bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 4 (1991) — Fall 1991 // Automne 1991, pp. 34–35
It was no nine days’ wonder. It was only a small part of work “as usual” in the life of the Canadian High Commission in Wellington, New Zealand.
It is the practice there, as in all Canada’s missions abroad, to give a hand to troubled Canadian travellers who need help. Technically, they are known as “distressed.” So nobody in the office was really startled when Jimmy Binningham (all names are fictitious) turned up with his tale of woe.
Jimmy came in off the street, and talked to the Consul. He was a Canadian, he said; a deck-hand in the Canadian merchant marine; he had got some shore leave when his ship docked at Auckland and had come down to the capital hoping to do some brief sightseeing. Last evening he’d stopped into a nice-looking pub for a quick beer. It wasn’t very quick. The old story; a fellow-drinker had befriended him; they had had more than a few beers together, and when the pub closed, his new friend suggested he could get a cheap bed for the night at the Sailor’s Solace, a men’s hostel. Jimmy thought that sounded fine, and there they both spent the night. Jimmy had a good sleep. In the morning he looked around. His new friend had disappeared, as had also Jimmy’s wallet, all Jimmy’s money and Jimmy’s ship’s papes. All was gone except a couple of worn envelopes with his name and address on them, letters from his wife in Vancouver. Poor Jimmy was distraught; he now had no way of rejoining his ship in Auckland. He begged for advice and assistance.
For the Consul, this was par for the course. He did some telephoning, and while poor Jimmy waited, learned that there was a ship loading in Wellington, due to sail in two day’s time for Canada. Jimmy was delighted. And the High Commissioner, himself from Vancouver, who also knew something about the reputation of the Sailor’s Solace, made a suggestion. Would Jimmy come home with him, do a few little jobs of work there, spend a couple of nights and then get safely back to Canada?
“That’s a wonderful chance for me, sir, and very, very kind of you” said Jimmy. And so it was. And when, at the end of the day, the High Commissioner went home, Jimmy went with him, sitting with the driver in the big black Canadian official Buick, to the Official Residence on the far side of Wellington Harbour.
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Letting them out at the house, the driver remarked,, “It looks like rain tonight. Shall I put the car in the garage, if you won’t be needing it?” “Yes, do” said the High Commissioner, “I won’t be going out tonight”, and then he escorted Jimmy into the house, showed him his little room upstairs and pointed out a few ways he could make himself useful with brooms and buckets around the kitchen and back yard.
A little later in the evening the lady of the house also met Jimmy. He was washing up things at the kitchen sink, and she had heard of his problems. She asked about his home and family. “It’s a new apartment we’ve just moved into”, he said “and I can’t hardly wait to get back and see my wife. I haven’t seen her for four months, you know, being at sea all the time. And only two letters from her and the one postcard. I reckon she must’ve written more that never did catch up with me. Could I show you a snap of my kid?”
“Oh, do show me” ’, said the lady. “What luck the thief didn’t get that when he got everything else”
“Oh, he couldn’t,” said Jimmy. “This envelope and the picture was always in my inside pocket. I was sleeping in my jacket, you see”. “What about your wallet, then?” she asked him. “I stuck that under my pillow,” Jimmy said ruefully. “I guess I thought that that was a safe place and I was sure fooled by that jerk who was so friendly in the pub. “Anyway,” he added, “here’s the picture of my little girl. Four years old, she is; Olive. We call her Ollie for short. Isn’t she cute?”
“Heavens”, said the lady. “You hardly look old enough to have a child so big. She’s lovely”, as she handed back the picture of the smiling, curly-haired girl.
“Oh, I’m older than you think” ’, said Jimmy, rather embarrassed. “I’m twenty-three, you know. She’s a real doll, isn’t she?”
The lady agreed, and after wishing him a good night, she left him and rejoined her husband in the living room.
All was quiet for the rest of the evening, until about eleven o’clock, when they were startled by an insistent loud knocking on the front door and a long ring on the doorbell. The High Commissioner went to the door. All his wife could hear was a murmur of voices, and then her husband returned, but briefly.
“I’m taking a couple of people up to Jimmy’s room,” he said quickly, and she heard them go upstairs.
That was all she knew for some very long twenty minutes. Then the visitors departed by the back door, and her husband returned. vy dare war Cuested.
“Well”, he said, “that was the police. Two policemen in fact. First they told me that for some days now they have been on the lookout for a young soldier, a private I take it, 18 years old, who has been AWOL from the military training place up the valley. He’d been gone several days. They spotted him an hour ago on the road down. They recognized him immediately from the picture of him which they had. They stopped him, and he told them that he was just making a quick call on his girl-friend somewhere. BUT! Guess what car he was driving! The official car! And of course the police know it well — they know all the diplomatic cars and drivers. So then they let him go, and they followed more slowly, and when he got near here, they thought they had better have a word with me first, before pulling him in. They even said to me, when I told them the car was in the garage, ’Let’s go and see’. So we went into the garage, and there was the car! It was there, all right, but there were wet tire tracks on the garage floor. So then, of course, I took them straight upstairs. Jimmy was in bed, all covered up, snoring. I said, ’Jimmy!’ No answer. I pulled back the covers. He was fully dressed! He sat up and said ’what do you want?’ and then he saw the police. One of them said to me, ’so he’s told you he’s Jimmy, has he? We all know his real name is Bobby Leonard, and he’s no more Canadian than I am!’
“The policemen went through all his pockets and searched the room pretty thoroughly. They didn’t find much, but what there was they handed to me. A wallet, some papers and several old envelopes. Everything was in the name of Jimmy Binningham, a Canadian national.” The High Commissioner paused
His wife said, “there was something a little odd about his Canadian accent, but I thought maybe he’d spent some time in the States. Well, so what did they do next?”
“Well, they handcuffed him and took him away in their car. I hope they won’t be too hard on him; he’s just a boy, only eighteen. I do feel a little foolish: I could have asked him some questions about Vancouver. I could probably have caught him out, somewhere. Too bad I never thought of it.”
“Just think,” said the lady, “cops and robbers in our own home!” and they went off to bed satisfied that the drama was over.
It wasn’t quite, however. The following day, with wallet and papers safely in the Consul’s office, the door opened to admit another visitor. He was a sturdy man, the Consul later said, perhaps in his mid-forties, looking very gloomy. He was in trouble. He was a Canadian from Vancouver. He was a deckhand in the merchant marine. He’d got some shore leave when his ship docked at Auckland, and had come down to the capital to see the sights. He’d had a few beers with a young chap who had taken him to a hostel. While he was asleep he’d been robbed: his wallet and all his papers and even a photo of his little girl had been taken.
“Your name?” asked the Consul. “Jimmy Binningham,” said the man. “This is all the I.D. I have left.” He pulled out the metal dog-tag that hung on a chain inside his shirt.
The Consul, examining it, saw that it did indeed say “Jimmy Binningham”
“I believe we can help you, Mr. Binningham,” said the Consul. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out Jimmy’s wallet and papers, and handed them across the desk. “You can probably use these.”
Jimmy poured out his thanks and left, apparently too overwhelmed by the efficiency of his government abroad to ask how the Consul had come to have his papers.
If Bobby were equally impressed, it is not known.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 4 (1991) — Fall 1991 // Automne 1991, pp. 34–35. Read the rest of this issue →
