Despite a few doubts swirling around, not to mention tears shed at the thought of leaving my beloved family… I did a re-think and agreed with my husband that a ‘trial-run’ to Canada might be a good thing, and so we, sort of, ’emigrated’ in the June of 1957. Travelling on the famous SS Île de France was an exciting prospect, until the voyage was cancelled, and we were booked to travel on a much smaller ship, The Italia. Nevertheless, although hugely disappointed, it appealed and it certainly was a first when we crossed that great stretch of water, and awoke on that last morning of the voyage to watch in awe as the huge figure of the Statue of Liberty emerged from an early heat haze and introduced us to The Big Apple! New York, New York! Wow!
After a joyful greeting from distant relatives who kindly put us up for a few days at their apartment in Brooklyn, they took us to see the many sights of New York. We were like two kids in a sweet-shop… There were no supermarkets in the UK then; no ‘spit-roast’ chickens to tempt you, Shops shut at 5.30/6.00pm. In NY some were open all night! And what about the size of their cars?! But what a disappointment Coney Island was!
The almost luxurious train journey to Canada was memorable…although we arrived in an unexpected, gusty storm, with young trees bent double, and worse still, no-one to greet us! Two friends, already in Canada, hadn’t received our telegram, it seems. Luckily, my husband had the phone number of an old pal of his and after a quick call, he kindly met us and put us up for the night. ‘Rooms’ and apartments were ten a penny in Toronto, it seemed, and the very next day, we found what seemed to be a clean and pleasant, temporary abode.
Within a few days we were job-hunting. My first job interview was confusing, and it had to be a no-no as it involved accountancy: the second, would-be boss was way too familiar…but the third one was spot on. It was as an under-secretary for one of the directors of Canadian Reinsurance, downtown Toronto and I had to take my first Street-car to work. But, how about this….my boss was a Count de Salis, a Swiss Canadian and a most pleasant man. I was hardly over-worked as his idea of busy was dictating half a dozen letters a day… A piece of cake; and we moved into plush new offices the frst month I arrived. The only fly in the ointment was the young French Canadian woman who worked the switchboard. She did not like me, apparently, soley becaue I was British! When she realized I didn’t bite, she later warmed to me. I also helped the big boss’s secretary – a most attractive, likable woman, much older than I, and mistress of a wealthy guy who owned an airplane, if you please!
As my husband had made me a toboggan, and we teamed up with another couple, we had fun that first Christmas whizzing down nearby slopes. Our director, a Mr. Clark, invited the whole office to a lovely, festive party held at his attractive house, where we sang carols around a piano and were fed and watered in a most generous manner. The next summer, we were also treated to a fun, summer party on a yachting island, so they really looked after their staff!
Although I’m poaching one of my husband’s memories, I must mention it as it was such a shock. He had an interview booked and was ushered into an office in down-town Toronto. As he approached a sturdy desk, his gaze fully met the man seated behind it..The man looked up and uttered ‘Eric? ‘flabbergasted that his former employee was also in Canada. Soon, they were shaking hands and patting backs..
”So, this is where YOU got to, Gerry…Everyone was surprised when you up and left the company without a word…’ The interview went well and my husband came home for dinner with a tale to tell…However the job itself was unsuitable and my husband only stayed there for a short time before training as a driving instructor. He had always loved driving and it suited him well.
“Weekends, we didn’t waste a minute. If we were not exploring some of the lakes, or more prominent towns, we went snorkeling and diving (Eric) and I loved bowling, the cinema, and we managed a few concerts. We also picnicked and camped at a place called Penetanguishene. The time just flew… BUT, as much as we enjoyed ourselves, there was an undercurrent of homesickness; we missed our families and friends in the ‘old country.’ So, after 18 months of adventures, we booked to return to the UK in the November, sailing from Montreal. We had to shovel the snow off the deck before we took off, and had a whale of a pre-Christmas party on board! Naturally, sadness and regret at saying goodbye to our new Canadian friends was present in the emotions, and we vowed to return to Canada some time in the future, as it is a beautiful country.
Our pleasure at seeing the family and our friends again was immense, and we had a joyous Christmas and New Year. As we had a temporary address and were undecided where to live, I signed on with a secretarial agency and found a position in the city, which one could say was going up in the world… It was for Otis Lifts (elevators) ha ha. I didn’t have one boss, I had around four, as there was a pool of agents working all over the country. They were a pleasant enough group of guys who usually dictated their needs onto a disc for me to type.
