Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  “What else?” Mr. Hopkins asked eagerly.

  “Well, the printers are all going on strike tomorrow, so there won’t be any newspapers. The Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand won’t be able to print any more lies for a few days at least.”

  “The Citizens of … whatsit?”

  “The businessmen against the strike. The bosses and the men with money. Anyways, from what I hear, the newspapers have scared the rich people in the South End so much that they’re frightened to sleep in their own homes. They’re going to sleep in churches. Apparently, people down east think that Winnipeg is having a revolution. They think the streets are running with blood, and all that. They got that from the big newspapers.”

  “Well, what about us?” asked Mrs. Hopkins. “Can’t we tell our side of the story?”

  “Well,” Billy continued, “the strike committee is planning to set things straight by publishing its own paper, a strike bulletin. Volunteers are going to write it and print it without pay. They think they can get one out by Saturday night. They’ll cost a nickel on the streets.”

  The grownups paused, but Cassie could see her mother still looking worried.

  “Will we have water and light?”

  “Oh, the waterworks won’t be cut off. They’ve been asked to keep the pressure up. And the lights will be on. I think they’ll get milk to the children, too. No one wants complete chaos. But I’m worried about the Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand. They’re very powerful and ruthless. They’re headed by a lawyer named Andrews. They’re going to act for the federal government, go right over the heads of the Winnipeg and Manitoba governments.”

  “All the way to Ottawa? Why, they’ve never paid any attention to us before.”

  “Well,” Billy went on, “there’s a rumour that the Canadian government is trying to get a loan of a hundred million dollars from Wall Street in New York. And Wall Street wants the government to stop this ‘revolution’ in Winnipeg before they hand over the money. That’s why Ottawa is taking an interest.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins. He shook his head. “Hard to believe, hard to believe.”

  “Do you know anything about how people are expected to eat, Billy?” said Mrs. Hopkins. She’s certainly concerned with food, thought Cassie. “I’d offer to help if I thought there was anything I could do. But we’ll run out of supplies faster than I want to think of it.”

  “I think they’re making some plans,” said Billy. “There might be something you could do.”

  Cassie could see her mother finishing up her mending, so she silently rose and walked back into her bedroom, softly closing the door behind her. She snuggled into her bed. If her mother, father, and brother were all helping with the strike, there must be some way she could help too.

  CHAPTER 3

  Seven days later, on Thursday, May 22, after the strike had been going on for about a week, the Free Press began publishing again. Mr. Hopkins had a fit reading their headlines about “anarchists and aliens” leading the strike and how all the strikers were Bolshevist revolutionaries.

  Cassie was getting used to seeing Portage Avenue full of people in the daytime, strolling up and down in the sunshine. In a way, everyone seemed happy to be free of work, as they usually worked such long hours.

  The school was still open, though. This bothered Cassie. It would have been such a perfect time for a holiday, right at the end of such a long winter. The last time schools were closed was in the fall, when the flu had spread like wildfire through the city. That had been frightening, not fun. Now there was more excitement and anticipation in the air. Some of the kids had begun to play hooky — mostly the poorer kids from the north end. In class since the strike started, the usual tension between the rich children and the poor was even higher than normal. Even fewer kids showed up on Wednesday and Thursday.

  Cassie asked Mary a few times how she was doing and whether she and her mother had enough to eat, but Mary wasn’t giving her straight answers. Cassie’s family had had to stop buying beef and pork, but they still had enough chicken, cheese, eggs, potatoes and other vegetables that they weren’t going hungry. Cassie had been able to convince Mary to come over to visit on the weekend, so she was getting at least one square meal a day. Cassie hadn’t seen Mrs. Smith, though, and couldn’t imagine she had much of anything to eat.

  Billy came home Thursday at suppertime with some news. Mary was over, and Mrs. Hopkins was serving a roast chicken with potatoes and carrots, heavier than their usual suppers, but Billy had been unable to come home for dinner.

