Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More

by Brian Peckford

  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.

  A TRIBUTE

  EVA COISH. MRS. COISH, that’s how I knew her.

  Life is so strange since only a few weeks ago I began an effort (I am writing a book on my life) to track down some of the people who formed part of my memories from early school through my university years. I inquired of my brother whether he remembered telling me about meeting “one of the Coish boys” I knew when I was in Mary’s Harbour years ago.

  And then last evening arriving home I retrieved a phone message from Charmaine telling me of the passing of her great-grandmother, Eva Coish!

  I said in my book The Past in the Present that my time on the Labrador Coast was “magnificent” and I meant it, for I met and lived with people like Mrs. Coish and Bert. It was always Mrs. Coish to me, the confident matriarch overseeing her family, always in control.

  I arrived in Mary’s Harbour in April in Bert’s boat. He had come to pick me up in Fox Harbour where I had been sort of marooned because of a four-day nor’easter and ice.

  But from the moment I crossed the threshold of the Coish household, I became one of them, ah, but not before, however, appropriate questioning (ha!) by the missus.

  What do I remember most about Mrs. Coish?

  The meals—unbelievable—and being really the oldest “son” I had to always clean the plate.

  She tricked me once. She put on this great supper with all the trimmings: vegetables and meat and gravy and as I was busy gulping down the food, she posed the question: “Do you know what meat you are eating?” Of course, I mumbled that it was meat, perhaps moose, rabbit, etc., trying to come up with the right answer. And with a laugh she said, “No, you’re wrong—it’s porcupine.” It took me a while to get over that. But I came to love it.

  Her diplomacy—yes she had some of that when it was necessary. A young RCMP officer who was then stationed in Battle Harbour was invited for dinner, and the missus put on quite the scoff! However, unknown to us at the time, our young Prairie officer was having a hard time adjusting to this strange place. He apparently had asked for the water jug on a couple of occasions and no one heard him. When finally he received it, he flipped. He cleared the table in one gigantic thrust of the arm, and water and food scattered across the room. Like a UN diplomat, the steady hand of the missus brought peace to what otherwise would have been an ugly incident as the rest of us were ready for a more physical response.

  Her authority—she tended over us all and never missed a beat, and most particularly she was a good adviser on the goings-on. Once she had to console me after I was tricked into providing assistance to an ineligible elderly gentleman who saw it as his goal to embarrass this young gaffer from the island whom he was sure was disguised as a welfare officer. And she had warned me and I still got taken.

  In another time and place she would have been the president or manager of some big operation. As it was, she influenced us all and we are all the better for it.

  God bless Eva—my Mrs. Coish.

  AND THEN MY EXPERIENCES with Bert, Mr. Coish. One such experience sticks in my mind.

  We were chugging along on the southern coast of Labrador in August on our way to Square Islands, the northern part of my welfare district and the summer fishing place for the people of Charlottetown.

  “Bert, boy, this is the final leg of our trip,” I said.

  “Yes, we’ve had quite a trip so far, Pecky, my boy,” Bert responded. “You’ve seen a lot of new places and met a lot of people. Remember that young fellow in George’s Cove who had the same birthday as you and he was just a few years older? Too bad he is so sick. And our trip in to Port Hope Simpson—what a brilliant day that was—and going in that narrow passage you exclaimed, ‘Wow, it’s like the Everglades.’”

  “And you’re still laughing at that, Bert,” I retorted. “It sure was a special time going in that narrow passageway—the sun glistening on the placid water, the boat gliding slowly as we listened to the silence.”

  “Now, boy, that’s getting just a bit too poetic.” Bert laughed. “Who was it you said you studied in St. John’s at the university? Some William Something, wasn’t it?”

  “William Wordsworth,” I replied. “He was quite the poet, Bert.”

  “So you keep saying! I’ll have to look him up in one of my big books when we get back home,” Bert said.

  It was about three o’clock. We had spent the previous night in Sandy Hook with Bert’s old friends. We were late getting away because I went out early in the morning hauling the cod trap with the local fishermen.

  “So, how long a steam to Square Islands, Bert?”

  “We will be there by suppertime. I was thinking that we should stay at Ches Campbell’s place when we arrive. I have known Ches and his family for a long time. They have a two-storey house, extra bedrooms, and two beds with feather mattresses—a good sleep for sure.”

