People & Places
Life on the Prairie
It’s a case of take life as it comes for Debbie and Mez Merricks and their four children, who moved from the Midlands to Alberta in 2002
With just one neighbour within hundreds of metres, the Merricks live just as they please – and this involves the odd beverage, as Paul Beasley found out when he visited the family.
I approach Debbie and Paul – or 'Mez' as he's more commonly known – Merricks' property on the blustery plains south of Calgary in the monster pick-up truck of Warren Green, who helped the family relocate to rural Alberta. Warren, talking on his mobile, is attempting to wind Debbie up with some local gossip, but she's giving as good as she gets. Warren laughs and says in his prairie drawl, "Just kiddin ya… Don't start drinking until we get there." He rings off, turns to me and says with a smile, "She's probably already drunk… I'm joking! They're a lot of fun, the Merricks. You'll see." Shortly after 2pm we pull up and jump out at the Merricks' five-bedroom house on 12.8 acres of land. Debbie comes to meet us. She has a drink in her hand. "All this gossip is driving me to drink, Paul," she says by way of introduction. "Fourth of the day?" Warren asks with a smile. "Don't be ridiculous," Debbie replies, shooting Warren a stern look through narrowed eyes. "It's my sixth," she adds wryly, before laughing and saying, "No, it's just coke… Do you want a drink?" With a Mountain Crest beer in my hand (the can proclaims that it's 'Craft-brewed in small batches'), we take a tour of the Merricks' land in the dry heat of the afternoon. "This is where Mez kept his pig," Debbie explains, closing a gate behind us. "He used to say the pig was his best friend. Then a friend came to visit and asked Mez where the pig was, and Mez rubbed his stomach and said the rest was in the freezer. We couldn't believe it! Mez ate his best friend!"
There's still plenty of animal activity at the Merricks, though, as they have eight hens, two ponies and three dogs. Let's hope Mez doesn't get hungry again. We visit the barn, which has been converted to a stable by Mez. He's done a beautiful job of insulating the cavernous interior with great planks of wood. "It's a fantastic job," says Debbie proudly, "and it only took him three days". That's some going. Debbie shows us her prized possession: an equine spa. It looks – and in fact is – an oversized home Jacuzzi, with a huge door at the front and back and a puny-looking strap to keep the horse from rearing when it's getting doused with cold jets of water. "The last horse we treated nearly came out over the top. I was terrified," says Debbie.
We retreat to the patio and start on a second beverage. I ask Debbie if the equine spa was part of a carefully hatched plan to establish herself as a specialist in the treatment of horses, a a field she had worked in in the UK? "No, we got drunk and bought it on the Internet with some money we'd come into," she says with a naughty laugh. I get the feeling that this is the way of the Merricks with money: easy come, easy go, and when it's gone it's time to go and get some more. "Mez isn't bothered about earning a living. It's play for him," says Debbie. "He could charge loads for the framing work he does but he doesn't. It's why he gets so much work."
Bronwyn the hen struts by – although they're all called Bronwyn, apparently, so Debbie doesn't forget their names. I suggest a photo opportunity with Debbie holding Brownyn and Debbie obliges, but asks me to be quick: "She's probably sh***ing on me," says a concerned Debbie, before Bronwyn flaps off her lap. For Debbie, hanging out around the house and "watching the kids as they head across the fields with the dogs" makes her Canadian life worthwhile. She isn't, she confesses, "much of a social person," especially as their only real neighbour is "a stupid fat cow". She is, though, happy as a mother to have been able to leave behind the school runs and the sniping gossip at the school gates. "I love the fact that the kids go on the school bus," she says, composing her thoughts as she gazes out over the garden while Maggie the labrador drapes her sad-eyed head on my lap. "We've absolutely achieved what we wanted to with the kids. They don't hanker after the city. They love the swimming pool. They have a safe space to grow up in. And kids respect their elders here. It's like Britain 40 years ago."
Almost on cue, the children arrive, Heather (14), son Taylor (10) and Beth (9). The eldest, Abbie (16), has gone off to work in a coffee shop after school. Beth is lagging behind. "She's my youngest," says Debbie, shaking her head gently, "and has just had her hair shaved for charity… She looks like a proper lesbo". The kids make a beeline for the pool. Debbie returns to the previous subject: "There's not much news here. No muggings, no car theft, no break-ins. A couple of weeks ago someone left a car up at the junction with Highway 2, but no one even touched it. The wheels are still there and the windows aren't broken. There'd be nothing left in the UK." She thinks about why Canada differs so much from Britain, and adds, "There's no envy here, no class system. In Britain, everyone begrudges you everything. Mez came from nothing. Even some of his friends resented him when he made something of himself. The mentality of some Brits is disgusting. That's one reason why I'm not sorry to leave. I love it here. We wouldn't go back in a million years." So there's nothing you miss about living in Britain? "I wouldn't say that," she exclaims with a wave of the hand. "I miss British culture. We were members of the National Trust and the sense of history here is not the same. "Mez loves it here, too, and he was so into his history. If you knew him before he emigrated, you wouldn't believe the change. He's an ex-punk and now he wears cowboy boots and can country dance," Debbie says, raising her eyebrows so high that they look like they're going to escape into her hair. "I miss old cottages with country gardens and flowers growing up the walls, but if I went back to Britain to enjoy these things I'd miss the mountains and the skies."
