Brazil Street Page 15

  I wanted it badly. This was the first time I had spent money on myself. Yes, sir, I was now looking at myself as Mr. Independent, old enough to think that I didn’t need any more money from my parents. I was now a working man like my dad, and I was even supporting the family, helping them out with cash I earned.

  To me, it was more than just a camera. It gave me a sense of freedom. When I bought it at Tooton’s Photography on Water Street, I stored it in my room on the third floor of my house and hid it in a storage space behind a partitioned wall. I didn’t want any of my brothers to take it and use up all the film. For months I had looked at that camera in the store’s showroom. In its day, it was one of the best cameras one could buy. I couldn’t afford a real photographer’s camera, of course. They cost anywhere from fifty to seventy-five dollars at the time. But my Kodak was perfect.

  The only other person in the world who knew about it was my buddy Dickie White. God, how I wish I had the pictures now that I took with that camera! For months I enjoyed taking picture after picture around town. Alas, my beloved camera was stolen after I had foolishly left it in our clubhouse one night and failed to lock the door. Of course, I never did find out who took it.

  I bought the Kodak camera on a weekend in late May of 1963. The next day, a rare day off work for me, was a day to scour St. John’s to take my first pictures. I might even be able to sell my snapshots to the Evening Telegram or the Daily News and be rewarded with a contract with them to roam the city and take more pictures! The possibilities were endless. Tomorrow would be the day that the world’s greatest photographer was to be born. Within months I could be receiving awards for my photography!

  That Saturday morning, I was out of bed bright and early and headed down to Water Street alone. I didn’t want Dickie with me just yet, not until I had taken some pictures and developed them. In those days, photographers had to take their cameras to places like Tooton’s at the top of Brazil Street or Water Street, where they took the film out and developed it. It usually took a day or so. Each picture cost ten or fifteen cents to develop. The colour was not as clear as what you would see today, but the pictures were magnificent compared to the black-and-whites that we had before then.

  On my way downtown, I went into Frank “Fossie” Furlong’s store on our corner and took my very first picture. As I think of that first snap, I can see the inside of his store with perfect clarity. When you walked in, the first thing you noticed was a solid wooden floor that must have been fifty years old or more. To the left was an old Coca-Cola water cooler. Ammonia chilled the water to make the soft drinks icy cold. To the right was the counter where you were served. On the left of the counter was a display case which showed fresh buns and pastries for sale. Behind the counter and toward the centre of the store were shelves filled with products for sale to the public. I picture the store every time I pass by Brazil Street.

  First photograph down and many more to go. I was sure to get a few good pictures while walking the busy streets of downtown St. John’s. There was always something interesting to see on Water Street, with plenty of people out shopping. On Saturdays, everyone in the city went to Water Street.

  I popped into my place of work at Woolworth’s and looked around to see what my second picture would be. I snapped only one there: a picture of people riding the escalator. From there I went on to explore Water Street. I shot a picture of an old lady getting out of a cab. A Newfoundland dog became my next subject, followed by a drunk who was asleep on the sidewalk, then two young boys playing behind their mother as she shopped, and a view of old Water Street looking toward the east end. Maybe one day someone would use that shot for a postcard.

  I turned a corner onto George Street and went into O’Keefe’s Grocery to buy a candy bar. While eating it, I peered out a window overlooking the street and noticed two men coming from across the way who were arguing with each other. The verbal fight soon turned physical, and a few pushes and shoves went back and forth. Then, someone who was parked in a car nearby came over and tried to intervene. It was then the real fighting started. Two of the men started ganging up on the other. Instinctively, I lifted my camera and started snapping a few pictures of the fight through Lou O’Keefe’s window. I was only about a dozen feet away from the action. I never thought of it as anything that could land me in trouble with the law. I just thought it would make a really good picture for my first new roll of film.

  I snapped several pictures until I was satisfied that I had taken enough. A minute or two later, I left O’Keefe’s Grocery in search of more interesting sights. After an hour of walking around Duckworth Street and George Street taking pictures, I headed home to enjoy my supper.

  You can imagine my surprise when I arrived home and Dad said that a police officer had come by the house and wanted to talk to me about some pictures I had taken with my camera! He said the police officer told him I was not in trouble, but he wanted to see me at the Fort Townshend police station. Either that or he would drop by the house again later.

  Apparently, Lou O’Keefe, who was my friend Willie Rodden’s uncle, had seen me taking some pictures of the ruckus through his store’s window. After serving a customer, he came over to talk to me, but I was already out of the store and on my way. He had seen the brawl, too, and when the police came to break it up, he had told them that I was taking pictures—and maybe I had taken something they could use. I was not impressed by Lou at the time, but I knew deep down that he had good intentions.

  After I explained to Dad what had happened, I went to Fort Townshend, where The Rooms cultural facility now stands. Dad had given me the name of the police officer so I could get in contact with him. When I arrived, I nervously asked a secretary where I could find the officer. She told me to take a left down a long hallway and to ask another person there. I followed her instructions, and another officer led me into a small room to wait for another few minutes.

