The Magpie

Douglas Durkin

• Publisher: Invisible Publishing
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781988784137
• eBook ISBN: 9781988784175
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Craig Forrester is newly home following World War I, newly married, and newly mired in social upheaval. Will he choose complacency alongside his peers, or his personal moral code? Originally published in 1923, The Magpie is a social commentary turned novel about the disillusionment that developed after the war. Set against the backdrop of the Winnipeg Grain Exchange, The Magpie offers an articulate and perceptive examination of the greed, hypocrisy, and intolerance of the 'decent' classes, the agrarian myth, the role of women in post-war society, and the evolution of moral codes in Canadian Society.

PART ONE | MARION

Chapter I.

One

On an evening in the last week of July, 1919, The Magpie wrote in his book:

“To-morrow I shall be thirty years old. I wonder if there ever was a time in the history of the world when it meant so much to be thirty… Yesterday I picked up young Dick Nason and drove him home. Dick is just twenty. I confess I felt a little uncomfortable with Dick. I always do. Dick doesn’t know there has been a war. He insists that life is pretty rotten and that nothing really counts. Dickie says that we need a few Oscar Wildes and a few Shelleys to bring the world back to form. He thinks the world ought to be psychoanalyzed. He is just finishing his second reading of the memoirs of someone he calls by the name of Casanova. He says I ought to read them now that I have gained a reading knowledge of French. Dickie talks a great deal about—mostly about talk… Old Dad Robinson, the janitor, thinks the world is lost and that civilization is crumbling. At least he says the world is shaking. The war was a blight and peace, he says, is a disease. He looks for an act of God to restore the world to its happy condition of five years ago. I think Dad’s chief concern is the fact that he hasn’t been able to buy a couple of favourite varieties of tulip that he used to get from England. When he can get the tulips he will be in a fair way to admit that God’s in His heaven again and the world set right… For my part I think I like old Dad’s view-point pretty well. Dad’s past fifty—perhaps that’s why I like him. A man of fifty may be wrong in what he thinks about the world, but he’s probably right in what he feels. There’s something wrong in the way Dickie feels, though perhaps he thinks a little more clearly on some things than I did when I was twenty. And yet—I can’t tell. I can understand Dad. I can talk with him and feel no irritation. When I talk with Dick I seem to lose my sense of humour… Sometimes I feel I am too old for the world I have come back to. Other times I feel I am too young… But I hold that somehow, somewhere, there is a Power in the world that works for good and that in the end the sacrifice will not have been made in vain. We are in a fog just now, a great fog that covers the western world and hides the sun from our eyes. But the light will break through—somewhere—somehow—and the new life will have begun. There are some who are already talking of getting back to normalcy, but those who have seen the light shining against the darkness that hung for four years over the fields of Flanders know that we cannot return to normalcy. We cannot return to the days when the people and even the parliaments knew nothing of what was going on behind their backs until they were asked to give their lives to vindicate the bad bargains of the diplomats. All that is past… I am sure of it. If it were not for that faith…”

The telephone ringing from the hall startled him. He got up from his table and went to answer the call.

“Yes?” he said in a voice that was heavily resonant, almost raucous.

It was Mrs. Nason, mother of young Dickie Nason. Her daughter, Marion, had told her that to-morrow was a day of more than ordinary significance in his life—she wanted to have an opportunity to offer her congratulations and good wishes—they had come in from their summer cottage at Minaki to meet Mr. Nason whom they expected back from England where he had gone on a business trip—he would be back to-night—she was having a few friends in to dinner with a little music afterwards and a little chat or a game of bridge—anyhow, would he join them at dinner to-morrow evening about seven—no dinner party was complete nowadays without its war hero—she would promise that he would not be asked one question during the evening, about his experiences at the front—and Marion would be there to tease him—and, well, would he come?

The Magpie listened until the flood of Mrs. Nason’s chatter had ceased, then drew a deep breath and coughed slightly to clear his voice.

“Nothing could keep me away,” he said. “I don’t think I have had a real dinner since I sat at your table the last time, to say nothing of the other things you promised. I’ll be there, Mrs. Nason.”

“Quite informal, you understand.”

“That makes it better still.”

“Then we’ll look for you at seven.”

“Righto, and thank you for remembering me. Give my regards to Miss Nason.”

A moment later he hung up the receiver thoughtfully and went back to his table. Mrs. Nason’s garrulity always swept him off his feet. Her verbal assaults left him breathless.

Presently he drew himself forward and lifted his pen as he leaned above the book in which he had been writing.

