Sleeping at the Sailors Home

    I had spent the summer in Europe, travelling, sight seeing and by some fluke, working for some weeks in the Bavarian Alps. But that’s another story. 

    Now I had taken the overnight ferry from somewhere on the channel coast, my memory fails me here as to the port of embarkation, and had landed in the morning at Lands End in the south of England. It was early autumn and the sky was very un-English, being sunny and bright but that was more than okay. I was about to resume hitch hiking around this part of the country for a couple of weeks until it was time to leave. In early summer I had booked a flight to Singapore and I had time to kill until it came due. So I set out walking away from the ferry terminal and towards the main roadway. Here again the exact details of the day fail me. I remember getting a ride with a man in a small car and us driving through narrow roads and picturesque villages. I also remember him as having the most, foul breath of anyone I had ever met. It was a small car and he was an inveterate talker of the type that has to turn to face you with each utterance. His face, scant inches from mine would go on about the history or the nature of the region while I felt the stench of a particularly bad foundry with each sentence. He was, as I recall, a nice and courteous man and was kind to give a lift to a stranger with a large backpack but still, it is his breath that I remember and the small car that was filled with it. 

    It was perhaps the next day or it may have been later that one that I got a ride with a young man of about my own age. He was a glazier and was on his way home from doing a bit of work away from the town he was based in. He had a wife of a few months and a row house and this job. We chatted about whatever it is that young men chat about and, as we were going through the region where Stonehenge is located he detoured so I could get out to see the monument. We spent perhaps an hour there that is only in my mind as the camera I had was in my pack and I wasn’t about to go looking for it. We must have hit it off as in my old address book I still have his name, Jim Yates of number 2 Shoreham Court, The Close, Shoreham By Sea, Sussex. I remember nothing more about him other than he gave me a lift, we saw Stonehenge and I was to write him but never did. These two were the first in a series of people that would show to me the kindness of the human heart in the treatment of a stranger passing through.

    The ride that led to the title of this piece happened on an early afternoon some time around the events of the previous two rides. I honestly can’t say which rides came first but on this day I was walking along a four-lane street or roadway on the outskirts of a town. I was at the base of a small hill walking up it, turning to face the traffic with my thumb out whenever I would hear a car approaching. I turned at the sound of another car only to see a medium size bus coming towards me. I waved at the driver and as he passed hands and arms of young women waved from the windows. I waved and laughed, as I knew that this was a no-hoper. I resumed my walk up the hill and was surprised to see the bus, which had crested the hill and gone out of sight, now backing up over the same hill and stopping when it got to me. The door opened and I was invited in. It was filled with the members of a Welsh girls school and a couple of teachers who were on their way back home after competing in a choral concert. I sat on a jump seat in the well of the entrance near the door and introduced myself and in turn was introduced to the choir of the school located somewhere along the English/Welsh boarder country. We chatted and exchanged histories and stories and for a while the girls sang Welsh songs as we drove along through the countryside. The whole afternoon was one of an almost surreal experience for me. It was the stuff of impossible to believe stories. A mid twenties young man being picked up by a bus load of young women and then being serenaded by old folk songs sung in an unfathomable language as we drove through rolling green hills. For an hour or two or perhaps more we motored along, going father north and inland towards some small town where the girls and their chaperones lived at a boarding school. I knew that it was a boarding school and a religious school at that when the girls started to pester the adults to let me accompany them so I could stay there overnight. It was momentarily considered and then the spectre of the chief nun raised its head and the idea was quickly vetoed. Of course no one was more disappointed than I.

    Since a night at the school was out I decided to head for Swansea in Wales and so at the turn off to that city the bus pulled over and I said my goodbyes to the girls and watched them drive around a bend as they continued their trip home. It was also time for me to get on with the rest of this days journey as it was getting late in the afternoon and the skies were turning grey. A road sign said SWANSEA 11Km and so I resumed walking and hitch hiking. Not long after I began to walk the rain began in earnest and since a wet hitch hiker has all the appeal of a wet dog when it comes to the thought of one getting into your nice car, the hopes of my getting a ride were rapidly diminishing. Few cars passed me and none of those stopped so I walked the entire distance. 

    It was dark when I got into the city and I hadn’t a clue as to where I was or what the availability of cheap accommodations were. I stopped a man on the street to ask if he knew of any hostels or cheap B & B’s. He didn’t know of anything in the area but he stopped someone else to ask them, they asked another passer by and soon there was a small crowd of men and boys gathered around me. None of this collective brain trust could come up with any ideas of anything that suited my needs. Then someone suggested that I go to the local barbershop. The barbers apparently were a font of local knowledge and if there were any rooms to be had they would know of them. So a young boy was dispatched to take and show me the way and off we went. 

