Chapter 66

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Aug. 14, 1938

… After the speeches, Grace, Maisie and I were approached by a young woman of about Grace's age. Her hair was medium brown, and her face was angular. She was leaner than Grace who isn't exactly plump. She introduced herself as Hazel Shinwell and an admirer of mine. She claimed to be impressed by the way I fought off the Royal Dominion Bank three times to keep control of the family business. I inquired if she was the Hazel Shinwell who runs Shinwell Enterprises. She was. Her late husband was very generous to her in his will, "and," she added grimly, "there was no possible question of his state of mind when he wrote it."

It was Grace who voiced what was on everyone's mind. "Then your maiden name is …"

"Baird," Mrs. Shinwell admitted. Her lips pursed. "Kenneth Baird is my brother."

I didn't blame her for her obvious disgust. It was bad enough that her brother had sued to invalidate their father's final will which left her 1/4 of his interest in the Baird-Holloway Paper Company and half of his other assets. Revealing in open court that Harlan Baird had died of a scandalous degenerative disease in order to cast doubt on his soundness of mind when he composed it was low even by Baird family standards. Under the terms of a revalidated earlier will, Kenneth Baird had inherited the entire interest in the Baird-Holloway Paper Company, making him the largest shareholder. Hazel had inherited a miniscule fraction of her father's money and a quarter ownership of a small, under producing iron mine.

I told her that it was very kind of her to say such flattering things about me. I hoped that she was enjoying her visit to New Bedford. She smiled wickedly. "Very much. I admit that I also wanted to see what would happen to my brother when he tried to bully a town that wasn't under his thumb." She turned her attention to Grace. "He was lucky you were there to keep things from getting ugly. He puts up a good front, but the Spanish War amputee got to him. There was a moment when he realized that there are people in the world that he can't push around."

Familiar voices came from my right. I glanced in the direction of the conversation. Kenneth Baird was speaking to Max and Mr. Cramp. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he appeared to be putting on an uncharacteristic display of bonhomie. Max and Mr. Cramp both looked skeptical. I was disturbed to see that Hazel Shinwell favored her brother with a glance that was intense, not only with justified anger, but with implacable, single-minded hate. I remembered that after the verdict in the inheritance case, she supposedly warned him that she would take back her rightful inheritance no matter what she had to do. I am fairly certain that if he were tied to a stake and soaked in gasoline, she would go looking for a match.

From the Journal of Honey Sutton Aug. 13, 1938

Joe and I walked up to Max and Mr. Cramp just as Kenneth Baird ambled off looking very pleased with himself. He had been telling Max and Mr. Cramp in the most condescending way possible that he admired the spirit and enthusiasm the people of New Bedford had displayed today. It was a pity they couldn't be more disciplined and respectful of leaders. There are so many more constructive ways to channel their passions. They should concentrate on work, church and family and leave politics to wiser heads.

Baird was positively gloating by the time he finished as though he had won some great victory instead of being made to look petty and spiteful by Grace's generous tolerance. As he left, a dispirited Dan Spalding, who obviously saw things more clearly, slunk away behind him. Mr. Cramp noticed his rival and grinned from ear to ear. Grace came over to ask Joe how well the raffle of free boxing lessons from his fighter had gone. She was pleased that the take was even larger than last year.

With business out of the way, she asked where Julie was. I explained that she was taking Violet and Zack to get some lemonade at the refreshment table and would join us in a minute. Grace remarked that my two youngest children were growing very fond of her. I informed her that the feeling is mutual. She has a real knack with children. I couldn't resist asking Joe when he and Julie were going to have some of their own. The flustered look on his face as he told me they were thinking about it was priceless.

At that point, Mr. Cramp offered Grace mild congratulations on what he admitted was an admirable defense of courtesy and civility, even if it was on behalf of Kenneth Baird. However, he doesn't think that Baird is entirely wrong. "Sometimes a strong authority is needed to take firm action to preserve order and security. No one's freedoms should be at the mercy of a mob."

