The Colony of Unrequited Dreams

by Wayne Johnston

  After about half an hour of asking me small-talk-provoking questions, he said it had been a pleasure meeting me, and he had Rodney show Prowse and me to the door.

  As Prowse was driving me back to my house, I kept waiting for him to say something, but all he did was grin; Prowse, now forty-six years old, grinning as he had when he confessed to not having shown his father my father’s book — or so I thought at first, until I realized he was grinning as though he had caught me out in something, caught me down on the ground with the rest of them, my high horse nowhere to be seen. Nothing had been said at my meeting with MacDonald, but something had been agreed to. I was their man. I wondered what, in the long run, that would mean.

  Were invisible hands at work in the months that followed? Almost certainly. But they were invisible even to me. It was not necessary that I know when my efforts were being facilitated. It was better that I didn’t. I would often feel I was making my way along a path that was being cleared by someone who was always just out of sight.

  MacDonald had needed to meet me to size me up. It seemed that I would do. I suppose he could tell just by looking at me that I was powerless to cause him any trouble, and that I was desperate to make something of what in all likelihood was my last chance for success. He himself was sixty-one years old, this his last posting before retirement. Newfoundland was all that stood between him and a peerage in the House of Lords, for which he was known to have an un-Labour-like craving.

  I had read somewhere that there were once more than two hundred structures in the British Empire that went by the name of Government House. The scuttlework of empire having been under way for years, there were not that many now.

  I understood, without having been told in so many words, that I had a new mandate: either to cause Confederation to be included on the ballot paper by parliamentary means, or to drum up sufficient support for putting Confederation to a vote that Britain would seem justified in flouting the National Convention if it had to.

  It was not hard to reconcile this with my conscience. I told myself it did not matter how it came about that Newfoundlanders were given the opportunity to consider Confederation, since Confederation would not happen unless a majority of them voted for it. As for the interference of the British, once they were clear of us so would we be clear of them. A mutual good riddance.

  I lay awake most of the night in a state of great excitement, my only nagging concern being that when and if the referendum was won, I might, having done the legwork, be pushed aside or thrown a bone as had happened when I helped Sir Richard win in 1928. Prowse’s involvement was especially disconcerting. Now it was an image of Prowse as premier, the first premier of the newly created tenth province of Canada, Newfoundland, that nagged at me. Prowse, premier.

  Soon afterwards, Fielding wrote in her column: “Smallwood does not really want Confederation. He has come out in favour of it only because he believes this is the best way of ensuring its defeat. He is our truest patriot.”

  Fielding’s Condensed

  History of Newfoundland

  Chapter Twenty-Seven:

  SIR CAVENDISH

  Governor Sir Cavendish Boyle writes a quartet of quatrains that, when set to music, become the official anthem of Newfoundland, “The Ode to Newfoundland.”

  Six musical settings are written to “The Ode to Newfoundland,” the first by German bandmaster E. R. Krippner. Boyle so dislikes the Krippner setting that he buys the rights to it to prevent it from being published.

  Newfoundlander Charles Hutton writes two settings in 1906, and Newfoundlander Alfred Allen another in 1907.

  What Hutton and Allen were hoping to accomplish remains a mystery, since the Newfoundland government had, on May 20, 1904, adopted as the official setting one written by Boyle’s friend, the famous British composer Hubert C. Barry.

  Tradition in Newfoundland has it that Allen’s version was superior to all the others, Barry’s included. But this is typical in a country where the animating myth is that the true king is always in exile or in rags while some pretender holds the throne.

  The Night of the Analogies

  ALDERDICE AND SQUIRES were dead, the more prominent members of their cabinets dead or retired. What well-known figures there were left over from the pre-commission days opposed the idea of a National Convention and, even when reconciled to it, assumed the convention would decide not whether we would have independence, but merely what form of independence we would have.

  They intended to use the convention as a way to advertise their prime ministerial and ministerial qualifications. They considered Confederation a “crank” option, the latest in a long line of hopeless causes by which I vainly hoped to rise to power. That they did so did not bother me, for I hoped that by the time they began to take me seriously it would be too late.

  All that was left of Sir Richard’s old Liberal Party was Gordon Bradley, one of the two Liberals who had managed to get elected in the Conservative landslide of 1934. Bradley, a sad-faced man with raccoon-like rings beneath his eyes, was the closest thing to a “name” I was able to win over to my cause to give it some respectability.

  He had been elected to the National Convention and I persuaded him to “lead” the confederate movement, which, as I expected, he was loath to do.

  “All you have to do is what I tell you to,” I said, though I doubted that any movement even putatively led by Bradley could succeed. Bradley professed himself willing to comply if only he could find the energy, his search for which usually proved fruitless and exhausting.

  Bradley ascribed his phlegmatic enervation to being swaddled for days as a child while ill with scarlet fever. “They never should have swaddled me,” Bradley told me, over and over, convinced that whatever it is in the body that produces energy was stifled for good by that marathon of swaddling. I literally dragged him from place to place and wrote speeches for him which he delivered in so languorous a fashion that sometimes even I fell asleep.

