New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  I turned on the class, snarling. “Get out your books and do some exercises.”

  “Which ones?” a few of them asked.

  “Any,” I said. “Just get to work. I don’t want to hear another word. From any of you.”

  Maybe I was good at French, but I couldn’t control these feral teenagers. I sat down at the desk and stared at the planner where last night I’d set out a carefully constructed learning objective. “Students will demonstrate an understanding of the negative.” Bonus marks for Trudy on that one.

  There was a tap at the door and Judy came into the classroom. “Miss O’Brine, a word in the hall, please.” Her voice was crisp, but it softened when I shut the door behind me and joined her outside, one hand still resting on the knob.

  “Patrick wants you in his office in five minutes,” she whispered. “I’ll cover the lesson.”

  I took a detour to the women’s bathroom. My face was blotchy in the mirror and my eyes were full. I splashed water on my cheeks and scratched them dry with a paper towel. Taking a deep breath, I went to Patrick’s office, ready to defend my honour.

  He rose from behind his desk and motioned me into a chair, then handed me a steaming mug of tea from a side table.

  “Where’s Trudy?” I asked, hoping she’d been suspended, or even better, expelled.

  “I’m after sending her back to class,” he said. “I had a word, but to be fair, she was only repeating what Bertha Peddle said.”

  I put down the mug lest I spill it. “So it’s okay for a student to call me a slut?” My voice was tight.

  Patrick choked mid-slurp, spitting tea onto his desk. “Jumping Jaysus,” he said. “Is that what you thought Trudy called you?”

  “She did call me that.”

  Patrick put down his mug. “I can see why you tossed her out, but no, my duckie. Bertha said you were a scut. S-C-U-T.”

  It didn’t sound much better. “What does it mean?”

  “Mean.”

  “What?”

  “It means mean, like you’re a mean person.”

  “I’m not mean,” I said, pulling a tissue from the box on Patrick’s desk and wiping his spill. “If anything, Bertha was mean.”

  “Maybe so,” he said. “But it’s you that needs to fit in around here.”

  Behind Patrick’s desk was a table covered in neat piles of paper. Above it, on the bulletin board, was a yearly planner and a to-do list, which included the notation—“Probationary Reviews—Rachel and Doug.”

  I imagined my review thus far: “Takes offence easily; struggles to understand students; no classroom control.” I put my head in my hands.

  “Chin up, girl. The first few weeks are hard but you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “But what do I say to Trudy next class?”

  “Not a God-blessed thing.”

  “But what if she says something to me?”

  Patrick drained his tea noisily. “Do you think you’re the first teacher ever got mad at a youngster for no reason?”

  I thought about my own time as a lippy young thing. To be fair, when the nuns used to get mad at Sheila and me, it was usually for a very good reason.

  After school I lingered at my desk long after the bell had rung. Students thundered down the hall, conversing loudly, some rushing for buses that would take them to outlying communities. The footfalls subsided, car doors slammed, engines turned over, and then, there it was, blissful silence. I put my head on my desk and replayed the conversation with Patrick. It’s you that needs to fit in, he had said. But how?

  Gradually I became aware of my foot tapping along to music. I lifted my head. It sounded like a violin, but the tune was much jauntier than any I’d ever learned. It built to a crescendo, then after a final thrust of the bow across the strings, there was silence. Had I dreamt it? But then a slow, melancholy tune filled the air. It was the soundtrack to my mood, and I followed it down the hall and around the corner to an open door I’d not noticed before.

  I peeked inside the small room, barely bigger than a closet. Wearing a faded but spotless green coverall, Phonse sat in a chair, eyes closed, arm swaying back and forth as he played. A neat assortment of mops, buckets, brooms and cleaning supplies surrounded him. When the tune ended, I clapped softly and his eyes jolted open.

  “Jaysus, girl,” he said. “You scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had cleared out.”

  “I didn’t know you played the violin,” I said.

  “I don’t.” He raised his instrument in the air. “This here’s a fiddle.”

  “Whatever it is, you play beautifully.”