    The part of the city I had stumbled into was one of the poorer areas and so changes had been slow to take place here. The streets were narrow and winding and in general had the feeling of olde Britain, a poor and down at the heels olde Britain but still, charming to a lad from the colonies. The barbershop was a small affair from the outside, one large window with the name on it, a striped pole by the entrance and a bell that rang as the opening door hit it. I opened the door, the bell tinkled and I stepped back in time. 

    It was a small, square room, bare except for a row of seats along one wall and two antique barber chairs in the centre. An elderly client occupied each of these chairs and an even older barber tended each of these. The chairs were not the chairs that I remember from my youth that were old and the worse for wear when I was young. There were no high backs with papered headrests for when you were reclined and lathered in preparation for the razor. There were no carved hand pumps on the sides of the chairs to raise or foot pedals to lower them and they seemed to be fixed in place. There’d be no spinning around when finished, to look at the results in a mirror. In fact I don’t remember a mirror in the place although there must have been one on a wall somewhere. The chairs were clad in the prerequisite red leather and had the ornate foot rests you would expect but the backs only reached as high as mid-spine. Each customer sat bolt upright and stared at the facing wall where a large open fireplace housed a pile of grey ash, above which hung a blackened teakettle, suspended on a swinging arm. Poor lighting completed the scene and only accentuated the greyness of the place.

   The barber farthest from me stopped his work and I began to introduce myself and to explain what I wanted. I was told to speak up, as both he and his partner were hard of hearing. This turned out to be a bit of an understatement. I stepped closer and spoke up. Still I was not heard and after several attempts to make myself understood I ended up screaming into the poor mans ear. This seemed to work. I asked if they knew of a place in the area where I could get a cheap bed for the night. He turned to his partner who was still cutting hair and the two of them began a high decibel conversation. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Eventually they seemed to agree on a place that might be suitable and the first man now proceeded to tell me what they had decided upon as though I hadn’t been able to hear them. People on the opposite side of the street could have heard them. He motioned me close and then pulling me down to him he began to yell at top volume in my ear, working I suppose, on the premise that if he couldn’t hear neither could anyone else. This done and my hearing now slightly impaired the two of them revised the instructions, again at window rattling volumes. Then again I was drawn close for the new instructions to be given and my future hearing to be yet again compromised. Through all this the two customers sat motionless, never changing their poses or expressions as the walls reverberated with the goings on. I thanked the two old men, took one last look around the shop and retreated through the door back into the damp, night air and the narrow streets. 

    The place I was looking for was a few blocks from the barbershop but was not difficult to find and within a short time I was standing in front of a two story, long, rectangular building that sat directly on the sidewalk. Two steps leading to the front door jutted into the path and these I mounted and opened the door of the Sailors Home, or as it had been called by the barber, the Home For Homeless Sailors. I entered a room, painted institutional green if I recall and which seemed to be the lounge/registration area. There was a desk in one corner, which I suppose was where you signed in and a number of chairs of varying degrees of comfort centred around a television. From these chairs faces turned to look at and a man stood to greet me. I explained to him that I was looking for a room for a night or two and this place had been recommended by the barbers. When I mentioned the barbers the mood, which had been cautiously curious now became friendly and welcoming. The two old boys seemed to be highly regarded by the residents of the home and the mere fact that they had suggested it to me and had given me instructions on how to get there seemed to be all the recommendation that I needed. I was welcomed in and was introduced to a couple of the men around the TV. I was then taken upstairs to the sleeping area and shown where I could put my stuff and which bed I could have. After stowing my gear I excused myself for a while and went out to get a bite to eat at the neighbourhood greasy spoon. When I later returned to the home the same men were in the same chairs watching the same black and white TV. I was again greeted with enthusiasm and as we stood talking watches were checked and it was noted that the pubs had now opened from the dinnertime closing hour. I had been introduced to one old gentleman when I first arrived and he now insisted that I join them for a drink at the local. I tried to beg off pleading poverty and a lack of fondness for English beer but there was no dissuading them so we set out for the pub, which it turned out, was only a few doors up the street. 