Then, one joyous day, life had another plan, and I discovered I was pregnant; (my desire to have four children was beginning to take shape!!) and, in the August of 1960, I gave birth to the first of our three sons, who we named Jason. I was over the moon to put it mildly. It was an emotion like no others… So au revoir ‘bosses’ and hello feeding schedules, old-fashioned nappies…cuddles and lots of love. Our little son was perfect!
© Joy Lennick 2024
Mum and I danced with joy as I learned I had been accepted al a ‘Junior shorthand-typist’ to work for a shipping company in the City of London for the princely sum of THREE POUNDS AND FIFTY SHILLINGS. If only I’d known…My boss was the most nervous man I had come across. He had a few facial tics and cleared his throat a lot; also moved in and on his chair several times an hour… (nearly ending up on my lap). He dictated several letters in the morning and seemed to deliberately hold one back until quite late in the afternoon, and wanted it typed THEN (at 5.30 – when we usually left.) I complied for several weeks, even though it meant getting a later train. He wasn’t a man one could talk to, although I asked if I could type it the next morning instead. He just said ‘No’ and that was that. I left the next afternoon at 5.30, with the letter untyped and was sacked the next day! There’s a pleasing PS: After treating two more typists the same way, the directors sacked HIM!
Working in Soho came next – the company Philip Morris Cigarettes – My boss was the director; a charming, polite, American man; a pleasure to work for. I also took dictation from another pleasant British man. I loved working in that area as it was so alive and bustling. At that time, prostitution was openly rife. And as I was returning home, there were many lurking in doorways, openly offering themselves “Fancy a good time, sir?” The up-market ‘ladies of the night’ had their own apartments in posher parts of town…I was never once accosted and felt quite safe. This situation changed after a few years and they all seemed to go ‘underground.’
By 1953, I had met the love of my life and we found a suitable flat to start off with, so I left the Philip Morris company to work nearer to my new home. I was to be secretary to Mr. Alexander of Alexander Waste Paper company. An extraordinarily shy man – very much like Charlie Chaplin in stature – he dictated in a whisper, nearly under his desk (no exaggeration), and whenever he had to leave his office, it was with head down and a quick dash to wherever he was heading…He was, apparently, a very intelligent man, but his cousin (?) a fellow director, had all the necessary attributes bosses needed and it somehow worked…I always felt very sorry for Mr. A and did everything I could think of to help him, but he really needed professional care. His appearances lessened after a while and I like to think he was receiving help. I was like a spare part, so looked around for another post. Before I left, there was a terrible incident in the ‘crushing room’ as one of the workers didn’t take heed of the necessary precautions and was crushed flat. Obviously, it deeply affected his workmates and family, and the whole company was stunned.
Concentrating on keeping a foothold on the dangerous glacier, high up in the Ötztal Alps on the Italian/Austrian border, German tourists Helmut and Erika Simon may have thought, fleetingly, about coming across The Abominable Snowman. But they must have been even more astonished – or perhaps incredulous would be a better word – to discover the mummified, clothed body of a man, who was later estimated to have been there for an astonishing 3,500 years! The year was 1991; without doubt a red-letter day in their lives.
Nick-named Ötzi, the discovery must have excited a whole raft of people, keen to learn more about their frozen find. It was believed he lived from 3,350 to 3,105 BC. He was around 45 years old when he died (probably violently, from an arrow wound). He was 5′ 2” tall, wiry and took a shoe-size of size 8. He was also left-handed. He wore a woven grass cloak, fur hat, a hide coat, skin leggings and had quite elaborate deer skin shoes that were lined with grass. 
His body was heavily tattooed, with 61 distinctive markings. It has been suggested these may have been therapeutic in nature, an early form of acupuncture.
He would, of course, also have had to make his whole outfit, starting with his ‘tit-for-tat’ (Cockney slang for hat) by killing a furry animal, and then a larger animal to make his own coat and leggings. (No Izzi Solomon, the tailor around the corner for him… He would have been disgusted with the stitching!?) 
Oh, how far humanity has come over the years! The ingeniousness of human beings is mind-blowing. Take one of the most basic human needs. Before paper had been invented, leaves or moss was used for personal hygiene purposes. For the Romans a sponge on a stick did the trick, but elsewhere broken pottery and corncobs(!) were made use of. The mind boggles… 
Early in the 1800s, two important discoveries were made: in 1804 morphine was extracted from the poppy plant by German pharmacist Friedrich Serturner, and the first modern general anaesthetic was created by the Japanese physician Hanaora Seishu, which he named Tsūsensan.
In the early 1900s, the first vacuum cleaners were huge steam or horse-drawn machines that worked from the street, with long hoses that went into your home through the windows. 
