Brazil Street Page 17

  Tom and Brian Healy are brothers who operated two Healy’s Pharmacy stores here in St. John’s for years. Their drugstores are closed now, as they have retired. They were good friends with Tommy Ricketts. In those days, many who began work in that field practised under the mentorship of an established pharmacist. They also trained at the Newfoundland Pharmaceutical School, located here in the city. Brian trained under Mr. Ricketts at his pharmacy on Water Street. Then as now, the Newfoundland Pharmaceutical Association served as the regulatory agency for the profession of pharmacy in Newfoundland and Labrador.

  In the 1960s, people often went to a pharmacist for advice, even before seeing a doctor. They were trusted professionals who not only dispensed medication but helped patients with their concerns and illnesses. Brian told me that there was never a nicer or more helpful man than Tommy Ricketts. He was dedicated to his profession, the students who trained under him, and his patients.

  I followed my dad’s example and always wore a poppy on Remembrance Day. He’d put one on as soon as they came out, a week or two before November 11. He wore it proudly, to honour the men and women who fought and gave their lives for all of us to be free. Every Remembrance Day, he would go to the war memorial to pay his respects. He openly cried when they played The Last Post.

  On February 10, 1967, Brian Healy received a call from a staff member at the drugstore who told him that Mr. Ricketts had suffered a heart attack. Brian rushed to the store to see what he could do, but it was too late. Dad took Mr. Ricketts’s death really hard, and more than once I heard him say, “He’s gone home to see the boys in heaven.”

  On a plaque where Tommy Ricketts’s store used to stand are some words that describe this wonderful man.

  While the words brave, gallant, and courageous are properly used to describe Tommy Ricketts, he was by nature a very mild-mannered person. Often thrust into the limelight by his proud past and admiring fellow-veterans and other Newfoundlanders, Tommy was a reluctant war hero. He felt that all who served during the Great War deserved honour and respect. He was never happier than with loving family or serving his customers. In 1967, forty-nine years after his gallant action in World War I, Tommy Ricketts passed away at his work, right here on this spot.

  I remember when Mom passed away a few months later that same year, Dad said that maybe Tommy Ricketts will finally get to meet her. I guess by now he has, and today I imagine Dad and Mr. Ricketts are together again, telling each other their old war stories.

  A Man Named Hey

  I’ve always had the greatest respect for the military. My father was in the navy, and he was quite proud of it. I remember a picture of him in St. John’s harbour, taken in the early 1940s, where he is standing on a ship ready for war, with Cabot Tower and Southside Road prominent in the background. He is in full military uniform, dressed as if he’s ready to do battle.

  Dad was in the Merchant Navy, and he had served twice in the Second World War. He went back to the war a second time after he recovered from a torpedo attack. When I joined the cadets in my high school years at Holy Cross, he would say how smart I looked in my band major uniform and with my shoes spit-shined. That was on Friday nights when I attended band practice. I guess I must have reminded him of himself when he was on duty twenty years before. When I made band major before my graduation, he said he was proud of me for achieving that rank.

  No one knows what goes through the minds of war veterans like my dad. So many of them came back from the war with no assistance from the government as they tried to integrate themselves back into society. I’m sure that the memories of many atrocities stayed in their minds.

  Every year, I go to the war memorial on Water Street and give thanks to those who gave their lives for us. When I went a few years ago, the silence there was broken by what sounded like a bomb exploding in the distance. It had probably come from a simulated cannon fired aboard a ship in the harbour. I imagined how frightening it must have been for men and women to hear that kind of noise every day during the war.

  When we asked him about war, Dad would change the subject or say that the war was over with and it was not to be talked about. He kept his secrets. The only time he ever spoke of the war was after he’d had a few drinks of rum one Christmas. We were shocked when he told us how many of his buddies were lost when they were torpedoed on the open seas in May 1942. His eyes welled up, and we could hear the sadness in his voice as he talked about his dead friends lying in the water. We never asked him about the war again.

  I knew veterans talked to each other about the war. Dad would go to Water Street to meet up with his buddies, and they would sit and chat for hours. I sensed that they would only talk to each other about what they experienced. Civilians just wouldn’t understand the sacrifices they’d made.

  In the years we strolled along Water Street, we’d run into some characters. People might call them bums today. They bummed money for liquor or food. Though he didn’t have much, my father always helped these people when they were in need. He would say that maybe one of them was the Lord Himself in disguise, or he could be a war veteran who was down on his luck and needed a helping hand.

  While roaming downtown, we came across such a guy. His nickname was Hey. He walked around Water Street slumped over, in a bit of a crouch. The guy was tall, but his body was twisted and hunched over. He weighed about 170 pounds, his hair was wavy, and he had a stare that made him look abnormal. With his grey hair and turned-up coat, he looked kind of sinister, like he was hiding something. He also had a bit of a shake to him, like he was convulsing. The man always looked as if something was bothering him. He was scary, so we stayed away from him for the most part.