  Cassie knew nobody had expected the strike to go on this long, but here it was a week later and it was no closer to being settled. The Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand and the strike committee hadn’t even gotten together to talk at all.

  “What’s going on then, Billy?” Mr. Hopkins asked after he said grace.

  “Honestly, you won’t believe it. You know Honourable Arthur Meighen?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Hopkins, at the same time as Cassie said, “Who?”

  Billy looked at her. “He’s the Minister of the Interior, and he’s the acting Minister of Justice, too. Well, he and Senator Gideon Robertson — that’s the Minister of Labour — got on a train in Ottawa bound for Winnipeg.”

  “People got on a train? That’s not news, Billy.”

  Mary cracked a smile.

  “Oh, hush up, Cassie, will you. At Fort William, two men from the Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand got on the train with them.” Billy paused so everyone could take in the significance. “And then, outside of Winnipeg, two more men from the Citizens’ Committee boarded the train.” Billy sat back triumphantly, as though he’d just figured out the secret to everlasting life.

  Mr. Hopkins cleared his throat. “Couldn’t it be a coincidence?”

  “Not a chance. The Citizens’ Committee is linked with the federal government. I bet you Meighen and Robertson heard about the so-called Bolshevist revolution in Winnipeg and believed every word. They haven’t bothered to be in touch with the labourers at all, mind — the Minister of Labour, no less! I don’t know what they’re up to here, but I don’t like it one bit.”

  Mary spoke up. “Do you think they’ll end the strike and get people working again?”

  “No one knows what they’ll do, Mary. Not yet.”

  Mrs. Hopkins reached over and patted Mary’s hand kindly. “Now, dear, I’m sure your mother will be back to work in no time.”

  “But not before we’ve got fair wages for everyone!” protested Billy.

  Mrs. Hopkins shot him a dark look and he quieted down.

  Once supper was over, Cassie asked if she could walk Mary home. As the two girls wandered the busy blocks up to Mary’s place, they marvelled at the crowds around them.

  “It’s odd seeing all these people out, isn’t it?” said Mary. “It’s odd having my mum home, too. She’s getting a lot of sleep, finally, but …”

  “But there’s nothing to eat?” said Cassie.

  Mary nodded slowly, reluctant to admit it.

  “We can have her over for dinner tomorrow,” Cassie said. “Just bring her over and say my parents want to talk about the strike with her.”

  Mary’s brow furrowed. “I honestly don’t know if she’d let you give her any food, Cassie. She’s accepted no help since Papa died, and I doubt she’ll start now.”

  “Let me try,” Cassie said as they climbed the peeling steps to Mary’s building. On the second floor Mary opened her apartment door.

  “Mama? Cassie’s here with me,” Mary said.

  Cassie stepped inside the cold flat. It was one room, with two cots in one corner, a small kitchen along the opposite wall, and a table and two chairs. Spotlessly clean as always, the flat nevertheless felt desolate. Cassie, whose family didn’t have much, felt sick at how little money Mary’s mother made, no ma
tter how hard she worked.

  Mary’s mother was sitting at the table, staring out the window. It was true, she looked more rested than usual, but her cheeks were more sunken than ever.

  “Oh, hello, girls,” she said, turning and smiling warmly at her daughter and Cassie. “It’s lovely to see you, Cassie; it’s been too long.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Smith. I was just walking Mary home, and I wanted to invite you for dinner tomorrow. My parents asked me to.” The lie was easy to tell, as Cassie’s parents were always hoping to do more for Mrs. Smith.

  Mrs. Smith looked embarrassed. “Oh, now, that’s not necessary, Cassie —”

  “Billy wants to talk to you about the factory,” Cassie lied again. “Research, for the strike committee. They want to get some more perspectives for the speeches and the bulletin and everything. So it would be really helpful if you’d come over.”

  Mary was looking at Cassie in awe, as though she hadn’t known how smoothly her friend could spin a tale. But it worked. Mrs. Smith’s embarrassed expression had eased.

  “Oh, I see. Yes, all right, Cassie. Please tell your parents thank you, and I’ll see them tomorrow.”

