02 July 2025

All His Troubles Seemed So Far Away



Murder Began Yesterday
Lee Johnson [Lilian Beatrice Johnson]
191 pages
London: Gifford, 1966

We begin with what is perhaps the worst first sentence of any Canadian novel:

The windshield wipers were having a hard time battling the weight of wet snow driving against the glass; shh-klip ... sh-sh-klip ... shh-hh-kl-ip ... sh-shh-kl-i-p ... k ...kli ... i ...p ...
No complaints about the second sentence ("The snow won."), though the third is nearly as bad:
With a disheartened sh-shh they both stopped, making protesting klips at intervals like maiden aunts with the hiccups, then sliding to rest with a despondent sigh.
And so, the reader is left with an obvious choice: soldier on or get out with little investment.

This reader chose to soldier on, but only because I find great enjoyment in truly awful writing.

I was disappointed.

Murder Began Yesterday is not a bad book or an awful book, rather a perfectly satisfactory mystery novel with an unusual setting and several instances of interesting social commentary. 

The narrator is Scott Royale, a medical doctor who has been handed a second chance. The poor man is clearly emerging from a rough patch and is understandably reluctant to provide backstory. What little can be pieced together runs like this: Scott was married to a woman who left him for another man, sought solace in drink, then struggled with the bottle until he was pulled away from the fight by close friends.

Today, we would refer to this as an intervention.

Scott has family in the form of his sweet supportive sister Penny, who has encouraged him to resettle in Shelton, a northern town in which she clerks for the local police detachment. 

It makes for a nice fit. Shelton is in need of a new doctor, having just lost the last in what appears to have been a freak automobile accident. What was Dr Bruton doing on the Vaughnan road anyway?

Penny installs Scott in the dead doctor's house, which I'm guessing is owned by the town, and sets to work on redecorating. Meanwhile, her brother sets out on his rounds.

This is not medical drama, though the brief glimpses of Scott's profession will be of interest to anyone studying changes brought by the 1966 Medical Care Act.

As suggested by the title, cover illustration, and front flap, the novel is a murder mystery, It is also one of those murder mysteries in which a character (in this case, Scott) tells another (Penny) that they are not in a mystery novel. And so, as other chharacters follow Bruton in dying suddenly and unexpectedly, it takes the new doctor a good while to suspect that anything at all is amiss.

Some readers may be frustrated. How can Scott be so blind?

As one of those readers, I remind that we know Scott is the protagonist in a mystery novel, but he does not.

In the meantime, Scott has begun work on a novel, which he describes as:
Nice light detective fiction. Hero only normally immoral; a sultry blonde swaying through his office offering whatever he wants plus a few thousands to prove that she's been bilked out of her lawful rights; a couple of gory corpses; an unintelligent police officer and so forth and so on...
Author Lee Johnson deserves some credit here in having Scott reimagine the recent deaths as murders for his novel. In doing so, he realizes that they were in fact homicides.

The last scene is short, unexpected, and very good.

That last sentence is perfect. 

Trivia (not really): If I haven't already, I spoil things somewhat in revealing that the spark for the spate of murders involves a woman who, suffering from hay fever, confuses two similarly named women. As if to bolster the idea that such a thing is possible, the novel features a nurse surnamed Pennington-Jones, who prefers to be addressed as "Matron" and a character whose surname is Marton. The pages in which the too interact demand careful reading. Manton is a neighbouring community.

It appears that even the publisher became confused, twice referring to the town of Shelton as "Sheldon" on the front flap.

About the author: There's not much to share. Lee Johnson (née Lilian Beatrice Johnson) is yet another mid-twentieth-century Canadian author who was published in the UK, but not in her own country. I've yet to find any recognition of the author in a Canadian newspaper or magazine.

The 1931 census records twenty-seven Lilian Johnsons, ranging in age from eight months to fifty-seven years. Was one of them the author?

She is credited with four titles:
Medallion (London: Gifford, 1962)
Keep It Simple (London: Gifford, 1963)
Heads for Death (London: Gifford, 1966)
Murder Began Yesterday (London: Gifford, 1966)
Four novels in five years... and then nothing?

A subject for further research.

Object and Access: A hardcover in yellow boards, I don't see that there was a second printing. The jacket artist is uncredited. Interestingly, the man depicted is not Scott, rather a secondary character. I believe that is meant to be Scott on the spine.

Four copies, all with dust jacket, are currently listed for sale online. Boy, are they cheap! Expect to pay between $9.94 and $15.15.

My copy was purchased online this past spring from a UK bookseller. Price: £7.00.