  He ducked his head. “Ah, sure I learned at me fadder’s knee,” he said. “Do you play anything yourself?”

  I thought about all the tears and tantrums that had accompanied my violin lessons. Those Thursday-afternoon sessions had lasted long after my passion for the instrument had waned.

  “You’re away with the fairies, sure,” said Phonse.

  I gave my head a shake to dislodge the memories. “Sorry,” I said. “I used to play the violin.”

  He thrust the fiddle at me. “The violin’s cousin,” he said. “Have at it.”

  “Do you have any sheet music?”

  Phonse tapped the bow to his head. “It’s all in there, girl.” Then he handed me the bow and said, “Have a go, sure.”

  I drew the bow across the strings, flinching at the high-pitched squawk.

  “Sounds like a chicken getting its neck wrung,” Phonse said.

  I wanted to give up, but was reminded of Patrick’s challenge to fit in. I forced myself to try again, the squawks gradually turning to notes. And suddenly it came back to me: Vivaldi’s “Spring,” the last piece I mastered before I quit. I closed my eyes and concentrated, picking up speed and making fewer errors.

  When I finished, I kept my eyes shut, remembering how Dad used to sit in his armchair, newspaper tossed aside, and listen to me play. Phonse’s soft clapping brought me back.

  “I don’t know that tune,” he said, “but it was wonderful grand.”

  I felt my cheeks pink as I passed him back the fiddle. “I used to play it for my dad,” I said.

  “Well here’s to our fadders,” said Phonse. “I think we’ve earned a cup of tea. Will you do me the honour?”

  Dad always said that support staff were a teacher’s most important ally, and I found myself thinking he would’ve liked the down-to-earth Phonse.

  In the corner of the room, a hot plate sat on a rickety table, a can of milk beside it. When the kettle boiled, Phonse made tea, handing me a mug emblazoned with a slogan.

  “World’s Greatest Teacher,” I read aloud.

  “Now, don’t be getting ahead of yourself,” said Phonse. “It’s only your first week.”

  That evening Mom called from Australia, except it was already the next day for her. She filled me in on her life in Sydney—the classes she was teaching, her new neighbourhood and the quirks of her apartment. She asked lots of questions about Little Cove, which I tried to answer as neutrally as possible, aware of Lucille in the kitchen. It wasn’t the most satisfactory conversation, but we were still renegotiating our relationship following Dad’s death and what she deemed my disappointing behaviour afterwards. But she promised to call me regularly, and we said our goodbyes.

  5

  Lying on the bed listening to Bruce Springsteen sing “No Surrender,” I could feel my stomach vibrating in time to the music. Why were no delicious supper smells wafting up the stairs from the kitchen? I removed my earphones and went downstairs, where I met Lucille at the front door, coat on and scarf over her curlers.

  “I was about to holler up to you, girl,” she said. “I forgot to tell you this morning. I don’t cook on Fridays. It’s my ladies’ night.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering if I was meant to cook for myself.

  “There’s cold meat in the fridge,” Lucille continued. “Or, I s’pose you could get fish and chips from the takeout.”


  Decision made. Like Pavlov’s dog, I was. I watched Lucille walk out of the yard, wondering how late she’d be. It was my first weekend in Little Cove and I was spending Friday night alone. Dad used to say start as you mean to go on, but I hoped this wasn’t how I’d be going on all year.

  I debated walking to the takeout, but in the end, I decided to drive so the food would stay warm. A girl of about sixteen, hair in a messy bun, leaned on the counter, chin resting on one hand. Her petite frame was dwarfed in a man’s shirt. Dark eyeliner highlighted an odd puffiness around her eyes. I placed my order and she wrote it down. Her nails were bitten right off.

  “You’re Miss O’Brine,” she said. “My sister Belinda is in grade nine. I’m Georgie.”

  “I haven’t seen you at school, Georgie. I guess you don’t take French?”

  “I did,” she said softly, “but I had to drop out.” Then she turned to put my order on the pass-through and I saw she was pregnant.

  I was silent, unsure of the correct response given the fact that I was teaching in a Catholic school. I left the counter and went to sit in a nearby booth.