It's not difficult to see why. As we sit drinking in the afternoon sun, to the splashy sound of the kids in the pool, the great blue sky arcs above us, spread with a thin veil of cloud pushed by the blustery breeze like a broken wave sizzling up a beach. Debbie takes another gulp of her drink and continues, "I'm very close to my family, so I miss them. I've got three sisters and my mum is the best woman in the world. I feel guilty that I'm not missing them more. "I mean, here, you can sit on the deck in the winter and barbecue – just as long as the sun is out. In the UK, autumn means staying inside." Debbie also likes the relaxed approach to life taken by Canadians. "In Calgary, you can go to the poshest restaurant in jeans. But here, between Okotoks and High River, it's real hickey. Calgary, in comparison, is a different country."
Mez appears at 3.30pm, just as the sun starts to heat up the deck. We move to the north-facing side of the house to a covered deck with a big gas barbecue. Warren and I sit on a double seat that hangs and swings from the ceiling with a squeak. Mez eases his cowboy boots off, opens a can of Mountain Crest, take a swig and points the can at the barbecue. "Brits think we're taking a shortcut by having a gas barbecue," he says, "but why would I want to torture myself by trying to light a barbie for four hours. Not me," he exclaims, his voice stretching across the the full range of his Brummie twang. He takes another swig. "My only regret is that we didn't come here sooner. Okay, we're never gonna be millionaires, but we've got the stuff that matters. I work 9 until 3. You can't put money on that." Warren sighs. "See, Paul, I work until 11pm, but the Merricks are here having a cocktail on the deck at 3!" "I'm slowly turning into a lush," Debbie claims, tongue in cheek. "My work here is the stuff that people don't want to do," Mez continues. Having worked in the UK building trade for 20 years, the quirks of the immigration system meant that it was the City and Guilds qualification in toolmaking he took after leaving school which proved to be the passport to a Skilled Worker visa. "It's fantastic to work on these houses here. It's so easy. If you want a new window, just get your saw out and cut one." The kids walk across the deck dripping wet. Taylor tries to attract Debbie's attention; she looks over her shoulder and says "sod off".
Mez looks into the distance, his feet swinging back and forth. His hands start to communicate before his mouth engages. "It's funny," he says finally, "we left the UK partly because the kids would never be able to afford a property there. But it's getting just as bad here. Prices have doubled in two years. "We got this place for CDN$325,000, and were lucky there. It's only because the owner was such a cantankerous old git that he blew the chance to sell it for about CDN$50,000 more." He shakes with laughter. But it's obvious that the house and the location suits them perfectly. "I'd be happy to live here forever," says Debbie, "but Mez is thinking if this place hits a million dollars we could move and afford to put the kids through college." "Unluckily for us," says Mez, "our kids are quite smart". He sighs, then adds, "Mind you, Heather, our second-oldest, is crackers… but there again everyone's crazy here. Some places are so hick that the gloves have six fingers." His eyes twinkle with mirth. Debbie looks up and says, "It's amazing how quickly you make friends with like minded people, isn't it." She smiles at her husband; Mez tuts and rolls his eyes. "You know what?" Warren says, returning to the subject of property: "You gettin' this place was fate, right?" "Yeah, and you know what else was nearly fate?" Mez asks, screwing his face up, "Me falling off a ladder at your house. It's the closest I've come to death, that." His voice rises to an almost strangulated pitch. "What are you doing tomorrow?" Warren asks Mez, who replies "nothing". "Wanna go fishing?" Warren asks, before looking at Debbie, who raises her eyebrows and shoots a glance back: "Busy, busy busy," she says. "It will be Saturday, after all," Warren answers in self defence.
With another interview to do, it's time for me to be going, but not before Debbie asks if I'd like to go to a honkey tonk bar called the 'Roadhouse' down in High River. Unable to pass up the opportunity to watch Mez and Debbie show off their dancing skills, I agree. Mez walks us to Warren's truck, but can't help but pause at his own considerably smaller truck and point to the number plate. "Look," he says, "MEZBCFC – my name and the initials of Birmingham City Football Club. The Canadians don't get it. They look at it and say 'MezBucfuc! What does that mean?' I explain and try to drum up a supporters club but they can't understand why they should support a team in a sport they don't understand – and one that never scores and gets beaten every weekend, at that." He cackles. This is his second 'failure' on the football front. Earlier, Mez revealed that he was teaching kids how to play football but gave up "because they were crap". Before jumping up into Warren's pumped up pick-up I say that I'm looking forward to seeing better footwork at the Roadhouse, and we roll off down the gravel.
