New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  “That’s a cod?” I had imagined something the size of the battered fish from the takeout.

  “I’ve caught bigger.” He unhooked it and threw it in the blue plastic bucket beside him. Then he threw his line back overboard again, spooling it through his fingers, and repeated the process, hauling up another fish. I managed to untangle my line and throw it overboard while Doug was busy with his catch.

  “You got any yet?” he asked.

  “Maybe there’s no more fish around here,” I said.

  “There’s enough fish in this ocean to last ten lifetimes.”

  I jiggled—jigged—my line every few seconds, my fingers stiff in the old gloves Doug had insisted I wear. The line felt heavy now, and harder to pull.

  “You got one,” shouted Doug. “Haul ’er in.”

  As the fish breached the surface, I leaned over the side and pulled it in with both hands. Sea water dripped from my catch, landing on my sleeve.

  “She’s a beaut,” Doug said. “Lucille will be some pleased. That’s your dinner sorted.”

  I looked at the fat mouth and dull eyes of the fish dangling from my hand. I barely managed to put it down before I retched repeatedly over the side of the boat. I slumped down, burying my face in my hands. But Doug couldn’t have been sweeter. He told me to put my head between my legs and take deep breaths until the queasiness passed.

  “Plenty of fish on board now,” he said. “Probably time we heads home, if that’s okay with you.”

  If it was obvious he was lying, I didn’t mind. I nodded and Doug started the engine and motored slowly back, talking aimlessly, somehow managing to never say anything that required a response. Back on shore I struggled out of the life jacket and overalls and sat down on the grassy hill while Doug cleaned and gutted the fish, whistling to himself. He handed one over; I didn’t ask how he knew it was mine.

  “You all right to get back on your own?” he asked.

  I nodded, then mumbled my thanks and headed up the hill towards Lucille’s.

  “Rachel,” he called.

  When I turned around, he said, “You done good.” He paused a beat, then added, “For a mainlander.”

  6

  The bathtub at Lucille’s was a large claw-footed beast. I topped up the hot water twice, my toes resting on the tap, trying not to race through my novel. Unless I found a library soon, I’d be reading the Bible for pleasure at this rate. I reluctantly pulled the plug only after repeated shouts up the stairs from Lucille. When I descended, Our Lady of Perpetual Smoke was pacing up and down in the hall, practically chewing her cigarette.

  “Jaysus, Mary and Josephine,” she said, her voice high. “What’s after taking you so long? It’s getting late.”

  “For what?”

  Her eyes widened and she forgot to exhale. After a prolonged bout of coughing, she wheezed, “Mass.”

  I looked from Lucille’s frilled red blouse and black skirt to my ratty sweatpants and ran back upstairs. Dammit! The only time I’d been inside a church in the last five years was Dad’s funeral. But even a Catholic as lapsed as me should have realized that in a small community like Little Cove, there would be no escaping the Lord.

  Lucille bellowed up the stairs. “We needs to go.”

  I grabbed my trench coat. It could hide a multitude of sins, as Mom would say. And God knows I had plenty of those as far as the Church was concerned.

  Nothing was far away in Little Cove, so I drove slowly. Nonetheless, Lucille clung to the grab handle with one hand and braced herself on the dashboard with the other. I glanced across at her hair. The curlers were gone, replaced by a tall curly mound, the hairspray on it glistening like dew. A tornado wouldn’t shift it.

  The wooden doors of the church were propped open and the small parking lot was full. Lucille blessed herself as we came level with the church, then gestured to a small lay-by on the roadside.

  “Park there, luh. That’s for stragglers. We’ll not leave it so late next Sunday.”

  We hurried up the steps, slipping in just ahead of Phonse, who was closing the doors. “Evening, ladies,” he said, winking. Lucille scowled at him and I regretted my role in this minor embarrassment.

  The central aisle was heavily scuffed; the wooden pews on either side were mostly full. I tried to slink into the back row, but Lucille prodded me on towards the front. Students were dotted throughout the congregation, the younger ones sitting with parents, the older teens pressed in together at the back. I looked straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye, I could see elbows poking ribs and heads tilting in our direction.

