Читать книгу A Fickle Wind - Elizabeth Bourne - Страница 12

Chapter Six

Craig and I started to experience so much that was appealing about Canada. We met people through our jobs, neighbors in the apartment building, Jean and Don’s friends, Craig’s cousins’ friends, and friends of friends. Many were British and in the same boat as we were, looking for new friends in a new country. There was a big influx of people from Britain at that time, determined to get away from the lengthy aftermath of the war and find a better life. And we were all young and wanted to have fun. There had not been much fun in the lives we had all left behind.

Craig and I went to people’s homes and parties and invited them to our home and our parties. There were get-togethers almost every weekend—Muskoka in the summer and Toronto in the winter. We always seemed to be busy socializing in one way or another. Everyone contributed to the food and liquor, which made it affordable, as none of us had much money. It was a life far and away different from anything any of us had ever known. Life in Canada was upbeat, with permission to enjoy—and we loved it.

But it wasn’t all beer and skittles, to quote my father. There was no gold in the streets, and our financial well-being was entirely dependent on us, so we knew we had better behave responsibly. I recall living on baked beans on toast and Aunt Jemima pancakes to get through a rough spell. The rent was probably due! But we worked hard, paid back our loan (which seemed to take forever), and saved again, this time for furniture and then for a car, which was an amazing accomplishment. We bought a used Pontiac, big and blue, just like we’d seen in the movies. It was our first car ever, and we loved it.

All of this, however, was indicative of something much larger. I was already realizing the enormous difference between England and Canada: If you had a brain in your head and were willing to work hard, Canada offered the opportunity to get a foothold, albeit at the bottom of the ladder, and to attain a better life, one rung at a time. I had felt a helplessness and hopelessness in the England we left—and we weren’t about to go back. Forget a two-year adventure. We were either here, or somewhere like it, to stay.

It was part of my job description to work one Saturday morning in five to run the switchboard. Not my favorite thing to do, but I have since come to believe that everything happens for a reason. And there was a very good reason for my being there on one particular day.

A man named Max Ruthven showed up that Saturday morning for a meeting with the owner of the company. They had a joint venture in another company that Max ran. He was kept waiting and stood and talked to me. He and his wife, Mildred, were from Essex County, not too far from my parents’ home, and wonder of wonders, they lived in our apartment building.

Max took my number and promised they would call. True to his word, they did so the following week. It was a situation made in heaven for Craig and me. Max and Mildred were about twenty-five years our senior and somehow stepped into the role of surrogate parents—but the kind who are happy with the way you are, have no expectations that you will do what they think is best, and are generous to a fault. They had one son, Julian, who was in high school, and he seemed to accept us also. We were invited to dinner several times a month and always for holiday celebrations. They lent us their books as though they ran a lending library, and they were always pleased to see us for a chat.

We shared war experiences, ours, of course, through the eyes of children. Max had been much closer to the action, as he had served in the Navy. Because he had been employed in a necessary, and therefore protected, position before the war (I believe it had to do with chemicals), he’d had to replace himself before he could be released to the fighting forces. Mildred had agreed to be his replacement, which required that she first obtain her driver’s license and then drive from one end of the country to the other to cover Max’s territory. Most road signs had been removed to confuse any Germans who might “drop in,” so on many occasions, under cover of darkness, she was lost while trying to find her next bed and praying she wouldn’t enter an area that was under a bombing attack. And she did all this as a new, inexperienced driver. Her stories were priceless.

As that first year wore on, I was starting to feel more confident about my ability to obtain a better, more appealing, and higher-paying position. I felt I had learned the necessary prerequisites of my new country well enough and I was now dealing from a position of strength. I had the security of a job while I started the search and interview process. I decided on my criteria: I wanted an interesting company and a plush ambiance—corporate offices of a company that produced something with appeal. I couldn’t get excited about a utilitarian end product. And I could wait until the right thing came along.

Then, as now, the desirable area of Toronto was Bloor at Avenue Road. The classiest ladies department store was Holt Renfrew, as it still is today. I secured an interview with the senior vice president of Jordan Wines, Ontario’s second largest wine-producing company, which owned the building that housed Holt Renfrew on the first four floors, reserving the top two for their own executive offices … on Bloor at Avenue Road! Could this be it? It certainly sounded promising.

