Wintersong. The Nickel Range Trilogy • Volume 3

by Mick Lowe

  “Oh yeah? ’Bout what?”

  “What that black guy from 222 said back there on the line … I think he was right—we do need some kind of leaflet explaining what the strike is all about.”

  “Okay, Jake, but there’s just one problem—I ain’t no writer and neither are you. So who we gonna get to write this thing?”

  “Well, that’s just it. I know this guy …”

  7

  Mission to Bay Street

  Was there any place on Earth, Harry Wardell wondered, he hated more than Bay Street, the downtown Toronto epicenter of Canadian capitalism?

  The proud towers of Canada’s Big Six chartered banks, phallic tributes to the men who ruled the country, crowded the sky, each tower taller than the last, as if in some colossal dick-swinging contest.

  But, like it or not, he was in for it now, Wardell had to admit as he entered the Wellington Street entrance to CIBC Plaza. The acronym, fittingly, stood for “The Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.” Imperial, indeed! The member of the provincial legislature from Sudbury spared a scowl for the security guard sitting behind his desk at the bank entryway. The guard himself reciprocated with a suspicious nod at the gangly figure who strode past him with his curious, head-first gait.

  Wardell bit back the revulsion he felt at his surroundings—he had a job to do here. It was the day after the Sudbury strikers had shut down the Legislature by creating an uproar in the visitors’ gallery, and Wardell was here in this place he hated—on their behalf. The strike was now well into its second month, and that meant thousands of Harry’s constituents had now missed two consecutive mortgage payments. He and his two fellow party members from Sudbury’s three provincial seats had divvied up the six big banks who held the paper among themselves, and Harry had drawn the Royal and the Imperial, and now here he was, about to keep an appointment with the CEO of the Imperial Bank himself. The purpose of their respective missions to Bay Street was to expend what little political capital they might have with the Lords of Bay Street to “jawbone” the bankers into relenting on any planned foreclosures against any strikers in the Sudbury area, unpaid mortgages notwithstanding.

  Harry didn’t much like his chances as he boarded the elevator and pushed button number “73.” His meeting was with CIBC CEO Clarence McCaskill, who also sat on Inco’s Board of Directors. Fat chance he’d agree to any measure that appeared to favour the strikers’ side in the Sudbury dispute. But Wardell and his two legislative cohorts had anticipated this obvious challenge and, in private consults with strike leader Jordan Nelson they had quietly devised a plan …

  The crowd in the elevator car, which had been packed in on the ground floor, had thinned out quite noticeably as the elegant vehicle—even its walls appeared to be marble—continued its speedy, ear-popping ascent.

  At last it braked smoothly to a halt, the double doors slid open, and Wardell stepped into a room of quiet, understated elegance where all sound, including the steady electronic pulsing of telephones, was muted. The lighting was indirect, the carpet was plush, and the walls were lined with large, to Wardell’s eye abstruse, but doubtless very expensive, works of abstract art. He strode toward the receptionist’s desk, which faced the elevator. It was staffed by a very pretty young woman, who eyed Wardell’s rumpled three-piece corduroy suit with the dubious look of a Holt-Renfrew veteran.

  “Looking for Clarence McCaskill.”

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  Wardell nodded. “Yes, for ten-thirty. I’m a bit early.”

  She summoned an icy smile. “I see. Mr. McCaskill is in conference just now. Won’t you take a seat?” She waved him toward a seating area adjacent to her curved desk.

  Wardell dutifully took a seat on one of the couches arranged around a glass coffee table scattered with glossy magazines.

  The Sudbury MPP idly surveyed the covers of the magazines—Fortune, Business Week, and Canadian Business. About what he’d expected to find. Reading material designed to reinforce the Cult of the business leader as wise and worthy steward of the Canadian economy. A quote from that savvy old hippy Stewart Brand entered Wardell’s mind: “Beware, beware controlling all your own inputs lest you become a caricature of yourself.”

  “Mr. McCaskill will see you now.” Her tone was somewhere between icy and welcoming. Not worth dwelling on, Wardell decided, as he stood up and moved toward the solid wood door that she gestured to. Without being fully conscious of it, Wardell took a deep breath, like a man about to enter battle.