  We were getting so close to the front of the church that I decided Lucille must be heading for the altar to say Mass. But at the last minute, she steered me to the left and into the front pew. She creaked to her knees and I followed suit. I’d taken the job at St. Jude’s because I’d missed the entire Ontario recruitment process, having parked my job search when Dad got sick. I hadn’t given the Catholic angle much thought, not fully appreciating that it would necessitate regular attendance at Mass. I wasn’t sure I could handle a year of that and bowed my head to pray for a solution.

  The organist began playing a vaguely familiar hymn and the congregation rose as one. I recognized the two altar boys walking solemnly up the aisle. Behind them was Sister Mary Catherine, holding the Bible like a shield. A fat priest, in full regalia, brought up the rear.

  During the service, I mumbled half-remembered prayers and responses. Periodically I glanced around. I saw Doug two pews over. Judy was in the row behind him and lifted a hand discreetly in greeting.

  I was a long way from a state of grace when I went up for Holy Communion, but it seemed safer to risk the wrath of the Almighty than the shame of Lucille. Father Frank stood before me, the host in his hand.

  “The Body of Christ,” he intoned, looking at me intently, as if to ferret out my sins.

  “Amen,” I croaked, adjusting the collar of my trench.

  When I returned to the pew and kneeled to say my post-Communion prayer, memories of Dad’s funeral came back to me. He’d been a much-loved English teacher; the church had been packed with weepy girls and stoic boys. Mom and I had been overwhelmed by it all. I pinched the skin on my inside wrist and began counting backwards in my head, to push the sadness away.

  When Mass was over, Lucille whispered, “Father Frank wants a word with you. He says to wait here for him. I’ll see you later back home.”

  I found myself wondering how Father Frank had managed to communicate all of this to Lucille when he gave her the host. Still, I sat and waited while the church emptied. The sun streamed in through the stained-glass window behind the altar. In an alcove to the right, rows of votive candles flickered. I glanced back to the church doors, flung wide like outstretched arms, but there was no sign of the priest. I began to think he’d forgotten until he surprised me, coming out from a door to the right of the altar, now wearing the simple black garb of everyday priesthood.

  He walked towards me, his broad stomach rising like dough over his belt. He was nearly bald with scattered wisps of grey hair.

  “Miss O’Brine,” he said, holding out a hand. There was a large gold ring with a ruby stone on his fourth finger, and for a second, I wondered if I was expected to kiss it.

  “Rachel,” I said, taking his damp hand in mine.

  He sat down beside me in the pew, drawing his hands into his lap. “So, you’re out here to teach French,” he said. “Now tell me this. Do the young people of outport Newfoundland need to be learning French?”

  Before I could say anything, he answered his own question. “I have my doubts. It seems to me that there are far more important matters that could be taught.”

  “Like what?”

  “Manners, for starters. And faith.”

  He unfolded his hands and raised them into the prayer position. “As a teacher in a Catholic school, Miss O’Brine, you will be expected to demonstrate a high code of moral conduct and set an example for the young peopl
e of this parish.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “There is also the vexing problem of chastity.” He over-enunciated this final word while his eyes bored into mine as if seeking a confession of my full sexual history. “Do you know, Miss O’Brine, we have girls in this parish who have to leave school because they fall pregnant?”

  “That is indeed shocking,” I said, choosing my words deliberately.

  He looked sharply at me but I smiled back. If going to Catholic school all those years had taught me anything, it was how to suck up to a priest.

  “You are young, Miss O’Brine,” he continued. “Some of the girls may therefore look to you as a confidante.” He straightened in the pew. “However, that is my role in this community. If any of the girls seek you out to confess to any sexual impropriety, you must refer them to me.”

  When hell freezes over, I thought.

  “Now, do you have any questions about your teaching position?” he asked.

  “Mr. Donovan has briefed me on all my responsibilities,” I said, standing to go. “If there’s nothing else, Father, Lucille will be waiting for me.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She was waiting for me. At home.

