Читать книгу Tommy Douglas - Dave Margoshes - Страница 12

1

An Immigrant Twice Over

The cold Winnipeg wind whistles around the corner of the house like a freight train bearing down on them, and little Tommy Douglas hunches his thin shoulders, willing the wool of his coat to be thicker and warmer somehow. It’s uncomfortable in the sled, the cold and wind, the ice beneath the runners so close to him, every bump shooting through his spine and zeroing-in on his sore knee. But complaint is the farthest thought from his mind. Rather, he’s filled with gratitude and wonder at the stoic, silent strength of his two friends who, also uncomplaining, every morning help him into the sled and pull him, across frozen streets, the quarter mile to school.

The pain in his knee is nothing new to Tommy, but just about everything else is. The first years of his young life were spent in the bosom of his father’s family in Falkirk, Scotland, where Tommy was the eldest son of an eldest son of an eldest son, all part of a large working-class family of iron moulders. Then, when Tommy was not yet seven, the family packed up their belongings and moved halfway across the world to Winnipeg, on the Canadian frontier. It was 1911 and the world was very different than it is today.

Tommy had been small and sickly almost from birth, and a serious bout with pneumonia when he was six had only made him weaker. Shortly after that, he fell against a stone and hurt the knee of his right leg, an injury that would nag at him for the rest of his life. Osteomyelitis, an infection of the bone, set in and there followed a series of operations on the leg. There was no money for a hospital. Instead, the doctor in his long frock coat and black top hat came to the house. The kitchen was the operating room, with the surgery performed on the table where the family had eaten breakfast shortly before. Young Tommy was sedated with chloroform applied to a gauze mask, his mother, grandmother, and a neighbour woman assisting. The doctor cut an incision in the flesh just above his knee and exposed the infected bone, the femur, so he could scrape it with a knife. No sooner had the doctor left then a suture came out and the wound began to bleed, causing a commotion in the family before it could be stanched.

The Douglas family was already in ferment at this time. Tommy’s father, Tom, had fallen prey to the lure of the new world and gone to Canada to check out possibilities, winding up in Winnipeg. As soon as he was settled, the family was to join him. The trip over was delayed by Tommy’s injury, but, after two more operations, and months of hobbling around the house and school on crutches, in the early spring of 1911 the leg seemed healed. Tommy, his sister Annie, and their mother, pregnant with another girl, Isobel, set out from Glasgow by ship, seventeen foggy days in the frigid North Atlantic, the trip made all the longer by dangerous sea ice. That was followed by a five-day train trip in the dilapidated old CPR colonist cars, with little kitchens, hot and filled with spicy smells, at the end. The cars were crammed full of immigrant families heading out to the Canadian West – the Great Lone Land – to make their fortunes.

Winnipeg was filling up with families like the Douglases and immigrants from all over Europe speaking so many languages that the city’s North End, where most of them gravitated, was like the Tower of Babel. Tom Douglas rented a house on Gladstone Street – it was just a coincidence that the street was named after his own father’s hero, William Gladstone, the former British prime minister, and just a coincidence that the neighbourhood was known as Point Douglas. Only one other family on the block the Douglases lived on was from the British Isles, but that made little difference to the kids playing in the street.

Tom Douglas was encouraged by this. He would tell Tommy: “You’re playing with the Kravchenko kid. This is marvelous, this is what the world should be like. Sure, I can’t understand the family next door, but you kids are growing up together, and you’ll work for the same kinds of things, you’ll build the same kind of world.”

The little house on Gladstone Street (just a block from Winnipeg’s notorious red light district on Annabella Street) had an outhouse for a toilet and a pump in the yard for water, but Tommy’s mother, a small, lively woman who was forever encouraging Tommy, made a comfortable home there, taking in boarders to help pay the rent. Tommy enrolled at a little schoolhouse on Norquay Street where, while his leg held out, he played some football. He loved the freedom of Winnipeg, where he and his friends could play unfettered along the banks of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, so unlike the confines of Scotland, where most land was private and posted against trespassers.

But it wasn’t long before the infection in his knee flared up again, and over the next couple of years he was on crutches most of the time and in and out of the Sick Children’s Hospital, undergoing several more operations.

It was during this unhappy period that the neighbour boys made all the difference for Tommy.

All his life, Tommy would vividly remember those boys’ acts of kindness that winter when he was ten. He had just come out of hospital and could only walk on crutches. He could get to school in good weather, but when the streets became too clogged with ice and snow, it seemed impossible. It would have been different if his family had a car, but there was only one family in the neighbourhood with such a luxury – later, Tommy remembered that car was “the wonder of the world, and we were allowed to look at it and touch it.”

One morning, there was a knock on the door. It was a Polish boy and a Ukrainian boy, fellows Tommy knew from the street and his school, with a sleigh. “They told my mother that they would pull me to school and bring me back each day,” Tommy recalled later. There was no request for payment – the boys were motivated just by friendship and kindness. “Those boys speaking broken English, the kind of people that some folks referred to as dagos and foreigners and bohunks, these were the people who came and took an interest in another immigrant boy,” he said. “Otherwise, I just wouldn’t have got to school.”