1928 saw a truly momentous medical breakthrough, when Penicillin was discovered by the Scottish physician and microbiologist Alexander Fleming. For this ground-breaking work, he shared the 1945 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine with Howard Florey and Ernst Boris Chain. 
I came across the most serious ‘coincidence’ I had ever encountered, while collating facts for my only novel The Catalyst. The book is based on the actual terrorist bombings of several London trains and a bus in 2005, the aftermath and a few fictitious survivors’ stories and fate. Because of the actual dead and injured, the subject was too delicate to write about at the time, and it was several years before I actually wrote the story and had it published.
The press also reported that the former Mayor of New York: Rudolph Giuliani was visiting London at the time of the attacks. He was staying at The Great Eastern Hotel (close to Liverpool Street station ) where TASE: The Tel Aviv Stock Exchange, was hosting its Economic Conference. Israel’s Finance Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, was the keynote speaker. Presumably this was intended as further fuel for the fire of mysterious and sinister goings-on. Newspaper editors and their owners are, for the most part, not usually shy of publishing rumours, gossip or outright falsehoods when it suits their needs.
So, it seems the Press over-hyped the story, perhaps misled by initial statements. Or maybe they just decided to go with a more colourful interpretation of events. Peter Power himself dismissed it as ‘spooky coincidence’. And the chosen date? It was indeed coincidence — but an unbelievable one? ‘Every week across the UK there are probably about a hundred exercises, tests and simulations going on to get crisis teams familiar with their roles,’ Power insisted. ‘We certainly do this regularly for many clients, the vast majority of them paper-based.’
Born in 1947 to devout Roman Catholic parents in Brazil, Paulo, it seemed, was an unusual, slightly disturbed child, who happened to enjoy writing. For some reason, his parents did not agree that their son should be a writer, but should choose a more ‘worthy’ vocation in life. His rather questionable behaviour thereafter, lead his parents to have him committed to an Asylum for three years. Upon release, he travelled and became a hippie, and then a songwriter and political activist, which lead to imprisonment and torture. His thinking gradually then changed, and he walked the gruelling 500 km pilgrimage road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and felt a spiritual awakening, which lead him to write The Pilgrimage, which eventually sold well, after a slow start. His second book, The Alchemist, was a simple, while inspirational story, about an Andalusian shepherd boy. Sales were also weak, and it was said that he literally begged people to buy a copy….Incredibly, over time, it grew in popularity, until astronomical sales figures were reached and it was translated into 70 languages!.
Paulo met and married an artist named Christina Oiticica and they bought two homes: one in Brazil and another in France. He became so successful, sales of his books reached 65 million and he started a Charity for deprived children and needy elderly people, much to his credit. One wonders whether his parents lived to see their son’s amazing achievements? He has now written 26 books – one every two years, and continues to prosper.
‘Alchemy’ (from Arabic and ancient Greek) is complicated and obscure and goes way back to an ancient branch of natural philosophy, historically practised in India, China and the Muslim world and in Europe in Western form. It was first attested in a number of texts written in Greco-Roman Egypt during the first few centuries. New interpretations of alchemy merge with New Age or radical environmental movements. Freemasons have a continued interest in alchemy and its symbolism, and in Victorian times, occultists interpreted alchemy as a spiritual practice and the merging of magic and alchemy is a popular theme.
While appreciating that being on this beautiful, while beleaguered planet, growing older comes with minor aggravations, I of course realize they could be major ones, so the gratefulness multiplies. Many others of my age, have huge hurdles to navigate. One thing, though, which seems in little supply, is energy. Despite eating fairly sensibly, exercising a little, and resting, long walks and energetic house-cleaning dwell in the past. But, as I have said before, at least, I’m doing better than a banana!
So, what is the purpose of this post, you may ask? Today I am tooting on behalf of day-dreaming and recalling the many joys of the past. Travel really does broaden the mind and garners intriguing memories for future use. Take visiting the delightful small town of Laugharne, set on the Taf Estuary in Carmarthen Bay, Wales. Home of a Norman Castle, an annual Arts Festival and twice home to Welsh poet/writer Dylan Thomas – famous for the radio play Under Milk Wood. We – husband and I – ‘came upon it’ while exploring parts of South Wales, in bright Spring sunshine, golden daffodils nodding their heads in greeting on the shore-line of the estuary, while a green tunnel of multifarious trees and bushes rose up to one side: a cool labyrinth leading to a pleasing café, set in a once grand house. En route, we passed the shed where Thomas spent many days and nights labouring over his many poems, and walked the same boards as he did in the Boat House – his former home overlooking the calm waters of the bay.