  Which is exactly what he was.

  It was a corner office, naturally, and McCaskill was overshadowed by the spectacular view of the Toronto skyline and Lake Ontario framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows at his back. The banker did not rise to greet Wardell, but remained motionless behind his desk. “Mr. Wardell … please, do sit down.” He motioned at a chair facing his desk, and the stunning view.

  “Now, to what do I owe the, um, pleasure of your visit?”

  “I was hoping to speak to you about the strike in Sudbury, or rather the fallout from it.”

  McCaskill frowned. “I see. I am aware of the dispute of which you speak, of course, but as a member of that corporation’s Board of Directors I’m afraid there’s really nothing I can say or do—“

  Wardell cut him off with a sudden, dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m interested in your role here, sir … “

  “And what concern is that of the Canadian Imperial Bank’s?”

  “Mortgages, Mr. McCaskill, mortgages. You hold the paper on the homes of hundreds, if not thousands, of Sudbury Steelworkers, and it’s come to our attention that your bank is considering foreclosure actions against them.”

  McCaskill nodded. “That may well be, but only if they have failed to make two consecutive monthly payments will they receive written notice of our intention to initiate foreclosure proceedings.”

  “We’d like your assurance, sir, that no such actions will take place …”

  “Whaaat? We have an agreement with those people, sir, and foreclosure is our legal right in the event an account goes into arrears.”

  Wardell knew, as his adversary must have, that wholesale foreclosures would have a devastating impact on the Sudbury housing market. The eviction of thousands of families, with as many houses standing vacant and suddenly put up for sale, would collapse prices for all residential property, whether the mortgage was in arrears or not. Sudbury was a city of homeowners, and their equity would be wiped out overnight. Not on my watch, Wardell thought grimly.

  “You have how many branches in Sudbury, sir?”

  McCaskill appeared caught off guard at the apparent non sequiter. “What? Oh, I really couldn’t say offhand … Perhaps a dozen, I suppose.”

  Wardell nodded. “A dozen banks … Twelve thousand strikers, plus twelve thousand wives. That makes twenty four thousand. Let’s assume two kids per family, that’s forty eight thousand. What’s that add up to, Clarence?” Wardell unfolded his long frame from the chair and leaned forward for emphasis. As always, the gesture, plus the look of pure menace on his face, had the effect of a venomous snake coiling, readying for a strike. “Because that’s how many new savings accounts those branches will have next Monday when each of those union families, and their kids, open savings accounts to deposit their strike pay and then immediately decide to withdraw it, a dollar at a time.

  “I’ve never seen a run on a bank, but I’ve heard what one looks like—long lineups at the wickets, pushing and shoving begins, panic sets in …

  “And I foresee very long lineups in Sudbury, sir—never ending, in fact. I know I’d be panicked, if I were a legitimate bank depositor, a small business person seeking a loan, or whatever.”

  “The whole thing would look like a train wreck, and who knows the national fallout once the story reached the national nightly TV news?”

  McCaskill listened as if thund
erstruck. His expression darkened from gloom to an outright scowl. “But these individuals are adults, sir. They took certain responsibilities upon themselves when they elected to embark on this, this, adventure when they voted to reject a perfectly good offer from the company and follow this Pied Piper of a leader they have up there—what’s his name? Judson? Nelson?”

  “Nelson. Jordan Nelson.”

  “But this is all madness, pure madness, even you must see that—what did your own leader—and I’m no great fan of his, or of your party, as you may well imagine—even he called these strikers ‘The Archie Bunkers of the Left.’”

  It was all Wardell could do to suppress a wince as the banker’s words struck home. It was true that his own party leader had used precisely that memorable turn of phrase to describe the Sudbury strikers. The reference to a redneck working class character on a popular American television sitcom had made for great, crowing headlines in the big Toronto dailies, even as they outraged Jordan Nelson. The youthful union leader had vented that outrage on Wardell and his colleagues during their private meeting following the strikers’ disruption of the House. All three Sudbury MPPs were mortified at their leader’s remarks, and they quietly seethed as Nelson berated them. Meetings like this one with McCaskill helped re-direct much of that anger.

