Motorcycle Cop

Patrolling High Park

I’ve always loved to soar and race, being one of the reasons I was so anxious to join the RAF in WWII. When the war ended, it was quite disappointing being reduced to riding a bicycle to the station house after becoming a London bobby.

Once moving to Canada and joining the Toronto force, you can imagine my reaction on learning I was being assigned to the motorcycle squad. I was giddy with excitement at the thought of cruising around the city on a powerful state-of-the-art Harley Davidson.

I felt particularly dapper in my snazzy jodhpurs, leather jacket and helmet. That is until the decision was made to install sidecars on the bikes, which took a bit of the edge off.

That didn’t last too long though as while we may have been outfitted for the elements, suspects weren’t. Sometimes we’d arrive at the station with a perp practically frozen to the seat.

Which brings me to High Park, made up of lands originally owned by John Howard, who donated the area and his splendid regency villa, Colborne Lodge, to the City on his death in 1890.

A lovely daytime spot with gardens and playgrounds, the park had a reputation as a hotbed of nefarious activity at night, requiring regular police patrolling.

We had all heard reports that the ghosts of John Howard and his wife haunted their former home. Some said it was the ghosts of unsolved murder victims George Vigus and Iris Scott, whose bodies had been found in the park, stuffed into the trunk of a car in 1947. Of course we put all that down to vivid imaginations.

That is, until one night I spied a flickering light in the upstairs windows of Colborne Lodge.

After gaining entry, I heard eerie creaking sounds and strange moans. Creeping up the stairs with my flashlight pointed to the ground, I listened at a bedroom door, then burst into the room to find a young couple having a candlelit rendezvous on the previous owner’s antique bed which by now had particularly rusty bedsprings. John Howard must have been turning in his grave.

Marching the youngsters down to my bike, I was faced with the dilemma of how to get them to the station. Seating the lothario in the sidecar, with his femme fatale perched on his lap, off we went to the station.

It was a chilly night and upon arrival they both had chattering teeth, blue lips and were shivering so violently they could barely stand. Not the romantic night they had envisioned after all.

It was great riding around on the Harley as I didn’t have any kind of vehicle of my own. Not many could afford to buy a car on a policeman’s salary, but luckily Toronto had a pretty good transit system.

There were those late nights when I would miss the last streetcar or bus and had to walk home. It became quite a nuisance during particularly bad weather, until I came up with a brilliant idea.

Trudging along the road in uniform, when a car approached I'd hold up my hand and bring it to a stop. The driver would nervously roll down his window wondering his infraction. I’d ask sternly, “Right then, where are you headed at this time of night?” If it wasn’t in my direction, I would simply tell them to carry on.

However, if they going my way, I’d open the door, hop in and ask “Can you give me a lift?” No relieved driver ever refused.

My district included the Mercer Reformatory for Women on King Street, which strove to instill in the inmates “feminine Victorian virtues such as obedience and servility.” I don’t think they were very successful at that.

I recall one visit to the reformatory where a truck had become stuck in the mud. When the strength of all the men could not budge it, inmates were invited to roll up their sleeves and give us a hand.  After a short while we were successful in moving the stranded vehicle, but not before a few of the genteel young ladies had taken a few grabs at my bottom during the process!

Just south of the reformatory was Lake Ontario. When family from “over home” would come visit us in Toronto, they’d always be amazed at the size of Lake Ontario. It looked to be the size of a small ocean. I was in awe of it myself, particularly due to the fact I couldn’t swim.

This put me in an awkward position when a man intent on suicide was out in the lake refusing to come to shore. I considered my options - he wasn’t too far out and the water was at the level of his neck. I decided I could wade out and attempt to bring him out so long as the water wasn’t over my head.

Luckily I was able to use my powers of persuasion to convince him to retreat from the water. Good thing too, because when he walked up to me, he was easily head and shoulders taller than me!

In those days, the most famous criminal element in Toronto was the Boyd Gang, selling many newspapers with their sensational exploits, including bank robberies, engaging in gun play, elaborate jail breaks and the murder of a police officer, before their ultimate downfall.

It was determined I bore a resemblance to the dashing gang leader, Edwin Alonzo Boyd, which led to me being prevailed upon to be a participant in police lineups with Mr. Boyd. I didn’t mind, until a witness identified ME as the robber!

Boyd had a lovely lass of a wife, Doreen, who he had met during WWII while serving in England. Like me, she was from Surrey and I got to know her quite well as we’d strike up conversations while I kept an eye on her home, hoping to catch her husband making a visit while dodging police.

Mind you, Doreen could be a tough cookie herself. After the failure of their ill-fated marriage, there was a bizarre incident where Boyd, known more for running from police, ran to a station seeking assistance when Doreen showed up and banged down his front door. She was booked on charges of drunk and disorderly conduct and fined the whopping sum of $5.

Hell hath no fury indeed.