“If it were not for that faith…” he read and then slowly put his pen to the paper. “…I could not live,” he finished the sentence.

He closed the book quietly and laid it away in the upper right-hand drawer of his table.

Chapter II.

One

Apart from a rather raucous quality in his voice, there was little about Craig Forrester to justify the nickname his younger business associates in the Winnipeg Grain Exchange had given him within a month after he had sought his seat and opened his office on the seventh floor of the building on Lombard Street. In fact, the first man who had called him “The Magpie” had done so from a sense of humour that Craig considered somewhat perverted. He had been listening to an argument that had lasted for nearly an hour without his having taken any part in it. It was a habit of Craig’s to let others do the talking.

“Have you nothing to say, Forrester?” one of the men asked.

“Forrester is the original magpie when it comes to talking,” another remarked. And the name stuck.

Craig had often longed to be able to chatter about trifles as other men did. He found it difficult even to exchange ideas on matters of moment. Almost invariably, when an idea struck him relevant to the question under discussion, someone else had blurted out the very thing that was in his mind before he had more than half framed his thoughts in words.

“Craigie has a nimble wit but a heavy tongue,” his father had said of him in the old days.

Both sides of his father’s observation were true. Slow of speech as he was, he had a gift of quick analysis that was almost uncanny. While he listened to others talking, he fitted their opinions into a kind of geometric plan that rose instinctively in his mind every time he heard an argument. Logic for him was a kind of symmetry. Truth was a balance of form. He sensed an error in judgment as a carpenter might sense an error in length or breadth or height. His religion was a faith in the order of the world in which he lived. Friendship was an experiment in the harmony of human nature.

If his silence in the company of others was a source of amusement—and sometimes of annoyance—to his friends, Craig Forrester found in it little cause for uneasiness. Talkers, as such, were a terrible test of a man’s patience.

“Besides,” he protested, “I may learn to speak a few words—some day. Magpies do.”

Two

If traditions were followed to the letter, Craig Forrester should be painted as a man in shirt sleeves, guiding a plow across a field at the other end of which a blood-red sun sinks in a sky of pale amber. The British emigrant would then recognize him immediately as a Canadian. His sleeves would be rolled above his brown elbows, the legs of his trousers tucked snugly into the tops of boots that reach to the knees. In the distance a group of grain elevators would lift their square forms against an aureole of light borrowed from a westering sun, while a railway train of prodigious length would creep over a gilded prairie carrying with it the highly romantic suggestion that ocean is linked to ocean across the measureless reaches of a vast continent. Or he might take the form of a sturdy figure hewing his way through giant forests, guiding a frail canoe on its perilous course down a treacherous river with walls of granite on either side, battling his way through blinding blizzards with a half dozen pelts slung over his shoulder, or dancing a jig on a log that leaps down the rapids and threatens him with instant destruction at every whirl of the current.

Craig Forrester, as a matter of fact, might have sat for any of the above posters-portraits and done credit to the subject. It was old man Forrester, Craig’s father, who had ordained that his son should don a suit of business grey instead of the toggery of romance. Old Forrester had been a railroad contractor in the days when the West was still young and had invested some of his money in a section of land as an earnest of faith in the country’s future. At twenty, Craig had been sent to college. At twenty-four, the year before the Great War broke out, he had been presented with a seat in the Winnipeg Grain Exchange as a gift from his father on the occasion of his graduation from the university.

There had been nothing accidental in the choice of a place in the business world for Craig Forrester. He and his father were alone in the world and were more like brothers in their treatment of each other.

“I’ll stay on at the farm, Craig,” old John Forrester had said, “and go on with the work on the soil. Go down to the city and learn the business of bringing the wheat to the people of other lands that can’t grow it the way we can.”

“Yes, John,” Craig had said in reply; “I think I’d like that.”

A little more than twelve months later the world was shaken by the news that war had broken upon Europe. Craig Forrester had closed his office one day and had driven out to have a talk with his father. When he returned the next day a new pride thrilled in his heart. The preachers who raised their voices on behalf of a violated Belgium and called a nation’s Youth to the defence of an outraged Humanity gave Craig Forrester little or nothing to think about. He was twenty-five, clear-eyed and direct, sound in wind and limb—and his father had spoken!

But something had happened after that…

Three

One day, in the path of the retreating Germans, he had come upon trees denuded of their bark and left to die. He had touched their bleeding trunks with his fingers and had stood while the sadness in his heart turned to bitterness and then to hatred. As he turned away pride in the Great Adventure vanished from his heart.