  But Wardell managed to maintain his poker face, and he merely shrugged at the banker’s remarks.

  “No one’s proposing anything illegal here, sir, or violent. But the optics of long line-ups at the tellers’ windows, well, these people have nothing better to do—eleven thousand pissed off hard rock miners with nothing but time on their hands …” Wardell’s voice trailed off. “ … there’s just no telling how this thing could end …”

  “So what you’re asking is …?”

  “That you halt any and all foreclosure actions immediately, and for the duration. We’ll call it a draw. You cease and desist, and so do we … This meeting never happened, and nor did the ones my Sudbury colleagues are about to have with the other five big chartered banks here on the Street. Your Sudbury branches are off limits to strikers and their families, and their homes are off limits to the bailiffs. You send out notices to your Sudbury branch managers that they are to take no actions against mortgagees in arrears during this strike, we shake hands on it, I leave this place, we never see each other again, and no one knows this meeting ever happened.”

  With that Wardell unfurled his lanky frame, stood up, smiled for the first time that morning, and reached across McCaskill’s desk to shake hands with the banker, and that is where matters have stood.

  Until now.

  8

  Molly Keeps the Peace

  “No! I don’t want it! Who let you in here? You shouldn’t be in here! We don’t want your kind anywhere near this union hall!”

  Molly Carruth could hear the angry male voice, quivering with emotion, even before she’d reached the foyer doors to the Vimy Room. The speaker was Eldon Critch, with whom she’d just made the Toronto trip. She knew him as a well-respected Frood miner, a Second World War combat veteran, and loyal Mine Miller, proud even in defeat. He was berating one of the Wives, Brenda Joyce, a shy, petite redhead, who was trying to pass him a leaflet about the impending Christmas Party. The veteran miner towered over the much smaller Joyce, who was standing her ground nonetheless.

  Carruth hurried over to the unlikely combatants. “Whoa! Whoa!” she yelled, to draw their attention. “What’s going on here, Brother Critch?”

  “She shouldn’t be in here!” Critch responded, pointing down at Brenda Joyce. “This isn’t 1958 and we want no part of any Wives’ movement to get us back to work …” the older man sputtered.

  “Whoa, whoa, settle down there Eldon!” Molly responded immediately. “It’s a Christmas Party!” That’s all it is, a Christmas Party! It’s not about breaking the strike! It’s about making sure we don’t make the same mistake as in ’58! This is Wives Supporting the Strike, Eldon! I’m in this organization, too! You know me! Do you think I’d be part of any sort of back-to-work movement? C’mon, Eldon!”

  The burly Frood miner began to simmer down, and he appraised the women anew, tilting his head just so to see them better through his bifocals. Behind the hostile glare, Molly could see, were blue eyes that were not unfriendly.

  In one action-packed week since their return from the Toronto trip, the strike had begun to take shape in earnest through a variety of measures:

  The Local Union Executive had voted to formally recognize the Wives Supporting the Strike group as friendlies, and authorized them to use Union premises for their activities. The vote had carried by the narrowest of margins only after Jordan Nelson, at Molly’s urging, had staked his own personal credibility on the women’s group.

  The Wives had buckled down and begun concerted efforts toward a seemingly impossible goal: a Christmas party for all the union children affected by the strike, lacking only presents for fourteen thousand or so children.

  And so Molly explained to the agitated Eldon Critch, whose blue eyes began to soften behind his bifocals as he stared down at the diminutive, but determined, women before him.

  Even an agitated, suspicious old Mine Miller had to admit what Molly Carruth—who was a fellow union member, after all—was saying made sense.

