Swimming with Jude

CHAPTER: ARRIVAL/RETURN

I’m jolted awake. Turbulence? A moment of not knowing where I am but then the realisation: of course, it’s a plane. I’m on a plane... Why am I on a plane? When am I not on a plane? My head is in a fog of grogginess and a haze from that extra glass of fizz I shouldn’t have said yes to. Then it comes to me - that’s right, I’m on a plane to Toronto. A one-way ticket to Toronto. No wonder I was having nightmares; familiarity always breeds contempt.

I’d fallen asleep not long after the flight took off. I remember now. Such a busy day getting the last of my work done whilst waiting for a car to take me to Heathrow Airport. Thank goodness for Sarah, my PA and friend. I boarded a British Airways flight (couldn’t stomach Air Canada – too many Canadians, too soon). Club, of course. As ever, being the dirty old man I am (when did the gays start calling me ‘daddy’ exactly?), I spotted a handsome young steward. Tall, slim, no ring (I have an eagle-eye for wedding rings; they usually act as a beacon). He kept my champagne glass full until I fell asleep. Didn’t get much else out of him but I wasn’t really in the mood.

I remember looking at that email - one year in Toronto - then starting to write my polite decline but…then I found myself remembering another time, 30 years ago, when a letter arrived at my parents’ house saying I’d been accepted into King’s College London and would I accept… would I?! I never hesitated. It was time for another adventure. This one would be a little different though the anxiety I felt was the same, if not stronger.

I’d sent a text to Jude before I boarded the flight. He offered to pick me up from Pearson but, having never in my life had that airport arrival greeting others seem to always receive, I said to leave it. We’ll meet tomorrow, after I’ve had a proper sleep. I know I’ll need it. I also know I’ll need to ease into this. I need a night on my own to process. A morning run on my own, along University Avenue, to take it all in again. And then there is the little matter of my family.

I’ve returned to Toronto approximately six times in 30 years. I’ve probably been to any other destination more often – Paris, New York, Sydney, Gran Canaria, Los Angeles… Usually, what brought me back was enough years of my parents complaining and, of course, to see Jude - and other friends.

I came back for my father’s funeral; he’d had a seizure whilst driving along the Don Valley Parkway and veered off. It was over before it was over. They say his seizure was so bad and the drop from the DVP so brutal he wouldn’t have noticed. That was little comfort to my mother who, in a moment of rare indulgence, showed several emotions over the several days I spent with her. The funeral was mostly his people, their friends, my siblings, their spouses, and me. I was there and not there – anyone who has buried a loved one understands this; and the rest will do, eventually.

I remember the week I left Toronto for good, way back in 1994. Officially it was to attend university but I knew I wouldn’t be back. I’d been living with Rob and Jude in a forgettable flat in an area of Toronto known as the Danforth, but I moved out a few weeks ahead of schedule to save some much-needed cash for the big move. My mother, who was perplexed by my leaving home at 18 to live with friends the year before, was just as bewildered by my ‘great flight from Canada’ as she called it. She barely spoke of it as I skulked about the house.

My father was more balanced about it all. He only worried about what I’d find in a foreign country, which he’d been to once, and I’d only recently found on a map (his turn of phrase). He wanted me to buy a return ticket, to go for one semester, or to take a friend (“What about Jude? He seems like a solid young man.”). Anything but what I had done, which was to book a one-way ticket, on my own, with two bags packed.

My parents were simple people, working class really. My father migrated from Ireland to Canada with his parents as a babe in arms. My grandparents went back a couple of times but were otherwise glad to leave it behind. Only my grandmother ever had trace of an Irish accent; my grandfather seemed adept at hiding his.

Back then, I’d only been on a plane a couple of times in my life. Never very far, and never for very long. Flying to London would be nearly eight hours. I could hardly imagine it! I remember packing my carry-on bags (several of them) full of books, provisions, countless CDs, goodness knows what else (cast your mind back to a time when airlines weren’t too strict on baggage, even in Economy).

That was a long time ago though… back in the here and now, I’m reclining my sleeper-seat forward. I know how to do it; I’ve done it so many times before. I can see the CN Tower from here. It gives me comfort that something I know is still there. The skyline always looks so different from the last trip, and from the way I left it I remember far fewer tall buildings, which is no surprise – 30 years ago the population was half what it is today. Incredible.

We touched down and I approached passport control. I handed over my shiny new Canadian passport, and the man in the booth says, “How long have you been away?”

I shudder, “About 30 years, sir.”