When I walked in, I knew it was where I wanted to be. The reception area was attractive and tasteful: Mies van der Rohe chairs covered in beautiful tan leather, a heavy glass table between them, all resting on a black carpet. How striking. How elegant. How like nothing I had ever seen before! And how I loved it all.

When I was shown into Mr. Philip Torno’s office, I saw that his elegant furniture and black carpet reflected the lobby. No two ways about it—I was sold. But was he? He was somewhat stern as he probed with his questions, and I had the impression of someone arrogant and hard to please. I was told afterward that the staff was taking bets on how long the interview would last, as he had made short work of the many applicants who had preceded me. I withstood the third degree and, after much deliberation on his part and a second interview, I was hired.

I was elated. However, I soon learned that my first impression had been correct, and this would not be an easy situation. Philip Torno turned out to be the most difficult man I had ever encountered at that point in my life. But I so wanted to succeed, and I hadn’t been raised to fail. I had to persevere, master the position, and become someone he wouldn’t want to lose. At that point, leaving would be my choice—and he would be sorry. That was acceptable in my book! But that could happen only after I had survived the hurdles he seemed to set up daily, met his unreasonable demands with alacrity, and become a valuable commodity—because commodity was about all I was to him. He seemed to lack humanity.

Luck was with me in the lovely woman with whom I was most closely associated. Florence and I were seated together in a recessed section visible from the reception area, both positioned outside the offices of the men for whom we worked. She was working for Philip’s oldest and most revered brother, Noah. He was all the things that Philip wasn’t—at least, so it seemed to me. He was confident, suave, charming, very friendly, and personable—and the president of the company. He was wealthy and married to a wealthy widow who was prominent in Toronto’s social circles. The two of them were often featured in the social pages of the newspaper, which reported on what events they were attending, what trips they were taking, which designer she was wearing, and on and on. What an idyllic life! What an enviable situation!

Florence and I became great friends. She was willing to take this young, unsophisticated, but eager-to-learn English girl under her wing. Her parents were both English, and she had been a baby when they had made the move from England to the Midwest where they had homesteaded. After her education, Florence had moved to Toronto.

I soon learned from her more details of Noah’s amazing life. Mrs. Torno attended the runway fashion shows in Paris and Milan. No three-years-behind-Europe clothes for her! They always stayed at The Pierre hotel in New York, one of many cities they frequented. Noah was more out of the office than in, and the day-to-day operation was left to Philip, their younger brother, Chum, and their cousin, Sam. This was a self-made, successful Jewish family; Philip and Noah’s parents had arrived in Canada from Eastern Europe in their youth.

It was the young Noah, brilliant and ambitious, who had instigated this upwardly mobile life for them all. He had been in Naval Intelligence during the war, had somehow come to the attention of the Bronfman family, had engineered their backing the purchase of an established winery, and had brought his family along with him. They held the fort while he pursued much more interesting and exciting activities. He sat on the Seagram Board, handled mergers and acquisitions for them all over the world, and generally continued his successful, upward trajectory. When he was in the office, things seemed more alive.

The time had come to confront Philip. I had bitten my tongue for months when I had been called to task over ridiculous minutia, or chastised for running out of his office to avoid his roving hands when an amorous mood struck. And the opportunity was presented one afternoon on being told to bring him coffee across the length of the general office, to his brother’s office, and then being unceremoniously waved out without a look or word as I opened the door. My long, embarrassing retreat was followed by thirty pairs of sympathetic eyes.

He was always so rude, but I think it was actually that arrogant, dismissive wave that was the last straw. I asked to meet with him and opened with the remark that I would like to know if I ever did anything right for him. He looked surprised and told me that I was doing an excellent job. I countered with that being a great surprise to me, as all I ever received from him was criticism, and all I experienced was rudeness that bordered on bullying tactics. I told him that I was considering seeking other employment unless we could come to an understanding wherein he would not attempt to grope me, bark at me, or unceremoniously dismiss me, and he would treat me like a person, not an object who provided a service.

He was shocked. Of course he didn’t want to lose me. He had been unaware of how objectionable his behavior was and how I was feeling. He said I should have spoken up sooner. So we came to an agreement that I wouldn’t leave, that he would try hard to be more respectful and appreciative, and that I would speak up if he ever offended me. That was all fine with me, and he did make an effort. He was a dyed-in-the-wool narcissist, I realized years later, which meant that he could really only think of another if it benefited him. Apparently he thought it did, as we managed to jog along together for another few years. He was a hard taskmaster, but I learned a lot from him that proved invaluable in my future working life and in life in general.

