New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  I wrote my name on the blackboard, in my very best teacher writing, then turned to face my invisible students. They were exceedingly attentive, if devoid of personality. The classroom too was dull; its only adornments were tiny pinpricks on the bulletin boards and paper remnants stuck to the walls. The boxes I’d shipped from Toronto were neatly stacked in a corner; it was time to make my mark.

  An hour later, autumnal displays and vocabulary posters had lifted the decor. But I spotted an errant pink ribbon dangling like a pig’s tail from the ceiling, high above my desk, too high to reach. I poked around the supply cupboard at the back of the room, finding notebooks, rulers, erasers and, aha, a pointer. I was ready to duel with the offending ribbon.

  I climbed onto the desk and repeatedly swiped, pinata style, at the ribbon, but still it taunted me. I put down the pointer and balanced one foot on the chair back. I had just put my other foot onto the blackboard ledge when the chair wobbled. I managed to complete my transfer to the ledge before the chair crashed to the floor, the noise resonating in the silence. Spread-eagled against the blackboard, I had no idea how to get down, let alone grab the damn ribbon.

  Chalk particles tickled my nose. What would happen if I sneezed? Would the force knock me backwards off the ledge? Above me, the clock ticked loudly as the seconds slid past. Prickles of sweat bloomed on the back of my neck. How badly would I hurt myself if I jumped backwards? Or could I land, ninja-like, on the desk?

  There was jaunty whistling now, and then footsteps in the hall. Phonse? A janitor could get a ladder. Then again, did I want anyone, even an old man like Phonse, to see me squashed up against the blackboard like a swatted fly?

  The wooden ledge began to creak beneath my feet, focusing my mind.

  “Excuse me,” I called.

  The footsteps came closer, then a deep voice boomed, “Jaysus God tonight, woman. You trying to be Spider-Man?”

  It wasn’t Phonse, and whoever it was, I hated him already. “I’m about to fall!”

  In seconds, a hand was on either side of my waist, gently supporting me. The warmth from his hands penetrated my shirt and my cheeks grew hot.

  “Okay, you can let go,” he said.

  But it felt like I was superglued to the blackboard. “I, I can’t.”

  “Relax, I got you.”

  I took a deep breath, dropped my arms and let go, sliding slowly down the length of him. I smelled soap, wool and the sea. When my feet were on the floor, he released his grip. I turned around and saw a red sweater first. I had to look way up before I found a face. His blue eyes held my gaze until I looked down, brushing chalk from my shirt and pants.

  “Do you work here?” I asked.

  “Starting tomorrow.” He offered his hand. “Doug Bishop. Science and phys ed teacher.”

  “Rachel O’Brien,” I said. “French teacher.”

  “The mainlander,” he said. “What in the name of God were you doing perched up there?” He gestured towards the ledge.

  “I’m a new teacher,” I said. “It’s my first classroom.”

  Doug nodded as if that made perfect sense, then said, “I’m a new teacher too, but I didn’t get the memo about testing the strength of the blackboard ledge.”

  When I explained my ribbon fixation, he righted my chair, stood on it, and pulled down the ribbon. Then he bowed low, presenting it with a flourish. His dark curls were inches from my hand and I nearly brushed them reaching for the ribbon.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “T’anks,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s lesson one. Newfoundlanders don’t say thanks. We says t’anks. Usually followed with b’y.”

  “Bye, like goodbye?”

  “No, girl. B’y like boy, or someone might say to you, t’anks, maid.”

  “Made? Like thanks, I’ve got it made?”

  He laughed, “I’ll stay away from duckie for now.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Stick with b’y,” he said. “Go on, give ’er a go.”

  “T’anks, b’y,” I said.

  “Proper t’ing,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. That’s lesson two.” He gave me a wave as he left, calling over his shoulder, “No more climbing without a safety net, okay, Spidey?”

  I found myself hoping that the nickname wouldn’t stick.

