Inside the Men’s Room

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Before I became a member of the Vancouver Club, I would sometimes go there for lunch as my dad’s guest. I didn’t know whether to laugh or tremble at the atmosphere: it made a mausoleum look exciting by comparison. My father put me up for membership in 1964, but when I was approved about a year later I couldn’t afford the $750 entrance fee or the $25 monthly dues, even though, as the son of a member, I’d only have to pay half. In June of 1966, my name was proposed a second time. There must have been an unusually high death rate among members that year because it usually took a couple of years for your name to come up a second time. It was now or never: according to the rules, you only got two chances. If I didn’t sign up now, I would be off the list and forced to join the nearby Terminal City Club, where insurance salesmen and “that sort” were welcome. Men on the Vancouver Club waiting list were known to join Terminal City as an interim measure, monitoring the flag at 915 West Hastings; if it flew at half-mast, they’d know there was an opening on the membership list. In 1966, the Vancouver Club was an English-style men’s club: dark and cheerless, where voices were kept at a murmur and displays of mirth beyond the hint of a smile were frowned upon. Women were allowed as guests and then only at dinner – escorted by a member, of course – and were not permitted to enter the premises through the main doors. One night, as I stood outside with my wife in a downpour of epic proportions, the women’s side door was 20 feet away. I said to hell with it, and we went through the main entrance instead. Naturally, the hall porter promptly asked if he could have a brief word with me, and in hushed tones reminded me of the “Ladies’ Door” rule (it was renamed the “Evening Entrance” in 1984). The men’s loo had ancient and enormous “made in Barrhead, Scotland” urinals in which you could practically hide your entire body from prying eyes. They, alas, went out in 1973. The reading room was on the main floor, and boasted deep armchairs and a selection of all the right magazines and papers, such as the London Times, Punch, the Illustrated London News and, oh heresy, The New Yorker. That was where, after a liquid lunch, the cream of Vancouver’s business community slept it off before wobbling back to the office. They would return to the club at 5 p.m. sharp and repair promptly to the third-floor bar to top off the day with a few drinks for the road. In those days, the bar had lockers where members kept their liquor. In fact a few, including mine, remain. One new member, when shown to his locker, discovered it contained a bottle of his favourite Scotch. What a lovely gesture, he thought; I wonder how they knew my brand. As time passed the bottles seemed to empty faster than he thought his consumption warranted, but there was always a fresh supply when needed. One day, as he was reaching in for his jug, a man next to him, in a higher pitch than the club preferred, announced, “So you’re the bastard that’s been into my Scotch!” Our new member hadn’t realized that until you attained some seniority, you shared lockers. The bar had a large round table where anyone was welcome. One senior member, George Clark, would arrive at 5:15 p.m. precisely and take his usual seat. One day a new member, having been told that the round table was open to all, sat down in Clark’s regular chair. At 5:15 on the dot Clark came in, walked over to his spot and just stood there. “Oh,” said the young man, “is this your chair?” Clark simply stared at the interloper who then vacated the chair and the bar. There were members and there were members, so to speak. The dining room on the second floor was, and remains, as fine as any I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some of London’s finest. Back when I joined, the tuxedoed waiters, the headwaiter in tails (as was the cue man in the billiard room) and the best of food and wines all contributed to the club’s world-class reputation. I had a wife and four small kids when my number came up that second time and decided again that I couldn’t afford a membership. My law partners, eyeing an opportunity to attract a better class of clients (who never came, in fact) agreed that the firm would pay the initiation fee and reasonable expenses, which for me was the occasional “business” lunch and a full bottle of Scotch in the locker at all times. This was quite a gesture, considering one of those partners was a Jew and Jews at that time were distinctly not welcome as members. The unwritten rule was that, with the exception of converts to Christianity (preferably to the Anglican faith), Jews were not allowed. It’s true that in the early days Jews, including Isaac Oppenheimer, a Jew and mayor of Vancouver, were members. Certainly by my father’s time in the 1940s, however, and probably earlier, the unspoken no-Jews policy might just as well have been etched in stone tablets. [pagebreak] Then it happened. Enough had become enough for Lieutenant Governor Walter Owen and the chief justice of the Court of Appeal, John Farris. In 1977 Farris proposed Nathan Nemetz, a Jew, for membership. No board could refuse this powerful application, and thus the Vancouver Club at long last rid itself of this disgraceful unwritten rule. Nemetz was a man of extraordinary talents who was to become chief justice of the Court of Appeal. All races and religions are now welcome. By the early ’90s, the Vancouver Club began to experience the financial woes that beset most downtown clubs, generally because they had not kept up with the times, and specifically because they would not admit women as members, a lucrative revenue source (though a handful did quietly arrive at the club, starting in 1993). In 1994, in a bid to boost its membership, the Vancouver Club absorbed the University Club – but only the male members. I was furious and broke my vow of political silence by writing to the board, reminding them that if they encouraged women to become members, absorbing the University Club would have been unnecessary. I had nothing against the University Club, but the merger could have been avoided if only the Vancouver Club had dragged itself out of the Edwardian era. My letter was acknowledged but, unsurprisingly, nothing was done. The issue of female members simmered like a peat fire until, in 1997, a motion at the annual general meeting to amend the constitution to allow women members was tabled. Unfortunately, the motion didn’t receive the 75-per-cent vote required to pass. Many members, including myself, promptly resigned. I, however, erred in dating my resignation and later received a call from then-president Peter Manson, informing me that whether I liked it or not, I was a Vancouver Club member until June 30, so would I please help him get a new special motion passed? (As an aside, in my letter of resignation I asked what kind of stupid club would require a 75-per-cent vote to change its bylaws. Manson claimed it was because of the new Societies Act brought in by the NDP. Suddenly I felt that devastating blow that comes with gross embarrassment. “No, Peter,” I reminded him. “It was I, as a Socred Minister, who brought in the new Societies Act in 1978.” When the press found out it was a pretty good laugh on me, and deservedly so.) A special meeting was convened. The telephone campaign went into high gear and on the appointed night members were lined up right around the block to cast their votes. The new resolution passed by a massive margin. Our troubles were over, so we thought. Now the ladies would break the doors down to get in, wouldn’t they? Not so. We hadn’t realized the extent of the smouldering anger our sexist policy had provoked, and it took some time before women began to join in numbers, although the 300-member Georgian Club, an old and prestigious women-only organization, joined the same year the special motion passed. As part of a building upgrade, women’s washrooms were added on the main and fourth floors. By the mid-’90s, the “Young Turks” had taken over the club’s board of directors from the “Old Farts” and things started to happen. Excellent and modern exercise facilities were installed. The original reading room, to the horror of senior members, was expanded to include a solarium and outdoor patio, and transformed into a very popular bar and grill, which often hosts jazz combos and other live entertainment. Upstairs, the fine-dining Georgian Room was renovated and top chefs were hired. Soon, young business people and professionals began to arrive in considerable numbers. The old Vancouver Club would never be the same again, and thank god for that. This was a new, modern club that was fun to be part of. Today the place, if it doesn’t quite jump, is alive and happy. With casual dress everywhere but the dining room, there is a new air about the 117-year-old Vancouver Club, and although my dad and grandfather are no doubt spinning in their graves at this massive lèse-majesté, I love it. Forty years on, the Vancouver Club has come a long way and my fellow “Old Farts” who quit because of the modernization don’t know what they’re missing. I hate to say it, but we who stayed don’t miss them much.