  The National Convention began. The Commission of Government installed microphones in the assembly and allowed the proceedings to be broadcast throughout the island, disingenuously denying the other members’ accusations that its purpose was to get the voice familiar to all Newfoundlanders as that of the Barrelman back on the air again.

  A motion was passed to send a delegation to London to inquire as to what sort of assistance an independent Newfoundland might expect to receive from Britain.

  Governor MacDonald secretly preceded the delegation to London and spoke with dominion secretary Lord Addison about it, “just so his lordship would be properly informed,” MacDonald said later, when his actions were discovered.

  Lord Addison told the delegation that, exhausted by its war efforts, Britain could afford to carry Newfoundland no longer. Peter Cashin, the unofficial leader of the independents and the head of the delegation, reminded Lord Addison that Newfoundland became bankrupt in the first place by helping Britain win the First World War.

  “God help Newfoundland,” Cashin said upon departing.

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Lord Addison said.

  It was next decided to send a delegation to Ottawa for “exploratory discussions” as to what Confederation with Canada would mean for Newfoundland. Bradley and I headed this delegation — a few non-elected officials went with us — and it, too, got off to a bad start.

  It was June and there was a heat wave in Ottawa, which so reminded Bradley of the time when he was swaddled that all he could do was lie abed in the Château Laurier begging me not to make him go outside. I was frantic that unless we did something in Ottawa, Britain would replace Bradley and me with someone who had at least an outside chance of getting Confederation on the ballot paper.

  I asked Bradley if he might consider not wearing longjohns beneath his clothes or wearing a suit less likely than one made of Harris tweed to bring on heat prostration. Bradley consented and accompanied me to Woolworth’s on Sparks Street, where I bought him six pairs of boxer sh
orts, Bradley standing beside me at the checkout counter and telling me that our mission was futile, that Confederation would never be placed on the ballot in the upcoming referendum, and even if it was, it would be overwhelmingly rejected and we should therefore catch the next east-bound train.

  Unfazed by this prognostication, I bought Bradley a linen suit. For the first time in his life, he wore short underwear and a suit not made of tweed. Though these changes afforded him some relief, he still lolled about Ottawa, constantly and profusely sweating, all the more so, for some inscrutable reason, in the air-conditioned buildings in which we at last met the Canadian delegates, who, it was clear right from the start, planned to do everything they could to help me sell Confederation to Newfoundland.

  Day after day for three months, Bradley sat beside me, continuously mopping perspiration from his brow, his face, his neck, tugging on his collar, drinking water by the jugful. I wrote home to the convention that “Bradley is making a fine impression on the Canadians and I must confess that I am proud to have him as our chairman.”

  I briefly met with Liberal prime minister Mackenzie King, who told me he was about to retire from politics and would very much like to crown his career by bringing Newfoundland into Confederation with Canada and be remembered as the man who completed the long-ago-predicted dominion that would run from sea to sea. King’s heir apparent, Louis St. Laurent, was just as openly in favour of my cause, though he kept assuring me that Confederation would happen only if asked for by the people of Newfoundland. “You’re a Liberal, of course,” said St. Laurent. “I mean, they tell me that you are.” I assured him that I was and would be for all time.

  Clearly, the question in all of their minds was to what degree my appearance and rough edges belied my shrewdness and ability, for the sight of me never failed to raise an eyebrow on the Hill. Bradley was of more importance to me than, before leaving for Ottawa, I had imagined he would be. He was tall, well-dressed, well-educated, well-schooled in the social graces. I think a hybrid of Bradley and me would have reassured the Canadians that their cause was in good hands.

  Suspicions were rampant back at the convention in Newfoundland as to why our visit to Ottawa was dragging on so long. Demands were made daily that we come home and tell the other delegates what we had been up to. What we were up to was securing a detailed draft of the Terms of Union with Canada, which I had no more authority to do on behalf of Newfoundland than a randomly selected citizen of Portugal.

  When we arrived home, Cashin accused us of being traitors. I replied that we had at least done better in Ottawa than he had in London. Outside the chamber, he threw a punch at me, which I dodged, then grabbed both of his wrists and fell backwards onto the floor. When Cashin attacked me, I was inhaling on a cigarette, and even as we were lying there on the floor, I blew smoke up into his face, so enraging him that it took several men to drag him off me.

  Field Day, October 19, 1947

  Yesterday, at the National Convention, Peter Cashin quoted from a document signed by Newfoundland and Britain in 1933 in which it is stated that “a full measure of responsible government will be restored to the colony when it is once again self-supporting.” Why, in light of this, Cashin demanded to know, are we even having a National Convention? Why, now that Newfoundland is again self-supporting, has this restoration not taken place? Is this not a violation of the agreement? Is this not treachery?

  To this question, Smallwood proposed the following analogy. He likened Britain’s promise to Newfoundland to a father who promises to give his son House A when he turns twenty-one. The son turns twenty-one. The father says, “You can have House A. Or, if you like, you can have House B or House C. The choice is yours.” Where, as Smallwood asked, is the treachery in that?