  Around six o’clock we came around the point forming the little har
bour where the Campbells lived and tied up to the stage. Ches rushed down to greet us. “Well, I thought it was you from the boat. It’s good to see you, Bert. I missed seeing you last year.”

  “I did not get down here last year. The welfare officer got sick and was unable to travel overnight.”

  “Well, I am glad you could get here this year,” Ches said. He was a short, stumpy man with a full weather-beaten face and large but short arms and he was sporting a sou’wester. “This must be the new relieving officer that is with you, Bert.”

  “Yes, this is Brian Peckford from the island. He’s going to university in St. John’s.”

  “Boy, I think they gets younger every year, Bert. But sir, I am sure you knows what you’re doing, with all that university stuff.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Campbell, but I will do my best,” I said.

  We climbed up the stage and walked into the shed onshore.

  “Boy, that is a lot of fish under salt,” I said. “Must be well over two hundred quintal.”

  “Good guess, there. Close to three hundred, I reckon.”

  “It has been a good season; we started in early July and it has been good every week since. This morning we had ten to fifteen barrels and this afternoon we got another seven.”

  “Good,” said Bert. “Mr. Peckford here was out this morning in Sandy Hook with the fishermen. They had ten barrels. So the fishing has been good at most places along the coast.”

  “I don’t know if the missus has anything on the stove. Bert, me son, if we had known you were coming, we could have had something in the pot,” Ches said.

  “Ah, not to worry, Ches. Peckford and I have eaten well on this trip and we had a late breakfast at Sandy Hook.”

  “Well, I am sure the missus could scrounge up something. We got a few early mackerel this morning.”

  We entered the house and Edna was there to greet us. She was taller than Ches, plump with a beaming face and sandy hair.

  “Good to see you again, Bert. How are Eva and the family?”

  “Everyone is doing just fine,” Bert said. “And Eva is busy with the children and her little shop. We have had a good spring. There were lots of seals in the bay once the ice left, and I got more than my share.”

  “Edna, put the pan on the stove and fry those fresh mackerel I got this morning,” Ches interjected.

  “No, no, that’s okay,” Bert said. “We are sorry we are late. I know you guys have had your supper.”

  “Now, now, Bert,” Edna said, “I know you won’t turn down some fresh mackerel and vegetables. What about you, mister—do you like mackerel?”

  “I must confess, I love mackerel,” I conceded.

  We washed up and Ches went back to the stage to supervise the unloading of the fish and Edna got our supper.

  Of course, what is better than fresh mackerel, small potatoes, and turnip? We stuffed ourselves and went to the stage to see Ches and the sharemen head and gut the fish and carry it to the shed for packing and salting.

  Ches looked up at me from the cutting table. “Have you ever been a few miles off the coast in the nighttime?”

  “No,” I responded. “Usually we are looking for harbour and a place to stay before dusk. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you got to see those foreigners out there. It is like a city, all lit up. They are taking a lot of fish, and although we are having a good season now, I think it will soon end. They have those trawlers that scrape the bottom. Bert, you will have to take him out,” Ches said.

  “Yes,” said Bert. “I have mentioned this to Mr. Peckford. Some calm night we shall look for ourselves. I think you’re right; there will be trouble in a few years. You can’t catch the same fish twice.”

  “That sounds like a big problem,” I surmised.

  “Those European treaties are not good for our fishery, and Canada does not seem to want to do anything about them.”

  The men finished their work, and as the sun set, spreading its gold and orange rays across the harbour, we sauntered back to the house. Ches, a couple of sharemen, Bert, and I gathered around the kitchen table.

  “It’s not every day we have guests like this,” Ches exclaimed. “So I guess a little libation is in order.” He went to the cupboard and got a bottle of dark rum.

  Great chatter ensued in which we all participated in telling stories. Ches revealed his encounter with a polar bear on the ice a few winters prior; Bert told of his sealing exploits this past spring, when in one day he shot forty seals; and the sharemen, after some persuasion and another drink, told of their porcupine hunting experiences. I could not match these interesting and heroic tales, and so I told the story of a harrowing encounter with a female client on the French Shore a year earlier when the client and her equally deranged daughter made me run for my life as they threatened me with a large kitchen knife.

  Edna, who up to now was busy in the kitchen, piped up. “With all these stories, perhaps it is time to tell of a strange true story about a couple right across here in the other cove.”