  9

  Below the Water Line

  Even as turmoil and controversy roiled the restive waters of the Union Hall that fall, below the water line, far to the south, the big Local’s bargaining committee lay becalmed and in the doldrums. Morale among the committee’s members was at an all-time low, and that worried Jordan Nelson. As Christmas approached, the Royal York Hotel, the luxurious downtown Toronto hotel that was traditionally the site of Inco-Union bargaining, was increasingly decked out in Christmas décor, which only accentuated the homesickness felt by the Sudbury trade unionists. The Royal York, a huge 1930s-era hostelry that had hosted English royalty, and a constellation of Hollywood and Broadway A-list guests in its forty year history, had begun to feel more like a maximum security prison than a five star hotel to Nelson’s crew. Some guys were drinking more than usual, and personal enmities were beginning to flare, a fatal flaw the company would surely seek to exploit at the bargaining table. Already the company’s bargaining team had taken not-so-subtle pokes at Nelson personally, pointing out that he was single, without children awaiting Santa Claus.

  Nelson was unsure what effect this divisive tactic was having on his team, but he couldn’t help taking it to heart. It was true—he was the only single guy on the committee, the only one without a family. In that sense he was an outlier—not just here in Toronto among the bargaining committee, but in Sudbury, also, among the eleven thousand-strong rank-and-file army he was leading. Sudbury was very much a family-oriented place, where successive generations had laboured in the mines, mills, and smelter. Family roots ran deep up there, save for Jordan Nelson himself, who was a first generation Sudburian, living alone, single and childless.

  Team morale also wasn’t helped by the state of play of bargaining that Christmas season, for the fact was there was no bargaining. Oh, the provincial government had appointed a crack team of its best labour mediators in an effort to kick-start negotiations, but to date, and with Christmas fast approaching, their efforts had proved unavailing.

  Jordan met often with the mediators, who shuttled constantly back and forth between the dueling bargaining committees in a ceaseless search for even the thinnest sliver of common ground upon which they could base a resumption of face-to-face talks, but even the faintest glimmer of hope for such an outcome was lacking, and so whole weeks had passed—soon becoming months—without the resumption of full-on collective bargaining. The stalemate—and the enforced idleness and boredom that were eating away at Jordan’s bargaining team—was only reinforced by the bright holiday gaiety that pervaded the grand old hotel facing Union Station on Front Street. Long a social hub of
Toronto’s business elite, the Royal York was a constant swirl of Christmas gatherings, office parties, and sundry seasonal events that only served to underscore how far the Sudbury workers were from home and their own loved ones. Although it was a huge place, even the Royal York was soon bulging at the seams from the press of the season’s myriad social demands, and this, too, became a problem. Every nook and cranny of the Royal York was booked solid for some kind of holiday gala, family gathering, dance or concert. Even if they could pull a genuine bargaining session together, the mediators soon discovered, there was no room at the inn. Every one of the hotel’s twelve hundred-plus rooms was full—except for one.

  They met but once—and that only for a few hours—a few days before Christmas Eve, and the moment was unforgettably surreal. The venue was the Ball Room of the Royal York Hotel. It was a last-ditch, Hail Mary attempt by the mediators to gauge whether the season might have softened attitudes on either side.

  There they were, seated facing one another at parallel tables in the middle of the parquet wooden dance floor of the gilt-encrusted grand old room, dwarfed by their surroundings, the impossibly high ceilings and garish crystal chandeliers. It was like a scene right out of the Cold War, two adversaries facing off, each capable of ending the world, or an entire city, with thousands of lives hanging in the balance

  The union side faced a problem the company did not—no one was quite sure what was happening on the ground, in real time, back home in Sudbury. Every member of the committee had a source—usually a wife—but their reports varied widely in a fashion that confounded them all. This one had a wife in Levack, a satellite mining town on the furthest fringes of the Sudbury district, who reported an entire community in malaise, depressed by the harshness of the winter, the absence of work, and the growing scarcity of money, while the guy next to him, who hailed from the old smelter town of Coniston, which was much closer to downtown Sudbury than far-flung Levack, received word that the privation engendered by the strike was making the community more tightly-knit, that resolve was growing, and that morale was high. Were both accounts accurate, or neither? Given the distance between the two towns it was entirely possible both reports were true, but who really knew? They were like the proverbial circle of a dozen blind men trying to describe an elephant entirely by feel.