Papergirl

by Melinda McCracken

  At the word “deport,” Freddy turned pale alongside Cassie. They both had everything to lose if their own immigrant parents got caught up in everything. Cassie was especially worried about passionate, furious Billy doing something to get himself deported.

  “You’re not getting deported,” Mary said to Cassie. “I won’t let them do it. Let me see that.”

  She took the bulletin back from Cassie’s limp hand and said, “Here, now, you didn’t tell me this. People in twenty cities in North America have stopped working because we’ve stopped working! Even people in England are supporting the strike. This is bigger than us,” she said, a bit breathless. “This is bigger than we ever imagined. We’re doing it!” She shot a triumphant look at Freddy.

  “But why did they throw everybody in jail?” Cassie said, unable to move on.

  “They want to scare people, that’s all.” Freddy sat down on the sidewalk and pulled some tobacco and some papers out of his pocket and began rolling himself a cigarette.

  “Can they really send people back to England?”

  “They can do anything they want.” Freddy shrugged, struggling to look like he didn’t care. Strands of tobacco peeked out from each end of the cigarette paper as he rolled it into a tube.

  “I need to get back to the café,” said Mary. “Come see me if you hear anything else, and I’ll do the same.”

  Cassie nodded and watched as Mary glanced contemptuously at Freddy and strode back to the café.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cassie found Billy weeding the small potato mounds in the back garden when she got home after selling out the bulletin. Her customers had been quiet and sombre today.

  “What will we do with the strike leaders in jail? How will we organize the bulletin?” she asked immediately.

  “Well, hello to you too, dear sister. You heard, did you? I suppose a papergirl never misses the news.” Billy’s words were playful, but his eyes were so worried.

  “What will we even do with the paper without the strike leaders to make it?”

  “Don’t worry about the bulletin; Woodsworth is taking over. That’s how they got the bulletin out at all today, with news of the arrests. He’ll do a fine job. You just keep pounding the pavement and letting the good folk know what’s happening. I’m proud of the work you’re doing. I know it hasn’t turned out as fun as you thought it might.”

  Cassie looked at her brother, so recently a fine police officer, pulling weeds out of the earth. He looked scraggly. “I don’t think anyone’s having as much fun as they thought.”

  Billy laughed. “Well, to be fair, Cassie, none of the grownups were really in this for the fun. Here, let’s go in. I’ve got supper cooking.”

  “Good. Mum has enough to do at the café all day without having to cook for you layabouts.”

  “Ouch,” said her brother as he opened the back door.

  Expecting the smell of oatmeal, starchy and bland, to hit her, Cassie opened the door to the mouthwatering aroma of stewed meat. It had been weeks since she’d caught the whiff of anything so delicious.

  “What did you do? Are we about to eat the cat?” she said eagerly as she rushed to the table.

  Her father appeared from the parlour. “Let’s not ask any questions, luv,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy it.”

  Cassie stopped in her tracks. “I was joking. What is it?” She ran to the front window to see if she could spy fat Rodney in Mrs. Watson’s front garden. There he was, fur gleaming as he lay in the sun. “Okay, not Rodney. So what, then?”

  Billy just shook his head sternly at her, and the scent of the meat, with its promise of a calm, full stomach, brought her to her chair as Billy filled the bowls.

  When Mrs. Hopkins came through the back door a few minutes later, supper was on the table and her family was waiting eagerly for her arrival.

  “Not a word, Mum,” said Billy when he saw her open her mouth. “Not about the food, not about the strike, not about the arrests, not about deportation — not about anything. Just sit. Eat.”

  The family sat in silence, reverent before the rich stew in front of them.

  “Billy, is this —” Cassie began.

  “Shh. Eat.”

  She resisted for a moment, suspicious of this meat’s provenance, but her body took over and made the decision for her. Though the stew had very little in the way of vegetables, Billy had scrounged an onion and a couple of old carrots from somewhere. The meat was delicate and tender, rich and nourishing. The broth was salty and little droplets of fat shone in the liquid. Though the day was still hot, Cassie was not bothered by the warmth of the stew. She felt it travelling down to the tips of her toes and she welcomed its heat.

  She tried to savour the meal, but she finished her entire bowl in fewer than five minutes. When she looked up, she realized her family had done the same. As one, they sat back in their chairs and sighed.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, son. Thank you. I’m sorry our food’s been so scarce.”

  Billy looked at his mother. “It’s scarce for everyone, except the bosses. You know that. You and Dad have done your best, but I thought we could all use a little boost.” He saw Cassie start to speak again and said, “Cassie, if you keep asking questions, you’ll get answers you don’t like. But tonight you’ll be going to bed with a full belly and enough strength to keep working tomorrow.”

  Cassie tried to protest, but her body felt so full and happy that she couldn’t. She pushed away the thought of fuzzy little rabbits, cleared the table, washed the dishes, and went straight to bed.