  No one knew where he came from. It seemed like he had just appeared one day and started lurching around the streets. He was harmless enough until you called him Hey, and then his whole personality changed. Whatever he had in his hand, whether it was an apple or an orange, a rock or a hammer, it was sure to come heading your way. There were rumours that Hey had been shell-shocked in the war, but no one could verify it.

  Kids can be cruel, of course, and he was teased a lot. In fact, some adults teased him, too. Why they did that was always a mystery to me. The poor guy wasn’t hurting anyone. He was just a bit simple-minded and wanted to be left alone. We never teased him, or anyone like him, for that matter—Dad would have killed us.

  One day, Dickie and I were on Water Street and met up with Dad when he was sitting with a few of his war buddies. While we were talking, Hey walked up the street. Some teenagers were pestering him and making fun of him. They called out “retard” and “stupid” and pushed him as they kept pace with him.

  Suddenly, my father became aggressive. One of his veteran friends walked over with him and placed himself in the middle of the young kids. As we looked on, my father faced the leader of the group and warned him to “leave the poor man alone.” When the teenager asked why he should do that, my father gave him a hard look. I’d never seen him like that before. Even Dickie backed away.

  “My son, it’s better that you leave this man alone,” Dad calmly told the leader of the group.

  The young man could sense that things were about to get serious. Dad was about forty-five years old, short but solid and tough-looking. There was no doubt he could hold his own in a fight. But that look . . . it was damn scary.

  “Why should I do that?” the punk asked, trying to be the hero while his friends were around. He was starting to feel afraid, though. I could tell.

  Dad just looked at him before speaking again, just as calmly.

  “First of all, my friend, this man has done nothing to you, and secondly, he is a friend of mine from the war. He deserves your respect, so don’t make me ask you again. As I said, I want you and your friends to leave him be. I won’t ask you again.”

  Wow! He was telling, not asking, these teenagers to quit while they were ahead. Dad’s
friend stood by, ready for anything. The silence was deafening.

  The teenager knew that Dad wasn’t kidding. He looked at his buddies and, without a word, turned and walked away. A few seconds later, his friends followed his lead. I would have bet on my dad and his pal against anyone in the city that day.

  Dad went over to Hey and spoke to him. We couldn’t hear what he said, but Hey moved his head every now and then, nodding with understanding. Dad took some money out of his pocket and passed it to him. The chat lasted a few more minutes, and Hey nodded one last time before he walked away. He backed up a few steps, turned, and waved at Dad and his friends. The men at the table clapped Dad and the other veteran on the back when they returned to their seats, but Dad just shrugged. My father. That was him, always taking up for the downtrodden.

  The man called Hey didn’t speak to most people. He just wandered around downtown, talking to himself. Years later, after Hey had passed away, we found out that he was indeed a war veteran who had fought in World War II. People said that the war had done considerable damage to him, that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, and he was never properly treated. Dad told me that Hey had been injured while helping his fellow soldiers who were under fire. A shell had exploded next to him and sent him to hospital for several months.

  Those punks who teased Hey on Water Street never knew what Dad and his friends had gone through in the war. To Dad, Hey was a war hero, just like the rest of them, and he deserved the same level of respect. Hopefully those boys learned a lesson that day.

  My Last Trips with Canadian National Railways

  As a small boy I would lie awake at nights listening to the sound of the train and its whistle as it left the station on Water Street. I knew that my father was aboard those trains many times, heading west to Port aux Basques, which seemed like a millions miles away. I would say to Dad that one day I would love to take a trip with him on the Caribou, which was also known as the “Newfie Bullet.” His reply was always, “One of these days. We’ll see.” Little did I know that one day my dream would come true. Not only did my family take a few trips with Dad when we were young, I ended up working with him for two summers.

  When I turned seventeen, my father got me a job with CN during the summer holidays. My first year working was 1966, when my relatives went back home after Come Home Year. My older brother Edward was also working for CN. He had started the previous year. I didn’t work with him and Dad, as there were always two trains running to Port aux Basques on different shifts, but Ed and Dad worked together. I was on the 101, and Ed and Dad were on the 102. When I was working, they were at home, and vice versa. I made two trips with Dad my second year, but only one in 1966, when Dad was doing some overtime. Billy Hayes, Mom’s first cousin who lived at the top of Brazil Street, also worked with us on the “Bullet.” He and I took many trips to Port aux Basques together. He sort of took my father’s place looking out for me that year when Dad was working on the Caribou.

  When one train left St. John’s, the other was on its way back to the city, and they would meet for a changeover in Corner Brook. If I’m not mistaken, the changeover took place at a spot called Cook’s Brook. One train stopped on the side of the tracks while the other passed by on its return route to St. John’s. The name “Newfie Bullet” was an affectionate joke. It was really the slowest, but friendliest, passenger train in the world. The Newfoundland Railway had been in operation after making its first trip across Newfoundland in 1898.

