bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 2 (1991) — Spring 1991 // Printemps 1991, p. 31
A crossposting in 1972 from Dakar as new Second Secretary at the London High Commission where I was Head of Personnel with an office in MacDonald House, Grosvenor Square, was quite a change. Two years later, I was re-assigned as Head of the Consular Section at Canada House, Trafalgar Square. In addition to the rich variety of professional and social contacts, I was given the opportunity of working with the late Paul-André Bissonnette, Jake Warren and, in my final year, the Hon. Paul Martin.
As High Commissioner, Paul Martin never lost his natural fondness and curiosity for people, nor his legendary recall. Not surprisingly, he was particularly interested in contacts with the Consular Section. He got my attention the first time we met when, upon entering my office (the envy of many of my colleagues), he told me it didn’t look much different from World War II days “when Mike Pearson was in here”. Although the H.C.’s main office was in MacDonald House, Paul Martin would spend at least two half-days a week in Canada House and never failed to drop by the Consular Section “to see how the visitors are doing” ’. Being the only Consular Officer assigned to the Section, managing a six-person team plus a Veterans’ Affairs Section and the receptionists, looking after the interests of over 40 prisoners in detention, liaising with our four Consulates in the British Isles, and being the passport-issuing officer for over 5000 passports per year was rather demanding. On one occasion when Martin was on his way to visit, I happened to pass him on my way out. “Comment allez-vous, M. Lapointe?” he enquired. “Très, tres occupé”, I replied, somewhat short of breath. His inspirational rejoinder appears as the opening sentence of this brief memoir.
The High Commissioner’s deep commitment to assisting people who sought his help put me in conflict with my own sense of priorities and values on one especially instructional occasion. Anxious parents (and family friends) had written him to explain that their daughter (let’s call her Nicole) had left home a year or so earlier on bad terms with them. They had heard she might be living in London in squalid conditions, and that her health might be precarious. An uncertain address was provided. Could Mr. Martin help? The H.C. and I discussed the matter. I was not in favour of direct involvement. She was of adult age. An official appearing at her door might distress her. She could accuse us of interference or harassment. He, however, sympathized with the anguish the family must feel. He had known Nicole as a child. He realized it would probably be impossible to do anything, but if only she could be located, and then if he could somehow reassure her parents….
I gave the matter some thought and decided on a course of action. The address was in a working-class district about a one-hour’s bus ride away. My wife, Arlene, offered to accompany me — and I gratefully accepted. Dressed in blue jeans, loafers, and casual shirts, we set out early in the morning. We had trouble locating the house — the street name was misspelled and not all the doors bore numbers. At last we arrived at what we believed to be the correct address and rang, and rang, and rang. The door finally was opened by an attractive but sleepy young lady. I asked if she was Nicole and told her why I had come. She confirmed her identity and, warily, invited us in for tea.
• We sat talking for over an hour before I asked her to come into town to say “Hi” to Paul Martin. She expressed fear that somehow she could be forced to return home. everything I could to win her confidence. Finally, she agreed, provided Arlene and I would stay with her all through the meeting. We solemnly promised to do so.
The looks on the faces of some of my colleagues in MacDonald House when we all marched in was interesting! Some didn’t recognize me; but others, I’m convinced, chose not to acknowledge me. We proceeded to the H.C.’s office and were ushered in immediately. His look of relief when he saw her allayed Nicole’s last fears, and they spoke for an hour. Finally, I walked her back to the bus stop so she could return to her London home and fiancé.
Heading back to MacDonald House, Arlene and I were elated, until I approached the entrance and remembered the looks I had drawn in walking in earlier in my very casual attire. There at Reception was Paul Martin. “Well, at least I can tell her family she’s well” “ he said. Then, as an aside: “It’s a good idea to get out of our suits and ties — once in a while”.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 2 (1991) — Spring 1991 // Printemps 1991, p. 31. Read the rest of this issue →
