“Listen,” I whispered, “there are others outside there now. I don’t want them to hear our talk. Tell you what I will do. I will come to Harbour Round tomorrow and visit with you and your wife. We’ll have a good chat about this. Don’t worry, we will solve this.”
Slowly, the father gathered his composure as I continued to reassure him that everything would work out. I hurriedly escorted him from the office and past the growing number of people in the waiting room and those waiting outside the building.
The next morning I rented a car from a local merchant and travelled the ten miles to Harbour Round, which, like La Scie, was at first a French fishing station since it formed part of what was known as the French Shore. There were then a couple hundred people living there. I found the house, parked the car nearby, and walked up to the front door. Although it was around 11: 00 a.m. the community was quiet—no doubt aware of my arrival.
It was a one-storey clapboard house of moderate size for the time. I knocked on the porch door and was greeted by the mother. She was of medium height, with reddish hair, and a round reddish face. I introduced myself and was led into the kitchen where the father was sitting at the chrome kitchen table. I sat next to him, and the mother across from me.
“Now, a nice cup of tea would be all right,” I said, as I looked at a steaming teapot on the wood stove.
A nervous smile emerged on the mother’s face as she got up to fetch the tea.
“And how are you this morning?” I inquired of the father.
“Not good, sir, I hardly slept last night.”
“And I, too,” exclaimed the missus.
“Let’s get right down to it, then,” I replied.
I went on to explain that it just would not be possible for the nurse or myself to accompany the child to St. John’s, that we were needed here to help other people who had problems just as big as this one, and that there would be people to assist them along the way. I indicated that the route was to take the coastal boat from La Scie to Lewisporte; he could stay in a hotel there and then take the train to St. John’s. I also made it clear that their child desperately needed to be examined by a specialist and that not to do so could endanger the child’s long-term health.
The mother spoke up. “We have never even travelled on the coastal boat; we have never seen a train or been in a hospital. We are scared.”
The father added, “What is it like to ride a train? Are there elevators in the hospital?”
I realized I had a lot of explaining to do, so I began by describing the coastal boat trip, where they would stay in Lewisporte, the hotel there, the train ride, and the arrangements in St. John’s. I said we would make extra arrangements so that there would be someone to meet them on every step of the journey, and explained all the other details to try to increase their confidence. But the questions kept coming from the very frightened couple, so much so that I decided further conversations were needed. I met with the father and mother a few more times, involved other people, and finally, about a week later, the father agreed.
The day for the father and daughter to leave on the coastal boat finally arrived, and with the help of the mother a fond farewell ensued. We watched as the boat pulled away from the government wharf and then as it navigated between the headlands that helped form the harbour. I was relieved; the mother, however, was in tears, comforted by family and friends.
I went to the office early one morning three or four weeks later, and who should be waiting for me but the father. As I unlocked the door to the office, he rushed in, all smiles, as he hurriedly began describing his unbelievable experiences, from the screeching wheels of the trains, to his absolute certainty that as the train came to a curve it would jump the tracks, to the big hospital with its elevator that he learned to use, to the wonderful doctors and nurses that attended to him, and most particularly to his daughter.
“She is going to be all right,” he exclaimed. “The doctors said she had a rare disease but it could be treated.”
“And you and your wife will be all right now too,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “we will be all right now. We want to thank you . . . for making us see.”
That was a very pleasant experience. There were others not so pleasant. For example, one time I went to one of the isolated communities on my regular visit. My main function was to fill in for the permanent welfare office, and that was supposed to mean travelling to the various communities and updating information for those who were permanent clients of the department, such as widows, widowers, disabled, and elderly people. Of course, things are never as they seem. There were things that just happened. At this community a number of men came seeking temporary assistance. I was new and the test was on. I had discovered some days before that many men in the community had been working on a government project near the community. And the money was pretty good. When I arrived at the wharf there were several men already waiting to see me. Jack Budgell, the owner and operator of the boat I had hired, was a little nervous.
As we were tying up he said to me, “You know, these fellows seem a little nervous.”
“Nervous about what?” I questioned.
“I don’t know, me son, but they are acting strange to me.” Jack was not new to the area and so when he gave an opinion about the area you’d better listen.
Anyway, I asked Jack to tell the men that I would see them individually in my little room in the stern of the boat. This is where I slept—it had a couple of bunks, a small wooden table a foot or so off the floor, and a tiny wood stove. There was really only room for two persons. And so the procession commenced as the men, one by one, came down, sought assistance, were refused, and, mumbling their dissatisfaction, left the boat and wharf.
“Do you mean to tell me you turned them all down?” Jack exclaimed.
“Yes,” I said. “They were the fellows who were working on the government project for the last few months and do not qualify for assistance. I’d say that was why they seemed to act strange to you. They really knew that this was wrong, what they were going to do.”
Of course, the word got around the harbour that this new, young relieving officer had turned down all the men. It wasn’t long before there appeared on the wharf one very angry woman. Dashing up to the edge of the wharf she shouted out, “Jack, Jack, where are you?”
Jack appeared from the wheelhouse. “Yes, my dear, this is Jack!”
“Jack, where is that young relieving officer? I got to see him right away.”
Jack moved swiftly to the stern of the boat, opened the doors to the stern section, and began whispering. “We’ve got a pretty mad woman who wants to see you right now. Man is she mad.”
I climbed up the few stairs to Jack. “What—an angry woman?”
And before Jack could speak, there she was. “Are you the relieving officer?” she growled, looking at me.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
As she pointed her finger and came toward me, she shouted, “I have to talk to you right now!”
“All right, come on down and we can have a private conversation.”
She stumbled down the few stairs, fuming under her breath, and finally settled across from me on one of the bunks. In retrospect, I became a little too official, taking out my daily worksheet on which I recorded time and date and name of all who came to see me.
“Your name, please?”
“My name, my name!” she shouted. “Listen, I’m the wife of George who came to see you a couple of hours ago. You turned him down! You wouldn’t give him a food order.”
I lowered my head to write the date on the worksheet, my eye no longer on my client. In an instant she swooped, grabbed a large piece of firewood from the bucket by the stove, and leaning across the small expanse between us, clobbered me over the head!
I fell back on the other bunk, surprised and more than a little dazed. Seconds later, when I came to my senses, she was up over the stairs on the deck of the boat, cursing as she made her way to the wharf.
Jack thought he heard a commotion and came out of the wheelhouse in time to see the woman scampering up to the wharf deck and then on to shore.
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 an
d 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.
Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More Page 6