  “I’ll wait here,” I said. Then I fixed my gaze out the window, suddenly fascinated by the wildflowers growing up through the carcass of a rusted-out car in the field opposite.

  “Order’s up,” Georgie called a few minutes later. But when I reached the counter and went for my food, she didn’t let go. Grease stained the brown paper bag, which shook slightly in her hand. “Do you think it’s fair?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  “What?”

  “I got pregnant, so I had to drop out. I didn’t exactly get like this on my own. Only the Blessed Virgin managed that, to my knowledge.” She made a sound, more bark than laugh. “My boyfriend, Charlie, is still at school.”

  She let go of the bag and it sat between us on the counter, the grease spreading slowly across it.

  “I don’t want Charlie to be kicked out,” Georgie said. “He needs his certificate.” Then she lifted her chin, face defiant. “But I needs mine too. It’s not fair.”

  Behind her, in the pass-through, a woman wearing a pink hairnet lifted a basket of chips from the fryer and threw them on a large tray. “Chips up,” she called. “Come and bag ’em, Georgie, and never mind the chit-chat.”

  Georgie’s eyes were pleading with me now.

  “You’re right,” I said, picking up my order. “It’s not fair. In fact, it sucks out loud.”

  She smiled weakly. “T’anks, miss. Belinda said you were right cool.”

  Calvin Piercey was standing at the bottom of the steps beside my car when I went outside. His open palm revealed a scattering of coins.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  When he didn’t answer, I thrust my supper in his hands. “Have this,” I said. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Then I saw a note stuck under my windshield wiper. I snatched it and slid into the driver’s seat. My hands fumbled and I cursed—it was the same block lettering as the first note. “Batter to Jesus.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it didn’t sound like a call to prayer. Could Calvin be leaving the notes?

  Someone rapped on the window and I jumped, crumpling the paper in my fist, then relaxing when I saw who it was.

  “Hey,” I said, rolling down the window.

  Doug leaned in, his elbow pushing the window down further.

  “How’s she going?” he said.

  “The car? Seems fine.”

  He grinned. “Nah, I meant how’s things.”

  “So much to learn,” I said. “And I’m supposed to be a teacher. Although the grade nines might debate that point.”

  “Rough week?”

  Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over, so I started the engine. “Gotta go,” I said, aiming for a breezy tone.

  “Wait. You free tomorrow morning?”

  “Think so,” I said. There would be no need to check my diary, but I didn’t want to advertise the fact.

  “Great. I’ll take you jigging.”

  “Jigging? Like folk dancing?”

  He burst out laughing. “Ah, Rachel, I dies at you. Cod jigging.”

  My confusion remained. He spoke loudly and very slowly. “Fish - ing. Out . . . at . . . sea.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to hide my horror. “Can I just watch?”

  “Mandatory participation. The wharf’s just behind Lucille’s.” He straightened up and I put the car in reverse. “I’ll see you there at six.”

  “Six a.m.? On a Saturday?”

  “If we leaves it any later, the fish’ll all be gone.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but I said I’d see him at six.

  I spent the evening washing and straightening my hair and reviewing my wardrobe options. Practicality won and I laid out jeans and a sweater. It wasn’t a date, and besides, it was sure to be cold and wet.

  It was still dark when I got up, but Lucille was banging around at the stove. “I made bacon,” she said. “You’ll get hungry out on the water.”

  Clearly the all-points bulletin of my plans had circulated overnight in Little Cove.

  She slid my breakfast onto a plate and was making for the table when she stopped cold. “What’s after happening to your hair?”

  “Is it that bad?” I ran to the hall mirror. Curls had sprouted overnight.

  “Just different,” Lucille said, her head of curlers appearing behind me in the mirror. How did she sleep with them in? Didn’t they hurt? We were like mismatched twins. I was trying to get rid of my curls and she was determined to make some. After breakfast, I ran upstairs and put my hair in a ponytail, shoving on a baseball cap for good measure.

  “I’m glad you’re keeping Doug company fishing,” Lucille said. “Gerry won’t go with him.”