“Years eh?” and he laughs,” Welcome home sir! Bonne retour! You might find it’s changed a bit.”

“I do hope so. I know I have.”

I spent my first night at the Hilton on Queen Street. I don’t know why, but I’ve always found it well situated. Anyone who has ever been to Toronto would probably cite the Royal York as the most prominent, but it’s an old railway hotel with small, dark rooms and a labyrinth of a lobby to get through. The Hilton is modern, in the thick of it, with big, bright windows, and a pool. I felt a tinge of excitement returning 'home’ and wanted to see and feel my city.

The rest of the night is a blur. The bags were collected and shoved into the car. My pets, Iggy and Tilly, were safely collected and put into the backseat with me and we were taken away to the hotel. Neither Iggy nor Tilly had ever been to Canada. The cat was unimpressed, no doubt wondering when she would get back to sleep. The dog was dazed but was also taking in all the new smells, and the opportunity to try the posh hotel bed. I took care of the essentials to get them situated, slipped into my PJs, and was out like a light, for a few hours anyway.

I was up before the sun, thanks to jet lag. I took the dog for a short, early morning jog up and down University Avenue, an avenue I’ve always admired. The dog was excited by the new smells but seemingly disappointed by the clean pavements (free of food scraps). I reflect for a moment as I look up at a skyline I never wanted to see again. So much water under the bridge. So much I’d worked hard to leave in the past.

I feel the urge for coffee, so am quick to shower, dress, and head down to the hotel’s fine breakfast and average coffee. It’s then time for me to venture to my mother’s house.

My mother lives in the same house I grew up in, though my room was long ago turned into an ‘office’ for the mysterious work my mother says she does.

Canadians don’t generally lock their doors when they’re home, and my mother is no exception, so when I exit the streetcar and walk down Roncesvalles to our High Park home, I simply open the door and walk in. Mum is in the kitchen, all the lights on, with something on the stove. Mother isn’t much of a cook, but she knows I love certain dishes she makes well, and I can see she’s been at work all morning.

“Mum! I’m here.”

“Come.”

I greet her with a peck on the cheek which she pushes out almost without moving her eyes from the cauldron she is stirring. I hadn’t noticed my brother there, sat with the paper and a coffee.

“Alright?”

“Hey, how was your flight?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Where’s the dog?”

“I left him in the hotel. He was tired, and one of the staff offered to walk him later.”

“Didn’t think dogs got jet lag. Guess I haven’t seen you since dad’s funeral eh?”

Just as I felt the jibe and was gearing up for a snarky reply, mother turns around and sternly reminds him, “Philip, you saw him when he came here after having Covid. Did you even get up to give your brother a hug? Put that paper down.”

Mother’s attempts to get us to be warm to each other usually fail; this was no exception as we reached out for one of those American-style half-hugs that men over there do.

After an awkward visit, I was released and sett off to see some flats - excuse me, apartments. I already knew where I want to be. Downtown. Away from the family and in the heart of things. I’d dreamed of living in this part of town as a teen. I remember the views from that man’s apartment in the 90s and saw that as success, even now. So when I entered a two bed on Avenue Road at the edge of Yorkville, one of Toronto’s smartest neighbourhoods, with light, space, and a view, I said ‘yes’ without further thought. The agent was a little surprised (“You sure you don’t want to see anything else?”), but helped me sort the necessary before I hopped into a cab to get the dog and meet up with Jude. It was time for a drink.

Jude had moved to Cabbagetown by then, into a renovated Victorian. It wasn’t an area of Toronto I knew very well but it always had a reputation as being a bit of a colony for people who are different (an island in a city of people who all seem the same to me), full of the wonderful Victorian houses that used to symbolise Toronto in my mind. I can see why Jude chose it.

I hadn’t seen him since he last passed through London on business a couple of years previously but, as he opened the door (I knocked on this one), and saw him open it he looked the same. He always had a nice smile, a smile he didn’t show enough. Still not one for physical contact, he did manage to extend his hand to me, which I took and held. If I had warmth for my past, it was almost all directed at this man. The gangly, shy teen had evolved into a gangly, less shy adult. He did something in IT now, no surprise for my most introverted of friends.

“Ah, Jude, I’ve missed you mate.” and I remember to reach out gently before moving in to give him a little hug. It feels good to feel him again.

“Mate! You British. Come inside. Want a beer?”

“Yes please. Upper Canada?”

“Niche these days buddy! But don’t worry, I knew you were coming. I’ve got it. Go sit in the living room. There’s a dog bed and bowl of water waiting for him already. What’s his name again?”

