Читать книгу A Fickle Wind - Elizabeth Bourne - Страница 13

Chapter Seven

One weekend we were in Toronto with Jean and Don, and someone came up with the idea that we should drive to America. Could we really do that on the spur of the moment? Didn’t we have to make plans? Of course we could—and no, we didn’t. According to Don, we could do anything we liked at any time. And no one should try to stop him if they knew what was good for them! We had now spent enough time with him to have confidence that if he said so, it was so.

Going to America meant driving about a hundred miles south and entering Buffalo, New York, across the Peace Bridge. We started out, and I couldn’t have been more excited. Back then, Canadians and Americans crossed that bridge with no identification necessary. Those really were the good old days! “Where are you from?” was the question asked at the border, and if a slurred “Toronna” came back, you could be on your way.

But halfway there, it occurred to one of us that Craig and I weren’t Canadian. What now? No problem, according to our fearless leader. And for the next fifty miles we practiced how to emulate a Toronto native! We were a little nervous but passed with flying colors, thereby fulfilling what had previously been an unattainable dream. We were in America. Really! Pinch me!

Buffalo isn’t the most exciting part of America, but I didn’t care. It qualified! We drove around the streets, wandered through a park, looked at shops, and ate in a restaurant. It was magical. It became too late to drive back, so we decided to spend the night in a hotel—four to a room, of course. I felt bewitched. It was all too much for me to believe. Wait until I sent my weekly letter home!

On the subject of home, we decided it was time to take a trip back. My father had suffered a mild heart attack a few months prior but had had a good recovery. However, I needed to see him. I had dutifully sent weekly letters to our parents so they were able to track our exploits. Sometimes we made a tape they could play. No phone calls were possible, because they still did not have phones. You can imagine how excited we all were about the trip. I think I failed to mention that Craig was also an only child, so also very much missed. Craig’s father, Sid, had acquired a small car during our absence, and he and Craig’s mom, Kit, were to pick us up at Heathrow.

We had a great beginning to our trip. We were in line to go through customs behind the Beatles! We couldn’t believe it. They were newly famous and, according to some pundits, the most popular and sought-after entertainers of all time. And there they were, chatting away to each other and smiling at us!

First stop was my parents’ house. My father did everything except dance on the table, he was so excited to have me home. My mother, less demonstrative, of course, served tea for the six of us, and Craig and I started to regale them with stories of life in Canada.

It was soon noticeable, and seemed to us a little strange, that the women tended to try to compete, interjecting their own stories about inconsequential incidents at home. For example, after I told her something amazing, I recall my mother saying, “Hmm! Well, last week this woman on telly won ten thousand pounds on a game show.” What did that have to do with anything? Didn’t they care about Canada? Didn’t they want to know how well everything was turning out for us? Well, in a nutshell, no! I quickly concluded that was the case and had enough sense to stop discussing it.

I couldn’t wait to see my close friends. Marion had married while we were away, so lots to hear about there. She hadn’t even known her husband, Reg, when I had left. She and I made a date to meet in London, just the two of us. That way we could have a no-holds-barred conversation. We have honored this tradition through all the years I have lived away. We’d meet there late morning, go to a lovely restaurant for lunch, and either walk around shops (I loved shopping in London and taking the latest styles back) or sit in the park. Wherever it was, we talked incessantly. There wasn’t then, nor is there now, ever enough time to share everything we wished to share, and we would be forced to say goodbye well before we were ready to do so.

I also enjoyed seeing Stella and Monica, who were interested in my new life and in sharing stories about their jobs, boyfriends, and activities. I loved my girl time with good friends. Apart from spending time with a love, which I really didn’t have, my women friends have always been so important to me.

We visited relatives, including my Auntie Lily. She asked me if we would now be making plans to move back. It hadn’t occurred to me that we would ever move back. Why the question?

“Because of your father’s heart condition.”

“But I thought he was okay.”

“Well… never the same, of course. It’s not out of the question that he could have another one.”

Horrors! I never wanted to move back. I hadn’t liked it before, but now, living a life with so much freedom and opportunity, there was absolutely no way I could settle there again. I call it the, “How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm” syndrome. And I sure filled that bill!

