West End Kid: Tales from the Forties

By Chris Laing

This collection of exciting and bittersweet stories will bring a smile to your face or maybe even a tear. Root for the newspaper boy who suspects one of his customers is a Nazi spy. Will Annie Rooney lure the boys into joining the safety guards? And is there a thief on the loose at the boys’ summer camp? This coming of age collection captures the spirit of the times and reflects the age-old challenges facing every generation.

A reader calling himself Haligonian has written the following review::
"Being an old guy, I was attracted by the 'Forties' in the title. North American kids at that time could not grasp the seriousness of World War II; it just added another layer of excitement to the business of growing up. Chris Laing's detailed recall of the period is astonishing in itself. The added bonus is his ability to capture both the difficulty and the fun kids have working out their own problems and their bafflement with adult behaviour. A nostalgic and rewarding read."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Laing
• Release date: Sep 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992106225

Chris Laing

Chris Laing is a native of Hamilton, Ontario. He worked in private business for twenty years before joining the Federal Public Service, where he served in the Department of the Secretary of State and National Museums of Canada until his retirement.In the past few years he has expanded his long-time interest in detective stories from that of avid reader to writing in this genre. His short stories have appeared in a number of literary journals. His first novel, "A Private Man", was published by Seraphim Editions in 2012 and it was a finalist for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Crime Novel. His second novel in the Max Dexter series, "A Deadly Venture", also set in Hamilton in the 1940’s, was published in Sept 2014 and won the Kerry Scooley Award from the Hamilton Arts Council in 2015. It was followed by "A Family Matter" in 2017 and "A Devious Dame" in 2019. He is now at work on the next adventure of Max and Isabel."West End Kid" is a collection of short stories based loosely on his experiences growing up in Hamilton during World War II.

Book preview

West End Kid: Tales from the Forties

Chris Laing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright (c) 2013 Chris Laing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system – without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction, and the characters in it are solely the creation of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons – with the exception of historical figures – is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9921062-2-5

Cover Photo and Design: Copyright (c) 2013 Michèle LaRose www.michelelarose.ca

Editor: Catharine London www.catlondon.ca

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Nazi Spy

Par For the Course

Crazy Freddy

Sister & Hutch

Annie Rooney

The Surplice

Frenchy

Coming to Terms

Learning the Ropes

Biography

The Nazi Spy

I might not have agreed to deliver Moose Miller’s newspapers if he’d told me one of his customers was a Nazi spy. But that’s not something you’d normally ask a guy, is it?

It’s just for next week, he said. And if ya come with me now, I’ll pay ya two bits.

I’d done Moose’s newspaper route for him last year when he helped his dad with ice deliveries so I knew the route, but I thought, what the heck, wouldn’t hurt to refresh my memory.

We waited on the corner of Bowman and Sussex Streets for the once-white truck lettered HAMILTON SPECTATOR which now slowed and a skinny guy with a mean grin tossed out a bundle of newspapers, just missing Moose by inches.

Jerk! Moose screamed after the truck. Then he snapped off the wire tying the bundle and counted the papers. 66, 67, 68, Hey, we’re one over. He glanced up with a crafty glint in his eye. Now we get to sell it to some guy on the street. And they never just pay the three-cents it says on the paper. Usually the guy’ll give ya a nickel and say ‘keep the change.’ Pure profit.

Sister Theresa called Moose a blockhead in arithmetic class but when it came to handling his money he was smarter than Einstein.

The paper route started on Bowman Street. Ya got the list there in the bag, he said, but ya probly won’t need it after a time or two.

I struggled under the weight of the canvas bag as he called off the house numbers.

Okay, number 55, paper goes between the doors at the front. Number 51, in the milk box at the side door. Number 53, that’s Old Lady Bagshaw’s house, around the back in the box beside the coal bin. And if it ain’t there she calls the damn office. Ya don’t want that. And so on down the street.

At the corner we hiked along the T.H. & B. railway tracks to Broadway Avenue where we paused in front of Gus’s Confectionery. Time for a break, Moose said, I’ve still got some collection money on me. My treat. But you’ve gotta pay me back.

The screen door with the brown Stubby Orange sign on it slammed behind us as we approached the glass-fronted candy counter smudged with tiny finger prints. Moose looked over the display of jujubes, BB Bats and jawbreakers as though he were a big-timer surveying the fancy jewels at Birk’s downtown.

Gus stood behind the counter, scowling and tapping his foot. Buy it or beat it, he said in his usual growl.

Keep your pants on, Moose told him. I’m buyin’ for cash here and don’t wanna rush into it. Then he continued his scrutiny of the penny candies. Okay, he said at last. Gimme a nickel bag ― two licorice BB Bats, a couple of those black babies and how much are the red wax lips?

Gus sighed, looked out the window and mumbled, Give me strength. He turned back to Moose. Two for a nickel.

Too much, Moose said. Guess I’ll take the rest in those red and black jellybeans.

Gus opened a small paper bag with a quick snapping motion, swiped his bare hand across his dirty apron, picked the candies out of their display boxes and popped them into the bag. Anything else, Mister Money Bags?

Moose ignored his surly manner. Yeah. We’re gonna split a Hire’s Root Beer so we’ll need two straws.

We burped our way along Ward Avenue where Moose spotted a soldier waiting at the bus stop at the corner of Emerson. His khaki uniform showed the insignia of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry and Moose gave him a big wave. Hey, General, wanna buy a paper?

The soldier grinned and flipped him a nickel. Keep the change, kid.

Moose smirked at me. Toldya this route was a gold mine, didn’t I?