  There were a few stragglers outside the church when I left, pockets of women chatting to each other, some with small children pulling on their arms. I crossed the road to my car, sighing loudly when I saw the note fluttering in the soft breeze. Was it too much to ask that hate mail be banned on the Sabbath?

  But when I opened the note, it said: “Hope it wasn’t the company that made you sick. You’ll get your sea legs yet. Doug.”

  As I drove back up the hill towards Lucille’s, the sun shone on the water and I spotted a boat heading out of the bay, its wake trailing behind like a bride’s veil. Then a cloud crossed over the sun and the sea turned dark, the wake becoming shroud-like. I remembered what Doug had said about life jackets, and shivered.

  7

  After a few weeks, I knew my schedule by heart, including the sad fact that every Monday morning I had grade nine French first period. It was not the best way to start the week, and no sooner had I reached the front of the classroom than Calvin Piercey bellowed, “Can I go to the bat’room?”

  I slammed my books down on the desk. No sign of a please, in either official language. And the golden rule from day one had been that anyone who wanted to go to the bathroom had to ask in French, no exceptions. God knows we’d practised that sentence enough times that the entire class should have been able to waltz their way across France without fear of being caught short.

  But Calvin had his own rules, one of which seemed to be, I’m not saying nothing in French. You can’t make me.

  I gritted my teeth. “En français, s’il vous plaît, Calvin.”

  His habitual scowl intensified. “Come on, miss, I’m bursting.”

  There was a buzzing in my ears and I fought the urge to run screaming from the classroom straight to Patrick’s office and quit. It was too hard. I couldn’t win against Calvin or any of this cohort. Dad was wrong. Sometimes a troublemaker was just a troublemaker.

  I was about to tell Calvin to just go when I looked around the classroom. For once, all eyes were on me. Trudy was smirking, willing me to fail. But the expressions on other faces looked sympathetic or embarrassed on my behalf. Belinda, who seemed to enjoy French, nodded her head slightly, as if to say, You got this, miss.

  I breathed out and counted backwards from three in my head.

  “You’re bursting?” I said, my voice a mix of honey and venom. “Oh dear, I hope you don’t have an accident right here in the classroom.” I repeated my command. “En français, s’il vous plaît.”

  Glowering, Calvin stood and mumbled something, eyes down. I had no clue what he said and he probably didn’t either. He might have asked me to banish homework forever, or to sacrifice myself at dawn. Maybe he asked me to the prom. Whatever bon mots had dripped from his lips, from a distance, it sounded enough like French for me to smile, magnanimous as a queen, and grant his request.

  After school, on my way to the staff room, I heard the steady thwack-thwack of a ball being dribbled in the gym. Making a detour, I stood on tiptoe and peeked through the window of the double doors. Doug was playing pickup basketball with a student. The boy was heading towards the basket, his left arm up to thwart Doug’s attempted steal. Doug forced him back, and the boy turned and dribbled the other way.

  The sequence was repeated again, amidst mutual laughter and jeering. Then Doug grabbed the ball away mid-bounce. He deked past his opponent, performed an impressive layup and scored. He raised his arms triumphantly in the air and whooped. I pushed one of the doors open slightly, my nostrils twitching at the blend of sweat and testosterone.

  Doug began imitating a sports announcer: “That basket puts Bishop ahead by two points, folks. Time’s running out. It’s not looking good for Piercey. Can he make a comeback?”

  Piercey? Did Calvin have a twin? That seemed the only plausible explanation, because I did not recognize this energetic, enthusiastic—dare I say joyful?—teenager.

  Doug passed the ball to Calvin and began guarding him. Calvin dribbled the ball more slowly, as if biding his time. He worked his way around the court with an easy grace, then, with one quick dart, managed to get past Doug and score. He grabbed the ball as the net released it and bounced it hard on the ground. Then he flexed his biceps and pranced in a circle around Doug.

  I went into the gym and clapped. When Calvin saw me, he dropped his arms and his smile vanished. Doug picked up the ball and began dribbling towards me. Then he grinned and threw it hard.

