Canada Bound

Happy New Year!

In many respects I still consider England home - I continue to follow Premier league football, prefer British films and enjoy treats from The British Grocer store, even though I’ve lived in Ontario, Canada, for over half a century.

If asked why I decided to leave England and move to Canada, I’m sure my answer would be the same as many folks of my era; the promise of a better life for the family.

Even though the war had ended in 1945 and it was now well into the 1950s, rationing was still in effect back home for items such as potatoes and butter.

There were long queues for meat but if you befriended the butcher he might put aside a couple of sausages for you.

The London MET family housing was pretty deplorable. Set in the Brixton area of South London in a building reminiscent of Dickensian times, it was all concrete – from the walls to the hard floor covered in cheap linoleum.

Ours was a basement apartment next to the coal chute and on delivery day our place would be covered in dust. When my wife swept, it just resulted in more clouds of dust.

It seemed everyone around us was leaving England for overseas. Canada was being described in the newspapers as the “land of opportunity”. Australia was putting word out that it was no longer a POM (prisoner of her majesty) destination and all Brits were welcome.

The commonwealth countries were offering better jobs, safety, education, health care and clean, fresh air for our children.

Having enjoyed serving with airmen from Australia I suggested it to my wife as a possible home, but she put her foot down, saying it was too far away.

As it turned out, a friend of mine from the London MET had immigrated to Canada and wrote letters home telling how he’d joined the Toronto Police force and was enjoying higher wages, a five day work week, plentiful food choices and affordable, comfortable housing. It sounded like a virtual land of milk and honey.

I’ll digress a bit here and tell the tale of friends, a husband and wife, who also came to Toronto from England and marveled at the wonders of Canadian living.  In particular they were awed by the grocery store chain, Loblaws, with its aisles filled with all varieties of food unavailable in England.

On their first visit, the biggest surprise was finding out not only would their groceries be bagged for them by a young man, but he offered to carry them out!

They walked through the parking lot and onto the street, where the bagger asked “Where have you parked your car?” After being told they didn’t have a car but it wasn’t too much farther, I believe he unceremoniously dropped the groceries on the sidewalk and headed back to the store.

So, Canada it was. My wife and I went down to Canada House in London and were quickly vetted. I had a good reference from the London MET as well as other personal references. We were told there were many policing opportunities available and to head over any time. What a difference from today, where you need sponsors to immigrate and a guaranteed employment contract!

Like many other families making this huge decision, I went over first to scout out the country, settle things with a job, find suitable housing and save up for passage for my wife and young son.

I sailed on the Franconia, which had been used as a troop ship during WWII and then resumed service in 1949 as a passenger liner mainly bringing postwar immigrants and refugees to Canada on the Liverpool to Quebec route.

On one of its earlier runs, the Franconia went aground in the Saint Lawrence River after leaving Quebec for the return journey, having to be pulled off a reef and then repaired to resume service. Fortunately for me, the journey was uneventful.

Of course it wasn’t my first time on an ocean liner, but this trip was much more comfortable going west across the Atlantic compared to my journey on the troop ship to the Far East. In both cases though, it signaled a complete change of life.

After disembarking in Quebec I boarded the train for Toronto. Not being the extravagant type, I didn’t purchase a sleeper berth ticket for the 9 hour trip, figuring I could sleep in the seat. It was far more spacious and comfortable than a troop train, I can tell you that.

On arrival I set out in search of employment. At first I was offered a position with the Ontario Provincial Police, but that meant being stationed in lonely outposts in Northern Ontario. Didn’t appeal to me and I’m sure it wouldn’t have appealed to my wife.

Attending at Toronto Police Department headquarters I was told there would be openings coming up, but not for a few months. This news threw me into a panic, as I hadn’t arrived with a fortune and would need a paycheque soon.

Luckily I was able to procure a position as a school janitor – not glamorous work, but it paid the landlady at the lodging house (she even served breakfast) and provided enough for me to put aside some savings.

It wasn’t long before I was at Tip Top Tailors being measured for my police uniform and on my way to the police training school after a couple of weeks (under supervision) of directing traffic between the flagship Eatons and Simpsons stores in downtown Toronto (both now long gone). I was thrilled on graduation to be selected to join the motorcycle squadron.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself and will return to that momentous day of arrival on Canadian soil.

Having finally arrived at Toronto’s Union Station from Quebec and feeling deserving of a relaxing beer, I found an establishment nearby.

Not knowing Canadian beer brands, I asked the bartender if he could bring me a golden ale. He quickly returned with a copy of the Globe and Mail newspaper.

Handing me the paper, he asked “So, how long have you been in Canada?”  I wearily replied “All bloody day.”