Just five papers remained in the bag as we stood in front of the Dunbar Apartments, a single-storey yellow brick building on the corner of Emerson and Whitney. And just as he had for all his customers, Moose had something to say about each of the Spectator readers there.

This is easy, he said, just drop the papers at their doors. Number one here, Matthews, she’s a teacher at the Protestant school. Number two, DaCosta, old guy who never has any dough when I come to collect. Owes me for three weeks, the bum. Number three, Flanagan. Boy, has she got a set of knockers on her.

I gasped. What?

Yeah. His eyebrows did a Groucho Marx dance. Couple weeks ago she comes to the door with this pink bath robe on, hangin’ open in the front. Boy, did I get an eyeful. He pointed at his eyeballs in a V for Victory sign. Two eyes full.

So what’d they look like?

What did what look like?

Sometimes he could be as stupid as a kid brother. Her knockers.

Oh, Yeah. Beauties. Like two big white melons.

I sighed. Jeez.

Toldya this route was a gold mine. Now, number four, Jaworski. Got a mean little dog but I pretend I like it ‘cause the lady’s a good tipper. Number five, skip it. Tried to sign him up once but the guy said he couldn’t read, the liar. And, last paper, number six, Hinds. He bent his head close to my ear and whispered, This guy’s a Nazi spy.

I flipped the paper toward his door imagining a live grenade arcing into an enemy foxhole. Then we beat it out the back door.

Out on the street, I caught my breath and gaped at him. You sure he’s a Nazi spy?

No shit, he said. My old man told me. He delivers ice to these apartments and the guy who can’t read in apartment five told him.

Well, how does he know?

Moose fidgeted. Getting the facts straight wasn’t his strong suit. Well, he lives right next door to the spy, dummy. Says he hears him talkin’ in a strange language. And he says his name ain’t Hinds. It’s really Heinz. H-E-I-N-Z. Toldya he’s German.

But how does he know that?

He squinted at me as though he were speaking to a dimwit. It’s on his mail. This guy had some of the spy’s letters delivered to him by mistake.

But I thought he couldn’t read.

Moose wagged a finger at me. Toldya he’s a liar.

It seemed to us that Nazi spies outnumbered the civilian population in Hamilton during the war, especially in our neighbourhood. We learned from our Johnny Canuck comics that spies were put ashore in Halifax from German submarines, then they infiltrated cities right across Canada and reported our secrets back to Deutschland. So you had to be on your guard and I had no difficulty believing a Nazi spy lived in the Dunbar Apartments.

Not only is this guy Heinz a spy, Moose said as we walked home, but he knows you.

What?

That’s right. Don’tcha remember the night before Halloween when we were out doin’ pranks and that doctor chased us?

Good Grief, I’d never forget that. Kids in our neighborhood observed the night before Halloween as Trick Night: soaping windows, knocking on doors and running away to hide, and the old can-of-pee caper.

Moose, Jonesy and I had pounded on the front door of the doctor’s house on the corner of Forsyth and Main Streets. We high-tailed it to the park across Forsyth intending to hide but the guy sprinted out the door like Jessie Owens at the Olympics and chased after us.

Lucky for us, the doctor ran out of gas when we cut across to the Sunken Gardens near McMaster University. By the time we pulled up at the gold-fish pond we were puffing like T.H. & B. steam engines. And the surprise of being chased sent an urgent message to my bowels. I squatted behind a park bench in the corner of an alcove near the pond, anxious to finish in a hurry. Moose stationed himself as a lookout on higher ground at the top of the concrete stairway.

Too soon, he yelled. Take off. Here comes the gardener.

I stared in panic at the thin man who appeared at the corner of the alcove, not ten feet away. Hands on his knees, he gulped for air as he glared at my business. Pants still around my ankles, I tried to pull them up and roll over the bench at the same time. While I was in this shaky position, he lunged and swatted at me with his leather work-glove, connecting dead-centre on my keister. Somehow I yanked up my pants and flew up the stairs before he could recover. I heard him cry out. Scheisse!

You’re tellin’ me that the gardener–

Right! That’s old man Heinz. He’s the Nazi spy.

Hang on a minute. How can he be a spy if he’s a gardener? What kinda secrets can he report?

"Just you wait a minute, Dumbo. Maybe he’s only a gardener but he works at McMaster, eh? And ya gotta know there’s a lotta secrets at a university."

He had a point there and everyone said you had to be on guard during wartime even on the home front. Confusing, but what did I know? They also said, Loose lips sink ships, and I never understood that either.

The following Monday after school, as I listened to Sing, Sing, Sing my favorite Benny Goodman record, maybe a bit loud, my mother sent me a Semaphore signal from the kitchen to turn down the volume. One more minute, Ma. I couldn’t quit, not in the middle of my drum solo, which I beat out with a pair of kitchen knives on the worn linoleum covering the living room floor.

She marched in with her hands on her hips and I snapped off the phonograph. I thought you were delivering papers for Moose this week.

Oh, right, I stood up. Almost forgot.

I waited in the rain as the Spectator truck swerved around the corner and Skinny plopped the bundle of newspapers in a puddle beside me. His grin widened when he saw the muddy splash dribbling down my windbreaker.

I yelled after the truck. Jerk! My mother said I acted more like Moose every day. I followed the list with care and ended up in front of the Dunbar Apartments with the correct number of papers left. After I dropped the last one at apartment six for Hinds/Heinz, I tip-toed closer and pressed my ear to the door. I thought I heard the faint sound of a radio. Short wave? Communicating with the Fatherland? After a moment I heard footsteps shuffling inside so I slipped away as silent as The Shadow.

Next day the papers were late; Skinny yelled something about the presses breaking down and he thumbed his nose at me. It was almost dark by the time I reached the Dunbar Apartments.