Canada - a land to plot and plan for
Canada seems to have become a country to up sticks and head for. And I´m not just talking about it being an hospitable destination for refugees.It seems that it is becoming a des res land for the inhabitants of the country south of the border, down USA way.
I’m not going to go into the pros and cons of living in Canada. I’ve never been there although I wouldn’t mind paying a visit. But I have a read a bit about the country and although it appears that the National Health Service, the low crime rate, the virtually total lack of gun-toting, the year-long maternity leave, the good severance pay and so forth make Canada a very attractive place to sink roots, it is, for many Americans the idea of living in a Trump-free land that calls them.
And even in normal circumstances, some people believe it’s worth making an effort to get to Canada. When I first heard about the American post-election anxiety leading to inquiries about relocating up North, I thought about Robert, a boy who lived next door when I was a child in England. I didn’t really know him all that well, although I was a casual friend of his sister’s. He was about seven years older than I was and I remember him as a quiet, well-mannered, very decent boy, who grew up retaining all those virtues with the added one of being decidedly good-looking.
What I do remember very well is the kerfuffle he caused one day. He was twenty-three and still living with his parents, which suited his mother fine. Of her three children, Robert, the eldest, was her favourite. One Sunday afternoon, as I was picking blackberries in our back garden I heard a scream, a paralysing, brain-shredding scream that I recognised as coming from Mrs B. Another wail, followed by a sob. What was going on next door? Leaving my bowl of blackberries I crept to the dividing hedge and peered through it. Anne, Robert’s sister was coming outside and she was glad of someone to talk to.
‘It’s our Robert. He’s just told my mum and dad that he’s been making enquiries about emigrating to Canada. My mum doesn’t like it.’
‘So I hear.’
Another scream, followed by ‘You can’t do this to me. I’m your mother. You’re my baby.’
Anne went in to help matters and all was quiet. She told me the next day that his mother had cried the rest of the day and all night and Robert had reluctantly given in, promising not to talk any more about emigrating. I’ve no idea what his father thought about it.
But that was not the end of the story. Six months later, Robert, having decided that his mother was at least used to the idea of his emigrating, made further enquiries and booked an appointment for an interview at Canada House. He informed her that his intention was as strong as ever. His mother’s hysterics were equally strong and he ended up cancelling his appointment.
Another six months went by and the whole scene was repeated. And by now his mother was convinced that she had browbeaten and blackmailed him into acquiescence. Until one Sunday his dad looked out of the window. ‘There’s a taxi drawing up outside. I wonder who it’s for.
Robert appeared, case in hand. ‘It’s for me. It’s taking me to the airport. I’m off to Canada’ and went out the front door before his mother could draw breath. When she did, she was heard giving her usual wail while running after the taxi.
He could have behaved differently. He could have had a blazing row with much sobbing and slamming of doors. But by all accounts, he didn’t. He simply appeared to give in but bided his time, all the while beavering away at the paperwork, eventually going off with intransigent determination.
And was Canada kind to Robert? Well, he was a qualified electrician and soon found work. Then he started up his own business that did very well, he married a teacher and between them they became what my mother used to call ‘comfortable'. They had three children and as far as I know he’s still in Canada, doing very nicely. It isn’t an unusual tale and the basics could be repeated a thousandfold, all over the country. It might even be the sort of life some people escape from but Robert had escaped – to that life and by all accounts it suited him like a tailor-made shirt.
And what about his mother? Alas, she did not fare well. After a time, she and her husband went to Canada, tickets paid for by Robert, on more than one occasion but she had collapsed in some kind of hysterical attack and stayed in bed most of the time.
On a visit to my own mother some ten years later I was called in next door to have a look at the photographs and to hear a tale of woe. Mrs B had adopted a wan, sorrow-washed, lip-trembling face. It was a studied pose that she hoped would elicit from the neighbours sympathy and utterances of ‘You’re a plucky woman Mrs B.’ And she would sniff and smile bravely, ‘It’s our Robert going away that’s made me sick.’
Now blackmailing is a dangerous occupation and blackmailers ought to know when to give up. Mrs B never did and the slippery slope she had decided to slide on took her, in due course, right into the mental hospital. Over the years she had several stays there and eventually was penned up for good. Mr B found himself ‘a young lady’ (although ‘young’ was an adjective of politeness) and began to enjoy himself.