  The trips to Port aux Basques in the late 1960s took twenty-two to twenty-four hours to complete, and of course it took about the same time—adjusting for stops along the way—to get back to St. John’s. The train left the city at eight-thirty or nine o’clock in the evening, and after stopping to drop off passengers and freight all through the night, it finally arrived at its destination 555 miles away.

  I’ll always remember the sound of the train as it moved over the tracks. The click, click, click of steel hitting steel beneath the coaches would lull you sleep. It always soothed me.

  It was hard work—actually, the hardest work I had ever done. Catering to a train full of people who had to be fed was sometimes overwhelming. I worked alone in the pantry area, cleaning all the dirty dishes after the meals. This included breakfast, dinner, and supper dishes for everyone on board, both crew and passengers. Each meal, from serving to cleanup, took about three hours, and only then would we get a break. I remember running to use the bathroom once and then hurrying back to find another mountain of dirty dishes!

  I was paid $144 every two weeks, a huge amount of money in those days. CNR paid its employees very, very well. It worked out to be about three dollars an hour in labour. I think Dad received overtime, because he was a full-time union worker, but I was working part-time and only during the summer months, so I didn’t get any. However, I did get some tips, as the guys working with me always included the pantry guy in their share of those gratuities. My pay went toward the upkeep of our house. Nearly all working kids in those days had to pay rent or help their parents with the household bills. So, about seventy dollars every payday went to Dad and Mom. I still had about seventy-five for those two weeks, and I put about thirty of that into a savings account.

  When we left St. John’s, it always seemed as if we had a full load of passengers. They were always friendly. I never encountered anyone who got out of hand. Sometimes the lead engine would have six or seven coaches tagging along behind, and other times we’d have two engines lugging eight to ten coaches.

  CN prided itself on giving people more than what they had paid for, and employees went out of their way to ensure that the passengers’ few hours or full night aboard was comfortable and that they were treated with respect. I helped people with their luggage and other things when my regular shift had finished. My father would always tell me to take notice of people’s concerns and to never say no to a stranger riding with us, regardless of what they were asking. If we had a problem with a passenger, then we should talk to someone in charge. Never attempt to solve it alone.

  But I didn’t have any major problems the two years I worked there. People were good to me, and I never saw a fight aboard any of my shifts. No one argued, and I didn’t see any of the staff trying to outdo one another. We took our jobs in stride and did them professionally. My dad and Uncle Billy loved their jobs and knew that they were lucky to have them. They made good money, plus tips, while other men in town were out of work.

  Our number one priority was service, and the second was to help other employees when we were off duty. Those who were disabled had a hard time getting aboard a train, even with the stepstools at the entrances. That first step was about two feet off the ground. I remember one night when a lady who was overweight had trouble getting up the first step. Billy Hayes and another porter and I had to help push this large lady aboard. We spent ten minutes trying to assist her—she must have weighed about 350 pounds—but we succeeded after one last, mighty shove. She thanked us with a dollar tip to each of us after we helped her to her seat.

  I dealt with important people who used the trains for business. Premier Joseph Roberts Smallwood and his cabinet used the rails quite often, and they had a full coach to conduct the busy work of Newfoundland and Labrador politics. They usually kept to themselves when they were aboard, and food and liquor were usually delivered to them. We didn’t bother them except to check on them from time to time to see that they had all they needed.

  Hockey teams from Corner Brook, Grand Falls, St. John’s, and other points in between used the trains to head out to play one another, mostly on weekends. Government officials, lawyers, doctors, nurses, and the common man travelled to St. John’s using the CN railway system. After Newfoundland entered Confederation, the railway was still largely used as the main mode of transportation for many people in the province, and the train was filled to capacity each trip, until the Trans-Canada Highway was completed. Owning
a motor vehicle was limited to those who could afford them, so transportation across Newfoundland was done mostly by rail.

  One night, we had a child about five years old who was with her mother, and we were told by train personnel to handle this girl very gently. She had just come from the General Hospital in St. John’s after having an operation to correct damage done to both her legs, as they had turned inward a few years after she was born. She had a splint and brace between her legs, with a bar separating her legs to make sure that they would keep straight during the healing process.

  Before leaving St. John’s, Shannon Coombs and I were sent into the railway station to help this young lady board the train. Her mother was very protective of her. The little girl couldn’t walk, even with crutches, so we had to carry her from her wheelchair to the boarding steps. Being very careful not to hit her legs, we took her from the station, walked her about a hundred feet to the train, and then lifted her up to the landing. There, two men then had to turn the girl sideways to make her fit through the narrow opening that led into the coach. When we stopped to let the woman and her daughter off in Corner Brook, she passed one of the stewards an envelope that contained ten dollars, which worked out to $2.50 each for the care we had given them. It was very generous.

  One evening, a guy named Dave Power and I were on our way back to St. John’s and got left at the station stop in Windsor. The train had stopped for an hour or so after a group of cattle blocked the tracks. Dave wanted to go to the bar across the track for a beer, but I didn’t. After some persuading on his part, I accompanied him on his walk to this establishment. We were only about two or three minutes away from the train, and we kept an ear out for the whistle.