruth!” Jordan rounded on Molly. “What did you just do?”

  “He grabbed my boob, Jordy! Swear to God he did!”

  Nelson surveyed the scene once again, and did a quick mental calculation: yes, it was true they were down here as honoured guests—mendicants, really—and Carruth had put the entire unfamiliar and not quite comfortable situation at risk. But as he looked into her angry brown eyes, pleading with him, almost beseeching his understanding, his anger melted away. A Toronto TV news team, led by re
porter David Goldstein, was on the scene, but the cameraman had just then been changing film magazines and so missed the shot of a lady Sudbury Steelworker’s swift kick to the groin of an Oshawa Autoworker, much to Goldstein’s displeasure. Whatever had happened, it had not been captured on film, to be aired over and over again. Luck was with them, but only just. “Okay, Molly, okay. You did the right thing, then.” Nelson placed a reassuring hand on Carruth’s shoulder.

  Order had just been restored and the sound of coins hitting bucket bottoms resumed when “Haywire” d’Aquire approached and tapped Nelson on the shoulder.

  “Hey Jordy, got a minute? There’s somethin’ over here I think you should see.”

  The union leader turned and dutifully followed d’Aquire to the spot, just a few paces away, where his crew was conducting their own collection. D’Aquire pointed at their bucket. “Check it out.”

  Nelson peered into the bucket, and was amazed to discover it was half full, not only of coins, but also of bills—one’s and two’s mainly but, even a few five’s, ten’s, and twenties.

  Nelson was stunned at the sight, but also bemused—suddenly, his recent worries about even covering the cost of diesel for this trip seemed ludicrous.

  Haywire gestured toward other knots of Sudbury Steelworkers who were further down the line, each group with its own bucket. “Same thing all the way to the parking lot, boss.”

  For the union president, the implications of all this were huge—too huge to grasp. His immediate concern must be his troops around him, and they were all cold and wet. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted a credit card, and handed it to d’Aquire. He spoke softly. “Okay, brother, here’s what I want you to do: I’ll get someone from 222 to drive you over to their hall, use their phones to book us into the best motel in town, and we’ll all take the bus there, have a hot shower and clean up before we head into Toronto, yes? We’ll settle up when we get home.”

  “You got it, brother,” d’Aquire assured him.

  And with that, Nelson turned to go back up the line, to locate Wilson Addison, to inform him of the wondrous thing that had just transpired, and to thank him, with all the humble gratitude of a drowning man who has just been rescued from near-certain death.

  As per Nelson’s wishes, the whole crew were soon ensconced, however briefly, in Oshawa’s best motel.

  Amid a general rush for the showers, there was also an attempt by a few Frood miners—who will remain nameless—to short circuit the cable television connection at the back of the in-room television sets in an attempt to obtain free cable. Many wanted to see the hockey games, but the porn channels were also of special interest. In the event, little came of this attempted petty larceny, much to the disappointment of the delegation from Sudbury, where cable television remained a rare, and expensive, novelty.

  With a weary sigh, Jordan Nelson herded his unruly charges back on the bus. After a hasty head count he nodded to the driver.

  Next stop: Queen’s Park in downtown Toronto, where, it was hoped, the Sudbury strikers could drum up some interest in their cause among the dozens of reporters in the Queen’s Park press gallery.

  The union president heaved a sigh of relief when, head count completed, the school bus began to lumber its way toward the 401. The unpredictable chaos of a mass plant gate fundraising lay behind them. Ahead lay the august, orderly precincts of Ontario’s legislative assembly, Nelson reassured himself.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Even after their showers and hasty clean-up, the Sudbury strikers, in their still half-damp union parkas and shaggy haircuts and beards, were still a motley crew to behold as they were issued into the visitors’ gallery overlooking the floor of the Legislature, just then in session.

  By pure coincidence, the MPP for Sudbury, Harry Wardell, was just wrapping up a rather long-winded question to the Tory party then in government.

  It may also have been coincidence that the visitors’ gallery had steeply banked seats that looked directly down on the government benches far below. Graying hair, receding hairlines, and altogether bald pates were much in evidence to the group. The difference in age and attire—sombre pin-striped three-piece business suits seemed much in vogue among the Tory ranks, and there were at least two generations’ difference in age—was striking.

  Wardell’s question concerned the strikers themselves, whom he welcomed as they were being ushered in to the stately chamber. The group had been sternly warned that any sort of demonstration in the grand, historic, chamber was strictly forbidden, would be ruled indecorous, and would result in their immediate expulsion by the hefty security guards hovering suspiciously nearby.

