“Nonetheless,” King went on after the prayer, “Governor General Viscount Willingdon and I said our inauguration speeches and the clock was started exactly at noon.” King glanced at his guest, but the significance of the auspicious moment seemed unappreciated by the young man.
“I ordered the clock started exactly at noon, with both hands pointing straight up,” King explained. He paused and looked at Lindbergh again.
At a loss, Lindbergh sipped his tea.
“The great feature of the day was the radio broadcast across the nation and even as far as Brazil, I’m told. Never before has the human voice been heard at the same time by so many people. I feel it is the beginning of Canada’s place in the world, as a world power.” He chuckled, “And the next day you arrived – like a young god from the skies in human form!”
Lindbergh looked uncomfortable, but with his mouth full of eggs, he could say little.
“I thank Providence that I could be in office for this occasion. I think I’ll make a book of some of the wonderful messages given,” King mused. “The only thing that marred it was the death of that young pilot yesterday”
“I must agree,” Lindbergh replied cautiously, “with his flight instructor. Johnson was trying to be a little too ambitious.”
“Perhaps. Nonetheless, it is a tragedy, and before church I will see that the arrangements for a proper military funeral have been made. And you sir, what are your plans today?”
“I’d like to catch up on my correspondence.”
“You must use my library. And if you happen to be writing to your mother give her my regards and tell her I am most interested to hear that we might have a Mackenzie family connection!”
“I will, and thank you for the use of your library. It will inspire…” but before Lindbergh could finish there was a scuttle-clicking on the floor.
“Look who smells sausages!” Lindbergh remarked as a little Irish terrier bounded into the room.
“Sit, boy!” he ordered, rewarding the dog with a piece of sausage.
“Colonel, you’ll encourage his bad manners,” King admonished in a mock serious tone. “But I must say, I give the little scoundrel the occasional tidbit too, don’t I, Pat?” Pat streaked over to King, and sat expectantly with his tail thumping furiously. He received another savoury treat and a warm pat from his master.
Outside the window, the prosperity of summer stretched lazily down the street, over the city and across the province. For her sixtieth birthday, the whole nation seemed to be unified.
At Laurier House, a good mood scampered around the room like a well-fed dog with a wagging tail. Only the happiness of the moment mattered.
No one saw the shadow of the rain clouds creeping across the lawn.
Ernest Lapointe introduce “Our Leader” with cheers at the 20th Anniversary of King’s Liberal leadership.
A little group at Kingsmere: Godfroy Patteson, Etta Wriedt, Joan Patteson, King, and dogs – Pat and his brother, Derry.
6
Valley of Shadows
Laurier House, Ottawa
July 26, 1930
King entered the room, strode over to the marble statue of his mother, and firmly kissed her lips. “Well, sweetheart,” he whispered, “We’ve done our part.”
He had finished campaigning across the West and through Ontario and had just come in from Renfrew today at six o’clock. He was fatigued from speaking in arenas so large they swallowed up his words but somehow did nothing to lessen the volume of the jeers from the unemployed. The thought sustaining him was that Mother never seemed too distant, an angel guiding him from afar. He received confirmation of this in messages from a Kingston fortuneteller, Mrs. Bleaney. Her visions from the spirit world and interpretations of his dreams had helped him since the campaign of 1921. Now Bleaney prophesied victory in the 1930 election even though King worried that his speeches lacked the fire of other campaigns.
Later tonight King would give a coast-to-coast radio broadcast right from the dining room of Laurier House! He was pleased that as he addressed the nation, the paintings of all those he loved most dearly and to whom he owed the most would be about in that memorable and sacred spot in his home: Grandfather, the grandmothers, dear Father and Mother, Mr. Larkin, and Sir Wilfrid Laurier.
The leader of the Opposition would also have his turn to speak. From a political and business point of view, Westerner R.B. Bennett headed as stupid a lot of men as King had ever seen. They’d be better off remaining silent than making promises they couldn’t keep. Another of the damnable features of the Tory campaign was their attempt to injure King by making much of his connection to Rockefeller and his absence from Canada during the war. Worst, the Tories suggested that the prime minister had become calloused to labour’s cause. “Hypocritical,” King pronounced. But he also knew that he had set himself up for such criticism.
He had made one slip. Only one slip. However, the prime minister cannot make even one slip.
Upstairs, as he prepared to take a nap before the broadcast in hopes of getting rid of his splitting headache, King remembered his error.
On April 3 he delivered a speech on unemployment to the House of Commons. He had worked on the speech until 4 a.m., and it met with a standing ovation from his confreres.
Then the Tory harassment had begun, provoking him until he said something that could be totally misrepresented. Although King was clear in his mind that he had been addressing federal/provincial roles and responsibilities, it looked as if he had said the federal government would not give any money to any province headed by a Conservative government.
King recalled saying “I would not give a cent to a Tory government.”
“Shame! Shame!” the Opposition cried.
As he lay on his bed, the thudding pain behind his eyes increased. He was not unsympathetic towards the disadvantaged, but technically unemployment was a provincial, not a federal problem. And while there seemed to be increased unemployment with the temporary economic slump precipitated by the Wall Street crash, there was no statistical evidence that showed an emergent national problem. Nor had any provincial premier stepped forward to request emergency assistance. There was, in fact, no reason to open the federal treasury.
I would not give a cent to a Tory government.
Shame! Shame!
The words still rumbled like boulders over his brain.
That regrettable remark, combined with the disorganization of the party machinery and a weak stance on the issue of importation of New Zealand butter, had meant King had to work extra hard at the campaign. At an exhausting pace he had thundered to the West and back with his lieutenant, Québécois Ernest Lapointe.
One of the few moments of peace had been at dawn yesterday as the train passed through Kitchener. King remembered the town when it was called Berlin. He grew excited when, in the half dark, he thought he saw a familiar white gate. “Wake up!” he had cried to his travelling companion. “That’s Woodside! That’s where I was a boy. Such a happy boyhood,” he’d gushed as the pines and poplars whizzed by, “the basis for my present position.” Once a boy from Berlin had dreamed of being the prime minister of the Dominion of Canada. “Most of my dreams have been realized,” he had murmured.
“With the exception