I'm sure that the standard of public morality we've helped build

Host: The evening air over Ottawa was heavy with the scent of rain and resolve. The Parliament buildings, lit against a backdrop of dark clouds, stood like stone sentinels guarding the uneasy dream of democracy. Down below, on a quiet street lined with maple trees, a small café pulsed with the murmurs of conversation — the old wood floor creaking under the slow rhythm of belief and fatigue.

Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, their reflections flickering in the glass, merging with the blurred glow of city lights. Between them lay an old clipping — yellowed, folded, a relic of conviction. The quote, scrawled in Jeeny’s looping handwriting, read:
“I’m sure that the standard of public morality we’ve helped build will force government in Canada to approve complete health insurance.” — Tommy Douglas.

Jeeny’s fingers rested lightly on the page, as if guarding something sacred. Her eyes, dark and reflective, held both reverence and challenge.

Jeeny: “Tommy Douglas didn’t just fight for healthcare, Jack. He fought for a moral vision — that a society’s soul is measured not by its wealth, but by how it cares for its weakest. He believed compassion could be policy.”

Jack: “And policy always has a price,” Jack said, his grey eyes narrowing as he leaned back. “Douglas dreamed of a moral Canada, sure — but ideals don’t balance budgets. Free healthcare isn’t free. Someone always pays.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, peppering the glass with slow, deliberate rhythm — like the steady tapping of conscience. Jeeny watched, her expression calm but defiant.

Jeeny: “Then isn’t it worth paying for? What’s the point of a prosperous country if its people can’t afford to live in it? Douglas understood something we’ve forgotten — that morality isn’t just private virtue, it’s public policy.”

Jack: “Morality doesn’t build hospitals. Money does. You can’t legislate compassion — you can only redistribute it.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with redistribution if it brings dignity? The rich already redistribute wealth — upward. Douglas just wanted to reverse the flow.”

Host: A burst of thunder rolled over the city, rattling the café windows. Jack tapped his cigarette on the table, lit it, the orange glow briefly illuminating his face — the lines of a man caught between principle and doubt.

Jack: “You make it sound like he was some saint. But you forget — there was outrage back then. Doctors went on strike. People called it socialism. And you know what? They weren’t wrong. You start letting the government run healthcare, and soon enough it runs your choices.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here we are, decades later — Canadians live longer, healthier lives because of that same ‘socialism.’ Tell me, Jack, what’s freedom worth if it only exists for the healthy?”

Host: Her words cut through the hum of the café like the first crack of lightning. A few heads turned, but the two remained locked in their private battle — a duel of conscience and consequence.

Jack: “You think universal healthcare makes a society moral? It just makes it complacent. Dependency dressed as virtue. You stop valuing what you don’t have to fight for.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It makes a society humane. It means a mother doesn’t have to choose between medicine and food. It means an old man can die in dignity, not debt. That’s not complacency — that’s civilization.”

Host: The rain intensified, the world outside shimmering like a watercolor painting. A bus rolled past, its headlights briefly casting light across their faces — her expression earnest, his shadowed by doubt.

Jack: “But where does it stop? Every time the government promises protection, it asks for more control. Douglas opened a door — and now we’ve built a house of dependency inside it.”

Jeeny: “Dependency? You call it that because you’ve never been desperate. You’ve never watched a child suffer because you couldn’t pay the bill. Tommy Douglas came from that kind of poverty. He built a system where no one had to feel that kind of shame again. That’s not dependency, Jack — that’s redemption.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The rain became a curtain of sound, muting the world beyond. Inside, time seemed to slow, as though even the air itself was listening.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny. But idealism always starts noble — and ends bureaucratic. For every life it saves, there’s a hundred forms filled, a thousand dollars wasted, a million excuses written.”

Jeeny: “And yet, in that same bureaucracy, millions live. Isn’t that the paradox of democracy — messy, flawed, but still the only system where morality can take root in law?”

Jack: “You’re quoting him now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he was right.”

Host: The lights flickered, and the radio in the corner — old, crackling — played a faint broadcast of a speech, as though summoned by their words. A voice, gravelly and certain, echoed through the static: “Courage, my friends; it’s not too late to build a better world.”

Jeeny’s eyes softened. “That was him — Tommy Douglas. Always believing, even when the world called him naïve.”

Jack: “Or dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Or right.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapering into silence. The sky outside had cleared just enough for the moon to show through — a pale coin above the Parliament dome. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, exhaled, and looked at Jeeny — the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips.

Jack: “You really think morality can force governments to change?”

Jeeny: “It already did. He said it himself — ‘the standard of public morality we’ve helped build.’ That’s the key. Laws follow conscience, not the other way around. The people changed first. The law just caught up.”

Jack: “You think people still believe like that?”

Jeeny: “They want to. They’re just waiting for someone to remind them.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked, slow and certain. Jeeny closed the book, tucking the old clipping inside, as though sealing away the proof of hope. Jack watched, thoughtful, his skepticism softened by something deeper — the quiet ache of wanting to believe.

Jeeny: “Tommy Douglas didn’t invent compassion, Jack. He just made it policy. That’s what leadership is — turning humanity into habit.”

Jack: “And habit into history.”

Host: The waitress came by with the bill, smiling, her eyes tired but kind — the face of a working nation that still believed, in some small, stubborn way, that kindness mattered. Jeeny slipped a few coins onto the table.

Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The streets glistened, clean, renewed. Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the night — the air cool, the world hushed.

The Parliament dome glowed faintly in the distance, and for a brief, fragile moment, it looked less like a monument of power and more like a cathedral of conscience.

And as they walked, side by side beneath the dripping trees, the words of Tommy Douglas lingered in the air like prayer and prophecy both —
that public morality, once awakened, can move mountains, mend nations,
and remind even governments that their truest duty is not to rule — but to heal.