Women of the Ward

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Hello Wattpaders!

I am so stoked to share this story with you - as part of a branded partnership between Wattpad and Myseum.

This story is highlighting Annie Whelan, an Irish immigrant turned bootlegger in The Ward (historical Toronto) in order to support her son after the loss of her husband. It should come as no surprise that when approached with this opportunity, I was stoked to be able to share this story that was inspired by such a formidable woman.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it (and if you did, be sure to check out my second brand partnership feature for Myseum: BLOOD FOR INK about escaped slave, Cecelia Reynolds, who spent 20 years writing letters to her former owners to plead for the freedom of her mother.) And while these stories are based on real people/events, parts therein may not be historically accurate.

Myseum is an ever-evolving collection of diverse stories, histories and lived experiences that shaped Toronto. They believe that museums are about meaningful exchanges that bring us together and create deep relationships with the city by strengthening their connection to Toronto and each other, one story at a time. You can find more information about Annie, along with some other remarkable women and so much more here!


*** 

"Do you know why you're here?"

Annie Whelan tapped the toe of her shoe against the leg of the constable's desk, her hands clasped delicately in her lap while the man scribbled into his notepad. And smothered the urge to roll her eyes with a smile. "Of course."

I'm here because some busybody couldn't keep her nose out of my affairs.

It wasn't the first time gossip-mongering Beatrice Dugard had stirred the pot, but it was certainly going to be the last.

Ever since the new inspector arrived last fall, things in the Ward had grown difficult for bootleggers and other folk who plied their trade in the dark hours. The man hadn't wasted time throwing his weight around and launched weekly raids with near two dozen officers under his belt. Most of whom were little better than thugs, themselves.

Before his arrival, Annie made sure to grease the right palms or welcome to her exclusive upstairs gambling rooms. The new inspector would not be so easily swayed. They ended up at her door at nearly two in the morning last Thursday, prepared to beat her door down. But Annie was sharp of mind and her operations, a well-oiled machine.

So when one of her spotters, mainly her son who sat in an upstairs window doing his homework, would sound the alarm at the first sign of trouble, they had three minutes to oust all patrons through a hidden door in the kitchen, spilling into the back alley that broke off into three lanes.

Her serving gals would then tip all abandoned drinks directly onto the floor where the deep piled carpet absorbed all the liquor. So thick one could walk across it barefoot and nary feel a single drop. As for the bottles of booze themselves, with a quick toggle of a lever they vanished beneath a trap door in the floor to join the stills in the cellar.

A well-oiled machine, indeed.

Now she just had to play her part as the soft mother to put the matter behind her entirely.

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