Three days later word reached him that his father had died. He could not help thinking of the trees and their bleeding trunks. Had John Forrester’s heart bled to death because it had been stripped of his son’s companionship? The comparison was not apt, but Craig could not get it out of his mind.

That night he had written in his book: “The world can never be the same after this madness has passed. If we come out of it alive only to find that the world is standing where we left it, someone will have to pay. If I ever get back—”

He had added something more, drawn his pencil through it, thought for a long time, and finally set his diary aside without completing the sentence.

Henceforth there had been pride neither in youth, nor in birth, nor in nation, nor in empire. For days and nights he had talked as he had never talked before, not of England or of France or of Germany or of Russia—these things were interests of a day, of a month, of a year—but of things that old men talk of and that young men weave into the fabric of their dreaming. The world could never be the same—and please God the world would know it when the men got home and buckled to the task that awaited them.

Craig Forrester, it seemed, had grown suddenly old.

Four

For weeks, then, Craig had struggled to put out of mind the memory of the easeful days he had spent on the farm with his father. They had been good days, days full of the quiet purposefulness of the season’s routine, rich days for all that they were filled with tasks that moved in a circle and brought one back again to seed-time and harvest and winter marketing if one had but the patience to wait. It was these days he remembered rather than the days at college and the later days of hurry and confusion on the exchange. More than once under French skies he had dreamed of taking to the fields in the morning, suiting his long stride to the gait of his team, lifting his face to the stirring breeze with the fragrance of the soil and the dewy grass. But those were the symbols of the old life. He struggled to put them all behind him.

The world had changed—it could never be the same.

Something of the spirit of blind patriotism had swept through him when, with the touch of the soft spring air on his cheek and the cries of his own people in his ears, he had again set foot firmly on Canadian soil. For a moment the old thrill had come back to him. Again he thanked God for his birthright and was unashamed. That, too, had passed.

The world had changed—it could never be the same…

Then had followed days and nights when he had luxuriated in the clean delights and warm comforts that had been denied him for more than three years. Unutterably weary in mind and body, he had rested till, at the end of a month, the old discontent had set in again. He had returned to his work. When the New Day broke it would find him in the market as it would find other men in the street and the shop. For try as he might, Craig could not put away the feeling that the change, when it came, would be a matter of days—weeks at most. It was to be a miracle brought about by the wise men who sat in the councils of the old lands and knew what the world expected of them.

For days Craig went about his work as a man might into whose ear God had whispered the Secret.

The world had changed—it could never be the same…

Five

And while Craig waited, the whole world waited, too, its great men silent, its leaders dumb, shocked by the war’s close as it had been stunned by its coming, standing drunkenly at the cross roads not knowing which way to turn.

Chapter III.

One

With a couple of hours to spare before he was due at the Nason’s for dinner, Craig left his office and made his way across the street to where his car stood among a score of others in a vacant space beside a garage.

Half way across the street, he heard his name called and turned to see Claude Charnley, one of the younger brokers on the Winnipeg Grain Exchange, hailing him from the sidewalk.

“How about a game of golf, Magpie?” Charnley suggested.

Craig shook his head. “I’m due at the Nasons’ for dinner,” he replied. He knew that Claude Charnley counted himself a friend of the Nasons.

“The Nasons? Lucky Magpie! Give my best to Marion. Tell her I’m still waiting for that little game of golf she promised before she goes back to Minaki next week.”

“I’ve got a poor memory, Charnley,” Craig replied, but Charnley was already gone and Craig turned and crossed the street to his car.

There was something very characteristic in that last little speech of Charnley’s. There was something, too, that made Craig feel a fool for having mentioned the fact that he was going to have dinner with the Nasons. Remind Marion of the game she had promised Charnley some day next week? Certainly, if the occasion presented itself. The thing that nettled Craig was the fact that behind the apparently innocent request was a thinly veiled suggestion that Charnley stood in very well indeed with the Nasons, especially with Marion, and that he wished to have the fact taken for granted. Craig was only too ready to take it for granted and yet—the fellow’s manner annoyed him unreasonably.

He shook the thought of Charnley from his mind and climbed into his seat behind the wheel. Speeding south along Main Street, Craig found himself wishing, as he had wished many times since his return from overseas, that he could drive on out and find John Forrester waiting for him at the old place. Instead he sent the car round the corner of Portage Avenue and headed west through the city.