  Back at the boarding house, there was a cold plate on the table, along with a note from Lucille. She was gone to a neighbour’s and I shouldn’t wait up. I pulled the plastic wrap off the plate—chicken breast, potato salad and coleslaw. The radio was on low; a mournful country singer lamenting about a man who’d done her wrong was the soundtrack to my solo meal. I could relate all too well.

  I clattered my dishes into the sink, then wandered outside and thought about all the street noise I wasn’t hearing, unlike back home in Toronto. Eventually, a blue sedan drove slowly past and the driver waved. A boy in the passenger seat stared at me, craning his neck, until the tail lights disappeared down the hill.

  When I went back inside, the phone was ringing. I followed the noise into the living room, where matching floral couches were smothered in doilies and the lampshades retained their plastic wrap.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Rachel? It’s Sheila.”

  I sat down. “Do I know a Sheila?”

  She played right along. “Let me refresh your memory. Best friend? Since kindergarten?”

  For a minute I was that shy little girl who’d clung to Dad’s hand until Sheila Murphy dragged me over to the dress-up corner, where she plunked an old veil on me and asked me to marry her. Her teddy bear had performed the brief ceremony.

  Now I said, “Oh, that old bag.”

  Sheila laughed. “So?”

  I filled her in on Little Cove and its bleak consumer outlook. Then I moved on to the runaway priest.

  “Wow! I bet he’s gorgeous. Is he? Is he dreamy?”

  Classic Sheila question. In grade twelve she had lusted after an earnest young seminarian; more recently we’d watched The Thorn Birds miniseries together. It had revived Sheila’s fascination with priests while at the same time confirming my disgust at their inherent hypocrisy.

  “How would I know what he looks like?” I said. “He ran away, remember?”

  “True,” she said. “Just like you.”

  I had nothing to say to that, and after a brief pause, Sheila carried on talking.

  “Big day tomorrow. You ready?”

  “I’m nervous,” I said. “No, make that terrified. And I have PMS.”

  “Perfect,” said Sheila. “You can be the bitchy new teacher that all the kids hate.”

  There was another pause, then she said, “Have you heard from your mom?”

  “No, but don’t forget the time difference between here and Australia.”

  “I can’t believe she went,” Sheila said.

  “She promised my dad she would take the sabbatical,” I said.

  “Still.”

  “On his deathbed, Sheila.”

  “I know. Still.”

  Mom was a law professor who also took on casework. I knew Sheila thought Mom was selfish to take the sabbatical so soon after Dad died, and part of me agreed. But Dad had made her (and me) promise. And above all else, I wanted to honour Dad’s wishes.

  After Sheila said goodbye, I clutched the receiver to my chest, wanting to keep the connection for a minute. Then I hung up and went upstairs to unpack.

  My room was fiercely tidy. The narrow bed was topped with a thick quilt, a repeating pattern of evergreen trees in each square. On the floor was a hooked rug, depicting a boat out at sea. They were the loveliest things in the room. There was a peg on the back of the door with a few hangers, and I hung what I could there. The rest of my clothes went in the pine dresser.

  When I got under the covers, shifting in the unfamiliar bed, Lucille was still not home. A sliver of moonlight curled around the curtains, and
in the distance a dog howled. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself in front of a class of eager students, their hands raised like pointers. Instead I saw myself teetering on the ledge, flattened against the blackboard, having to be rescued by Doug. I found myself hoping that he wasn’t going to tell everyone. Then again, after what I’d been through with Jake this past summer, I was used to public humiliation.

  2

  The next morning, a slow rumble shook the stage as the students pushed into the gym for assembly. I tried to make out individual faces, but it was a blur of freckles. Onstage, I forced myself not to fidget, but instead to project a non-existent inner calm. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them again quickly when my skirt rode up. I tugged the fabric back down as inconspicuously as possible. The skirt hadn’t seemed so short when I tried it on. Then again, it was Sheila who convinced me to buy it, and she tended to err on the side of vamp.

