Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More (4 page)

I now had a record!

Sometime later, two incidents in English class further soured my time at the
school.

The first concerned an essay I had written. We had been asked to put ourselves
in a journalist’s position and compose a newspaper report on a recent incident
or issue. This was during the time when, then white South African Prime Minister
Hendrik Verwoerd was embroiled in controversy over his government’s apartheid
policy. So I composed an article concerning the issue as if I were a journalist
in Johannesburg. The day the corrected papers were passed back to the students
by the English teacher, Mr. McKenzie, he refrained from passing back mine. I
raised my hand and asked about the whereabouts of my paper.

“Where did you get this? You did not write this,” Mr. McKenzie
responded.

I explained that I had constructed this myself and that none of the writing was
copied. Sadly, he did not believe me and I received no mark for my work.

Then there was the poetry incident. Mr. McKenzie was introducing a new poem and
he was eager for us to understand the literary term
allusion
. In the poem
there was a biblical allusion and he asked whether anyone knew from what book in
the Bible this allusion was taken. Several hands were raised, including mine. He
acknowledged all the raised hands but mine. All the answers given had been
incorrect. My arm, still partly raised, was the lone arm visible, yet he was
about to proceed when one of the more inquisitive and courageous students,
obviously perplexed by the teacher’s lack of recognition of me, spoke up.

“Sir, Brian has his hand up!”

“Oh, yes, yes,” sputtered an embarrassed Mr. McKenzie. “Yes, okay. Brian, what
do you say?”

“It is from the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament,” I confidently
explained.

“My, my, well, Brian, that’s the best you have done all year—this is
incredible,” exclaimed Mr. McKenzie.

“Well, sir,” I retorted, “if you had asked me on those many other occasions I
had my hand up, I am sure I would have been able to give other correct
answers.”

That was it! “To the vice-principal’s office,” I was so ordered by an irate
English teacher.

A brief incident with the French teacher continued my unfortunate run-ins with
the teachers. We were all misbehaving, according to the teacher, and for this
group indiscretion we were all to remain in our places when the final bell of
the day rang. We were to place our hands on our desks and remain motionless.
Sitting upright at our desks, we strived valiantly not to move and not to make a
whisper. Well, there are moments like this that will test a person’s soul.
Suddenly, one of the students lost it and burst out laughing, whereupon the
teacher rushed to the student’s desk, whipped his arm around, and struck the
student solidly and viciously across the face. He was about to administer an
additional blow when—totally shocked by this—I called out: “Stop, you can’t do
this!” In a rage, the teacher ordered me out of the room and to another visit to
the office.

And then there is the final “in-class” experience concerning the geography
teacher. One afternoon the teacher was talking about meteorology, and the
discussion led to annual precipitation and snowfalls across the nation. Of
course, the nation stopped at Nova Scotia. A sharp student pointed out (before I
had time) that Newfoundland had been omitted, and she wondered what the annual
snowfall would be there. The teacher responded that the amounts would be similar
to Toronto—no big deal. I spoke up to indicate that I was from Newfoundland and
that I was pretty sure that annual snowfall in Newfoundland would be much higher
than in the Toronto
area. The teacher disagreed. Amazingly, that
very evening a TV weather reporter was doing the same exercise on snowfall that
we had done that day in school. Of course, the snowfall in Newfoundland was
indeed higher than Toronto’s. The next day that sharp student raised her hand
(for once I was not going to say anything) and informed the teacher of the
previous night’s program and that the reporter had verified that what Brian had
said was indeed correct. Silence enveloped the room—and then the teacher led the
class into the next lesson as if nothing had happened.

But the worst was yet to come! We had a tough, cranky ex-military man as our
physical education instructor. I managed to get through the swimming (before
this, my only experience with swimming had been in a pond) without any problem,
and his assistants did most of the gym and basketball work. Although I was new
to these activities, I adapted quickly and performed adequately.

With the coming of spring, we were to go outside and do our track and field
activities. I was pretty good at track and field, and at a summer air cadet camp
the year before I had won a number of events including the 100-yard dash. There
were certain benchmarks set for our grade/age group so that any average student
could meet them.

On the day of our 100-yard dash, the cantankerous instructor was absent and one
of his younger assistants replaced him. We were to line up in small groups of
four and run the 100-yard dash to a previously marked area. The assistant had a
stopwatch and called from the finish line for us to start. I won my race against
the other three but was not told my time or that of the others. On the next day
of physical education we were again outside to complete the other track and
field tests in high jump, broad jump, and so on. Our cranky main instructor was
back in action, and we were lined up in military formation in our shorts and
T-shirts. We were lectured about our appearance and punctuality, and then he
looked down at his clipboard to review the results from the previous day. A few
moments passed, and then he scowled.

“Peckford!”

“Yes, sir,” I responded.

“What do I have here? You did the 100-yard dash in eleven
seconds? You can’t do that! Our top football star can barely do that! Did you do
this?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded respectfully. “Your assistant supervised the
race.”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” he shouted, “but I just can’t believe it. You will
have to do it again!”

I protested: “Sir, if the times of everyone else are good, why isn’t mine? And
running by myself, without competition, is much more difficult.”

“Get up there, now,” he shouted.

So I proceeded to the starting line. The assistant had a starter gun and the
instructor was at the finish line with the stopwatch.

Bang!

I never ran so hard in all my life. Across the finish line the stopwatch
clicked—eleven seconds!

An unamused instructor passed the clipboard and stopwatch to his assistant and
shouted to us all, “Let’s get on to the high jump.”

