Under the Dragon’s Tail

As Murdoch crossed the intersection of Parliament and Queen, two boys dashed in front of him, kicking an inflated pig’s bladder back and forth between them. They were ordinary-looking boys, reasonably well cared for, and he thought about the boy who no longer had a future of any kind. He’d pay for a Mass for his soul when he went to church on Sunday. Distracted, he didn’t dodge the fresh horse droppings in the road and the bits of manure flew up into his face. He cursed.

He cycled past the Derby which was quiet, not open for business yet. Close by, the foundry was belching salmon-coloured angry smoke. Thor with stomachache. Or a case of poisoning.

On Front Street, he turned east and immediately hit the strong cool wind from the lake. Pushing against it was like riding uphill. His legs were aching from this morning’s hard training ride and he didn’t feel like another challenge. He cursed again.

The steel-blue lake glittered in the sun, and a steamer chugged and puffed on its way, heading for Buffalo. A fat, dark plume of smoke, more tranquil than the foundry, was drifting from the tall stacks of the Gooderham and Worts Distillery, which was busy making the devil’s brew, as Mr. Golding would have called it. In spite of the fact Murdoch disliked the self-righteous stance of so many Temperance folk, he also had some sympathy with their views. He’d seen what drunkenness did. His own father for one. As a young man, Murdoch had, in fact, taken the pledge. He’d lasted six months full of virtue, might have gone on to be an unbearable prig until he was offered a swig of cool ale at the end of a strenuous day of chopping. He was seduced and was conquered. Nothing he could remember had ever tasted as good as that smooth brew against his parched throat.

He was on Cherry Street now and he turned south, past a long trim warehouse. Opposite, close to the lakeshore, was the big distillery and the sweet smell of the whiskey was on the wind.

Mill Street was a narrow dirt road, dotted profusely with mounds of manure. It was the route to and from the distillery and many huge draft horses plodded by daily. The Brogan sisters lived at the end of a row of workmen’s cottages. Theirs was distinguished by the height and abundance of the weeds that grew in front.

He must have pounded on the door for several minutes and was about to give up when Annie finally came to answer.

Shielding her eyes from the light, she squinted at him.

“What now?”

“Can I come in?”

She shrugged. “If you want to. The place isn’t too tidy. I haven’t got going yet.”

He stepped inside. The front door opened directly into the one room of the house, where she and her sister obviously slept. Annie dumped a pile of undergarments off the single chair.

“Here, sit down. I’d offer you some char but we’re all out. My sister isn’t the best manager in the world. She’s at work now.” She nodded in the direction of the window. “At the distillery. She glues the labels on the bottles.” She yawned. “Could you stand me a bit of shag? I’m all out of that too.”

“You mean tobacco?”

“That’s it.”

Murdoch took out his tobacco pouch and shook some Badger into her open hand. She reached over to the washstand and picked up a clay pipe.

“You can have a smoke too,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

“Not right now.”

He waited while she lit up and took a deep draw. She was the first woman he’d ever seen smoking and it was odd. As if Mr. Kitchen would take up crocheting.

Through the fug she smiled at him. “Why should men have all the fun? A find it calming, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right, Mr. Murdoch. What’s happened now?”