01 July 2025

'How we joyously welcome this travail-less birth'



Verse for the day, written for the country's very first day, by champion of Confederation Peter Steven Hamilton under his poetry nom de plume Pierce Steven Hamilton. This version closes the second sedition of his collection The Feast of St. Anne and Other Poems (Montreal: Lovell, 1890).


CANADA

Sound the note of rejoicing from trumpet and horn;
For this day to the family of nations is born
Our Canada!

Let the thunders awaken to tell the old earth
How we joyously welcome this travail-less birth
Of Canada.

Let the bonfires blaze from the hill’s highest crag,
And unfurl to the breeze the yet spotless young flag
Of Canada;

While the people, exulting with shout and with cheer,
Proclaim to the listening nations how dear
Is Canada!

Blessed child of a glorious parentage,
Born into the world in its brightest age,
No deluge of blood does thy young life immerse;
Nor stamped on thy brow is a mother’s curse:
All untrammeled thy limbs by the cankering chains,
The harrowing toils and the numbing pains, 
Which systems at war, in the gloom of the past,
Have over thy suffering sisterhood cast:
Thou art free as the wind o’er thy prairies that blows,
And strong in the vigor that hourly grows;
No burden impedes thy triumphant career;—
All, all of thy Mother’s that thou mayest share,
Is the glory that brightens her history’s page.
Say: what wilt thou do with this heritage,
Oh, Canada?

Reposing there on thy Northern throne,
   With thy free-born air, so proud and grand,
Thy bosom begirt with a golden zone,
   And an ocean kissing thy either hand:
Is thy crown not already irradiated
By the beams from the sun of futurity shed!
May never that lofty and stainless brow
With the blush of shame in confusion bow,
Nor the voice of the future recall with scorn
The promise of this thy natal morn,
Fair Canada!

Wilt thou blazon forth on the scroll of time
A proud record of thoughts and of deeds sublime?
Be warned by—-but not to imitate—
The errors and crimes of a world effete
Shall the rule universal that governs thy land
Be, not the contrivance by impotence planned,—
A chaos of fiction, of error, deceit,
Where Anarchy’s smile is Society’s cheat;—
But the law, e’er evolving to infinite years,
And which lives in the music of numberless spheres,
Developing ever what best is in man,
And ignoring the creed of Humanity’s ban;
Whilst. ever in Civilization’s advance,
In the vanguard shall quicken thy brightening glance,
Till the sorrowing nations their tumult shall cease
To partake of thy glories of dignified peace,
Brave Canada?

Or foredoomed is that beauteous form to be
Of most loathsome of human things the prey,
Who, sneering at patriotism’s filial ties
And all things regarding with bestial eyes,
Would abase thee to grade of the prostitute,
And thy name, and thy fame, and thy honor pollute?
Shall the reckless empiric and impudent fool
Presume o’er thy splendid Dominion to rule,
And punily wise whilst viciously daft,
Go aping old wiles of exploded state-craft,
In an endless procession, forever the same,
With “reform” but the change of a factionist name?
Shall a verminly host of corruptionists crawl
O’er the face of thy loveliness, fouling it all,
Till their carcases, gorged with the tide of thy life,
Make the stench of pollution where sweetness was rife;
Whilst their poison, cast back in thy nurturing pores,
Marks their trail centipedal with festering sores,
The spume of a leprosy raging beneath,
And making thy life one long, lingering death?
Shall the knave sanctimonious and smooth hypocrite,
All the while, on thy breast, like an incubus sit,
To mock thee with tales of the Heavenly Will,
And tell thee thy woes are inevitable;
Till the wise of thy children—most loved of thy heart,—
Away from the sight of thy wretchedness start,
In despair at thy ruin, and blushing with shame
At the blight ignominious that clings to thy name,
Poor Canada?

Let our songs of rejoicing be toned with the prayer,
That thy future may brighten a record more fair;—
For that prayer will re-act on the uttering Will,—
To uplift, to expand, and intensify still.
May thy sons, with due mete of their dignity rise,
To wrestle, like men, with their destinies;
Put away childish things; self-reliant and bold,
Drawing lessons of truth from the lore of the old,
Yet seeking forever intensified light,
Rear thy empire proudly in wisdom and right;
And ever their glories ancestral advance,
With more than the splendors of England and France;
Till thy banner of peace and of progress unfurled,
Shall blaze in the van of a happier world;
Whilst thy generate millions, through ages unborn,
Shall honor with pride thy Nativity Morn,
Dear Canada!

   July 1st, 1967