  To my right, Judy Doyle, the vice principal, was wearing pants and a blouse with huge shoulder pads. I had met her briefly before assembly. She looked confident and at ease, as opposed to easy, which seemed to be the look I was projecting. A glance to my left, and my fears were confirmed. A nun, lips pursed, was looking with disdain at my thighs. The ratio of thigh to skirt was clearly not to her liking. What was it? Two-thirds thigh to one-third skirt? I never was very good at fractions.

  Patrick walked to the microphone, yesterday’s casual look replaced with a suit and tie. He told the students to settle down; they moved more quickly then, organizing themselves, cross-legged, into rows. A few older boys lounged at the back, but when Patrick called out, “Look lively now, b’ys,” they sat up straight. Patrick welcomed them all back, singling out the grade sevens, new arrivals to the high school. He was a natural speaker, confident and funny.

  “Some changes to the teaching staff,” he said. “You all knows Mr. Bishop, of course. He’ll be whipping our sports teams into shape in no time.”

  I was confused. Doug had said he was new, like me. But Patrick was already moving on. He caught my eye, then turned back to the students. “And this year, we has our first mainlander. How about that, a CFA?”

  While the students hooted, I tried to parse this acronym. CFA: F would obviously be French, maybe C was certified . . . but what was the A? Not assistant. I might be probationary, but Patrick knew I was a fully qualified teacher.

  “Yes, Miss O’Brine is a come from away,” Patrick said. “They don’t grow them very tall up in Toronto, do they?”

  My face burned, causing him to add, “She only landed here yesterday, so I don’t know too much about her, but she goes some red.”

  Which, of course, made me blush all the harder. Judy discreetly rolled her eyes at me. The nun clenched the rosary beads that hung from her belt; my first day and she was already praying for me.

  Patrick briefly noted my double major honours in French and education, my student teaching award, the year I’d spent in Quebec City, and my glowing academic references. I looked out at the student body. Were they wondering how, with all I apparently had going for me, I’d wound up in Little Cove? Or was that just me?

  Once he’d introduced all the staff and finished his remarks, the assembly ended and we teachers filed out ahead of the students. Judy touched my arm as she passed. “Let’s catch up at lunchtime, Rachel,” she said. “Good luck.”

  I knew I might need it. My first-ever lesson as a qualified teacher was grade nine French, the very class Patrick had warned me about. There were only ten pupils in grade nine, but the noise they made in the hall as they approached my classroom sounded like a hundred. I waited at the blackboard, smiling hard, as they sauntered in, sat down and continued talking with each other.

  The register shook in my hands. I tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with someone.

  “Peter Cahill,” I said.

  No one replied.

  “Peter Ca—” I stopped. No one was paying attention. Most of the grade nines were huddled in groups, whispering, some glancing over their shoulder in my direction. As the seconds ticked by, the noise level rose, in tandem with my heart rate.

  I decided to try again. “Peter,” I called, as a paper airplane floated in from the left and landed on the register.

  “Who threw that?” I said, then wished I hadn’t. No one was going to claim responsibility. I threw the paper airplane in the garbage, then walked over to shut the classroom door.

  “Quiet, please,” I called loudly, followed by “Silence, s’il vous plaît.” My remonstrations were in line with Canada’s bilingualism, while the students’ indifference seemed to mirror the views of many Canadians about that policy.

  Finally, I climbed up on my chair. “Hey,” I yelled, abandoning bilingualism and maybe self-control. “Shut up, right now. Or you’ll all have detention.”

  Was I even allowed to give detention? And had I really told a class to shut up in my very first lesson? Sheila’s prophecy had come true; I was the bitchy new teacher. But it worked. They began to settle, turning around and opening pencil cases and notebooks. “Don’t smile until Christmas,” one of my teaching professors used to say. It seemed unlikely I’d be tempted otherwise with this crew.

