Brazil Street Page 10

  But it didn’t really end there. Nancy went to our school, Holy Cross, and spoke to a few of the Irish Christian Brothers. She said that Dickie and I were harassing her on Patrick Street after school. In our day, harassing one of the girls across the street at St. Patrick’s School was considered a capital crime. At least by the Brothers. She, like her brother, had tried to start something out of nothing. We had detention after school for several days, during which we had to write in our scribblers, fifty times each, “Boys at Holy Cross do not bully girls at St. Patrick’s.” She had won that time.

  When Gus and Nancy met, they were about ten or eleven years old. They dated for the longest time, and then for us they faded out of memory. But they must have had something special, indeed . . . for they have been happily married for over fifty years! I met Gus at Tim Hortons a few years ago, and he told me the whole story.

  Love can be a strange thing!

  Shorty and Conk

  In the days of the old Hotel Newfoundland on Cavendish Square, Dickie White and I would go there to do messages for the Americans stationed at Fort Pepperrell. We often wondered why they had us deliver messages when a phone call was easier, but we didn’t care as long as they paid us. We just took the notes, envelopes, and parcels and delivered them, no questions asked.

  To say the hotel was elegant wouldn’t do it justice. It was by far the grandest hotel in all of Newfoundland. Over the years, people from all walks of life went through its doors. I’m sure it was the only hotel that catered to the rich as well as the middle class. Rich and famous people like Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, and even Winston Churchill frequented the old hotel during the 1930s and 1940s, when the Second World War was at its height. Dignitaries and prime ministers have stayed there. Its grandeur and service were unmatched.

  Once the Americans got to know us, we were treated like part of a family. We didn’t cause any problems there. John, the elderly man who worked on the door, was always courteous to us. When we had a message to deliver, we had to grease the busboys’ palms, but then we had the run of the hotel. Of course, we had to let them know what we were doing there first, and we couldn’t enter without notifying the staff.

  In those days, we gave nicknames to many of the employees at the hotel. Just about everyone had an alternative name. We gave good names to those we liked, and other names to those we didn’t get along with. We named one of the bellhops Conk, and the other we named Shorty. They were two of the good guys.

  Conk was a name given to someone who had a face that was a bit hard to look at, as in “Look at the conk on that.” When we were growing up, we saw a few people who could scare the crap out of you just by looking at you. They were fighters who could go a round or two with Cassius Clay if they had a few beers in them. Some of the guys from Mundy Pond or the Brow were like that. Conk the bellhop was a nice fellow . . . just scary-looking. He had a lot of expensive-looking rings on his fingers. His nose was slewed and didn’t seem to be a natural part of his body. It was about four inches long. His ears were big and looked deformed. He was broad and always looked like he had just been in a fight. We guessed the hotel hired guys like him to handle any unpleasant situations that came its way.

  Conk was nice but also a bit stern. He was anywhere from twenty-five to thirty years old. One always had to follow his rules while in the building. He was kind to us when we were there, but we knew he was in control, so we followed his orders. I remember he always looked immaculate when he was in uniform.

  Shorty was . . . just that. Short. Five foot nothing. He had to look up at many of the hotel’s patrons. He was stocky, though, and could pass for a wrestler like the ones we saw on television. You could say that he was a good-looking guy, but his height and grey hair made him look a lot older. We heard that he was a part-time bouncer at the hotel’s club, the Admiral’s Keg. He looked ancient to us, but he was probably only forty years old.

  It always worked like this. We received a message from an American serviceman or servicewomen at Pepperrell, and then we headed to the hotel. It was usually a note or package to pass along to a boyfriend or girlfriend, or just someone the Americans knew. Parcels were common, and the bellhops would escort us to the room when we got there. We would tip the guy a quarter, and he would escort us back to the lobby. After a while, we didn’t need to be escorted anymore—sometimes they were really busy and let us go on our way—but we still had to pay the quarter. When we first starting going there, we had a rough time with an employee who tried to rip us off. Later, we found out that he no longer worked at the hotel, and we let out a sigh of relief.

  One evening, while dropping off a parcel unescorted, we ended up on the top floor. As we were walking down the hall to our designated room with our delivery, we noticed a ladder in the middle of the floor that seemed to lead to the top of the building. Standing beneath it and looking up, we could see a large opening and plenty of sky. Being the curious young boys we were, Dickie and I climbed up for a better look. Before we knew it, we were looking out over St. John’s. The view was spectacular. We looked down at Duckworth Street and Water Street to the left and Military Road and King’s Bridge Road to the right.

  Here we were, eight or ten storeys above the city, with not a care in the world. The sun was setting, and the sky was a dazzling orange all the way to the horizon. Our thrill was short-lived. Some men who were working at something on the roof came back up the ladder, and we had to hide behind some materials until they passed. Beating it back down the ladder, we didn’t stop until we got to the room where we were supposed to deliver the letter. We passed it to the lady inside, collected our fee, and headed back to the first floor to pay our dues to the boys and head home.