"No," Grace agreed, "but the worst mobs are often the ones that wear expensive suits, drink fine scotch and sit in plush offices. They don't do their own dirty work, but they have the mentality. Smash anyone who offends their sensibilities. In their case, that usually means anyone who stands up for decent pay and working conditions."

"That isn't fair," Mr. Cramp protested.

"Isn't it," Grace asked. "Remember how the RCMP and the police broke up the On to Ottawa Trek in Regina or how Kenneth Baird's father crushed the paper mill unions in Northbridge in 1919? Both times, men died in the streets. The high and mighty responsible for those crimes may call themselves the best people, the conservative element, or guardians of law and order, but they act every bit as much out of hate and ignorance as any American lyncher."

I had to admit that Grace has a point. There was plenty of bitterness about the way the Bairds handled the strike when Jack and I first arrived in Northbridge, and it hadn't faded much by the time we left. I said as much to Grace and Mr. Cramp.

Also, the Bairds have never shared Grace's respect for difference of opinion. One of Hub and Henry's favorite teachers back in Northbridge, Mr. Craft, taught in his Canadian history class that, perhaps, the Orange Order might not have been entirely fair in some of its past criticisms of the Catholic Church. When his contract wasn't renewed at the end of the school year, the word was that pressure on the Northbridge School Board by the more-Presbyterian-than-thou Bairds was responsible.

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Aug. 13, 1938

Mrs. Bailey and Grace agreed to stop by the pawnshop on the way back. Dad was totaling the receipts for the day. We made out pretty well with the out-of-town visitors to the fishing tournament. We even got rid of a couple of white elephants that I would have sworn weren't going anywhere until judgement day.

Newton was always a friendly mutt, but he was even more excited than usual because of the stream of customers going in and out. It was good of Pritchard to give him to Dad after he was caught keeping him in the basement of the New Bedford Inn. I don't worry as much anymore about Dad being alone every night in the back room of the pawnshop. Pritchard may be a bit of a twerp, but he can be really sweet sometimes.

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

Phyllis Fraser's eyes widened with fear as soon as she saw me standing with her parents in her mother's parlor. She glanced instantly at the opened letter I held and then slowly looked up at me. Her eyes pleaded hopelessly for reassurance that nothing bad had happened to her third pen pal. If I could have given it to her, I would have. Instead, I steeled myself and gave her the news that her friend had been wounded by machine gun fire during the attack on Gandesa. There was no doubt that his wounds were serious.

I reminded Phyllis that Van had been wounded just as badly but had survived and recovered. Also, the medical services for the Republican army were the best in the world. I could see in Phyllis' eyes that she wanted to believe in the hope I offered but was afraid that a future visit from me would bring news to crush it. The poor girl still seemed about to burst into tears when Mrs. Fraser made a suggestion. We four devout Presbyterians, Phyllis, her parents, and I, knelt and prayed for the life of a brave and gallant atheist and for the safety of his comrades including my husband.

Afterwards I went home and wished that there was more daylight left so that I could lose myself in pruning and weeding in my garden or planting a new bed of irises. I had to agree with what Ida had said only a week ago when I had admired her corn, tomatoes, and black-eyed susans. "Ain't nuthin like workin' with yo hands t' set yo mind at ease."

That same day, Van and his comrades were sent to the Republican lines in the Sierra de Pandols. The Army of the Ebro had retired there after a flood of reinforcements threatened to make the fascists strong enough to break Next through their lines around Gandesa. As the week wore on, Ida and I tended our flowers and vegetables. The Saarinens did the same with their crops. In Spain, Van, his comrades, and his enemies cultivated a terrible garden of their own.

The hills of the Pandols and the valley below were dry and barren of all but the barest scrub. Nonetheless, they bloomed, but not with the beauty of blossoms or the nourishment of grain. They bloomed with the ugliness of torn and broken corpses that could not be buried because the ground was so hard and with the suffering of wounded who could not be removed because no ambulance could negotiate the steep and rugged terrain.

Next week: Mr. Baird shows his hand. Greetings from the Pandols. Maisie, Pritchard and romance.