  As Cassie walked home alone, she felt triumphant that her ruse had worked, but sick that there was nothing more that could be done for Mrs. Smith. She thought about what Billy had told her, about the Canadian government being on the side of the Citizens’ Committee of One Thousand. How could they be? They must not know about people like Mrs. Smith — a hardworking woman whose husband had died in the war, who worked all hours of the day and could barely feed herself and her daughter, let alone put enough away for leaner times. Someone needed to tell the real stories, so the rest of the country would know it wasn’t Bolshevists revolting in Winnipeg, but everyday hungry people. It was so frustrating to be just a girl stuck in school, where she’d never be able to make a real difference.

  *

  As she predicted, Cassie’s parents were happy to hear Mrs. Smith had accepted Cassie’s invitation, although she didn’t tell them how she’d managed to convince their guest to accept their hospitality. When Billy arrived for dinner, Cassie quickly pulled him aside and explained her white lie. Billy understood immediately.

  “You’re right, you know. I’d love to hear more about Mrs. Smith’s work. I know those factory workers have it hard.”

  Soon Mary and Mrs. Smith arrived, and after everyone was sitting down, Cassie helped her mother serve a simple cabbage soup with biscuits and boiled eggs on the side.

  “So lovely to see you, Anna,” said Mrs. Hopkins to Mary’s mother.

  “Yes, we’re very grateful that you’ve come over to talk to me,” said Billy. Eager to distract Mrs. Smith from his parents’ confused expressions, he spoke quickly. “We’d love to hear more about what it’s like in the factories. It’s important that all our workers are understood.”

  “Well, thank you for having me. The soup is wonderful.”

  “Tell them, Mama, about what it’s like there.”

  Mrs. Smith set her spoon down. “I wouldn’t want to complain, you understand. I’m grateful for the work. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it, since …”

  There was a silence, though not an uncomfortable one. Since the war and the flu, everyone had either lost a loved one or knew someone who had. Cassie was used to the adults around her taking a moment to think about those who had died.

  “Truly, I would rather be working right now. I prefer to keep busy, and … well, you know I need the pay.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather be making a fair wage?” Billy broke in. “It’s not right how workers are treated.”

  Mrs. Smith nodded slowly. “I see what you mean, Billy, but I don’t know that it’s my battle to fight. I need to keep food on the table. I need to make sure Mary has what she needs to grow.” She paused. “I can’t pretend the factory is a nice place to work. Many days, I don’t see the sunshine, and I barely make enough for us to get by. The work is hard on my back and my eyes, and we don’t get enough breaks to stretch out the parts that start hurting. I see why everyone wants this strike. And, you know, it may even hold some opportunities for me. The phone operators have left their jobs, and the phone company wants to keep the lines open. They want volunteers, and anyone who shows an aptitude might be employed after all this mess is over.”

  Billy looked horrified. “But you can’t be a scab! We need to stick together!”

  “Simmer down, son,” Mr. Hopkins said sternly. “We all know where you stand, and where I stand. But you can’t tell me you don’t understand why someone would feel desperate enough to be a scab.”

  Cassie was confused. “What’s … what do you mean, a scab?” She touched her elbow gingerly, where a scab had formed over a scrape.

  “It means a dirty strike breaker, someone who works for the employers while the rest of us protest, someone who ruins the strike for everyone else!” said Billy.

  “Billy, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Hopkins. “Anna, I’m so sorry. I wish there were a way to make this easier on everyone. It’s a hard situation all around.”

  Mary spoke up suddenly. “There is a way. There’s a food kitchen for women. And they’re helping women with rent, too. Mama, you just need to start accepting help.”

  Mrs. Hopkins looked surprised. “Is this true, Billy?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Helen Armstrong, the head of the Women’s Labour League, has started a kitchen to feed women and girls. Men, too, if they have good reason or they can pay. But mainly for the women.”

  “There’s a woman organizing it?” Cassie asked. So far, Billy had only mentioned men working on the strike committee and leading initiatives.