  “Let’s see what you got, Miss O’Brine.”

  My hands stung on contact, but I held on. Calvin threw himself onto a low bench along the wall, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me.

  Thankfully I was wearing flat shoes. I dribbled the ball towards the net. When I got close to Doug, he thrust his lanky arm in my direction, but I broke quickly to his left. I could hear his feet pounding after me, so I stopped short and took aim. As the ball sailed through the net, I heard the familiar swoosh and sent a silent thank-you to Dad for all the Sunday afternoons we’d spent in the backyard shooting hoops. I turned around and flicked my hair like a supermodel. Then I started humming the Rocky theme. Loudly.

  Doug stood where I’d left him, scratching his jaw, but Calvin was on his feet, whooping.

  “Good on ya, maid!” he yelled.

  Maid didn’t seem like the most appropriate form of address for a teacher, but I’d take praise from Calvin however it came. I picked the ball up from the floor, ready to challenge Calvin, but he called, “See yez,” and jogged off towards the exit.

  “I hope I didn’t break up the party,” I said, as the double doors swung back in on their hinges.

  “Nah, his mudder will be after him if he doesn’t get home. Geez, I’m thirsty. Wanna grab a beer?”

  “Is that even possible in Little Cove?”

  “Patrick keeps a stash in the staff room. We used to try to raid it when I was a student.”

  “Is it weird to be back here as a teacher?” I asked as we walked through the deserted hallway.

  “Not really. It’s been a few years and there’s been some changeover.”

  In the staff room, I cleared a space at the table, while Doug squatted in front of a minifridge in the corner. “Holy frig, he’s got black arse,” I heard him say.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s Patrick’s brand.” He slid a bottle of beer down the table and it stopped right in front of me. When I read the label—Black Horse—my confusion dissolved.

  “Is it special?”

  “It’s a Newfoundland beer! Don’t you know there’s a beer strike on? All we’ve been able to get lately is American suds. Patrick must have stocked up ahead of time, the sleeveen.”

  I took a sip of the beer. It tasted like any other beer to me, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “Why did you come back home
to teach?” I asked Doug.

  “After Dad died, I felt like Mudder needed me. But she wouldn’t let me give up my studies. So when the local job came up, I went for it.”

  I put my beer down. “I didn’t know your father died,” I whispered.

  Doug shrugged. “It’s not something you brings up all the time, I guess.”

  “No,” I said. “You don’t. My dad died in April. He was the one who taught me how to play basketball.”

  Doug moved his chair closer to mine. “Well, he taught you some good. Can I ask how he died?”

  “Lung cancer,” I said. “He couldn’t seem to quit, even after . . .” I stopped talking and looked out the window for a bit. “What about your dad?”

  “Drowned,” said Doug, his voice clipped.

  I thought about the boat that had raced past us the day Doug took me fishing. I wanted to know if his father had been wearing a life jacket. But I also knew how hurtful those kinds of questions could be. So instead, I crept my hand across the table and gripped Doug’s, and we sat in silence drinking our beer.

  8

  Having won the battle of the bathroom with Calvin the day before, I set my sights on the rest of the recalcitrant grade nines. I met with Patrick before school to get some advice. He suggested I assign worksheets to anyone who was being disruptive. It went against every pedagogical method I’d been taught, but those ivory tower thinkers had clearly never had to wrestle with the likes of Trudy Johnson.

  “Tell them the worksheets needs to be done in my office,” said Patrick. “They’ll soon learn.”

  I put in time at the ditto machine, running off worksheets on every topic known to French teachers: vocabulary, verb tenses, the negative. I inhaled the heady fumes, hoping it was the smell of another victory.

  Later that day, brandishing a sheaf of worksheets in one hand and raising it above my head, I outlined my behaviour expectations going forward and the punishment that would be meted out were they not met. Minutes later, when I called on Trudy, she ignored me. I reiterated the new rules and told her that if she didn’t answer, she would get a worksheet.