A Fickle Wind. Elizabeth Bourne

car to drive to meet her friends at the drugstore to drink Pepsi floats! It was a whole new world, and my toe was in the water.

      Summer weekends in Muskoka became a way of life. Sometimes Jean’s family would be there: her mother, father, brother, and his girlfriend. But no one expected anything of us, and we went about our own established routine.

      For some reason, Don seemed to enjoy teasing me, naïve and unsophisticated as I was in those days. I recall he made lunch one day, and in my chicken salad sandwich he hid dried grasshoppers. I thought the sandwich tasted weird, but I was too polite not to eat it. This led to much hilarity when he later produced the container.

      A couple of weekends after that, I brought up a homemade blackberry pie. I explained I had done my best to pull off all the stems, but if anyone found one, I was sorry. After it was consumed, I put a can of dried bees in front of Don and explained that no one else would have noticed any “stems,” but that I had lifted the crust on his piece and mixed the bees in with the berries, so whatever he had noticed resembling stems had actually been bees’ legs!

      On another occasion, when we went to a local dance, Don went up to the band and announced over the microphone that a celebrated singer from England had recently arrived on their shores, and everyone should give the young lady at the table in the front (pointing at me, of course) a big hand to encourage her to get up and give them a song. I was horrified as everyone started to applaud and cheer. I cannot carry a tune and I could feel the panic rising. But this needed some fast thinking …

      When the applause died down, I stood up and said that I was so sorry to have to disappoint them, but I was under contract to a promoter in Britain and was actually forbidden to sing anywhere at all without prior arrangements with my agent. I think it was after that incident that Don started to believe he’d possibly met his match and I was not quite as gullible as he had thought. We are still the best of friends.

       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,