The next night, so I don't feel like a gooseberry, Debbie and Mez have brought along a single female friend of theirs: Pam. Unfortunately, she's clearly a woman with anger issues – and powerful with it. She's tall and as naturally broad as a Dynasty actress, although they were wearing shoulder pads and they didn't have to turn sideways to get through doors. On top of this, she has a habit of being blunt with any man who asks her for a dance, spitting the words "talk to the hand" at them. If the suitor persists he really gets a tongue lashing. And she drinks. Looks like I've got my work cut out. We arrive at the Roadhouse, a drab- looking rectangle surrounded by pick-up trucks. Inside, hunting trophies protrude from the walls, their antlers as big as trees. The clientele is generally decked out in denim and cowboy boots. A litter of peanut shells is slowly forming on the floor. The house band is yet to stir, so we grab some beers and play on the Roadhouse's one arcade game: a realistic – as far as I can tell, never having tried in real life – caribou hunting game. Don't waste time with pointless slot machines, the game seems to say, play me and you'll improve your survival skills. We take it in turns to blast away with a plastic shotgun. Mez wins.
We sit down at the side of the dance floor between an old couple and a group of girls on a 21st birthday party. The girls are roaring drunk. When the band strums and drums into harmonious life, the girls' attempts to dance always end in a heap on the floor. But there's no ill will, no edginess, no sense that fists are about to fly. In fact, the nearest the evening comes to a flashpoint is when a squat lady steps onto the dancefloor wearing white clothes that are so tight you'd think she's been sewn into them. Funny, I think, the Michelin look must be in fashion down in High River. The lady clears a space for her and her ageing but sprightly partner and they twirl and clasp with powerful precision, which is a good job because if the woman in white crashed into anyone they'd scatter like bowling pins.
In the toilet, a broad youth starts talking to me. He's obviously frustrated – because he's got no one to dance with! This just wouldn't happen in the UK. As he leaves he wishes me a good night. "Anywhoo, have a good one." I wish him luck in finding a dance partner, then return to my table to see him asking anyone and everyone to dance. He finally gets lucky, and hits the dancefloor with a woman at least twice his age. "That's the great thing, here," says Debbie, watching the slightly odd couple whirl across the dancefloor, "everyone dances with everyone". She gestures to a manky-looking man draped on a barstool with a big wet patch spreading over his crotch. "Even Perry Pisspants gets a dance." Mez picks up the subject and runs with it. "For a long time after you arrive in Canada you know there's something different here but you can't work out why. Then you realise that it's the class system – or lack of one. You could be talking to a millionaire or someone completely potless but they talk to you just the same." I ask, through a mouthful of peanuts, if this more relaxed approach has a downside. "Not for me. Not at work. I've kept my English work ethic. Canadian builders don't turn up on time. Alright, they might say they'll be there at 8am and, yes, they'll be there at 8am, but three days late. So people love me for turning up on time." But surely other people not turning up on time is frustrating? Mez ponders for a second, then answers, "It is stressful to begin with, because you expect people to turn up on time. But you realise it's the Canadian way. They cut the electricity off for two hours but don't tell you. Some Brits can't cope with this." Debbie adds, "Our approach is to get pissed." She smiles then continues, "It's just so relaxed here. Even my schizo sister – she's a frighteningly tidy person in the UK – chills out here and throws peanut shells on the floor, just like everyone else". This gets Mez thinking about food. "I do miss curry. Here, Vindaloo is mild!" His disbelieving voice rises to the rafters. "They don't get curry here," Debbie adds. "The curry houses shut at nine! And we're from Birmingham." The Merricks' solution is to take it in turns to cook curry with friends. "I'll cook one then Stuart, a British friend, will cook one," Mez explains. "But his are always better than mine, the swine."
Debbie and Mez get up to dance. I look in Pam's direction with just a hint of 'shall we join them' flickering in my eyes. Pam looks back, eyebrows lowered beneath the bristly mat of her fringe. She doesn't open her mouth but I know her answer is 'Don't even think about it'. I don't really want to talk to her hand, so I let it drop. Instead, I watch Debbie and Mez spin across the floor, their footwork far better than I expected – especially for someone who grew up 'dancing' to the Sex Pistols. They move in perfect harmony, with a contented smile across their faces. It prompts me to recall something Debbie had said a few minutes before: "We just landed in the right place for us". And I, for one, am not arguing – although Pam might want to. But if this is the only downside to prairie life, maybe it's the right place for me, too…
Read other Canadian emigration case histories:
Alberta's home to the Woodies
A new life in Quebec
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