Tommy Douglas’s lifelong hatred for racism, or intolerance of any sort, had already been spoon-fed to him at the knee of both his grandfathers, but it was reinforced that cold day in Winnipeg, and every day of the winter that followed.

He would soon learn another lesson that would stay with him the rest of his life.

Times were tough for his family. His father, used to a good workingman’s wage in the iron foundries of Falkirk, could only count on three days’ work a week at Winnipeg’s Vulcan Iron Works. So whenever Tommy was hospitalized, it put an even greater strain on the Douglas family’s pocketbook – in those days, there was no public medical insurance and no employee benefits. In hospital, Tommy was on a ward with other children, and he received the standard medical care – no specialists, certainly no top-notch ones. The doctors did what they could, but eventually they delivered bad news: the leg should come off.

While the family was wrestling with the gut-wrenching decision of whether to let that happen, Tommy happened to come to the attention of Dr. R.H. Smith, a well-known orthopedic surgeon who was leading a group of medical students through Tommy’s ward.

Dr. Smith paused at the foot of Tommy’s bed, exchanged a few pleasantries with the boy, who was homesick and in pain but cheerful nonetheless, and flipped through his chart. He read of one failed medical procedure and operation after another, and the awful prognosis. The case interested him. When Tommy’s parents came for a visit later, the surgeon had a proposition for them: he’d take over and try a tricky form of surgery that just might save Tommy’s leg, although it would probably leave the knee permanently stiffened. All they had to do was allow him to use the operation as a teaching exercise, with the students watching. How could they refuse?

“As a result of several operations, he saved my leg,” Tommy said later.

In fact, the operation was even more successful than anyone imagined. As an adult, Tommy Douglas liked to tell the story of how, after the knee had healed, the great surgeon and his students gathered around the young patient to remove the bandages and inspect the handiwork. Dr. Smith poked and prodded and pronounced himself satisfied – up to a point. “It’s too bad he cannot bend his knee,” he told the suitably impressed students.

“But Doctor, I can bend it,” the young patient exclaimed. And he did!

Years later, after another injury, the old bad knee would come back to plague him. But so successful was Dr. Smith’s handiwork that for the next thirty years, Tommy Douglas was able to hike, bike, kick soccer balls, box, and keep up with the strenuous rigours of political campaigning.

Tommy had been very lucky. “When I thought about it,” he recalled, “I realized that the same kind of service I got by a stroke of luck should have been available to every child in that ward, and not just to a case that looked like a good specimen for exhibition to medical students.”

He always felt a debt of gratitude to the doctor who came to his rescue, “but it left me with this feeling that if I hadn’t been so fortunate as to have this doctor offer me his services gratis, I would probably have lost my leg. I felt that no boy should have to depend either for his leg or his life upon the ability of his parents to raise enough money to bring a first-class surgeon to his bedside. And I think it was out of this experience, not at the moment consciously, but through the years, I came to believe that health services ought not to have a price-tag on them, and that people should be able to get whatever health services they required irrespective of their individual capacity to pay.”

And so it was that the germ that developed into the national health care program was planted in the mind of the boy who would grow up to become the premier of Saskatchewan and to be known across Canada as the “father of medicare.”

Thomas Clement Douglas was born in Falkirk, Scotland, on October 20, 1904, the first of three children of Tom Douglas, a recently returned veteran of the Boer War, and Anne Clement, daughter of Highlanders who had migrated to Glasgow. The birth was an auspicious one that brought about a reconciliation between Tom and his own father, also named Thomas, a stern, demanding disciplinarian who was noted in the community as a fiery orator.

The elder Thomas was a lifelong Liberal who took pride in having once introduced William Gladstone at a political rally. His son came home from South Africa sickened by the horrors and injustices of war and, shortly after, announced that he had switched allegiances to the relatively new Labour Party, the socialists. The father threw the son out of his house and for over a year the two didn’t speak.

But after little Tommy’s birth, the proud grandfather couldn’t stay away long. One day there was a knock at the door, and there stood the elder Thomas Douglas, “come to see the boy.”

Over the next few years, each of the old man’s other seven sons “went Labour,” and eventually he too made the switch, so Tommy Douglas, who would become the head of the first socialist government in North America in 1944, came by his politics honestly.

The town of Falkirk, about midway between Glasgow and Edinburgh, lies close to the site of a decisive battle in 1297 between British troops and Scottish forces led by William Wallace. The great iron works that was established there, fuelled by coal from nearby mines, made cannons for Wellington during the Napoleonic Wars. The men of the Douglas clan had worked at the iron works for several generations. It was a large and loving family, and little Tommy, as the first grandson and because he was always a bit sickly, was particularly loved. Although his father was a working man, he made a comfortable living by Falkirk standards, and Tommy enjoyed a happy childhood, except for his health problems.

The Douglas clan lived in two stone houses owned by Grandfather Douglas at the foot of a brae, the Scottish word for hill. At the time of Tommy’s birth, the houses still had thatched roofs, though later the thatch was replaced with slate, and they were heated by fire-places. There was a lot of reading done in those houses and a lot of arguing, about politics, religion, philosophy. It was a stimulating environment for a bright, observant boy like Tommy, a daydreamer who chafed at the limits placed on him by his poor health.