  I didn’t have to wait long. A tall man I assumed to be a police officer came in with a woman who was holding a notepad. The guy was dressed in plainclothes and not the usual black police uniform. Both said a friendly hello to me. I returned a quick hello and asked them if I was in trouble. The man laughed and asked me why I thought that. He said I would only be in trouble if I had robbed a bank. Right away, I said that I had never robbed a bank, would never do that, and had no plans to do so. He and the lady laughed at that.

  “Now, Robert, you can certainly help us catch some bad guys if you co-operate with us. I have a couple of questions for you. Don’t be nervous, because you are not in trouble, and this lady here will write down anything you say that can help us.”

  Well, it was like Dragnet, a popular television show at the time, all over again. They could be looking for a killer, and in all likelihood I had all the evidence they needed to solve the case in my camera. Now I was on the edge of my seat.

  “Mr. O’Keefe said that you were inside his store taking pictures when a fight started earlier today. Is that true? And if so, tell us about it.”

  Now, we only lied to authority to protect ourselves, but I knew that to lie to a cop when I might have witnessed something bad was to put my head in a noose. I straightened myself up in the chair and proceeded to fill them in on what I had seen.

  “Two men were fighting when I was in Mr. O’Keefe’s Grocery, and they were just arguing until it became more than that and they started pushing one another.”

  I mustered up all the courage I could. After all, I was in a police station and had to play the part.

  “While they were fighting, another man entered the fight and started shoving one of them. Then what I saw was two against one, and the other guy who had gotten out of the car, bigger than both of them, started arguing with one of them. I decided to take out my camera and take some pictures when two of them started to grab and hit the other guy, and one held the other as he was punched. I felt bad for him.”

 
Now it was the policeman’s turn to fill me in on what had happened.

  Unbeknownst to me, a police officer had seen the two men fighting as he drove by. He then got into the fray and punched the guy who had pushed the other. Both of the attackers were police officers. They tried to apprehend the other guy, but he fought back. Finally, the two policemen had had enough. They proceeded to take out a pair of handcuffs and detained the lone man.

  He said all of this happened while both men were off duty. In those days, a lot of police, council workers, and other officials drank a lot on and off the job. But seeing drunk people fight was nothing new to me. I’d seen it many times before.

  It was a great story, but it was not what I saw. I knew he wasn’t telling me the truth, or that the other police officer in the fight had not told him the truth. I saw two drunk police officers—if they were police officers—gang up on one guy. But who was I to tell a cop he was wrong, especially when I was in a police station?

  As I passed him my camera, he said he would have to hold the film for “evidence.” He told me there might be a reward offered if the assailant was convicted. When I heard this, I looked at the fight from a different perspective. A possible reward for taking pictures? What could be better than working with the police and earning a reward for it? I asked him how long they would hold my camera, and he said he probably only needed the film inside. I gave him my permission, as if he needed it, and with the turn dial he rolled the film to the end. He took out the roll and passed the camera back to me.

  I signed a piece of paper the lady handed me, which verified that I had willingly given the police officer my film. She left with the document in her hand, and then the cop did a funny thing. He asked me what the film had cost me. When I told him, he went to a desk, unlocked it, and took out a strongbox. He unlocked it and took out a five-dollar bill, which he passed to me. I looked at him in amazement.

  “Just in case we have to keep the film for evidence, you can buy some more film to use in your camera.” Not bad . . . now I had enough money for two rolls of film! I got up and started to walk away.

  “Now, Robert, this is a very serious matter, so I am sure I have your word that you will keep this between you and me. Okay?”

  I nodded a quick yes. Fat chance, I thought. I would have to tell Dickie about this! He would never believe it.

  With the lady gone, the cop said the altercation with the men on George Street was being taken very seriously and that the police officers involved could be in serious trouble. That was all he was allowed to say. He reminded me to keep it between him and me and “Mrs. Powell,” adding that he would be in touch with me later if he needed me as a witness. The cop then shook my hand and escorted me to the front entrance.

  To this day, I have no idea why he told me all of this. He could have just taken my camera and film and shown me to the door. After all, he was a cop and could do anything that he wanted. No one would question him for doing that. I left with the feeling that justice, or what I perceived it to be, would be done and the bad guys would be put in jail. When I got home, I told Dickie about what had happened. He didn’t know what to think.

  I didn’t hear back from the police officer for weeks. Curious, I decided to go back to Fort Townshend. I must have been crazy at the time, but I felt that I should have heard something by now. After all, I was the main witness to a serious crime that had been committed by two police officers.

  As soon as I arrived, one of the guys from the fight walked past me and got into a police car. I immediately went in and asked for the officer who had questioned me. After waiting in an outer room for a short period of time, I was greeted by another cop who told me that the officer I was looking for was not available. He would let him know I had dropped by and get him to call me later.