  The bus that had brought them down from Sudbury made a single stop between Oshawa and Queen’s Park, at the Steelworker’s Toronto headquarters on Cecil Street, where the union’s professional communications experts had similarly counseled against any sort of overt demonstration. Instead, they had demonstrated their newly hatched fundraising stratagem, tin cans with slots cut in the top, in the manner of a piggy bank. Wrapped around the cans was a brightly coloured paper wrapper urging “Nickels for the Nickel Strikers.” Best to prime the pump, the Steelworkers’ professional comms people had advised, by dropping a few coins—five pennies, say—into the can and rattling them around to attract the attention of would-be donors. The group was present only to draw attention to the Sudbury strike in the most orderly and seemly manner, armed only with a visual prop—the tin cans with slots cut in the top, labeled “Nickels for etc. etc.”

  But the Sudbury delegation, in its perch high above the government benches, soon grew restive as the speeches below them droned on and endlessly on. They were, after all, a roistering rough-and- tumble lot, used to stoking blast furnaces or blasting muck out of solid rock. Unaccustomed to sitting idle for extended periods in the middle of a workday, they soon began to fidget like small children in church.

  Molly herself felt this unease, sitting doing nothing with this stupid can in her hand, when she first began to hear it—the steady plink-plink-plink of small change hitting the bottom of a can. Evidently one of her compatriots had decided to take advantage of this break in the action to charge his can in the manner suggested by the union’s PR people. The sound itself was really quite muted, but it started a trend, not unlike the first few fat raindrops falling onto the surface of a placid northern lake. Molly could sense she was not alone in hearing the steady, mischievous insinuation of the pennies hitting the bottom of the can. Soon enough she could see other strikers wiggling in their seats, digging in their pants pockets for loose change. In seconds the plunk-plunk-plunk of pennies could be heard throughout the visitor’s gallery, the first few warning drops now quickly become a bursting torrent. Once the cans were charged there was nothing for it but to test them by shaking them in the air. And sure enough, the pennies rattling around inside made a fine racket—the more so when amplified by thirty or so Sudbury strikers. The metallic rattle soon drowned out whichever MPP was unlucky enough to have the floor and Molly was treated to the unforgettable sight of the alarmed looks of the aged Tories below, all bedecked in their finest legislative finery, looking up at the visitor’s gallery with expressions of commingled annoyance and alarm. What a shambling rabble! The barbarians were no longer at the gates, but were now clearly well inside of it.

  “Order! Order! This House will come to order!” barked the Speaker of the House, ensconced in his red plush awe-inspiring throne.

  Molly watched the reaction on the floor, where she noticed Harry Wardell laughing as he looked up at them, evidently enjoying the chaotic spectacle immensely.

  “Order! Order! This House will come to Order at once!” bellowed the Speaker, red-faced now as he rose to his feet. The pages who encircled the Speaker’s imposing Chair on its elevated dais, high school honours students all, attired in matching white shirts and black pants, all snapped smartly to a
ttention as the Speaker rose.

  “Adjourned!” yelled out the Speaker. “I now declare this session adjourned! Sergeant-at-Arms will you now clear the House, and especially the Visitor’s Gallery!”

  And with that the Security Guard began to shoulder his way brusquely amidst the Steelworkers, until one of them blocked his way. It was Eldon Critch. A lifetime spent in Frood Mine had done nothing to diminish his stature, and he stood a head taller than the blonde-haired, blue-eyed security guard who was his junior by several decades. “Don’t put your hands on me,” Critch warned the younger man in a steady, even tone. “I fought my way through every major battle in the Second World War and if you don’t stand aside, laddy buck, I assure you I will personally insert that fine starched uniform into a place where it will require dry-cleaning before you can wear it again.” The younger man stepped meekly aside as the Steelworkers filed out of the Visitors’ Gallery of their own accord.

  The scene was nowhere near as orderly in the Press Gallery at the end of the legislative chamber where everyone, it seemed, had begun a simultaneous stampede for the exits. After sitting in stunned, suspended animation as the spectacle before them unfolded, the reporters had suddenly, and simultaneously, been struck by the epiphany that they were witnessing history—never before had the Ontario Legislature been forced to adjourn by an unruly outburst within its precincts. There’s nothing an editor appreciates more than a legitimate, bona fide superlative, and so each of them bolted at once for the doors, eager to “scoop” all the others.

  “Well, Jordy, I think the world knows there’s a strike on in Sudbury now,” Jake smiled wryly at Nelson as the bus headed north up Avenue Road.

  It was at least Honey Harbour before the buzz had begun to die down, and Jake was able to slide into the vacant seat beside Jordan Nelson once again. “Jordy, I’ve been thinking …”