Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More (7 page)

I was climbing the stairs when Jack met me. “What happened?”

“I was knocked out by a very angry woman. She picked up a junk of wood in the
bucket and let me have it.”

Jack had a wicked sense of humour—a slight smile crossed his face, then a wider
grin, and then a full laugh. He bent over laughing. “How will you write this one
in your daily worksheet?”

IN 1966, I WAS
teaching in Springdale.
In 1972, I won the Progressive Conservative Party nomination for the district of
Green Bay. I was campaigning in a community on the North Shore and did not
realize that many of the people whose doors I had just knocked on were sort of
following me down the pathway to this certain house. As I entered the property,
a woman came screaming out the doorway.

“Don’t you dare come on our property, we want nothing to do with those dirty
Tories. I remember you, Mr. Peckford!”

My wood assailant strikes again! As we say in the political business, I marked
her down as doubtful.

PERHAPS THE MOST UNUSUAL
yet
rewarding experience of that year was the case of the witch and my supervisor,
which ended with more than a little irony.

One slow afternoon in July, I was working away in the office and was about to
close a little early when I heard someone enter. Before I had a chance to open
the door from the office to the waiting room, this middle-aged woman of medium
height did it for me. She abruptly entered the office and began chattering on
about her neighbours. I took my seat behind the desk and tried to make some
sense of what the lady was saying.

“Just slow down a bit, missus,” I said. “I can’t pick out what you’re saying.
What is your name?”

She told me her name was Rosy. “I lives over there,” pointing out the window,
“around the harbour, in old Skipper Thoms’s garden. Of course he’s dead, been
dead for years. But his relatives are there.”

“And why did you come and see me today?”

“I come to see you because I knows you will help me. See, those relatives
thinks I’m a witch.”

Taken aback, I responded, “Why do you say that?”

“I told Charlie I had a dream, and he was going to drown in a few weeks.
Charlie did not like that. And his wife, she will get a visit from a stranger, I
told him.”

“Well, don’t you think telling them about such tragedies was pretty
unusual?”

“But I dreamt it and it is real. But you—you are favoured. You are
favoured.”

“Favoured?”

“Yes, the Satan man told me.”

I realized that this was not going to be easy. I figured that I should just go
along and see where this would take me.

“But these are really only dreams, Rosy,” I quietly replied. “They are not
real.”

“Oh, oh you are wrong, Mr. Peck—my dreams come true, and the Satan man? He
visited me in my kitchen yesterday.”

“I would say that this Satan man was really a dream too—a waking
dream.”

This stalled Rosy. She paused and seemed to be trying to process this twist to
the conversation. She mumbled, “Waking dream, waking dream.”

I thought this was a good time to pose some down-to-earth questions that might
take her out of her spell.

“Rosy, are you married?”

“I was; he’s gone now. Jack’s gone now.”

“What happened, Rosy?”

“He drowned. I told him that it was too rough out there. I told him to leave
his trap until tomorrow, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s gone and I am
alone.”

“I am really sorry to hear that, Rosy. That must have been quite a shock. I had
a friend who drowned.”

“You did? You had a friend who drowned?”

“Yes, I did. And I was pretty sad for a long time.”

“For a long time,” she repeated.

“And Rosy, you have been sad for a long time, too.”

“Yes, four years is a long time,” she said, almost under her breath.

“Well, now you know someone who has had an experience something like
yours.”

“Yes, Mr. Peck. I am glad I met you. But the people in the garden, Charlie and
his wife and friends, are tormenting me—they say I am a witch . . .”

“Well, I will go over to your place with you and talk to Charlie and his wife
and his friends.”

“You will come over with me now!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. I will, right now.”

And so we left and walked around the harbour. She was now in good spirits and
pointed out where her late parents had lived, where her father’s stage was,
where she had played tiddlywinks, and the dilapidated building that used to be
her school. We finally arrived at her place.

“Rosy, if you would go and get a steaming pot of hot tea, I will go talk to
Charlie.”

Rosy glanced at me—a half-questioning look—but then exclaimed,
“Okay, I will get us some tea.”

I knocked on Charlie’s door; it was early suppertime. A slightly balding man,
tall and muscular, appeared in the doorway.

Of course, Charlie recognized me at once, and I could see his surprise at
seeing me. Quickly, I explained the situation.

Charlie and his wife were receptive and realized immediately the reason for my
visit once I mentioned Rosy. So we exchanged experiences. They confirmed to me
that Rosy’s husband had in fact drowned four years ago. He had fished with
Charlie on many occasions. And they described how devastated Rosy was when it
happened, how she had gradually withdrawn from the community and become a real
loner, and that lately she was telling people tragic things that would soon
befall them. It was the children and teenagers who called her a witch. No doubt
a word used by their parents. I proposed a little agreement with them—try to be
friendly to her and say positive things and try and get the young people to stop
verbally jabbing her. In return I would keep talking to Rosy and try to get her
to look outward and be more positive. We would see if this stopped the dreams,
and if they detected any deterioration in her behaviour they should contact me.
They were very happy to help and so I took a quick exit, explaining to them that
I had a cup of tea waiting next door.

Rosy was overjoyed to see me—it was as if it had been weeks rather than minutes
since I last saw her. The tea was hot and some bread buns and partridgeberry jam
made for a perfect mug-up.

“Rosy,” I said. “I have spoken to Charlie and Mabel and they told me that they
will talk to the children and tell them to stop calling you names. They also
miss your husband. They said he was a really good man.”

“Yes,” Rosy said, “a really, really good man!”

“And Rosy, Mabel told me you are a top-notch knitter and her boys need some new
mittens.”

