Mildred McDonald
The Kitchen Window
By Mildred McDonald
The long weekend had begun rather badly those fifty odd years ago. I had been following a jumbo-sized moving van which had completely obscured the left-turn signal accessing the Georgia Street viaduct in downtown Vancouver one afternoon, and when it had turned, I followed closely – missing the light. At least that was what the officer had explained when he caught up with my husband’s ’55 Plymouth sedan that I was driving. Among other pertinent questions that he asked me, one was, “Where do you live?” When I replied, “Langley” he said, “Well, I know they don’t have these kind of signals in Langley, so this time I’ll just give you a warning.”
He then strode back to his cruiser, and I sped on towards Horseshoe Bay where I hoped to board the Black Ball ferry to Nanaimo. Hopefully, my husband would arrive by bus from an up-island logging camp in time to meet me for supper at the Talley-Ho hotel.
The trip across the water was speedy, and almost before I knew it I was nicely settled into a comfortable room on the second floor of the hotel – with a wide-angle view of the parking lot. As I was checking out the scene below, the telephone rang. It was my good man calling, and announcing his arrival at the Bus Depot; and also wondering if I could locate it in the unfamiliar territory. I quickly asked directions at the front desk and set off down the main thoroughfare, and within a few blocks had recognized him standing on the curb, hovering over his old club-bag and an unwieldy ‘cookhouse’ Gladstone. We stowed his belongings into the trunk, and he slid into the driver’s seat and headed back to the Talley-Ho for our suppers.
Later, we had scouted about the town for awhile before the day waned. As my husband was feeling the strain of overtime in the machine-shop where he worked many long hours every day – and evening, at dusk we had returned to the hotel. Since our room overlooked the well-lit parking lot, he backed his Plymouth into a slot directly below the window. As well, it was conveniently near a side entrance door to the hotel, to which I had been given a key upon checking in.
Even as early as the ’50’s, we had been hearing reports of automobiles being hi-jacked, trashed, chop-shopped or sold ‘down east’. However the matter didn’t concern us a lot, as it seemed to be happening mainly to other people – in other places. Little did we know.
It happened just as I was dozing off that I became aware of a bit of a ruckus outside. I crept across the room to the window, and there, rambling jubilantly across the parking lot in no particular order, were several young men making their way towards the side door. From their swaggering approach I was suspicious that they may have been homeward bound from a nearby pub.
As I kept my eyes peeled on the activity below me, I noticed one fellow squat behind a station wagon that was parked next to our own car, and with a little click he had neatly snapped off the rear license plate and slipped it beneath his jacket. I thought I was seeing things – but then he stood up, moved nearer and squatted behind the Plymouth sedan, little knowing that I had a ring-side seat a few feet above him. Even though my husband was sleeping soundly in his ‘purring rack’, in a panic I bawled, “Joe! Joe! – Call the police. Someone is stealing our license plate!” That alerted the thief, who sidled swiftly into the side entrance.
The ‘phone was not direct dial, and the night-clerk at the front desk seemed completely thick-witted when I babbled out my urgent alarm to him. Seeing that he didn’t seem to ‘get it’, I flung my dressing gown about my shoulders, and with hair curlers pinned down and night cap askew, I scuttled down the stairs and hied along the long corridor to the front desk. By that time I could sense that the rest of the accomplices might be closing in behind me. The night clerk still didn’t ‘get it’. I begged him to call the police, but he said he would do it when he had time. I could almost hear him thinking, “What kind of a crazy lady is this!”
All was quiet the following morning when my hubby and I walked downstairs into the bustling dining room for our breakfast. As we sat enjoying our ‘loggers’ fare and coffee, all of a sudden my ears detected the obviously British accent that I’d noticed in the parking lot the night before. I cautiously turned my head for a quick glance, and there they were! Five well-dressed, professional looking young men were seated at a round table and ordering their breakfasts. (So, that night clerk had not had time to alert the police, after all). They were still seated and chatting leisurely among themselves as my hubby and I scurried up the stairs to gather our gear for a hasty departure.
He wished no part of searching for the police station, as his idea of a long weekend did not entail sitting in a line-up there. We settled ourselves in our vehicle (with license plate intact) – and headed out towards the Black Ball ferry, and home. To this very day I occasionally feel a guilt pang that we had not further pursued the incident – and at least reported it to the authorities.
*Cookhouse Gladstone: a sturdy cardboard box borrowed from the camp cookhouse – and cinched together with a rope or heavy cord, used mainly for toting greasy overalls and shirts home to be laundered.