  “Peter Cahill.”

  “Here, miss.” Skinny and gap toothed.

  “Trudy Johnson.”

  “Yeah.” The corner of her lip curled upwards, as if reaching for the pockmarks on her cheeks. She wore a scarf in her hair, lace leggings and stacks of bangles on each arm, in clear homage to Madonna. I briefly wondered where she’d managed to find clothes like that around here.

  “Calvin Piercey.”

  No one answered but a tall boy raised his hand in the air, middle finger extended. I looked away, shocked. When I looked back, the hand was down and so was he, slouched so low in his seat, he was practically horizontal.

  “Can you sit up, please?”

  He muttered something under his breath and a few students snickered. Had he sworn at me? With that accent, who could tell? I let it go. If I was going to help Calvin get out of grade nine, I might have to let a few standards slide.

  “Miss,” said the boy behind him. “Can I ask you how to say something in French?”

  “Oui!” I exclaimed.

  My first opportunity to impart knowledge and demonstrate the importance of learning a second language! Who said the grade nines were difficult?

  “How do you say seal, miss?” he asked. “Like in the seal hunt, right?”

  My head filled with images of seal pups, their eyes pleading with the camera. In the weeks since I’d accepted the job in Newfoundland, the topic of the seal hunt had come up a few times. Some of my friends thought it was barbaric, others defended it as an important regional industry. Either way, I didn’t know how to say seal in French. I’d always excelled at French, which had driven my decision to study it at university, but in all those years of study, this was not a word I’d ever come across.

  For a minute I was stuck. Then I remembered Dad saying that a teacher should never be afraid to admit a gap in their knowledge. No one ever had all the answers and that was an important lesson, too.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But we can learn it together.” I picked up my Collins-Robert French-English Dictionary and flicked through the pages until I found the entry: seal 1. n. phoque m.

  In other words, a masculine noun, pronounced fuck.

  That little phoquer had clearly known exactly what he was doing when he asked the question, but I wasn’t going to play along. Further up the page I spotted the French for sea lion and seized upon it.

  “Lion de mer,” I said, writing it on the blackboard for good measure and ignoring the jeers of “That’s not right, miss.”

  Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the lesson, talking above their chatter about my plans for the year and my expectations of them. Then it was straight on to two more lessons with grades seven and eight. Mercifully, those students weren’t such hard work.

  Still, by lunchtim
e, I was exhausted and starving. At breakfast Lucille had mentioned that Patrick always treated the staff to lunch from the takeout on the first day of school. The smell of deep-fried fish wafted from the staff room. I would’ve killed for a burger.

  My fellow teachers sat around the table, reaching for cardboard cartons and passing around packets of ketchup and vinegar. Doug motioned vigorously at the empty seat beside him and pushed a carton towards me. Did I have to sit beside him?

  “Proper scoff on the go, right,” he said.

  I tilted my head, trying to figure out what he meant. From across the table, Judy spoke. “You’ll have to get used to our Newfinese.”

  “Is that what you call the Newfoundland accent?” I asked.

  “You mean Newfunland,” said Doug.

  It hadn’t been much fun so far, but I kept quiet.

  “It’s pronounced Newfunland,” he repeated. “Like understand. Understand Newfunland.”

  I nodded, then opened a cardboard carton and poked at the fish with a plastic fork. It was soft and flaky and, I quickly discovered, the best fish I’d ever tasted.

  Judy was watching me. “You like?”

  My mouth was full, so I gestured with my hands.

  “So good you’re speechless?” When she smiled, a gold tooth gleamed.

  I swallowed and said, “I have died and gone to fish heaven.”

  There was a tsking sound on my right. It was the nun from the morning assembly. Her black veil framed a sharp face and square glasses. Two strikes against me and it was only lunchtime. At least my offending thighs were hidden under the table. I pasted on my placid Catholic schoolgirl smile and introduced myself.