PART ONE
There is no touchstone… which reveals the true character of a social philosophy more clearly than the spirit in which it regards the misfortunes of those of its members who fall by the way.
—R. H. Tawney,Religion and the Rise of Capitalism
oneMARION
— May 1967 —
Marion Hart glanced up from the thick old textbook, distracted by voices beyond the window of the Sigmund Samuel Library. An hour before, she’d noticed four or five students hanging around out there, wrapped in a rainbow of ponchos and patched jean jackets, accessorized by sunglasses, cigarettes, and signs. Now there were about a dozen of them, and their volume had risen with their numbers.
She rubbed her burning eyes, worn out by tiny print, then set her pen aside. Leaning back in her chair, she scanned the familiar placards outside. Dotted by peace signs, hearts, and flowers, their slogans demanded,END THE WAR!GET OUT OF VIETNAM!CANADA WANTS PEACE! She spotted a largeLOVEsign painted in luminous orange, outlined in red, and framed by a scattering of cheery daisies. A young man, his crown of brown curls only partially restrained by a bright yellow headband, had taken control with a bullhorn. He was bellowing something Marion couldn’t make out, but the crowd evidently heard. They raised their arms and cheered joyfully in response.
The 1960s were all about change, and that was even more noticeable this year. For someone like Marion, quietly studying within the walls of theuniversity, there was so much to observe. All over the world, eager young fists grasped at fresh ideas and opportunities while shaking with disapproval at The Man.All will be solved, those young people swore,through peace, harmony, and free love. If only they didn’t have to make a living.
Marion was quietly envious of the kids outside her window and their enthusiastic approach to the world. Throughout her youth, including the past few years she’d studied at the University of Toronto Medical School, she had not once stood up to the status quo, though her presence there had challenged it. She had accepted early in her education that, as a woman, her questions and arguments would rarely be addressed by her male professors or fellow students. As a result, she had spent most of her time with her head in books, shutting out the rest of the class. What mattered was attaining her degree and becoming a practicing physician, not drawing attention to herself, and certainly not pointing out the shortcomings of her colleagues.
It wasn’t until fourth year, when Dr. Reginald Perkins came to teach medical ethics and economics, that she dared to lift her gaze from the page. Marion had been awestruck by Dr. Perkins’s eye-opening approach to medicine. He taught the practical topics, like medical economics and the pitfalls of running a practice, but he also led them beyond the textbooks, discussing the bond of a physician to his patients, other doctors, and society as a whole. One of her favourite lectures addressed how doctors should communicate with patients during difficult times, such as discussing a terminal diagnosis. At present, a woman received news of her own condition and prognosis secondhand,afterher husband had been told. Dr. Perkins had startled the class by suggesting that approach should change. Either the woman should learn about her own illness first, he said, or the couple should be told at the same time. That had roused quite a discussion. They also deliberated over contentious issues like organ transplants, birth control, abortion, and euthanasia. The lessons were vital, she believed, because society was undergoing massive shifts and the health-care system had to as well. She was disappointed that Dr. Perkins’s four one-hour sessions were “recommended” but not mandatory, and that they weren’t graded. They deserved more weight than that.
Marion graduated with a degree in medicine in 1965, one of a handfulof female doctors in a class that was 90 per cent men. After graduation, she earned a position at the Ontario Hospital, formerly the Hospital for the Insane, becoming the only woman doctor in the building. She was proud of that accomplishment, but without female classmates, she got a little lonely sometimes.
Then again, Marion was used to solitude. She and her sister had always been disconnected, with Pat preferring a social life to the classroom. Their father carried mental scars from his time in the war, and though he was perfectly able to speak of other things, any mention of his service made him close up like a clam. Their mother was also private. Though she was a loving woman, she rarely expressed her feelings in words. Marion was used to her parents’ companionable silences, and she was comfortable with that volume most of the time. Once in a while, though, it would be nice to have someone to talk with outside of lecture halls and hospital corridors.
Beyond the library window, a young woman in the little group shook a tambourine over her head like a gypsy dancing, bringing a jangly cheer to the afternoon. She was tiny, a little slip of a thing with long blond hair like Marion’s, but hers was twisted into two loose braids interlaced with red ribbons then folded back on top of themselves like puppy ears. It was such a carefree, feminine touch. Marion couldn’t imagine herself having the nerve to wear her own hair like that. Fun, but not her style.
Except sometimes she wished it was.
Who was the girl? she wondered, feeling a familiar twinge of envy. How had she met the others in the group? How had they introduced themselves in the beginning? She understood how it worked with group therapy. In those situations, she sat with patients and carefully drew out their thoughts, helping them get to know each other. Real life was different. And so much more muddled. What did these kids do when they weren’t wandering around with signs and placards? Who were they as individuals, and how had they achieved such natural confidence in themselves, the women painting their faces with peace signs, the men growing their hair past their shoulders? This generation had leapt into the surging waters of revolution and protest, while Marion stood on the shoreline in her sensible shoes, studying them as theysailed past. What gave some people that kind of courage but left others, like her, without?
She guessed she was about ten years older than the kids in the group. She’d grown up just ahead of the colourful activists, one ear listening to their protests and the other hearing the criticism of the older generation. “Hippies,” they called them, or “scum.” To the establishment, this generation was no longer a troublesome group of rabble-rousing children; they were adults who refused to grow up. They made a lot of noise but no money. And their numbers were swelling now that they included tens of thousands of American draft dodgers, hiding anonymously within Canada.
The older generation called them “parasites,” but Marion disagreed with that term. The flower children might make life a little more challenging for those who did not like or want change, but she didn’t agree with the name-calling. She peered out the window and read their handwritten signs again. There was nothing parasitic about love and peace.
The May sun blazed invitingly through the library window, and she reminded herself that today was a holiday. She had planned to do something unrelated to work, but she hadn’t figured out what yet. With a sigh, she closed her books and slid them into her black briefcase, resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to get any more work done today.
It was cooler outside than it looked, but it was such a nice day, she decided to walk home instead of taking the bus. She wrapped her grey wool cardigan tight around her body as she crossed the campus, hearing the clatter of the tambourine up ahead. She spotted the happy little parade strolling toward Queen’s Park. That was Marion’s direction as well, so she caught up and followed in its wake.
The row of cars parked at the side of the busy street was an unusual sight. Some passengers had even gotten out and were leaning against their vehicles, their attention drawn by something in the park.
“What is it?” she asked the first man she came upon.
“Those long-haired freaks. Dancing and singing. Do they call that music? Look.” He pointed. “Does that one there even have a shirt on?”
Marion squeezed past him and lifted onto her toes so she could see. Thegirl in question was in the middle of a small gathering a few feet away, whirling to music Marion couldn’t hear.
“She’s wearing a dress,” she told him. “It’s beige, so it appears as if she’s naked, see?”
“She’s on LSD or something,” he grumbled. “Spinning like a lunatic.”
Marion pursed her lips in disapproval, stopping short of correcting the old-fashioned term. It was her personal mission to remove the wordsinsaneandlunacyfrom the public’s vocabulary, but this man had already turned to talk with someone else.
“Maybe she’s just having a good time,” she said anyway.
To Marion’s left, the brightly coloured troop from the university continued into Queen’s Park. The curly-headed youth with the bullhorn cheered the group on, past the gawking audience by the cars.
“Bunch of reprobates!” someone shouted.
“Go home!”
