The Daughters' Story : A Novel

Murielle Cyr

Description

Nadine is banished to a home for unwed mothers in 1950. She’s 15. Her baby daughter, whose father is shrouded in secrecy, is put up for adoption without her permission. Vowing to reunite one day with her daughter, she cuts all ties with her dysfunctional Irish and French-Canadian Catholic family whose past is cluttered with secrets, betrayals, incest and violence.
It’s now October 1970 in Montreal. Following two FLQ kidnappings, Ottawa proclaims the War Measures Act and sends the army into Quebec. These staggering events indirectly bring about a reunion between Nadine and her daughter Lisette, now 20 years old and embittered after being bounced from one foster home to another. Eight months pregnant, Lisette and her partner Serge, who is close to the FLQ, need money and see Nadine as a possible source.
A family saga with World Wars I and II, the Great Depression and the October crisis as backdrop, The Daughters’ Story tells the unsung, yet intensely passionate, tale of women whose unquenchable need to belong drives them to survive and thrive despite cruel conditions.
Author: Murielle Cyr is author of Culloo, a novella for young adults. The Daughters’ Story is her debut historical fiction novel. She holds Creative Writing and Education degrees from Concordia University. Murielle Cyr lives in Richelieu, Québec, just south of Montreal.
Reviews:
“This is a gripping and deep story about the far-reaching and life-altering consequences of selfish or even seemingly selfless decisions, brought dominantly on women by men.” – Christoph Fischer, writerchristophfischer ~ Books, Reviews and Bookish Thoughts
There are many good storylines in The Daughters’ Story … it is an utterly credible novel of tremendous compassion and insight into the times.” – James Fisher, The Miramichi Reader

Sujets

• Catholicisme
• Fiction
• Quebec literature
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: Baraka Books
• Date de parution: 24 avril 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781771861861
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Murielle Cyr
THE DAUGHTERS’ STORY
A Novel
Baraka Books Montréal


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. © Baraka Books ISBN 978-1-77186-182-3 pbk; 978-1-77186-186-1 epub; 978-1-77186-187-8 pdf; 978-1-77186-188-5 mobi pocket Cover Illustration by Bruce Roberts Book Design by Folio Infographie Editing and proofreading: Robin Philpot, Brian Redekop Legal Deposit, 2nd quarter 2019 Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec Library and Archives Canada Published by Baraka Books of Montreal 6977, rue Lacroix Montréal, Québec H4E 2V4 Telephone: [phone] [e-mail] Printed and bound in Quebec Trade Distribution & Returns Canada and the United States Independent Publishers Group 1-800-888-4741 (IPG1); [e-mail] We acknowledge the support from the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC) and the Government of Quebec tax credit for book publishing administered by SODEC.



