Toronto, August Civic Holiday Monday – 1966
The morning sky heralded the approach of another long hot day in the long hot summer which had gripped Toronto ever since our arrival three weeks before. Already the heat was increasing in the Apartment which had cooled only sufficiently in the hour before dawn to arouse the sleeper so that he might pull up a thin sheet.
Mercifully, the windows could remain wide for just a little longer than usual. This was the day of the August Civic holiday and traffic at the junction below had decreased somewhat, so that we could at least hear one another speak.
Some four days previously we had bought a car, a white compact, which, to our eyes looked enormous. In England we had used a mini and so it was that the Corvair, at fifteen feet long, seemed far from compact to us. However, we were assured that this was an extremely popular model, alas it was a little too popular as we were shortly to find out.
We planned to spend this first day of freedom in Canada on a trip to Lake Simcoe. The children were clamouring for a day at the beach and so, after pouring over the map, we had chosen the Provincial Park at lake Simcoe, some sixty miles north of Toronto.
Out Apartment relied for ground communication on a single elevator. To obtain it at all at peak periods was something of a miracle. Before descending to the garage in the basement we packed our picnic and collected all the items necessary when one takes to small children to the beach.
Finally, we arrived in the cavernous space of the basement and groped in the half light toward the car. But there was no car!
Dropping our loads, we hurriedly and thoroughly checked the whole place. Our car was gone, vanished as though it had never been.
We called the Superintendent who called the police, and within a short space of time we found ourselves back in the Apartment answering question after question put by a very calm policeman. The night Attendant was roused. When he arrived, he declared that the car was definitely there at 8.15 am. But, he reported, he had seen three suspicious looking youths wandering around outside when he went home shortly after that.
Since that time, the garage had been unattended. It was a condition of parking that keys were to be left in the ignition. Thus, it was an easy matter for someone to walk in and help themselves!
By now it was noon and a rather depressed family sat down to the happily anticipated picnic accompanied by the roar of traffic and the midday discomfort of an Apartment that lacked air condition.
Shortly after 1pm, the policeman returned. Our car, he announced, had been found. In fact, at the time we reported our loss, it was already in police custody.
Alas, our troubles were far from over. The car had been abandoned when thieves had been surprised in the act of robbing a house. Already it had been filled with stolen goods. The clock showed that it had travelled just fourteen miles, which was exactly the distance between our apartment and the site of the robbery.
“Can we have our car now?” we asked, with visions of saving at least some of our day.
“Yes,” he replied, just as soon as you all go to the district where it was found and have your fingerprints taken. There are several complete sets of fingerprints on the vehicle and we want to eliminate yours.
The journey involved three different buses and took over an hour, for buses were few and far between on a holiday afternoon. Too late, we realized that a cab would have been almost as cheap as the innumerable cokes needed to combat the heat and dust of the afternoon.
At last we reached the correct Police Station and straggled in. I felt rather like a criminal myself as we answered an endless stream of questions and hoped we did not look too guilty.
Quite suddenly, I glanced back. There, immediately behind my husband towered an enormous silent policeman. A few moments late, at a nod from the desk clerk, he left as silently as he had arrived. Apparently, they believed us to be honest at least.
We were led upstairs and duly fingerprinted. Our reward was a slip of paper enabling us to claim our car.
“Where is it?” we asked eagerly.
“Oh! Its been towed to the Pound in Scarborough. That ticket will release it.”
“But that’s miles,” I exclaimed, “and the children are tired now.” They were four and two and a half at the time.
“I’ll give you the bus numbers and tell you the nearest stop. It should not take you too long.”
We set off once more and just an hour later trudged the last half mile from the bus stop to the pound.
Thankfully, we handed our ticket to the attendant!
“Come in the Office and sign for it” he mumbled. Dutifully we followed him inside and duly signed on the dotted line.
“Right, that will be ten dollars please.”
“Eh,” we gaped.
“Oh, that is our fee for towing it here. The rule is that the owner pays before the car leaves the pound.
Beyond speech we paid up! By now our car was at the Office Door. It was filthy and the interior was liberally covered with the white powder that had been used to show up fingerprints. On the back seat reposed a black leather jacket.
“That’s not ours, “we said pointing to the offending article.
“Then I will return it to the Police,” the attendant replied.
We checked the trunk. It was empty. Even our towels and sun oil had gone. But how gladly we fell in and turned the car toward home. It was 5.30pm and the end of a most imperfect and improbable day.
In the garage once more, we insisted on parking at the back and locking everything. He Superintendent argued to no avail. The keys would stay with us!
Confidently he declared “It has never happened before, and I am sure it will never happen again.”
Perhaps he was right, but of one thing we were sure, it certainly was not going to happen to us again. Once is enough for anyone!