  A day or so later, one of the guards at the entrance gate at Fort Pepperrell asked us to bring a letter to a girl who worked in the kitchen at the hotel. Not willing to pass up the dollar he was offering, we were out through the gate and heading up King’s Bridge Road in a flash. At the main entrance we were greeted by Shorty, who told us to wait in the lobby until he gave us the okay to deliver our letter. A police car was parked outside, so we knew that something was amiss. He put us to one side and waited for the elevator to come down. A few minutes later, Conk and a few other employees joined him, and a small crowd had gathered in the area, asking what was happening. Neither Shorty nor Conk told them anything.

  The minutes ticked by until an elevator opened to reveal two police officers escorting a guy between them. They stopped to talk to one another about thirty feet from us, and then, suddenly, the guy they were escorting took a swing at one of them! The place erupted. The other policeman jumped on the guy’s back. Between the two officers, they managed to get him to the floor, but they couldn’t get their handcuffs on him. The fight went on for a few more seconds until another officer, whom we guessed had been sitting in the car, came in. The culprit got to his feet and held his ground against the three of them, until the officer who had come inside took out his billy knocker and whacked him on the side of the head. He went out like a light.

  Soon he was cuffed, and the policemen dragged him out to the squad car. It was over as quickly as it had started, but one of them had left some blood on the floor. Shorty was beside himself. He ushered the people in the lobby to their rooms and shouted to the other staff that he wanted the mess cleaned up immediately, as his hotel was not to be “like that.” Shorty was shocked, but Dickie and I shrugged. We saw fights like this on a weekly basis. We never did find out what the prisoner had done to get the lawmen’s attention in the first place.

  A few days later, we got some business from an elderly lady who lived at the hotel. We were waiting in the lobby for an escort upstairs when this lady exited the elevator. I said hello to her while she waited for her male companion to bring her car around, and she asked Dickie and me our names. She also asked why we were waiting there, and I told her that we were delivering something to the hotel for an American lady o
n the base. The lady thought it over and then asked if we could deliver something for her tomorrow. She didn’t have to ask us twice. She gave us her room number, and we told her we would be back the next day. As we were leaving, we saw her talking to Shorty. We guessed she was asking him about us.

  The next day, we went back to the hotel and headed up to room 505. The same gentleman who had gotten the car for her the day before asked us to step inside and wait until he got back. What we saw was remarkable. The room was beautiful. The lady must have had money. I wondered why was this woman had asked Dickie and me, and not the man who had answered the door, to make a delivery for her. It may sound crazy, but I wanted to ask her.

  Soon, she came out and looked at Dickie and me without saying a word. Then she asked in a soft voice, “What are your names?” We told her again.

  “I spoke to the head bellhop about you boys yesterday, and he said that you were reliable and could be trusted to do a message for someone.”

  We nodded and reassured her that we would not take off with her money or her package. It was business for us, and we didn’t take our deliveries lightly. But I was uneasy.

  “My buddy and I were wondering, ma’am, why you are asking us. There’s nothing wrong with delivering a parcel for you, but you have a car, and your husband can drive.”

  The woman was taken aback. She sat back in her chair for a moment, then smiled.

  “That is very intelligent of you. I am impressed by you two young boys asking that question. The gentleman who let you in is not my husband but my butler, and he has another errand to run that will take the better part of today. I want you and your friend to deliver the parcel I have because that is the way I want it done, and I need an answer from the person you are delivering it to as soon as possible. I will pay you five dollars each for doing that for me. Would that be enough for you both?”

  Whoa! Did she say five dollars each? Now she definitely had our attention. Normally, we would have to do about a half-dozen messages to make that much money. We would deliver it to Port aux Basques for that much money if we had to!

  “Yes, ma’am. What can we do for you?”

  To this day I still don’t know why she asked us to deliver her message. She went to a drawer, took out an envelope, and passed it to me. It was just an ordinary eight-by-ten envelope, a bit bulky, but light in weight. My guess was it contained papers.

  “Now, boys, I want you to be careful with this. Please deliver it to Mr. McDonald at room 15 at Memorial University on Parade Street. I will give you and your friend five dollars now, and five more when you come back here with an answer and tell me that the parcel is delivered. Is that okay with you both?”

  She didn’t have to tell us twice. We took the five dollars and left. As we approached the elevator, we noticed a man getting off on our floor. It was the same man the police had arrested the day before. We looked at him as he walked down the hallway, and we were surprised when he entered the elderly lady’s room!

  Now our minds went into overdrive. Here we were with this envelope that probably contained some top-secret military papers she wanted us to deliver to a person at Memorial University. For all I knew, these people could have been spies. A great cover-up, for who would expect two kids to be part of a scheme like this? We headed up Military Road, our minds reeling. Surely we were now part of some great espionage that might be in the papers by the end of the week. We hoped our parents would believe us when we told them we were not willing participants and that we just wanted to make a buck! But we knew that we would protect this envelope with our lives.