His grandfather Douglas had the large callused hands and broad shoulders of an ironworker, but he was a Sunday painter. In addition to introducing Gladstone, he had painted a portrait of the great man. And, most significantly for his young grandson, he was an amateur orator with a wide reputation – Tommy remembered him as “one of the finest speakers I ever heard”– and had committed to memory hundreds of verses of Robert Burns, Scotland’s beloved national poet. Tommy’s earliest memories were of sitting on the old man’s knee by the fireside as he recited lines from “Tam o’ Shanter” and other famous Burns poems.

Young Tommy absorbed Scottish history and the nationalism, egalitarianism, and religious fervour of Burns. A boyhood hero was Robert the Bruce, a thirteenth century Scottish king who battled the British. Years later, after losing his first election, Tommy would remind his supports that Robert only won a decisive victory after having first been beaten six times.

Tommy’s dad was a big, burly man who, nevertheless, liked to grow roses in his small Falkirk garden. He’d stopped going to church after a falling out with the minister. He associated the Presbyterians with the rich and Liberals; that party, he said, was made up of “conniving hypocrites” and was no friend to working people, a view Tommy adopted himself. Tom Douglas had left school at thirteen to begin work and, just as he had been the first in his family to change politics, for his son he aspired to something different from an iron moulder’s life. He wanted an education for the boy, and freedom from the restrictions of Great Britain’s rigid class system. He began to think about life in “the colonies.”

The Douglases hadn’t been in Canada for more than three years before the First World War broke out and Tom, as a British reservist, was called back to duty, joining an ambulance unit. The rest of the family, rather than stay in Canada without a breadwinner, sailed back to Scotland on the Pretoria, travelling without lights through U-boat-infested waters – a thrilling trip for a ten-year-old boy. They took up residence in Glasgow with Annie Douglas’s parents, the Clements.

Tommy’s grandfather Andrew Clement was a teamster who drove a delivery wagon for a co-operative market and was a great supporter of the co-op movement that, years later, the grandson would champion in Saskatchewan.

Tommy’s future as an amateur boxer began to make itself evident when he began school.

Like many boys around the world, he had to contend with bullies. On his first day, he set off for the Scotland Street School decked out in gartered knickers and a little porkpie hat, regular attire for Canadian schoolboys of the day. As he passed a corner that was the territory of a tough gang, he was met with gales of laughter. “Hey, Canuck,” the boys yelled, and one of them knocked off his hat. Tommy was small but his years in an out of hospital had made him somewhat immune to pain – and pugnacious as hell. When a big boy called Geordie Sinclair told him to jump, Tommy refused.

“Do it or I’ll belt you,” Geordie said, but Tommy stood his ground – and got a bloody nose.

Although Tommy punched Geordie right back, in the tussle that followed he was no match for the bigger boy.

Just the same, the next day, after school, Tommy went looking for Geordie and his chums. Taking a deep breath, he issued a challenge: “If you haven’t had enough, I’ll give you some more. Are you ready?”

Sometimes bluff works. And grit.

Instead of kicking the tar out of Tommy, or bursting into laughter, Geordie Sinclair was impressed. “You’ve had enough, Canuck,” he declared.

Tommy wasn’t bothered anymore, and he and Geordie became pals.

His leg healthy and pain free, Tommy was able to fully enjoy his childhood for the first time. Though he was no great shakes at his studies, after graduating from elementary school he enrolled in a private high school academy. He became close to his grandfather and spent many hours helping him on his rounds and caring for his horses. In his spare time, Tommy would often go to church, not because he was particularly religious, but to listen in fascination to the preachers. And he and a pal, Tom Campbell, loved nothing better than a Sunday afternoon jaunt to Glasgow Green, where they would listen to a succession of socialists and other soapbox speakers railing against the establishment.

But he was an obedient boy himself. “I didn’t rebel because there was nobody to rebel against,” he recalled.

With his dad away in the war, money was tight and Tommy took a series of part-time jobs to pay his way at school. What he really wanted to do was go to sea as a sailor, but he was too young. One of his best jobs was as a soap boy in a barbershop, working evenings and all day Saturday, rubbing soap into the bristly whiskers of men waiting for a shave, for which he earned six shillings a week plus tips. He was a likable boy and did well with the tips – at Christmas, he made an extra two pounds, a lot of money for a thirteen-year-old.

The next summer, he got a job in a cork factory, for thirty shillings a week. The owner took a liking to Tommy, and soon he was promoted to office work, at three pounds a week, more than his father had ever earned in the iron works! Tommy was getting on so well at the factory that he didn’t bother going back to school in the fall, which made his father blow his top when he came home on leave.

But the war was almost over, and Canada was calling to the family again. On New Year’s Day 1919, with Tommy just having turned fourteen, the family set sail once more. This time, they would be in Canada for good.

Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library from Maclean’s, June 1952

From a rooftop, Tommy Douglas and a friend watch the violence that marks the end of the Winnipeg General Strike on “Bloody Saturday,” June 21, 1919.