Two

Five minutes later his eyes fell upon a figure that seemed vaguely familiar. The man was walking westward along the avenue, his shoulders slouched forward and his head hanging. Craig drew closer to the curb and leaned out to get a better look at the man.

“Lord, that looks like Dyer,” he said to himself.

As he spoke, the man turned his face slightly toward him.

“Ho, Dyer!” Craig called.

The man halted abruptly and turned. Suddenly his shoulders lifted and squared and a smile spread over his face.

“God, if it isn’t the Cap!”

“Hello, Sarg! Jump in and take a ride. Where are you going?”

Dyer stepped toward the car as Craig opened the door. “I’m just thinking of striking for home, Cap. Take me as far as you’re going—straight ahead. You can kick me out when you want to turn back. But how’s tricks?”

“Fair. How goes it with you, Jimmy?”

“Not so good, Cap, not so good. We got back about a week after your lot and—”

“I remember seeing it in the papers. I kept track of the units returning from day to day until I got tired of it finally and gave it up. But I remember—”

“So you’re getting back to normal, too, eh? Kept track of them for two weeks and then gave it up, eh?”

Craig was sensitive under the cynical smile Dyer turned upon him. “I’m not getting back to normal, Jim, but—”

“But you find it too much to go on fighting the war here after you’ve done it over there, eh? Don’t think I’m panning you for it, Cap. I began to forget about who was coming home in about a week. The fact is we can’t go on thinking about it. What’s more, if we do we’ll be doing our thinking alone. They’re all doing their damnedest to forget about it. They’re sticking a few hundred of the broken ones in hospitals here and there and they’re putting in a cenotaph and a bronze tablet here and there for the fellows who won’t be back. For the rest of us they’re putting green seats in the parks where we can sit down and go over our troubles if we want to without being asked to move on. In a year’s time they’ll send us a medal with a couple of inches of coloured ribbon and a form letter and the thing will be all over. Instead of shouting ‘On to Berlin’ they’ll change it to ‘Back to Normalcy.’ We’ve spent four years of the best part of our lives fighting for the big fellows, and we’ll spend the rest of our days working for them just the same as we did before the war. The only real difference is that we had a band or two and a banner or two and a chaplain or two to remind us that we were fighting for the glory of God and the brotherhood of mankind, and now we have the squalls of hungry kids and the insults of a few God damned slackers to cheer us on our way. That sums it up for me, just about.”

They were whirling along towards the outskirts of the city and Craig’s eyes were on the open sky before them while he listened to Dyer’s talking.

“We’ve got to be a little patient, Jimmy,” he observed quietly. “The war wasn’t won in a day and the thing we fought for won’t happen till the air is cleared of the smoke.”

“It’s all right, Cap, to talk of having patience, but the other fellows aren’t losing any time, believe me. What about those strike leaders waiting their trials in the jail? What about the raids on the homes of the—”

“Perhaps we don’t know everything about that, either, Jimmy. If we’d been on the ground a couple of months earlier—”

“Earlier—hell! Those fellows made mistakes—of course they did. They’re only men, after all. But their hearts were right, Cap, whatever their heads did for them. Don’t make any mistake about it, the reason these fellows were branded as Reds and Bolsheviki was because of what they had in here”—he struck his breast as he spoke—“not because of their wrong thinking. The guys on the other side of the business, the big fellows who called out the Mounties and had the streets cleared with bullets, don’t worry any about how we think. It’s how we feel that’s got them worrying. They can think rings around us and they know it. They think in terms of policemen and reserves and penitentiaries and deportations. That’s the machinery that does their thinking for them and it’s dead easy, Cap, dead easy.”

For some time, then, they were both silent, Craig’s eyes following the road ahead of the car, Dyer’s eyes lifted toward the open country that began to show itself already between the houses set apart from each other in the sparsely settled suburbs.

“The trouble is,” Craig ventured at last, “if the Labour element took over the reins from the present governing bodies, it’s a question whether we’d be any better off for it. Revolution of the sort they tried in Russia won’t appeal to the people of this country. In the first place, Dyer, the Radicals have nothing to offer the workers. There is no peasantry here and the land isn’t in the hands of the aristocracy. If they seized the industries and put themselves in the positions of management, it would only reverse the present order, it would only turn it upside down. There would still be a bottom and a top and the real problem would be as far as ever from being solved.”

“Well, dam...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Introduction
• PART ONE | MARION
• PART TWO | MARTHA
• PART THREE | THE MADMAN
• About Throwback Books & Invisible Publishing