  CHAPTER 9

  On her way to the Labour Temple to get the papers the next morning, her body still humming happily from the stew the night before, Cassie chatted with Mary. Their mothers were walking a little behind them. They didn’t always accompany the girls as far as the Labour Temple, but the morning was fine and clear and they were happy to have an extra bit of fresh air before spending the day in the hot kitchen.

  When they reached the Temple, they were surprised to find Mrs. Armstrong waiting outside in front of the patched doors. She was standing among a small crowd of about seven children, many whom Cassie recognized from Carlton School’s poor families. She gave them a big smile. She’d missed some of her classmates and fellow baseball players. Before she had a chance to say hello, Mrs. Armstrong was speaking.

  “Oh good!” she said. “I was hoping to catch my favourite kitchen helper and papergirl. And your mothers are here too; excellent. Ladies, we have an important mission for which you and your daughters are needed.”

  Cassie could see her mother and Mrs. Smith stand a little straighter.

  “What is it?” said Mrs. Smith. “Is the kitchen okay?”

  “It’s more than okay, with you two working in it. Today, I need you both to run the kitchen, in fact. Anna, I’d like you to manage the volunteers. Ruth, you’ll be in charge of the food. I know you’ll do an excellent job. You’ve already saved me the trouble of going over there.”

  Mrs. Hopkins managed to swallow her shock enough to ask, “But where will you be? Are you all right? Is it George? What’s …” She gestured to the children around Mrs. Armstrong. “What’s all this?”

  “I’m fine, and George is all right for now, although he’s in prison, as I know you’ve heard. So, I’m bringing some children to the penitentiary. I want to show the government how ridiculous it is to have those men in a federal penitentiary. They’re not dangerous revolutionaries or aliens; they’re hard workers looking for a better deal for all of us. I’m taking some strikers’ children to sing outside the walls.”

  Just then a truck drew up, its large covered bed surrounded with chicken wire.

  “Which brings me to you two,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “Will you join us? If your mothers say it’s all right, that is.”

  “What about my corner?” said Cassie.

  “I�
��ve got a young man inside who said he’ll fill in today — one of your brother’s policeman friends who’s at a loose end now. What do you say?”

  Mary couldn’t help but give a little hop. “Yes!” she said. “I’m coming! Mother, I can, can’t I?”

  It was a testament to how much trust Mrs. Smith had in Mrs. Armstrong that she didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, dear.”

  Before Cassie could ask, her mother said, “Yes, yes, Cassie. You mind your manners and do what Mrs. Armstrong tells you to.” She gave Cassie a quick kiss and a hug.

  “I don’t want to rush you, but it’s about eleven miles out to the penitentiary, so we had better get a move on if we want to be back in time for lunch.”

  Cassie and Mary piled into the truck along with the other children. Mrs. Armstrong sat up at the front with the driver.

  The truck rumbled away from the Temple and through the streets, along Elgin to Isabel and eventually over the Salter Street Bridge. It was strange to see the warehouses shuttered as they passed through the city, with people out on the streets instead of at work. Few trains were on the tracks. The city was far from quiet, but it was a different kind of busy from usual. As they drove along McPhillips out of the city, Mary saw the buildings trickle to just occasional barns and farmhouses.

  Soon Mrs. Armstrong climbed back with them and began teaching them a song called “Solidarity Forever.” Cassie had heard it a few times at the Labour Church but hadn’t learned all the words. It was a song written a few years earlier by an American during a coal miners’ strike.

  “Can anyone tell me what solidarity is?” asked Mrs. Armstrong after she’d told them the words to the song.

  One boy, Mark, from the grade below Cassie and Mary at Carlton School, raised his hand. “When something’s really solid, like a rock?”

  Cassie snorted and Mary elbowed her hard. “Be nice,” she hissed.

  “Hm, not quite,” said Mrs. Armstrong, much more patiently than Cassie could have. “Solidarity is working together, having a common cause. It’s what this whole strike is built out of. Without solidarity, there’d be no unions. Let’s try the song together now, and let’s really think about what solidarity is.”

  Cassie, Mary and the other children sang the song until they had all the words memorized, as the truck rolled down country roads and through beautiful fields of green. It was hot, still, but the country held cool breezes and sweet smells — except when they were passing too close to pigs — and Cassie felt her worried spirits lift. By the time the truck pulled up to the Stony Mountain Penitentiary, the children knew the song forwards and backwards.

  The penitentiary was just as described: twenty-foot-tall stone walls, with guard towers looming ominously over the children.

  “All right, everyone!” said Mrs. Armstrong. “We’re going to walk over to the gates to sing. Follow me.”

  She hopped down from the truck and the children began to jump down after her, walking slowly toward the prison, which looked enormous next to them. Cassie could see movement in the guard towers, and she knew that’s where the guards were holding guns. More guards stood by the gates, looking stern and mean.

  Cassie leaned over to Mary. “I don’t feel so well. I think I’ll just stay in the truck.”

  Mary looked a bit grey herself, but she grabbed Cassie’s hand. “Think of the men inside there, and how they must feel,” she said. “Maybe they’ll hear us — think of that. We could bring them some comfort.”