   In the nineteen eighties there was an advertisement for a brand of breaded fish sticks called Highliner and the spokesperson for this brand was a character actor who went by the name of Captain Highliner. In later years this character was slimmed down and trimmed up in response to a heightened awareness of calories and cholesterol but in the original he was a large, full bearded man made even larger by wearing a bulky, cable knit sweater. He had white hair and beard, high cheekbones and I think, smoked a pipe. This was, to a tee, the gentleman at the home. He was perhaps a bit more weathered than his TV counterpart and the beard was stained in places by the smoke from his pipe but he was the archetypical old sailor that is housed in our minds. There is a painting by one of the Weyths of a sailor on a pier that is this mythical old salt. My new found friend and potential drinking buddy could have posed for that picture, right down to the appropriate sweater.

     So with me in tow the trio of men from the home set off up the street to the local pub. There is another image that most of us carry with us of the cosy British drinking establishment, all aged wood and stained glass, the cheery publican and his wife serving drinks and dispensing chit chat to the regulars, all on a first name basis. I’ve been in such places, chatted with the bar keeps and waitresses and once or twice in a burst of camaraderie the place broke into song with most joining in. This was not one of those places. This had more in common with the “beer parlours” of protestant Ontario that were the “men’s rooms” of my youth. This was a utilitarian drinking room, a large rectangular hall, brightly lit by fluorescent tubes, it’s dingy walls housing a multitude of small Formica tables and hard, uncomfortable chairs. It seemed huge and cheerless and just after opening was already packed with men being served pints of beer by harried waiters. 

    We found a table, sat down and within moments had mugs of warm, dark beer plunked down in front of us. This was to be my first taste of beer drunk as it has been drunk in England from the earliest years, at cellar temperature, which would be warm, dark and thick to my taste buds. I sipped at it. The others quaffed and chided me for not keeping up. I made up excuses, pleaded lack of drinking expertise, told them I was used to colder, lighter beer, used the no money ploy but all to no avail. I was one of them and was expected to match them pint for pint in a contest that was sure to have me begging for mercy. Still sipping my half finished beer another round was ordered and a fresh pint was put before me. I struggled to finish the first pint, as they were finishing the second one and a third beer was placed in front of me. I told them I couldn’t afford this but was told that my money was no good, the evening was on them. I drank and listened to the stories and the gossip, the tales of being at sea on trawlers and freighters and the tales of the road told by one of the men who was a long haul truck driver now on meagre times. 

    At some point in the evening a fight broke out between two men in the centre of the hall and the waiters converged on them. There was a moment’s stand off and then the two men left by the front door. The normal hubbub of the place resumed and was scarcely broken some time later when the two men re-entered the room and strode to the table, which still held their drinks. One mans shirt was torn and both had blood on them, they were dishevelled and sweating but it seemed that what ever had caused the fight had been resolved. They stood at the table drinking the remainders of their pints then both turned and went back out the door, presumably to resume the fight. Later on they both returned to the table and sat together, blood stained and worse for wear but whatever was bothering them now out their systems. My friends had continued to order drink after drink but by now they had come to the realization that I was a lost cause as a serious drinker. With only the occasional admonishment to “drink up” I was left to my own pace, which had now crawled to a halt. At some point in the evening I begged off and left them to themselves. There were still a couple of hours until closing and I was spent. I made my way back to the home and went straight to my bed. At one point during the night I woke to use the bathroom and saw the trucker sprawled on a cot near mine. Where the rest were I didn’t know or particularly care, I was still woozy from the drink and the room spun as I made my way from the toilet to the bed where I once again passed out.

    I was wakened in the morning by my sailor friend calling me for breakfast. Light that was much too bright streamed in through the uncurtained widows that faced the street. I felt unwell, really unwell and it was only with an effort that I was able to rise and descend the stairs to the dining room. I could have used a couple of strong cups of coffee but it was weak tea that was served. Not being a tea drinker I managed to choke some down. I knew that I needed something on my stomach, if for no other reason than to have something to throw up; a case of the dry heaves had accompanied my morning ablutions. I was shaky but stable and only a little green when the breakfast meal was brought in and laid before me. My guts tightened and I fought the urge to leave immediately. The men had, out of kindness for me made a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs and that English favourite, fried tomato. The two eggs stared up at me like great jaundiced eyes floating in a liquid slime of half cooked egg white. Greasy, fatty bacon, again barely cooked, sat beside the shrivelled slice of tomato. They stood and beamed, telling me that they felt I probably needed something to settle my stomach, all of them proud as punch at their effort on behalf of this pitiful Canadian lad. I thanked them and began to eat, each forkful was an effort to choke down but I managed to do it with liberal helpings of dried toast to sop it all up. So far so good but the day had just begun.