Although school was not going as well as it should have, I had to be mindful
that I was expected to work after school and generate revenue for home. My
father was working hard at the university and spent caseload time at different
social services offices across Toronto, and my older brother was working for CPR
in the daytime and going to school at night at IBM. My mother was managing the
small apartment for the other seven: meals, clothes, groceries. She was doing
the work of two or three people. I was the only other person in the family old
enough to get a job, though part-time it would be. It was not easy getting a
job. There were a fair number of Italian and Greek immigrants in the area and
they were competing for any employment. And, of course, the hours I could work
were restricted by my school time. I got a job at a nearby corner store for a
few hours after school, but this was not enough.

I went to the Power Supermarket, several blocks down Parliament Street from
where we lived. This was a fairly large supermarket that employed a lot of
temporary workers. I completed an application form
and was
queried by the assistant manager, Mr. Pettis—a short, rotund, bald-headed man
who looked like this is where he belonged—and the manager, a Mr. Mueller,
well-dressed, tall, and businesslike.

I believed they could tell where I was from by my accent, but they asked
anyway. I found out later that there was already a Newfoundlander working there
who after six months was still only making his starting wage. They told me that
there was no opening right now but that if a vacancy arose they would contact
me. I told them that I really needed a job and I would work for nothing for a
week just to show them that I could work hard. Pettis looked at Mueller, and
Mueller at Pettis.

Pettis said, “We have never had anyone make that proposal before. I guess that
if you want to work for nothing, we could put you on the soap aisle.”

And so, unknown to anyone else, I worked for nothing for a week: Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, 4: 00 p.m. to midnight, and on Saturday and Sunday from 8:
00 a.m. to midnight. I worked like a dog and sweated my heart out. The next week
Mr. Pettis called and told my mother that I had a job and I could come to work
on Wednesday. Wow—was I proud—forty-five cents an hour!

Late Sunday evening, before we went home, the workers would pick up their
cheques at the office. Mr. Pettis called out to me while I was mopping up the
floor.

“Come to the office, Brian.” He passed me an envelope. “Open it,” he
said.

I tore open the envelope and looked at the cheque. “Mr. Pettis, you have made a
mistake—this looks like it is too much,” I exclaimed.

“My boy,” said Pettis, “you sure can work, and we have decided to break our
deal. We want to pay you for last week.”

I was shocked—it had never entered my mind, I was so consumed with trying to
get that job.

“Thank you, Mr. Pettis,” I said.

“Back to the floor,” Pettis responded.

In four weeks I was the highest-paid temporary worker in the store. And my
countryman was still at the bottom of the pay scale.

Much later, when I became a teacher, I would tell this story to
my students many, many times. And it remains one of my most precious memories.
There is no replacement for hard work.

Of course, this lower area of Parliament Street had its own problems, like many
inner-city areas. I experienced this first-hand. I almost lost one of my first
paycheques.

Walking home on Parliament Street after twelve one night, I encountered a
surprise attack from three boys around my own age. Two of them jumped out from
an alleyway and threw me to the ground, savagely kicking me in the groin.
Somehow I got to my feet and struck one of them to the ground and began to hit
the second one. A third boy sprang from the alleyway, and I caught him leaping
and struck at him. He staggered backwards—the first boy was still on the ground,
being helped by the second—and as quick as the incident started, the boys fled.
They were good with their feet, and as I stumbled home I felt the pain from my
waist to my knees. I was at home a few days to recuperate, but I was content
that the scoundrels did not get my cheque.

The months passed, the family adjusted as best it could, Father was doing well,
my older brother was relatively happy at his work and night school, the younger
siblings were happy, and Mother shouldered her responsibilities with stoic
determination. But I think we were all relieved when the time came to return
home. I had to stay on a little while longer to do my school exams.

So I was back in Lewisporte, Newfoundland, for the summer of 1960. I needed a
job before school began in the fall, but few were available. I managed to get a
few weeks at the new vocational school that had just been constructed. Some
students were needed to check inventory on the new equipment that was arriving.
But this only got me to the end of July. I then parked myself at a plumbing and
heating store that was also involved in subcontracting, installing plumbing and
heating in new buildings. I would get up early in the morning and go to the
premises before it opened so that I would create the right impression—that I had
no problem getting up in the morning and that I was really serious about getting
a job. The first few mornings
the answer was no, we have no
opportunities right now. I kept going each morning. I knew the owner of the
business; his son was a friend of mine. A few mornings later, the company won a
contract to install the plumbing in a new school that was being constructed in a
nearby town. I was there early in the morning when the chief plumber was talking
to the owner about the contract. He suggested to the owner that he would need a
helper for the job. Given that I was the only person who had presented himself
each morning, and here I was again, the job was mine. The days were sunny and
warm that August, and my boss (Mr. Val Tucker) was an excellent worker and
teacher. I learned a lot from him in just thirty days. It’s funny that I clearly
remember this brief thirty-day job forty-nine years later. I remember mentioning
this man’s name at a political rally in Lewisporte over twenty-five years
later—I was quickly told from the floor that he was in the audience.

The school system in Toronto went to grade thirteen. In Newfoundland it went to
grade eleven. So there were many courses that I took in Toronto that did not
qualify for high school graduation (junior matriculation) in Newfoundland.
Hence, I was back in school in the fall. That year spun by and I tried hard to
concentrate and pursue my studies, which were made more enjoyable by our main
teacher, Mr. Paddock.