Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More (8 page)

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 harbour 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.”