    I had envisioned a day of recovering in bed until noon or so and then seeing a bit of the town, taking the afternoon to recover from the abuse of the night before. The men had different ideas. I was told to hurry up and get cleaned up as it was getting on ten o’clock and the pub was soon opening. Again I tried to beg off but it was not to be and so I found myself, hung over and unwell standing in a line up of the same men from the night before waiting for the pub to open its doors. The morning sun, the bad food and the effort of staying upright suddenly caught up with me and I hurried back to the home just in time to reach the toilet and then flop on the bed for a much needed lay down. I spent the day then much as I had planned. That evening the men seemed to realize that I had years of training to go before I could ever hope to reach their feats of intake and so I was let off the hook from being one of the boys. For the next couple of days I came and went as I pleased and would join them for a beer or two in the evening. The expectation that I was a junior version of them was gone and we enjoyed each others company knowing that we were not just from different places but also from different times as well. I eventually moved on to other places and at least one other memorable morning meal but over the years I often thought of the men and in particular the old sailor. He was a kind, old man who had lived a rough life around and on the sea but whatever he had been, whatever led to his living in a home for indigent sailors he liked me and I liked him and was more than appreciative of the help and kindness that he gave. 

Eddies - A letter written to a man asking if I had photos of the old Windsor Hotel, Pembroke, or of the barber shop of that establishment.

  I don't have any photos of either the old Windsor Hotel in Pembroke or of  Eddies barbershop but I do have memories of both. As a shy young boy in the fifties Eddies was my window, my introduction to the world of men. I would go up the steps of that old hotel, walk past the reception desk and lobby where invariably sat a guest reading a paper, past the smoke shop and down the hall to the barbershop where I would enter in to one of the mysteries and delights of the adult world. 

   Here was Eddy as I remember him. A large man standing by his chair, always with a customer having  his hair cut and one or two others waiting their turn. As often as not there was one old man sitting, not wanting service, just there to pass the time of day by chatting with Eddie or with the other customers. It was not unusual in those days to have one of the waiting men to pass his turn in the chair so he could sit a while longer and talk with Eddy or the other lads of a certain age before heading home to women and chores and things to be done. Or perhaps postponing going home to a lonely room which may have been just up the stairs as the Windsor rented inexpensive rooms by the month.    

  This, to me was all a bit foreboding but enticing. I lived a “Leave It To Beaver” sort of life then, of middle class normality, of sit down suppers at the dinner table, of church on Sunday and a dog waiting at home for my return from school. A polite world where bad things never happened. 

Just entering into the hotel was, in my mind, stepping away from that world. Eddy's barbershop had the hint of cigar smoke mixed with the smells of talc and spicy aftershave that'd be splashed on his hands and rubbed on the face and neck of a freshly barbered customer. There were chairs covered in red leatherette and spittoons and a large centre table with magazines to read while you waited. Oh those magazines. These were things never seen in my home or the homes of anyone I ever knew. True Detective, True Crime, Argosy and all that ilk with lurid covers of  crime scene photos or staged scenes, invariably of a woman with the back  of one hand stifling a scream while the other fends off a man with a five o'clock shadow and lust in his heart. And the newspapers, no New York Times here. Here were more crime stories, boxing and wrestling horrors of bloodied faces and mangled bodies all printed on yellow or pink newsprint. 

There were posters on the wall of past teams for the Maple Leafs or Montreal Canadians where the players, now of legend, would be posed with the Stanley Cup. 

The ads too, for Clubman Talc and aftershave, Wildroot Hair tonic, Brylcreem – a little dab'll do ya! - and although I don't recall I hope there was at least one calendar with a picture of a pretty girl demurely displaying more of her charms than my mother would have approved.

Eddy's was the only place I have ever seen, outside of the movies, a man with his face wrapped in a hot towel, awaiting a shave. And then the preparation for that shave as the straight razor was honed to a gleam on a long leather strop, as lather was whipped up in a mug and generously applied to the face and neck of the waiting man and then the first swipe as that thin blade scraped away lather and whiskers and was wiped clean on a fresh towel draped over an arm.

I liked going to Eddy's because even though I was a boy he was never condescending, never talked to you as other than man to man. Leaving there I always felt I was one of the boys in a club I didn't understand all the rules for yet but bit by bit I was learning.

 There are three barbershops of note in my life. A small place on a back street of Swansea, Wales where Dickens would have felt at home, a chair outside on a cobbled lane in Xilitla, Mexico and Eddy's.

They say we live on until all memory of us has faded. Well, Eddie, long past on and the old Windsor Hotel, long since burnt to the ground still exist, still are there, if only in my memory.