  It took forever to get to Parade Street. We entered the university and climbed the steep steps to the foyer. We asked a lady behind a desk where we could find a Mr. McDonald—which was no doubt a fake name made up by a spy. She asked us why, and we told her we had an envelope for him. When she asked us to leave it with her, we said we had to deliver it to him in person. We also wanted to see his face—if the police questioned us later, we could then pick him out of a lineup.

  A few minutes later, a gentleman came down a hallway and stopped in front of us. Smiling, he asked us if we had something for him from a Mrs. Power. I asked him his name, and he said Mr. McDonald. I then passed him the envelope.

  “Tell Mrs. Power that I will try to have the results of her son’s exams back to her by Monday or Tuesday. I know her son is still in Labrador. I will grade these papers this weekend, and I will then phone her. Can you please tell her that?”

  Suuure we would. A likely story. We knew that he was just trying to cover up for everyone who knew about this secret mission. But our job was only half done, so we raced out of the building and headed back to the hotel. Dickie and I had questions, and we discussed them on the way.

  When we arrived, we went up to the fifth floor and knocked on the door. The butler answered and summoned the lady to speak to us. We told her we had delivered the letter and relayed to her what Mr. McDonald had said. She reached into her purse and took out another five dollars. We said thank you and departed quickly, telling her that if she ever needed us again she should let Shorty know.

  On our way out of the hotel, we stopped and spoke to Shorty and told him about our curious delivery . . . leaving out the bit about the extra money. He laughed at us when we told him our theory about the fake people in room 505 who were probably spies. Likely because he was worried we would tell our parents or the police about our suspicions and bring trouble to the hotel, he told us about the guests.

  “Sorry, boys, but her name really is Mrs. Power, and her husband is a businessman who owns several stores here and in parts of Ontario. Her son really is in Labrador, doing a research paper on the Eskimo population. The papers you delivered really were her son’s, and the other man is a teacher. The man you saw being arrested the other day is her brother. He’s always in trouble with the law, and he had another run-in with them when you guys came here. The gentleman who answered the door really is her butler. She does stay here often, and she is quite rich.

  “Also, seeing as I told the lady that you guys were reliable to deliver her parcel, I guess that you owe me something for my trouble. If not, then the deliveries could dry up on my part.”

  He stuck out his hand, and Dickie and I gave him a two-dollar finder’s fee. Satisfied with that, he headed off down the lobby, waving goodbye to us as he left. It left four dollars each for Dickie and me.

  Dickie watched him go and said, “Everybody’s hand has to be greased, Bobby.”

  We stared at Shorty, then Dickie and I looked at each another and smiled. Sure, likely story, Shorty. I wondered how much the spies in the hotel had paid him to say that. We couldn’t have just imagined all the cloak-and-dagger stuff we had just gone through. We knew the truth, but we would tell no one. Let Shorty and Conk be a part of the big cover-up, too. We were paid for our services, so who cared?

  We never did find out why the lady had us deliver the message when she could have easily had her “butler” do it for her. We never saw her again, either. Mystery unsolved.

  My father on a warship in St. John’s harbour in 1942. My brothers always said that Dad will always be alive while I am, as he and I looked identical! (Author photo)

  Men fishing outside the Narrows (Postcard from early 1950s)

  Looking down Casey Street and Brazil Square, circa 1960. To the left is the “corner” where we all gathered. The Delta Hotel now stands to the right. (Author photo)

  Central Street photo shows dilapidated homes on Duggan Street during 1950s. (Photo courtesy of Tulk’s Glass and Key Shop)

  The north side of the old Bowring Park swimming pool, circa 1950s (Courtesy of the City of St. John’s Archives, 19-03-045)

  Pioneer Restaurant, Portugal Cove Road

  (Courtesy of the City of St. John’s Archives, 01-65-020)

 
The London, New York and Paris store on Water Street, circa 1955 (Courtesy of the City of St. John’s Archives, 26-0--16)

  Fish being sold at Baird’s Cove on the waterfront.

  Dickie and I used to sell fish for fishermen such as shown in this photo.

  (Courtesy of City of St. John’s Archives, 01-41-136)

  Picture of the young Hunt family, circa 1956. Front: Calvin, Angus, Hubert. Back: Me, Mom, Dad, Ed. (Author photo)

  A card given to me by Brother John Buckingham at Holy Cross School in 1962. A good man and a great Irish Christian Brother. (Author photo)

  Dad’s war claim papers, detailing what he lost aboard ship when he was torpedoed in May 1942. (Author photo)

  Dad’s application to the War Claims Commission was accepted thirteen years later. Federal bureaucracy at its finest. (Author photo)

  Harris’s Barber Shop in 1981, several years before demolition of Brazil Square in 1984 (Courtesy of Ed Harris and Rick Harris’s Barber Shop)

  Brazil Square from New Gower Street in 1977, seven years before it was demolished. The Delta Hotel stands there now. (Courtesy of Paul Marette and Rick Harris’s Barber Shop)

  The old Catholic Boys Club (left) and Knights of Columbus (right), 1955 (Courtesy of Knights of Columbus, St. Clare Avenue)