  “You’re right. I know that.”

  “Come on then, silly.”

  Reluctantly, Cassie stood and jumped down behind Mary, and they quickly caught up with the rest of the group.

  “Everybody all right?” said Mrs. Armstrong, smiling a bit sadly at Cassie.

  “Yes, we’re fine.” What was Cassie thinking? Mrs. Armstrong had had men in her house taking her husband away in the middle of the night, and now she was here. If she could be so brave, Cassie could certainly sing this song.

  The group gathered by the gates, so close they could see the triggers on the guards’ rifles.

  “You can’t come in with those children,” shouted one man.

  “Not planning to, thank you,” said Mrs. Armstrong curtly. Turning to the children, she hummed a note, then counted, “One, two, three.” They sang the first verse:

  When the union’s inspiration through the workers’ blood shall run,

  There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun.

  Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one,

  But the union makes us strong.

  As they sang the words together, Cassie closed her eyes. She was swept up in a feeling. It was the same feeling she’d had an echo of at Labour Church, or sometimes when there were dozens of people clamouring for the bulletin. This time, though, it was much stronger. A feeling of power, but a different sort of power than the one held over the strikers by the mayor and the Mounties and the Specials. This power came from the ground and travelled up through her belly, and she felt like she shared it with every other worker there was. She felt the power spinning out of her mouth with the song, her voice joining the others’ voices, like they were vines climbing up and over the stone walls of the penitentiary. The vines grew between the cracks of the stones, sending shoots into the cells beyond. In Cassie’s mind, the vines of the children’s song were strong enough to tear down the whole prison and set everyone free.

  As the final verse started, Cassie was surprised to feel tears streaming down her cheeks. Still she kept her eyes closed.

  In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold,

  Greater than the might of armies, multiplied a thousand-fold.

  We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old

  For the union makes us strong.

  Solidarity forever

  Solidarity forever

  Solidarity forever

  The union makes us strong.

  When the song ended, Mrs. Armstrong said, “Again, children.” They started the song at the beginning. Cassie opened her eyes to find the prison still standing, the guards still frowning, but nevertheless there was something different. She was connected now to her friends and classmates, to Mrs. Armstrong, to every worker starving in order to make things more fair. Mark hadn’t been entirely wrong then; solidarity was very solid, like a rock. She could feel it.

  After an hour of singing, the children were tired and thirsty, their voices beginning to rasp. “Back into the truck, everyone,” said Mrs. Armstrong, and she handed out cookies and passed around a big jar of water.

  Some of the children played clapping games on the ride back, but Cassie and Mary held hands and looked out at the fields. Cassie wondered if Mary had had the same feelings of the power in their song, of solidarity.

  Then she heard Mary humming the chorus to their song under her breath, and Cassie decided that was all the answer she needed.

  CHAPTER 10

  Back on her corner the next day, Cassie saw Freddy.

  “Did you miss me, Freddy?”

  He just grunted.

  “Don’t you want to know where I was yesterday?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I went to jail, that’s where.”

  He looked up sharply at that, searching her face. “That a joke?”

  “No, I really was there. Just to sing, though. With Mrs. Armstrong. For all those men in jail, you know? Your father’s friend?”

  He looked away again. “Mm.”

  “Are you okay, Freddy? You don’t seem like yourself.”

  “Myself? How would you know what that is?” he said.

  Cassie felt hurt; she thought they’d become friends. “Sorry,” she said. “You seem a bit sad, that’s all.”

  Freddy looked at the corner, at the Specials guiding traf
fic where Billy should have been. “The strike is ruining my sales. No one has the money for the paper. I’m not sure … my family. They’re getting hungrier and there’s nothing I can do about it.” His face clouded. “Everything was fine before the strike started. We were doing all right. I can’t take much more of this.”

  Cassie didn’t argue with him, but she knew it wasn’t true. If everything had been all right before the strike, Freddy would have been in school, not supporting his whole family.

  * * *

  The next day, Friday, June 20, Cassie entered the kitchen to find Billy at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed, drinking black tea and looking very rumpled.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Billy’s tired eyes twinkled nevertheless above the steaming cup. “Late night,” he said.

  “Another strike meeting? Any news?”

  He looked like he was going to say something, then set his cup down and said, “Tell you what, why don’t we walk to the Temple together to get your papers, and you can see for yourself.”

  “Why the big mystery?” she asked, pulling her shoes on.

  They walked the city blocks together, Billy uncharacteristically quiet, but he didn’t seem upset. When they finally reached the Temple and Cassie opened the front door to reach for her bundle of papers, she let out a scream. Billy whooped in response.

  STRIKE LEADERS OUT, the headline said, in giant bold letters. Cassie skimmed the article. “A dozen cars left the Labour Temple … a crowd of some forty or fifty people gathered round the main entrance of the penitentiary,” she read aloud. “Good grief, Billy. You went out there in the middle of the night?”