“Ignacious, but I usually call him Iggy”

“What a pompous twat you’ve become!”

“Haha, where did you learn ‘twat’?”

“You taught me all the English I know.”

“Hey, where’s the boy?”

“Oh he’s out as usual, at some committee or volunteering thing. You’ll see him later.”

“He sounds like you. You make a great pair.”

“We do alright. Now, you go sit and I’ll get that Upper Canada.”

Jude had a fire going. He was, as ever, looking slim, and acting a little distant or contained. I’d long ago accepted this was just his way sometimes. We sat in his sitting room with the big bay windows looking out onto the busy street. In some ways, it almost felt like I was back in London, but the streets were too tidy, the houses looking just a little too smart. And perhaps I just knew I was far from ‘home’ (and yet ‘home’ at the same time).

We had one of those conversations about nothing – the flight, the family, the new apartment (“You signed the lease already?!”), where my office was (“Bay Street, obvs”), what I’d be doing for the next year (“Same as in London: meetings, presentations, spreadsheets, solve problems”).

Jude, ever the organiser, said we should have a schedule, at least for the first few weeks, to help me get back into a routine. Swimming in the mornings three times a week (he loved to swim) and brunch on Saturdays. It felt like an order and, with an otherwise empty dance card, I had no reason to refuse.

As I was leaving he leaned in unusually close to me and said, “I’m so glad you’ve come back. I missed you.”

“You ol’ softy! I’ve missed you too. Come to the hotel tomorrow for the first swim.”

“I’ll be there.”

I took the subway down to Queen Street and started to walk to the hotel. I saw one of the Hot Dog carts so common in the Toronto of my past and couldn’t resist getting one. It was $2 when the three of us were living in our apartment together, almost having to share one three ways at times, but prices had gone up a bit since then. Still, I enjoyed this latest taste of nostalgia. The steamed bun, the hundreds of toppings. I’d had these countless times as a boy, but never saw back in the UK.

Later, as I gave the dog his final stroll of the night along Adelaide Street, and up York to the old Governor’s Mansion, I got to thinking… maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Seeing Jude set-up well in life, even though I’ve seen glimpses of that before, just made me feel good. A friend from a long time ago, but still a friend just the same. And one who had turned out just fine, despite a few wobbles along the way.

Chapter: Rendezvous with the past

To me, Toronto is like any other large city. People are attracted to it for its size and all that comes with it: diversity of people, food, culture, a chance to start anew, a chance to live in anonymity, and a large international airport to get away from it all. Like anywhere though, as Mr Wilde understood so well, the more one grows to know it, the more one feels a certain dislike of it.

I was born and bred in Canada’s largest city. It was clean, organised, safe, and full of people who were liberally minded. I knew my way around it well – I don’t recall ever getting lost in the city as a youth. But that familiarity had gradually bred a level of contempt as I turned 18. I felt confined, bored, uninspired. Meanwhile, my friends and contemporaries, many of them the children of migrants, were spending their summers in exotic European destinations I could barely begin to dream of seeing. I was afraid Toronto might be it for me and I was determined to fight against that eventuality.

Except that is only part of the story. It was my 16th year when I really started discovering who I was. A gay man. Well, a gay teen, coming onto ‘the scene’ as we knew it back then (or ‘to the life’). I was ‘chicken’ to the more established men in the community but, instead of taking young men – boys – like me under their wings, they took advantage.

I remember meeting a guy off a telephone chat line (what we did before the internet and smartphones were invented) when I was around 17. He sounded nice enough. I said I was 18. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop in the downtown area. We talked and talked all night long, about what I couldn’t tell you (what would I have had to say at that age? He must have been at least 10 years older and more experienced than me). Eventually, as boys do, he invited me to his apartment, and I went along not exactly sure what I wanted or didn’t want.

It was clear, especially as I look back on it, what he wanted. By this time, I’d had my share of blow jobs and must have given one or two, but I’d never experienced anal sex. I was 17. To the extent it crossed my mind, it was something I feared. I associated it absolutely with HIV and AIDS (this was still the early 90s when people died from HIV with regularity, medications being limited and sometimes just as lethal).

I remember him being very charming. Putting his hands on me, on my shoulders. I’d enjoyed the touch of another person. The sensations were still new to me (does it ever grow old though?). I was in awe of a life outside my home, outside parents and school, and the mundane life I felt I was in. Here was a man – a real man – living on his own, in a flat, working, doing what he wanted, and he was touching me. I didn’t say no.