  Weeks turned into months and I had no call from any police officer. I watched News Cavalcade daily for weeks, but nothing was reported about the fight. It was not going to happen. I then decided to head down to George Street and check with Lou O’Keefe to see if he had heard anything about the incident. He told me he hadn’t heard a thing.

  A short time later, I got in touch with a policeman friend of mine, Constable Harold Brown. We had become friends after he came to my aid while I was being picked on—and robbed—by a man in front of the Belmont. I told him what happened with the camera, and he said he would check into the incident for me. Some time later, he told me he had checked at the Fort but hadn’t heard anything about such an incident. The only thing he could figure was that maybe the police officer was friends with the accused and had taken my film to destroy the evidence.

  I often wonder what the film showed of the fight.

  Several years ago, while I was at a local flea market, I spotted the same type of camera I had lost all those years ago. I purchased it for the exact same price: seven dollars!

  Come Home Year, 1966

  I briefly mentioned Come Home Year in my first book, Corner Boys, and the effect it had on my mom before she passed away the following year. She got to spend it with her brothers and sisters before the end of her life, and it meant something special to all of us. Those two weeks with my extended family are some of the best memories I have.

  In 1966, Newfoundland and Labrador had an influx of people never seen before in its history. Those displaced Newfoundlanders who had gone away for work different parts of Canada, the United States, and other areas of the world came home to reunite with their relatives and friends. Many of them had not seen their native soil in decades. I know that my mom had not seen her brother Angus for nearly thirty years.

  To help with the growth of the province’s economy, in 1965 the Smallwood government put together a campaign to call out to “every Newfoundland son and daughter” to come home the next year. It was a brilliant idea. People who had been away for years were asked to revisit their hometowns. Of course, Smallwood also wanted people to come back to these shores instead of leave to find work.

  So began in 1965 a major ad campaign aimed at Newfoundlanders living away. It showcased to all the people in Canada what a wonderful place the province had become since we had joined Confederation with Canada in 1949. Newspapers were filled with ads and articles about the province’s riches. Licence plates were adorned with the Come Home Year slogan and the year 1966 proudly displayed on them.

  Advertising showed the Trans-Canada Highway with cars teeming over the newly paved road. Pictures of healthy, smiling children and adults showed a successful province and none of the poverty that was prevalent sixteen years before. There were also pictures of prosperous industries, such as fish plants and new places to work in mining and lumber. The campaign showed that all was well in Newfoundland and Labrador. In the midst of this were pictures of an always smiling Joseph R. Smallwood, the premier, riding the coattails of what he had accomplished. His cabinet spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on television advertising for Come Home Year ’66. Tales of the resurgence of our economy and prosperity spread everywhere. Ours was the place to be that year.

  Along with Come Home Year, the provincial government also announced that the Canada Assistance Program had finally passed in Ottawa. It was a plan to share the cost of assisting people on social welfare with money, and it would be put into effect on July 15, 1966. Under the Canada Assistance Program, each province would share the cost with the federal government. Parents were finally going to get much-needed help with everyday living expenses.

  Joey’s government had spent all it could on social services, and it had put a strain on the system. Money was running out. It became more difficult to bring in new services and expand the programs already in place. The main targets for the program were child welfare, homes for the aged, and generally people who couldn’t take care of themselves. Also, volunteer groups that worked with people who had special needs could also receive funding under this new plan.

  To some, it se
emed funny that this program happened to coincide with Come Home Year. It could have been a fluke, or perhaps Joey had arranged for it to happen that way. Some people cringed when he said on television later that he alone was instrumental in bringing the Canada Assistance Program here to Newfoundland. Regardless of his intentions in 1965, at least he was trying to help the people of Newfoundland and Labrador and indeed jump-start the economy.

  Anyway, the program asserted that people should get help and support based on their needs and their means. They should not have to prove that they were destitute before they received assistance but should only have to show that what they survived on could not cover their basic needs. For the first time in our history, we could pay for medical services, eyeglasses, nursing home care, and other essential supports. I believe that with all these great things coming our way, Joey knew the time was ripe for Come Home Year ’66.

  I remember my dad wanted my mother to wait another year so both their families could visit. But Mom knew that with her heart condition and health concerns, this might be her only chance to see her brothers and sisters. So, they made arrangements for relatives living away to come back to the island. And come home they did!

  All of Mom’s side of the family came back to the Rock, starting with Uncle Angus, who had been living in the United States for nearly thirty years. He visited us with his wife, Patricia, whom he had met in the US. Uncle Mack returned from Ontario after twenty years. My brothers and I had never met either uncle before. Aunt Violet and her husband, Bill Dicks Sr., came from Rushoon, and Mom’s sister Aunt Patricia came home from England with her husband, John, who was a doctor. She had met him here, and after they were married, they went back to his home in the UK. She had been living abroad for years. Finally, Aunt Josephine Barry came in from Placentia. Though it was only seventy miles away, she had not been to St. John’s for years. For once, all my mom’s family was finally home and together again!