à Marie-Jeanne


Chapter 1
Montreal, Quebec
October 1970
Nadine quickened her step crossing Victoria Square. Everyday rush hour didn’t bother her. The swarm of workers scampering to get home gave her a sense of being part of a larger movement—of being a tiny ripple in a vast ocean.
This morning was different.
A swarm of soldiers patrolled the sidewalks, long rifles slung over their shoulders. Each step she took intensified that cold feeling in her belly. The presence of the military challenged her right to walk Montreal streets. She felt like a tiny mouse scurrying across a room full of people—someone was bound to stamp on it. The morning papers advised erring on the side of caution. Arrests were imminent for anybody suspected of sympathizing with FLQ terrorists. No warrants needed. Rights and freedoms were on hold.
Her stomach clenched at the sight of three army jeeps parading down McGill Street. Armed, menacing-looking soldiers peered at the sidewalk crowd from their moving vehicles. The benches surrounding the statue of Queen Victoria in the square were empty. No one taking advantage of the late afternoon sunshine. No one flinging leftover sandwich crusts at the usual swarm of plump grey and white pigeons. She stepped off the sidewalk heading for Craig Street, stopping in her tracks to avoid colliding with a tall soldier.
Bulky and imposing in full khaki uniform, he waved her on. “No loitering, lady. Keep on moving.”
He resumed his robotic policing, not bothering to glance at her as she forged her way through the heavy traffic. His job was to catch terrorists, not to ensure her safety.
She tightened her grip on her handbag. Why didn’t these intruders go back to their military base? Quebec didn’t need Ottawa to solve its problems. Then again… the Quebec police hadn’t been doing a great job of bringing calm back in the streets. The army presence wasn’t welcomed by everyone, but neither were the terrorists. To fight fear with fear seemed pointless to her.
Soldiers patrolling both sides of Beaver Hall Street scanned the cars parked along the sidewalk. An army helicopter soared above the buildings with a deafening sound. A red federal mailbox spray-painted with FLQ OUI in large white letters stood cordoned off on the corner. She hesitated before hurrying past it.
Last year’s string of mailbox bombings by terrorists had put everyone on edge. People avoided using the mailboxes or crossed the street when they approached one. And now two high-profile political people had been kidnapped. First James Cross, the British trade commissioner, and five days later, Pierre Laporte, the Quebec deputy premier.
She didn’t approve of the violence, yet she quite understood why the FLQ existed. Her mother, from a tightly knit Gaspé family, raised many eyebrows in the staunch Irish-Catholic family she had married into. The worst fault Nadine had been guilty of while growing up was letting her French blood surface too often.
Prime Minister Trudeau had invoked the War Measures Act in the middle of the night. City-wide arrests of FLQ sympathizers were already in full force before she headed for work. Soldiers were posted in front of government buildings. Others patrolled the streets with semi-automatic rifles. The eyes of people she crossed on the sidewalk reflected alarm at seeing Canadian soldiers circulating among them.
She passed by the statue of King Edward VII in Phillips Square and crossed Ste-Catherine Street in front of Morgan’s department store. The shoppers and tourists seemed oblivious to the disturbing signs of violence a few blocks away. Streams of people scurried about their business. That’s when she felt most comfortable—as a face among a sea of countless others. No one to ogle at her narrow hips, nor at the horizontal scar on her lower right thigh. The other deeper scar that slanted down from her right shoulder was well hidden beneath her turtleneck sweater. She made sure to avoid wearing anything revealing. The Grey Nuns with their dome-like garments back in her school days had drilled them well. A modest dress and a well-baked pie were the way to a man’s respect. Maybe that rule worked for nuns. But she still got the occasional lewd look or suggestive comment from men passing by no matter what she wore.
Talk of the FLQ bombings often came up at Nadine’s work, on the subway, and even in line-ups at the grocery store. Now the War Measures Act was about to become the main conversation piece. An invasion by their own people. Arrests of hundreds of innocent people—even the average Joe who hung the green, white and red Patriote flag on his front balcony.
She sped up. The army intrusion promised to be on everyone’s mind this morning. Her notes needed to be reviewed to make sure all the important points were on the agenda, and that no one went off topic during the meeting.
The garment workers’ union Nadine worked for had invited representatives from a few other Quebec trade unions in hope of getting their support in negotiating their new collective agreement. “ Strength in numbers” had been her director’s rallying cry at yesterday’s office pep talk. If they banded together they stood a better chance of obtaining their demands. They expected a large group of like-minded people to back them up.
The director had called minutes before she left for work to inform her of a change of plans. Five of the invited representatives had been detained during this morning’s mass arrests. A couple of unions had been able to send a replacement, but she’d have to contact those who could not and brief them on the proceedings. More work for her, but she had no choice if she wanted them on board.
She pulled out a chair from the conference table and settled in for a long meeting. The garment employers had refused all past negotiations. Discussions were at a standstill. A one-day strike wasn’t the ideal solution, but the workers were ready to go ahead. This meant docked pay with no guarantee of compromise from the employer.
A day’s wages less on the paycheques of the garment workers she represented only spelled bad news. For most of them—single mothers or one-salary families—it meant cutting the food budget or being late with the rent. All the bosses had to worry about was having a little less profit at the end of the year.
She jotted a few notes in her agenda and slipped out of her shoes. It had taken many years of attending these kinds of meetings before she could allow herself to relax like this. A far cry from that scared sixteen-year-old who had started in the garment industry twenty years earlier. She had lost touch with the shy girl she used to be. Memories of her past self still surfaced now and then, only to be pushed back to an era she had buried, if not forgotten.
The conference participants started to file in and take their places at the table. She glanced up and saw quite a few newcomers besides the familiar faces from previous meetings. The last one to walk in made her heart skip a beat. For a brief moment, she thought it was Aunt Jan’s father—Papi, she used to call him, so as not to confuse him with her other Grandpa. In her little girl’s heart, Papi had been her real grandfather. The one whose stories of flying canoes and the scary loup-garou kept her clinging to his side each time he came down from the lumber camps. The one she ran to with a scraped knee or a bleeding nose. A brown paper bag of pink Canada Mints always waited for her in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Another glance at him. If this man wasn’t Papi, the resemblance was uncanny. He’d be around the same age as this man by now. His presence at the union meeting was unlikely, but not impossible. She remembered his frequent conversations with Aunt Jan at the kitchen table. They spoke often about the harsh working conditions at the logging camps. He vowed one day to help change all that. She lowered her head and pretended to read her agenda again. A few moments later, she lifted her gaze in his direction.
One sure clue will tell me if it’s him.
Her eyes darted down to his hands. Her stomach tensed up.
There. It’s him.
His ring finger, cut off at the knuckle.
A chainsaw accident had forced him to stay home to recuperate that winter, allowing him to visit often and to take care of personal matters. One day he had appeared with his late wife Rose’s diamond wedding ring, handing it down to Janette, their only child.
She kept it with the faded photos of her mother in a rusted red and yellow tin of Vogue tobacco beneath the extra blankets in her closet. Nadine sometimes waited for the odd times her aunt was out of