Quest Biographies Bundle — Books 11–15. Gary Evans

would return to power.

      In his present post, King had to accept some of the restrictions of his employer. Despite public outcry, Rockefeller and his associates were not prepared to recognize the United Mine Workers of America. But Willie succeeded in having the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company recognize a union organized from within the company. Communication between the miners and their bosses was resumed, and the tension of the year before eased.

      Rockefeller had re-established his reputation in the eyes of the public. He had even impressed Mother Jones, a well-known eighty-three-year-old labour activist. Moreover, he had impressed King as “one of the best men and most welcome of friends” and a fine Christian, someone who sincerely tried to help other men. However, King mused privately, as he watched his employer across the floor, he’s not the best dancer.

      “Not bad for a city slicker,” the miner laughed, taking his wife’s hand from Rockefeller.

      “Mr. King taught me everything I know!” the industrialist joked. “Well, maybe not how to dance. But I certainly needed an education in labour and he gave it to me. I am but his mouthpiece.”

      The miner nodded his approval and led his wife onto the dance floor.

      “You coming back with us to New York, old man?” Rockefeller asked between gulps of punch. “Or are you going to get some rest like the doctor ordered?”

      Ignoring the comment about his state of fatigue from overwork, King replied, “Now that business is all but concluded, I think I’ll see my brother.”

      “How is he?”

      “Much better. The Colorado air has done him good. He’s been able to move out of the sanatorium and is living nearby with his family in a small house.”

      “Sounds like he’s on the road to recovery!” Rockefeller said.

      King could not respond. When Max had first entered a sanatorium in Montreal, the doctor had confided to William that his brother would not recover from the deadly tuberculosis. He had not shared the news with Max. King told Rockefeller enthusiastically, “He’s writing a book for other TB patients called TB and How to Beat It!”

      “That’s the spirit! You Kings – the harder you’re hit, the higher you bounce.”

      King raised an eyebrow. That was exactly the phrase his brother had used when King had lost the 1911 election.

      Queen’s Park, Toronto

      September, 1916

      King realized that he’d been walking around Queen’s Park for some time – hours even. Now it was growing quite late. He sat down on a bench and tried to get hold of himself.

      What day was it? What month? What year? 1916, the year. He couldn’t figure out the exact day, but it must be one of the first days of September. His father had died August 30. His mother had left to stay with his sister Jennie that morning. It suddenly dawned on King that for the first time since he was a young man, he had no home in Toronto.

      It seemed so impossible. Only a few short weeks before, his parents had been at Kingsmere. King remembered with regret, he had been sharp with his father. He didn’t recall what it was over, but now he was filled with remorse. His father was but an old man. Though nearly blind he’d bravely gone off to teach classes until he had retired just last year. After Bella’s death, John King had done his best to fumble through the streets doing the errands she had once done. His father did not deserve impatience, but that was how Willie had treated him the last time he saw him.

      The last time he saw him. King moaned aloud.

      How had it happened? Father had eaten something and apparently contracted food poisoning that quickly developed into unbearable pain. He’d died the next day.

      It was unbelievable he was gone. Everyone was shocked. John King, the mentor of many – senator and professor at Osgoode, who had instructed over seven generations of law students; author and journalist admired by many editors; lawyer and expert in libel law, lauded by some of the best thinkers in the Dominion.

      “And me?” King asked himself. He looked around but could see nothing save a blur before him. Father had steered him throughout his career – advised him to build his connections, to reach further and further. He had edited Willie s book about Bert and was helping him with his new manuscript. He was always thinking of me, sacrificing for me and so proud. Such a good, moral person. King began to cry, not caring whether people or pigeons saw his tears. Dear, dear Father. I owe you more than I can express. King looked at the darkening sky. You, Father, gave me an example of the perfection of manhood. It is an example I will strive to follow.

      Kingsmere, Quebec

      August, 1917

      “How much,” King questioned the nurse, “can one person suffer?”

      “Sh!” Nurse Petrie ordered. “She might hear you. Let her sleep now.”

      Willie bent near, kissed her forehead, and smoothed her beautiful white curls with a gentle hand.

      “Rest, Mother. The doctor will be here later.”

      King retreated to the next room and returned to the manuscript in his typewriter. Watching his mother suffer in his tiny rooms at the Roxborough apartment building through the winter of 1917 had nearly driven him mad. After her stroke, the doctor had diagnosed a condition he called atherosclerosis. The doctor had become a regular visitor, coming to drain away the putrid fluids that caused Mother to swell. Yet she seemed to get no better, so he had taken her to the country for a change of air.

      What do the doctors know? Let Mother he at Kingsmere, nearer the flowers in the fields, the birds in the trees, the peace of nature she so enjoys. Why, I even carried her to the lake and had her christen the new wharf after Father and the new boathouse after herself, the Isabel Mackenzie King Boathouse. I will see to it that she will rally, gather her strength, and be fit for fall after a summer’s idyll.

      A search for personal peace was the second reason King had decamped from the city. When Rockefeller’s business was not tapping at his shoulder, King was engaged in writing a book on labour relations. He needed quiet as he threw his soul into finishing Industry and Humanity. The pages had to contain all his thoughts on the relations between labourers, capital, management, and community. His experiences had led him to believe that government could have an increased role in helping to establish favourable relations between all parties. As the war drew to a close, the book preached a message of industrial peace and harmony that the world was so aching to hear. That was what King wanted –globally and at home: peace, harmony, and healing.

      A few days later Isabel appeared much better.

      “I knew the country air would set you right, Mother!” King crowed.

      “Dear Willie, you always know what’s best,” Isabel demurred.

      King squeezed his mother’s hand. His heart swelled with love. “I only want the best for you, my dear. You are so brave.”

      He took the spoon from the nurse and finished feeding Isabel her applesauce.

      “Mother, dare I speak again to you of my plans, my dream, my vision? You know that I have been called to be the voice of the Liberal party in North York – Grandfather’s riding. I think they’re soon to call an election… in the fall, but…” He looked into the dimming eyes, and was sure he saw a spark burning yet. He had to get back into Parliament. Public service was his life – but so was his mother.

      “Billy…” She paused a moment, letting a little sigh of pain and weariness escape her lips. Then she smiled her reassurance and said, “I will be glad if you speak in your grandfather’s voice.”