“It’s been so long I almost forget how to knit. Yes. I will get back at it and
knit some mittens. That’s a good idea, Mr. Peck.”

We passed the rest of the mug-up in small talk. There was no more mention of
witch words and seeing things.

“Okay, Rosy,” I said, “I have to go, but I want you to promise
me that you will come see me every Monday morning at eleven o’clock. You can
fill me in on how those mittens are doing and what else you have been
doing.”

“Mr. Peck, I was going to ask you if I could come and see you again. Every
Monday at eleven o’clock—I like these chats.”

And so for the next couple of weeks, Rosy was punctual and we had some great
chats. I found out all about her family and her growing up.

The Monday of the third week, Rosy did not appear, and it was that Monday that
my supervisor arrived. I forgot about Rosy. The supervisor asked me to come to
the office very early the next morning so that he could review administrative
things with me before the office opened to the public. That night I got to
wondering about the supervisor’s abrupt visit. Of course, I quickly realized
that my recent refusal to provide transportation to a family (even when I was
instructed to provide it) and the subsequent telexes to the supervisor and the
department had probably prompted this extraordinary visit.

It was all business the next morning at seven o’clock. The supervisor was
unfriendly and aloof. His only interest, it seemed, was to find some fault with
my work. To that end he examined the inside of every file to see whether I had
cross-referenced every name from the daily worksheet. After more than an hour he
found one omission and highlighted it in very strong terms and was then going to
quit the scrutiny. I was not taking this very well and insisted that every name
on the daily worksheets since my time there should be checked to see just how
many other such mistakes I had made, pretty confident that there were no such
other mistakes. Reluctantly, he continued the examination. There were no other
mistakes. In the filing area, all the filing had been done and I had full
reports on all the travels I had done to that point. Nevertheless, the
supervisor reiterated the one omission to the exclusion of all the other things
that had been completed comprehensively and correctly.

This examination continued after nine o’clock and clients were beginning to
gather in the waiting room and outside the little building.

“Perhaps I should show you how to interview clients,” the
supervisor explained. “You sit here at the side of the desk. I will get in
behind the desk.”

He went to the door of the waiting room to call in the first client he was to
interview, and at that very moment the outside door of the waiting room flew
open and in ran Rosy.

“Mr. Peck, Mr. Peck, where are you?” she shouted.

She bumped right into the supervisor.

“Now, now, my dear, keep your voice down and sit down here in the waiting room
and wait your turn,” the supervisor said.

“No. Who are you? Where is Mr. Peck?” she said.

She rushed on into the office, saw me, and began to cry and shout in an
incomprehensible way.

In rushed the supervisor. He sat her down on the client chair, went around the
desk, and in officialdom’s most bureaucratic tone said, “Your name,
please?”

And so began a series of unfortunate verbal exchanges, with Rosy completely
confused and scared. The supervisor continued his cold interviewing style.

Finally, realizing that he was at sea in this particular setting, with Rosy
simply looking at me and refusing to answer his questions, sobbing and calling
out her husband’s name, the supervisor relented and requested that I step
in.

I quickly put my arms around Rosy, telling her everything would be all right.
Her sobs began to subside. The supervisor, seeing this, grabbed his coat and
said he was going to the boarding house.

There were about seven people in the waiting room. I immediately asked them all
to leave and come back in the afternoon. They all quickly agreed, given the
circumstances. With everyone gone, Rosy became more stable, trembling and
quietly sobbing.

There had been a drowning overnight just outside the harbour. A child had come
up near Rosy’s place that morning shouting and announcing the drowning. Someone
uttered, “It sounds just like when Jack drowned.”

Rosy, of course, overheard it all and the terrible events of four years ago
came sweeping back, fresh, as if it were today’s tragedy.

“Rosy, let’s go back to your house,” I whispered.

As we walked around the harbour we saw Charlie and Mabel rushing toward us.
They had been down at the government wharf where rescue efforts were under way;
returning home, they realized that Rosy was gone and they made their way to my
office.

Mabel ran toward us. “Thank God she is with you, Mr. Peckford,” exclaimed
Mabel.

“Let’s go back to our place,” Charlie said.

And so we went back to Mabel and Charlie’s place. They were wonderful,
consoling and recounting Jack’s last days with Rosy and wishing these things
didn’t happen anymore. It was lunchtime now and Mabel quickly prepared the meal;
before long Rosy was feeling a whole lot better.

“I am sorry I didn’t turn up yesterday, Mr. Peck. I forgot.”

“Well, Rosy, if you forgot I think that is a good sign. But perhaps we could
get together tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

There was a knock at Charlie’s door. A young man stood there with a note for
Mr. Peckford. It was from the supervisor. “I will be leaving this afternoon. I
can get a helicopter from the road construction camp a few miles from
here.”

“Who was that stranger in your office, Mr. Peck,” Rosy inquired.

“Never mind, Rosy. I don’t think he will be back anytime soon.”

THREE MORE SUMMERS OF
my temporary social work followed,
engendering many intense experiences.

I was posted to Mary’s Harbour on the Labrador Coast, a small community in the
bottom of St. Lewis Bay, named after the river that flowed into the harbour. I
boarded with the Coish family, a truly wonderful experience, with the
father/husband, Bert, my hired captain with his twenty-seven-foot boat, as we
plied the coastal communities as part of my job. His wife, a remarkable woman in
her own right, kept a small retail store and oversaw the upbringing of seven
children.

I was informed by a young woman last year that her great-grandmother had passed
away. Memories of that wonderful lady
came rushing to the fore,
prompting me to write a little tribute to be read at the funeral.