Although I was familiar with Dylan’s fame as a writer, I hadn’t read much of his work. A lot of it is for a required taste, but once I dug deeper, the alluring musicality and humour of it, intrigued me. Strangers to Anglo-Welsh (Thomas didn’t speak Welsh) may find it a tad puzzling, but as I am half-Welsh and lived in Wales for a few years as an evacuee in World War 2, it didn’t take long to understand his appeal, more especially his play. It must be said, though, that it does not invite an academic approach with all its many ‘voices’ and the sort of singing and ballads, suggesting a night of maudlin drunkenness and ribaldry. But the intended fun and echoes of laughter are so ’Welsh’ and alluring. .
Born in Swansea, Wales in 1914, Dylan Marlais Thomas became a Junior Reporter for the South Wales Evening Post, before embarking on a literary career in London. He established himself with a series of poetry collections, short stories, film scripts, and talks, and also lectured in the U.S, as well as writing Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog. The forming and writing of his ’voice play’ Under Milk Wood, constantly reworked over a period of ten years, was finally finished just before he left this mortal coil in New York, in 1953 just days after his thirty-ninth birthday. It is a sad fact that his special work wasn’t broadcast by the BBC until 1954, a year after his death, with a cast led by no less a man than the memorable, sexy. Richard Burton. Who better?! It portrayed lust, simple love, and a dream-world of gossip, including the ever open Sailor’s Arms.
There was something magical about Laugharne I couldn’t put out my finger on, and we visited on two more occasions when the sun performed on cue, and before returning home, I had written the first page of a proposed story starting: “Long-legged herons, picked their delicate way across the silvered waters of the bay like corned-feet ballerinas…” (I never did finish it…). More relevant, we visited the graves of Dylan and his wife Caitlin Macnamara, on a hill in the graveyard in Laugharne. They had three children and, apparently, spent a very ‘colourful,’ while brief, life, together.
1st January, 1999
“…A column of foot-weary and dusty soldiers and their pack horses approach. At their head is Centurion Marcus (I’d clean forgotten how handsome he is…) See how his body armour reflects the fiery sun-rays as he rides his Barbary horse towards the Salinas: scarlet and gold cloak a vivid gash against the cobalt blue of the sky, billowing behind him. He is off to claim his salary of salt: Sal, a common if precious payment for work well done, and conquerors… Before they leave, one of the Romans will fall in love with a Spanish girl and, until now, only she knew that the child she bore had Roman blood in his veins.”
70 worrying days and nights of seismic activity in the area of late. Suddenly, the wind drops, the sky becomes overcast and there is an uneasy calm over all. My palms are damp, my throat dry. I do not want to re-experience the inevitable…I am fearful as the earth begins to tremble and inside Carlos`’villa, plates fall and smash on the tiled floor. Then, a huge tremor wreaks havoc where it strikes in Torrevieja and all the towns and villages in the Vega Baja. In a little over five seconds, 32 people perish. Along with 36 animals, and 67 people are injured. As in many other households. tragedy descends on the Rodriguez family, for Carlos’ wife Maria,is making paella in her kitchen when the roof collapses on her. Fortunately, Carlos in out in the open with his two sons. All three survive. Uncle Jose – by now a bent old gentleman – is still asleep when the earthquake strikes, a sleep from which he will never awake. I am again overcome with sadness, especially for Maria, who was so full of life. As most of the survivors are now homeless, the reconstruction of the decimated town is ordered by King Ferdinand VII.
Hold tight…forward we go, to the year 1975. So many flags and bunting? And the sound of trumpets? Is my memory failing me? Oh, of course… General Franco has died and Juan Carlos is proclaimed King. I again feel cautious optimism- with countless others. I am sure a Democratic State will succeed.”
One morning, a few weeks ago, I decided to sort out some of my ‘paper piles’ – ALL writers must, surely, have them – and every now and again, they grow out of proportion Anyway, several old letters had strayed into the mini mountain and one was from my Uncle Bernard, written to one of his four brothers, way back in 1941. He was in The Royal Air Force, and wrote how peaceful things were and said they had just been on “Plane diving practice – I wondered what it would be like to go right down to the sea bed.” Prophetic words as it came to pass, as the Blenheim plane he was later in, accompanied by three other airmen, was – not much later – lost at sea.
Fast forwarding to the year after the war ended, 1946, saw me, accompanied by my Godmother, Aunt Doris, Dad’s youngest sister, on my first trip abroad, namely Merville in France. We were on a visit to Clemence, a friend Dad made, having been billeted near her café/farm-house during the war. She kindly sent us food parcels when the war ended. We received the warmest welcome and I had my first glass of wine, hic – nothing unusual for a 14 year old in France apparently…
Joy Lennick 