Then my mother started to emote in her not-so-subtle way. She had met an old classmate of mine who had said, “It’s hard to understand how an only daughter could leave her mother and go so far away.” At least, that’s what my mother said she said! I refused to be drawn in. “I have to do nearly everything myself around the house now, and it’s not easy,” was another comment. And, “We aren’t getting any younger, you know, and your father’s health isn’t good. Try walking with him to the shops. He stops every two minutes.”

My father seemed fine, made no complaints at all, and gave every indication that he was very happy that I was carving out a decent life for myself. He was still my “You go, girl” dad. What was going on? My mother had been so supportive of our going. For all her complaining, her situation wasn’t really all that different. I realized, of course, that they had had a fright, but my father was not at death’s door. To me, he seemed able enough and in his usual good spirits.

As often happens when I really ponder something, it all started to fall into place. It was never mentioned, but I intuited that my mother had planned that Craig and I would be the front runners, and she and my father would follow us to Canada. My father’s health issue was interfering with her plans, and she was no longer sure he could make the move. In fact, I think she was becoming sure he could not.

I also believe that she was starting to become aware of an embryonic independent streak emerging in me, which she had previously managed to overpower. And with her typical dog-in-the-manger attitude, if she couldn’t have it, neither should I. Seen from her perspective, I was the insurance policy that wasn’t paying off! When it came time for us to leave, her parting words to me were, “You are such a disappointment to me.” It felt as though she had actually struck me in the face.

We were happy to be back in Canada. Our trip had validated my certainty that we would never live in England again. Craig and I had made several moves during the years we had lived in Canada, and we were now in a Toronto suburb called Don Mills.

A new friendship had recently developed for me. A woman named Doreen had replaced me at the car dealership, and one of the other girls in that office had set up an introduction. We were both young and from England, and we had each married just before moving to Canada. Doreen’s ethnicity was Czech, and her parents had escaped just prior to the Nazi occupation of their country. They had been put into an English refugee camp. Doreen was in utero when her parents arrived in England, and she was named for the woman who had masterminded their escape.

Doreen’s father had fought with the British Army and returned with his family to their native land after the war. That lasted only a few years; they were again forced to leave, as he refused to join the Party or cater to his Russian “masters.” He swore that the only reason they were allowed to leave was that Doreen had a British passport. So she was English by birth, Czech by ethnicity, and living in Canada by choice. We had a lot in common and became very good friends. We still are to this day.

Philip’s younger brother, Chum, needed a new secretary. I set up an interview for Doreen, and she was successful in securing the position. Her husband, Michael, was a travel agent, and he and Craig got along well together. We sometimes did things as a foursome, but more often it was just Doreen and me.

She and I could talk for hours about all the things women find interesting, sharing our deepest passions and wildest dreams. Doreen was tall and slender, but amazingly, we could even share clothes and shoes. She has been known to literally give me the shirt off her back—well, actually, that was figuratively—as it was the shoes off her feet. I admired a pair of navy leather sandals she was wearing one evening, and as I got out of the car she handed them to me through the window. She had to walk barefoot from the garage back to the apartment, but it had been more important to make me happy!

Winters came and went, but I never acclimated to the cold. Spring and fall are the loveliest months in Toronto, but they are short. The summers are often too hot and humid. Doreen and I used to talk about California, particularly San Francisco. We had seen pictures, and it looked beautiful. If only … Wouldn’t it be nice if … We were both hesitant and yet had the feeling that we could actually make it there.

However, we had our doubts about Craig and Michael. We really wanted them to start to carry the major financial load. Doreen very pragmatically pointed out that, in California, our men wouldn’t be able to compete well with the highly educated workforce, and she and I would never be able to quit work.

Interestingly, we had some German neighbors with whom Craig and I were friends, and they were always reading California newspapers with an eye toward making a move. Doreen and I would pore over the papers they gave me and be appalled at the price of houses. In those days, a nice home could be purchased in the Toronto area for $17,000. They wanted $60,000 in a suburb of San Francisco. Were they crazy?