Craig’s career was about to undergo a change. Max approached him to join his company, Kee Klamps, as a salesman. The company sold the fixtures used in the assembly and installation of metal warehouse shelving. Craig would be paid a salary and a commission. This was an opportunity to substantially increase his income if he proved himself capable. He was eager to try. It turned out to be a much better situation for him. It was a social company, and Max was a generous boss.

We were sometimes included at dinners with visiting businessmen Max entertained, which I so enjoyed. Craig met many more people in his new position, had an expense account to entertain customers, made friends from different walks of life, and generally did well. His confidence improved as he saw he could take his place with men who played a little golf on the weekend or met during the week for drinks … or whatever, as it turned out!

We were both now earning more money, enjoying a better lifestyle, and thinking that it might be possible at some point to buy our own home. Things were pretty rosy. Oddly enough, we never talked about having children. For some reason, I had the feeling that my income would always be essential.

I have not touched very much on my appearance thus far but am usually interested to know this about other people, so here goes. I am petite and slender. I have good bone structure and large, green eyes. My hair is dark, cooperative with a slight wave, and looks best either very short or up. I have a good sense of style and have always been able to dress well, even on a shoestring. So far, so good.

The cross I bore up to that time in my life was unattractive teeth. I had unfortunately inherited, according to a dentist, a small mouth and large teeth through genes from two different antecedents. There was not enough room for my eye teeth to move into position when they emerged at about the age of twelve. Orthodontics were nonexistent in the England of my youth and circumstances, and since the eye teeth were distorting my mouth, the decision was made to extract them. This allowed the four remaining front teeth to spread themselves around!

I hated my teeth, and they constantly sapped my confidence. Quite often, I would not smile because of them. As a child back in England, I would sometimes tie a scarf around the lower part of my face, which emphasized my eyes, and decided I would make a most attractive Arab woman! My mother and Aunt Amy had given me their perfect solution: Have them all pulled and get some nice, new, false teeth. Thank goodness I had enough sense not to do that!

Florence was a pretty woman with beautiful teeth. I complimented her on this one day, and she said, “Oh, they’re caps. My two front teeth were badly crossed.” What did caps mean? I had never heard of such a thing. Could I have mine capped to close the gaps? With great anticipation and excitement, I made an appointment to see her dentist. This could solve one of my major problems!

But my hopes were soon dashed; it wasn’t going to be that easy. The dentist explained that if he capped my already large teeth to fill the gaps, my teeth would look like horse teeth. I needed an orthodontist, and he could recommend a good one. The problem would be simple to correct; the teeth were also slightly protruding, and if they were moved back, the spaces would close. But how could I wear braces at my age? That just wasn’t done in those days. And how much would it cost? Always a consideration.

Florence to the rescue. She encouraged me to see the orthodontist and get my questions answered. As it turned out, he first extracted a bottom tooth and moved the bottom teeth back, as they were causing the overbite, but the top teeth would only take a wire, not a mouthful of metal, and in about a year it would all be over. I can’t recall the price, but it was affordable. Florence insisted that a year out of my life at this young age was nothing, and she encouraged me to think of the remaining years when I would not be hampered by the problem. She was right and I went ahead. I felt rather like a freak at first, but no one but me seemed to notice—or care.

I find we often credit others with having a great deal of interest in how we look and what we do, when they are actually too interested in themselves to give it a moment’s thought. I started the treatment in January, and by early December of that same year, I was down to wearing only the top wire, which could be removed if I were doing something special. I would continue to wear it at night indefinitely. I was thrilled with the results, and I think it changed my personality. This was really brought into perspective at Craig’s company Christmas party that year.

Max always had a lovely party for his employees, in a private room at one of Toronto’s better hotels. It was a wonderful opportunity to dress elegantly—one of my great pleasures in life—and socialize with people we knew but didn’t see very often. During the evening, a man I didn’t recall asked me to dance. He remarked that I was a different woman that year. I asked what he meant. He said that the prior year he had noticed how sad I was, and this year I was happy and smiling all the time! I knew I hadn’t been sad, but that was obviously the impression I had given. I had simply been hiding my teeth!