  “What are you talking about, Edna? That’s none of our business, you knows that!” Ches said, startled.

  “Well, I think it is our business, and we have all been ignoring it for too long. We got Mr. Peckford here right now, and given his stories he seems like a man who could help here.”

  Ches was visibly upset and began to chastise Edna for raising this undisclosed matter. The sharemen remained silent.

  Bert spoke up. “Edna, I think you’re talking about that couple who live in the cove just over the other side of the point. They don’t mix with any other people in Charlottetown, and fish by themselves when they come out here for the summer. I heard the story, but I don’t know if it’s true. But perhaps it’s time to find out.”

  Ches, now feeling outnumbered, relented. “Okay. Perhaps it is time to do something. Look, Mr. Peckford, the couple that Edna and Bert are talking about spend all their time alone, as Bert says. They never get together with other people. The only time I see George is when we are out fishing, and then his talk is short—about the weather or the fish—and then he’s gone.

  “The story is that about fourteen or fifteen years ago, Mabel, George’s wife, is supposed to have had a baby. But no one has ever seen the child. There are lots of signs that there are more than two people. They move out here to the island in cover of darkness and it is like there is an extra person being loaded aboard the boat. Tom, who has the local store, says that the food they buy is more than one would buy for two people, and he remembers that years ago they would buy a lot of canned milk.” Ches concluded these remarks with a heavy sigh. “There, I have told it.”

  “Well, there you have it, Mr. Peckford. Do you think you can help?” Edna asked.

  This was a long way from a few minutes ago when we were freely relating our experiences, exaggerating our many exploits, and enjoying one another’s company. But there it was. A stark reminder that on remote coasts like this, the unusual lurked nearby.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, this is a pretty unusual story. First, at this point it is all rumours, hearsay, although the signs you relate do indicate some very unusual behaviour. Second, of course, I am not sure whether we have the right to interfere, and given that I am not a permanent employee of the government, I’m unsure what I should do, if anything. But let me sleep on it.”

  “Thank you,” Edna said. “I will say no more.”

  With a little mug-up of tea and molasses bread, we all agreed it was time to sleep, especially given that Ches and the sharemen would be “on deck” at three in the morning.

  As we undressed upstairs, Bert inquired, “What are you going to do tomorrow about George and Mabel?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Do you know George at all, Bert?”

  “Well, I met him once when he was in Tub Harbour getting some salt from the Wentzel boys. I think he was getting a loan of salt from the Wentzels because the merchant refused him. But that’s all.”


  “I’ll decide in the morning.”

  The night proved to be a long one despite the Campbells’ featherbed. The other cove and George and Mabel kept recurring in my mind—half awake, half asleep. Around three o’clock I woke with a start. I heard Ches get up. I tried to review the situation.

  There was the point that this was second-hand information and that it was really none of my business. Why should I act on such scanty information? Then there was the idea that Ches and Edna were honest people who were not making something up. Edna felt that there was an obligation on government to investigate. Most people in the area, it seemed, felt something odd was in play. Was this sufficient for me to investigate? Did a social worker have an obligation to investigate in such circumstances?

  We awoke to a glorious summer morning. The fishing crews were already at their traps, unloading and resetting them. Any minute we would hear the boats enter the cove.

  Edna was up and had breakfast ready—fish and beans, homemade bread, and tea. We ate well. I confided in Edna that Bert and I would go over to George’s place, but if there was any resentment I would not push the matter and I would move on. Edna understood and thanked me for being interested and at least making an effort.

  “I have my fingers crossed,” she shouted as we walked down the pathway to the stage. I turned and waved goodbye.

  The putt-putt of Acadian and Atlantic four- and six-cylinder engines could be heard, and when we saw Ches’s skiff come into view we waited at the edge of the stagehead.

  “It was good to see you again, Bert, and it was nice to meet you, Mr. Peckford. Hope you enjoyed last evening,” said Ches.

  “I think we both enjoyed it,” I said. “I had a confidential word with Edna about what I am going to do this morning. She can fill you in.” We pulled away from the wharf and Bert waved a final goodbye.

  “Where are we going, Pecky?” Bert asked, as if he hadn’t already surmised.

  “If you don’t disagree, I think we shall pay a visit to George and Mabel.”

  The slightest of grins crossed Bert’s face. “I figured that is what you had decided. And I agree.”