  “Yes, down at the Strathcona Hotel. It’s called the Labour Café.”

  Cassie knew the Strathcona, which wasn’t too far from their house.

  Mrs. Smith and Mary exchanged a long look. Cassie wondered if they were feeling the same glimmer of hope that she was.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sunday, May 25, 1919

  The weather was growing warmer and warmer. The leaves were out. It was lilac time. Mary and Cassie had lost count of signs of spring; the whole world was bursting with life.

  Cassie walked with Billy to Victoria Park on Sunday afternoon after dinner. The strikers had church services in the park, two blocks from City Hall on Main Street. They called the services the Labour Church. To Cassie, the enormous crowd just looked like a sea of hats. There were the men’s peaked caps, felt hats, and a few summer straw boaters crowded into the little park, with women’s wide-brimmed hats and the children in smaller version of the adults’ hats. Five thousand people were present to hear the Reverend William Ivens, known as Ivens the Terrible. Cassie was too short to see over the multitude of hats, so Billy hoisted her to his shoulders.

  Reverend Ivens called out, “The Citizens’ Committee says you must call off the sympathetic strikes. What is your answer?”

  Five thousand men and women shouted, “No!” They were speaking for the other strikers not present, whose ranks had now swelled to thirty thousand. Billy was thrilled at the numbers.

  Reverend Ivens told the crowd that that very afternoon, Senator Robertson had called a meeting of the postal workers, who were employed by the Canadian government. At his meeting, Robertson ordered all the post office workers to be at work at ten the next morning, or else they would be fired, lose their pensions, and never be hired by the Canadian government again. Cassie felt a stirring when Reverend Ivens spoke — a strange feeling that she was connected with everyone here.

  Lawrence Pickup announced that the postal workers had voted not to go back to work, and everyone applauded and cheered. A hat was passed to collect money to feed the girl strikers at the Labour Café.

  When Billy and Cassie got home, Mrs. Hopkins was bubbling with excitement.

  “I’ve got a lot to do!” she t
old them. “I’ve been to see the Women’s Labour League at the Strathcona. They have a big dining room and kitchen and they’re going to feed all the striking girls from the department stores, laundries, clothing factories, candy factories, hotels, and restaurants. Without the café they’d be starving. They’re also being given money to pay the rent on their rooms. Some of the strikers are offering girls rooms in their homes for free, but I don’t think we have the space here.”

  “What will the men do?” asked Cassie.

  “Oh, the meals are for men too. Men without money can get tickets from the relief committee and eat. Why, they’re serving fifteen hundred meals a day from the Strathcona! All for free!” exclaimed Mrs. Hopkins, taking the hatpin out of her hat and setting her hat on the hall table. She fluffed up her hair and came into the kitchen where Billy and Cassie were sitting. “But there’s some doubt as to how long they’ll have the hotel. I don’t think the owner approves of what they’re doing.”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” said Billy. “He’s a landlord; he’ll be on the Citizens’ Committee’s side.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Hopkins firmly, “I start tomorrow. And do you know what? They say we can make up a batch of biscuits, my biscuits, to feed everybody. Imagine, me, serving my biscuits to fifteen hundred people. I never thought I’d live to see the day. Mind you,” she added as an afterthought, “they probably taste better in small batches.”

  “You’ll be famous!” cried Cassie. “You could start a biscuit business. I can see it now. Mum’s Better Baking Powder Biscuits. Get ’Em While They’re Hot!”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. My biscuits aren’t that good. They’re just biscuits. I don’t want to turn into a businesswoman, anyway. That would be against my newfound principles.”

  “Mum,” Cassie wondered, “if you’re at the Strathcona Hotel, who’s going to make our dinner?”

  “Young lady,” said Hrs. Hopkins firmly, “you and the boys will just have to fend for yourselves. Your father knows a bargain at the grocery store. And Billy can fry an egg. You’ll make out. Those girls are hungrier than you are. Think of poor Mrs. Smith.”