LITMIR.BIZ

      Laurier House, Ottawa

      March 11, 1923

      Prime Minister King proudly pointed out to his guests a framed poster on the wall of the third floor hall. The Governor General and his wife, their Excellencies, Lord and Lady Byng, were two of the first official visitors to his new home. “This is the reward of a thousand pounds offered on my grandfather’s head,” King told them, “by the Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, Sir Bond Head.”

      “Was Bond Head a fool or a wise man?” Lord Byng asked in pleasant provocation.

      “Indeed,” King chuckled. “I grew up,” Willie continued nostalgically, “looking at this picture, dreaming of righting the wrongs against Grandfather’s reputation and carrying on his work. Remarkable, isn’t it, that less than a century later, the ‘scoundrel’s’ grandson should, as prime minister, have as one of the first guests in his home, His Majesty’s representative?” King’s blue eyes were merry with the irony of the situation.

      “Politics doesn’t interest us,” Lady Byng sniffed. Lord Byng stood soldier straight. His moustached mouth did not twitch or open to disagree with his wife. “In fact, we shun and detest politics. To change the subject,” Viscountess Byng trotted on with her British accent, “let me say that Lady Laurier was very generous to will you this lovely home.”

      “I am grateful to Lady Laurier. However, politics do not pay handsomely and it is no secret that I could ill afford the work to renovate the house. Fortunately, I have many generous Liberal supporters,” King explained. “If we step into the library I can show you some of the fine things Peter Larkin has sent from Britain. Lady Byng, would you care to see the portrait of my mother? And Lord Byng, you might be interested in glancing at some of the works on what I call ‘the shelf of the humble,’ the books written by my grandfather, my father, my brother, and myself.”

      King and his guests concluded the tour and returned to take tea in the dining room. The conversation centred on the Byngs’ admiration for the lovely furnishings sent by Larkin, the Salada tea magnate, King’s benefactor and Canadian high commissioner to London. Talk of Britain led Lady Byng to comment on the length of Canadian winters.

      “I miss the pipe of the cheeky wren and the little robin redbreast that we heard at home on even the dullest winter days,” she bemoaned.

      As the dessert tray went round, Byng started talking about his interest in phrenology. He was one of a number of people who believed that examining the shape of someone’s head could “scientifically” tell them about that person’s character. Phrenological diagrams divided the head into certain areas, and practitioners only had to feel someone’s head to know whether they were cautious, secretive, spiritual and so on. Byng was very interested in the size and number of bumps on the heads of King’s ministers.

      King was glad politics were not a topic of conversation. As the new leader of the country, he was cautiously learning how to manoeuver in Parliament. He tried to balance the needs of his constituents in North York and those of his own party. He wanted both to woo the errant Union Liberals and Progressives back to the Liberal party while doing as much damage as was civilly possible to his “worthy” opponent, the Conservative leader and former prime minister, Arthur Meighen. King had previously met Meighen on the debating floor at university. Today, as political adversaries, the two cordially despised each other.

      When King was not working, he found it pleasant to relax in the golden-bricked security of his Sandy Hill home. The antiques around him whispered stories of the past. The portraits on the walls watched over him: Sir Wilfrid and Lady Laurier, Gladstone, Mother and Father, his grandmothers and Grandfather. On the mantel of the bedroom fireplace, the vigil was kept by the photographs of his dead siblings, sister Bella and recently deceased brother Max.

      Although Lady Byng poured the tea, the real presence presiding in the sombre-panelled dining room was the portrait of Mother. Lady Byng felt a sense of family at Laurier House, although the family was alive only on canvas and celluloid. Approving looks came from painted eyes. Encouragement smiled on sepia-toned lips.

      “Are you not lonely here, Mr. King?” Lady Byng queried.

      “I should ask for nothing more than to be married,” King replied frankly. “But alas, such joyful domestic circumstances continue to elude me. I am, though, quite happy to have a home.”

      He was home, but since Max’s painful and tragic death less than a year ago, more than ever Willie was alone. He was thankful the affairs of the nation demanded his attention and took up long hours, six and a half days a week. If he could, he would work even longer and harder to serve the people, to succeed in doing Gods will. And somehow he felt that Mother, Father, Bella, Max, and even Bert and others were nearby, pushing him on. “And I must confess,” he added, speaking in Lady Evelyn’s direction, “I never feel them far away. It’s almost as if they are trying to communicate with me.”

      “Well, Mr. Prime Minister,” Lady Byng responded with a glance in her husbands direction, “there are many ways in which it is possible to communicate with the spirits of those who have departed. There are, in fact, many well-born and educated people, such as yourself, who know this. There are even guides who can help research.”

      Lord Byng cleared his throat uncomfortably. The study of bumps on heads was different from psychical research.

      “Perhaps we can speak about this at another time,” Lady Byng concluded before sailing off on a description of her rock garden.