Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [81]
“In the late ’50s it all came to a head for us on Berry Island. There was an allowance to be had from government to help with the move: $300 to $600 depending on the number of children in the family. The catch was that all hands had to leave. Anyone stayed behind, then the deal was off. They were on their own. Well, my dear, up she went!”
Peg rose to fill the kettle again. “I remember one night there was a meeting called to the school. I went to that meeting. I’d been to many over the years but this was to be the final one. I had my mind made up. I was gettin’ on and I could see a time comin’ when I’d need a few services handy to me and besides, there was nothin’ much on the island for the youngsters nomore. Things were closin’ down all over the place. The priest was gone, the school had only a few youngsters and the store was shapin’ up the same way.” She laid a plate with thick slices of homemade bread on the table, with a dish of margarine and a pot of dark red berry jam. The pot of tea arrived and Peg poured, the hot steam rising over the table. It smelled good.
“As I saw things then, it seemed like every day brought something new. We were part of a big country now and we had best get aboard or be left behind.” She began to spread margarine on the bread and pile jam on top.
Nora followed her lead. “And Matt?”
Peg swallowed a piece of bread and jam and licked the tips of her fingers. “Matt,” she said hesitantly, “he was a bit tormented over the whole idea of movin’ but I thought he’d come around. Tell truth, I was kind of surprised he was of that mind, havin’ moved about so much in his life. I wouldn’t have thought it would bother him too much. But when I come to think on it afterwards I suppose it was understandable for him to be concerned. He was content where he was to, best he’d ever been. By then he’d been livin’ on the island on and off for a good many years, and here by all accounts he was to be forced to pull up and leave. ‘There’s nothin’ decided yet,’ I told him, ‘but if you want to be a part of what’s goin’ on you’d best come and hear what others have to say.’ So the night of the vote I persuaded him to come down to the school.”
There was standing room only in the schoolhouse that night. The women had come early and sat in rows, jammed into the wooden desks, their heads swivelling back and forth, watchful and expectant. The men stood shoulders to the walls, unshaven, the look of a long hard day set in their faces. A few young people hung about by the doorway in a loose group, detached, awaiting a decision. Matt Molloy sat on the wood box, partly concealed by the belly of the stove. He had not been in this room since the day he’d had the confrontation with Gerry Quinlan twenty or more years before.
Now the tide had turned. Gerry was back for tonight’s vote. He stood up front behind the teacher’s desk, suitably attired in a dark suit, shirt and tie, a lawyer representing the Government, adviser and confidant of the merchant who now stood alongside of him as Justice of the Peace on the island. He stood out in the crowded room, confident, quick, vocal and hard driving, clearly in control. He was now the big shot from St. John’s, loved by some, despised by others. “Joey’s Boy,” was how some referred to him, those who had no time for Joey Smallwood, the upstart premier of the province. Joey, “the little fella from Gambo,” who had wooed the people into giving away their country just a few years before and now he was after them again, this time, to give up their homes.
His old teacher looked across the room and took in the measure of Gerry Quinlan, noting the feeling of urgent impatience that surrounded the man. He had a job to do tonight, and a boat to catch tomorrow. Gerry knew the game, knew what he wanted.
“Now, is there anyone else would like to speak to this motion before we cast our vote?” It was an officious sounding call from the justice. There was a swell