I do hope Robert never felt he was to blame for his mother’s self-inflicted suffering and general hysteria. I don’t think so. Canada had been his dream, his ambition, and eventually his reality. What more can you say?
I’m not going to go into the pros and cons of living in Canada. I’ve never been there although I wouldn’t mind paying a visit. But I have a read a bit about the country and although it appears that the National Health Service, the low crime rate, the virtually total lack of gun-toting, the year-long maternity leave, the good severance pay and so forth make Canada a very attractive place to sink roots, it is, for many Americans the idea of living in a Trump-free land that calls them.
And even in normal circumstances, some people believe it’s worth making an effort to get to Canada. When I first heard about the American post-election anxiety leading to inquiries about relocating up North, I thought about Robert, a boy who lived next door when I was a child in England. I didn’t really know him all that well, although I was a casual friend of his sister’s. He was about seven years older than I was and I remember him as a quiet, well-mannered, very decent boy, who grew up retaining all those virtues with the added one of being decidedly good-looking.
What I do remember very well is the kerfuffle he caused one day. He was twenty-three and still living with his parents, which suited his mother fine. Of her three children, Robert, the eldest, was her favourite. One Sunday afternoon, as I was picking blackberries in our back garden I heard a scream, a paralysing, brain-shredding scream that I recognised as coming from Mrs B. Another wail, followed by a sob. What was going on next door? Leaving my bowl of blackberries I crept to the dividing hedge and peered through it. Anne, Robert’s sister was coming outside and she was glad of someone to talk to.
‘It’s our Robert. He’s just told my mum and dad that he’s been making enquiries about emigrating to Canada. My mum doesn’t like it.’
‘So I hear.’
Another scream, followed by ‘You can’t do this to me. I’m your mother. You’re my baby.’
Anne went in to help matters and all was quiet. She told me the next day that his mother had cried the rest of the day and all night and Robert had reluctantly given in, promising not to talk any more about emigrating. I’ve no idea what his father thought about it.
But that was not the end of the story. Six months later, Robert, having decided that his mother was at least used to the idea of his emigrating, made further enquiries and booked an appointment for an interview at Canada House. He informed her that his intention was as strong as ever. His mother’s hysterics were equally strong and he ended up cancelling his appointment.
Another six months went by and the whole scene was repeated. And by now his mother was convinced that she had browbeaten and blackmailed him into acquiescence. Until one Sunday his dad looked out of the window. ‘There’s a taxi drawing up outside. I wonder who it’s for.
Robert appeared, case in hand. ‘It’s for me. It’s taking me to the airport. I’m off to Canada’ and went out the front door before his mother could draw breath. When she did, she was heard giving her usual wail while running after the taxi.
He could have behaved differently. He could have had a blazing row with much sobbing and slamming of doors. But by all accounts, he didn’t. He simply appeared to give in but bided his time, all the while beavering away at the paperwork, eventually going off with intransigent determination.
And was Canada kind to Robert? Well, he was a qualified electrician and soon found work. Then he started up his own business that did very well, he married a teacher and between them they became what my mother used to call ‘comfortable'. They had three children and as far as I know he’s still in Canada, doing very nicely. It isn’t an unusual tale and the basics could be repeated a thousandfold, all over the country. It might even be the sort of life some people escape from but Robert had escaped – to that life and by all accounts it suited him like a tailor-made shirt.
And what about his mother? Alas, she did not fare well. After a time, she and her husband went to Canada, tickets paid for by Robert, on more than one occasion but she had collapsed in some kind of hysterical attack and stayed in bed most of the time.
On a visit to my own mother some ten years later I was called in next door to have a look at the photographs and to hear a tale of woe. Mrs B had adopted a wan, sorrow-washed, lip-trembling face. It was a studied pose that she hoped would elicit from the neighbours sympathy and utterances of ‘You’re a plucky woman Mrs B.’ And she would sniff and smile bravely, ‘It’s our Robert going away that’s made me sick.’
Now blackmailing is a dangerous occupation and blackmailers ought to know when to give up. Mrs B never did and the slippery slope she had decided to slide on took her, in due course, right into the mental hospital. Over the years she had several stays there and eventually was penned up for good. Mr B found himself ‘a young lady’ (although ‘young’ was an adjective of politeness) and began to enjoy himself.
I do hope Robert never felt he was to blame for his mother’s self-inflicted suffering and general hysteria. I don’t think so. Canada had been his dream, his ambition, and eventually his reality. What more can you say?
No comments have been added yet.