  Before I could ask who Gerry was, Lucille was pushing me out the door so I wouldn’t be late. “Bring me back a big one now, girl,” she said.

  The footpath behind her house led right down to the sea. It was growing lighter already. I could see the wharf, and beyond it, little fishing dories anchored about the bay. A few men were working on a larger boat that was moored about thirty yards out—splashes of yellow overalls against the blue boat. One of them waved and I waved back.

  There was no sign of Doug so I sat down on the edge of the wharf to wait, dangling my feet over the edge. All around me were stacks of lobster traps, along with bits of old rope and empty plastic containers. I heard a chugging and a small yellow boat with red trim approached. As he got closer, Doug cut the engine and glided alongside the wharf.

  “Here,” he said, tossing over a smaller version of the green bibbed overalls he was wearing. “These looks about your size.”

  “Oh, I don’t need them.”

  “You don’t want fish all over your jeans.” I looked at the blood, guts and other detritus scattered around the wharf. The man had a point. I wrestled my way into the overalls, pulling the straps over my coat, then accessorized with a bulky orange life jacket. My aggressively curly hair didn’t seem to matter much all of a sudden.

  I eyed the boat. It looked tiny compared to the sleek motorboats that plied the cottage lake back home.

  “Is it safe?”

  “Built her myself.”

  “And that’s meant to reassure me?”

  “Stop stalling.”

  I sat back down on the wharf edge and slid into the boat, grabbing the side as it pitched. “I got you,” said Doug.

  His hand closed around my upper arm and he guided me to a wooden seat at the front. Then he started the engine and we cruised out of the bay, slowly at first, then gaining speed so that the colourful houses of Little Cove blurred into a rainbow that grew smaller and smaller, disappearing when we rounded a rocky bend in the shore. The waves were bigger now, but we hugged the coastline. Evergreen trees sprouted from rocks; I spotted a bald eagle high up on a branch.

  Doug shouted something that I didn’t hear. He held up a thumb and I nodded, grabbing the sid
e of the boat as it sped up suddenly. We were headed away from shore, out to the wider sea. After a few minutes, we slowed, then Doug cut the engine. The waves slapped hard against us, and the boat swayed like a drunk while I held my stomach and stared hard at the horizon. Eventually we gained a slower rhythm or maybe I got used to it. As far as I looked, in every direction, there was nothing but sea.

  “Goes like the clapper when she wants, wha?” said Doug.

  “Um, sure.”

  He took a flask from his backpack and poured a hot chocolate, spilling none as he passed the plastic mug over. Then he poured more into a mug for himself.

  “Does your family fish?” I asked.

  His face changed briefly; his lips set in a thin line. Then with a slight shake of his head, his habitual smile returned. “Most everyone around here does,” he said. “It’s in our blood.”

  A boat flew past, its occupants shouting across the waves at us, but their words were lost to the air.

  “They weren’t wearing life jackets,” I said.

  “Lots don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He rubbed the side of his mug absently. “Habit, maybe. Plus, if you ends up out here in this water, miles from nowhere, maybe you’re better off drowning.”

  We finished our drinks in silence. When I handed back my empty mug, I asked where the fishing rods were stored.

  “Rods?” Doug’s voice rose theatrically, lightening the mood. “Sacrilege.”

  He pulled a burlap bag towards him and removed two wooden bobbins strung with fishing line. A meaty hook sprang from the end of each line.

  “Mind she don’t bite you,” he said. I gingerly took the nearest one, holding it away from my body.

  “Unfurl your line and toss it over,” Doug said. “All of it. It’s right deep out here.”

  He threw his hook overboard and began twisting the bobbin back and forth so the line spilled into the sea like water from a tap. My hand jerked clumsily as I copied his movements. But I was watching his line, not my own. Soon mine was in a tangle, around my feet. Doug hadn’t noticed and was still shouting out instructions.

  “Now you starts hauling it back in, giving little tugs, like this, every few seconds. That’s jigging.” Then he whooped. “Got one.” He pulled the line rapidly in, then held up a huge fish.