  Cashin countered with what we shall call the Cashin Analogy, though it was a mere derivation of Smallwood’s: The father promises to give his son House A, just down the street from his, when he turns twenty-one. The son turns twenty-one. The father says, “You can have House A, or you can have a room in a house that you have never seen five hundred miles away from here, though it’s a marvellous house and I’m not just saying that to get rid of you. The choice is yours.”

  Thus began what members of the National Convention are already referring to as “the Night of the Analogies.”

  Smallwood fired back an amended analogy: Choice of shack or splendid room in splendid mansion, take your pick.

  Cashin countered: House you own versus room you rent.

  The amendments continued. The other delegates watched in open-mouthed silence as these two giants of debate went at it.

  The house analogy exhausted, they moved on to horses.

  Smallwood: Nag versus Steed.

  Cashin: Newfoundland Pony versus Show Horse you have to board in someone else’s barn.

  The hours passed, darkness fell. Smallwood sucked on lemons to ward off laryngitis. Still they went at it.

  Smallwood (briskly): Leaky dory versus berth on ocean liner.

  Cashin (wearily): Self-owned dory versus berth on the Titanic.

  About midnight, those delegates and radio listeners who were still awake may have noticed that while Smallwood’s analogies were becoming more succinct, Cashin’s were becoming more long-winded and laboured.

  Smallwood (crisply): Tricycle versus train car.

  Cashin (groggily): Used but independently owned and operated automobile that, though it could use some fixing up, still runs versus the last row of seats at the back of a bus whose rear shock absorbers would be lucky to survive the slightest bump and would certainly be no match for the kind of potholes that occur on roads in Newfoundland between the months of March and May.

  Smallwood, alternately smoking cigarettes and sucking lemon wedges, pressed on. Finally, the Night of the Analogies ended at three-thirty in the morning.

  Smallwood (peremptorily): Motel versus top floor, Château Laurier.

  Cashin began to croak out an analogy involving the Newfoundland Hotel, then crumpled to the floor. Smallwood informed the Newfoundland people listening that Mr. Cashin had succumbed, then proceeded to list a further fifty unanswered analogies while Cashin lay there helplessly prostrate.

  Smallwood, who as we stated in an earlier column is endorsing Confederation only because he believes his support to be the kiss of death to any venture, may someday regret defeating Cashin so convincingly, but now it merely seems to him that he is putting up a good front.

  I gradually won over more delegates to the idea that Confederation should be an option in the referendum. Even so, most of them were still opposed to Confederation and were concerned only that it be seen to be rejected democratically.

  Thirty-eight days remained before the final adjournment of the National Convention. I spread rumours that I was near collapse, in the hopes that this would provoke a reinvigorated attack that would win me the sympathy of the public. Fearful, however, of just that, that they would be blamed if I suffered some sort of breakdown, the independents let me speak uninterrupted for thirty-four of the remaining thirty-eight days. The independents used — wasted — their four days denouncing the record of the Commission of Government, believing the commission to be the only real rival to independence.

  It seemed they were proven right when a resolution to include Confederation on the ballot was defeated 29-16. I denounced the twenty-nine as dictators, to which they retorted that they were democratically elected to cast their votes as they saw fit. The National Convention adjourned for good. A lot of people, though I was not among them, believed Confederation to be dead.

  Britain, as I expected, ordered that Confederation be included on the ballot, overriding the findings of the National Convention, which had been Britain’s idea in the first place.

  Field Day, April 25, 1948

  June 3, Referendum Day, is drawing near. Smallwood still believes himself to be the other side’s best hope of winning.

  His attempt to alienate supporters by wearing bow-ties and doub
le-breasted suits in public has backfired. He is now being referred to in the papers as “the nattily dressed” Joe Smallwood.

  The confederates have started up a newspaper called the Confederate. The independents have started up a newspaper called the Independent.

  Smallwood is trying to keep the level of debate in the Confederate as low as possible. The Confederate recently ran a cartoon showing the Grim Reaper holding a sign saying “Vote for Responsible Government,” his cloak bearing the words “Graft, Hunger, Dole, Disease.” To Smallwood’s dismay, the Independent responded with a cartoon showing a donkey with “Newfoundland” stamped on its hide straining to pull a cart loaded down with boxes marked “Taxes.”

  But he has calculated how he can best earn the ire of Newfoundlanders. He warns us against excess of pride, talks of Newfoundland’s “backwardness” and “seaminess” in comparison with the rest of North America. It seems to be working. The message has been confused with the messenger.

  At a recent rally, a large number of independents who pretended to be confederates so as to get close enough to him to lay hands on him barely missed their chance when his supporters intervened and he wound up escaping while spread-eagled on top of a car.

  “What this movement needs is a martyr,” Smallwood screamed as the car pulled away, only realizing too late that people would think that by “this movement” he meant Confederation.

  Smallwood again painted an uncomplimentary portrait of Newfoundland while broadcasting live on radio just the other day. He had to point out he was broadcasting live and give his location five times before a mob of independents finally surrounded the station and dared him to come outside. He was just about to do so when the ’Stab arrived and the crowd dispersed.

  Smallwood has begun to second-guess himself, wondering if even by secretly supporting a cause he predisposes it to failure.