Pete went over to join Uncle Scott and Jake. Shortly, the three of them left the backyard. I said I was tired and was going to bed, but once I got upstairs, I stood under a hot shower crying until the water ran as cold as my heart. Now, I fell asleep, wondering if Jake and that girl were still together. Not that I cared.
11
A folded note lying on my desk first thing in the morning gave me pause. Did my tormentor have access to the school? But when I opened it up, it was Patrick’s scrawl asking me to meet him during the morning break to discuss my first probationary review. If I wasn’t so nervous, I might’ve smiled at the terminology. Probationary, like I’d already screwed up.
When I arrived at Patrick’s office, Doug was already sitting in a chair. I took the other one and said hi. While Patrick talked, Doug stared straight ahead, while I risked a few sideways glances. Doug seemed to be transfixed by Patrick’s frankly boring remarks. I tried to imagine him with Geri.
“So that date’s good, Rachel?” I half heard Patrick say.
I flushed. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
Patrick repeated a date a few weeks hence and said that Judy would also be conducting class visits to see how Doug and I were getting on.
When we left Patrick’s office, I wanted to ask Doug how he planned to prepare for his first review. But he headed straight for the men’s bathroom, no doubt to escape me. It wasn’t the best place for me to loiter outside. It seemed I’d be preparing on my own.
That evening, I mentioned my upcoming probationary review to Mom during our weekly call.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
I am now, I thought.
“You’ll be great. Remember to engage the students. Don’t try to cover too much and don’t repeat the content of the reading materials.”
“Mom, it’s high school French.”
She wasn’t listening. “Oh, and ask the students for feedback at the end of the lecture.”
It was predictable from Mom. All good advice, but none of it was applicable to my situation. I was teaching high school, not university students. And no way would I be asking the likes of Calvin Piercey for feedback. I wished I could speak with Dad, but I already knew what he would have said: “Be prepared, but have fun with it.”
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to prepare extra worksheets and lesson plans in advance of any reviews. So after breakfast on Saturday, I told Lucille I was going into school to do some work.
“My dear,” she said. “You needs time off on the weekend. You looks right frazzled. I’ve half a mind to phone Pat Donovan and tell him he’s working you too hard.”
I knew her heart was in the right place, but sometimes Lucille’s fussing went too far.
There were no cars in the school parking lot, but as soon as I opened the front door, I heard Phonse playing. I dumped my bag in the classroom and went to the janitor’s room to listen. Phonse was wearing a plaid shirt and denim overalls. This seemed to be his weekend attire. He smiled but carried on playing, the bow flying back and forth over the strings while the fingers of his left hand moved up and down the fingerboard. His left foot tapped along with the beat; he was almost dancing. Then he ended the piece with a flourish and, bow still in hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“That was so much fun to listen to!”
“Plenty more reels where that one comes from. They gets you hopping, me fadder always said.”
“Could you teach it to me?”
“I can try.” Phonse took another fiddle from a cupboard and handed it to me, then repositioned his own, the wood gleaming like a brooch against his shirt.
I assumed the position so familiar to me after years of violin practice. Phonse tutted.
“No. Not like that, girl,” he said. “See how it’s resting on my shoulder? It’s got to be loose, but at the same time like a part of you.”
I mimicked him, aiming for a looser hold. Phonse played a few bars slowly, his movements exaggerated for my benefit. I watched carefully. Then he pointed his bow at me. “Have at ’er, girl.”
I drew the bow slowly across the strings, copying Phonse. We repeated the sequence a few times, working through the song. Once I’d mastered a line, we would repeat it. Phonse would play, then I would mimic. Line after line. His playing sounded fluid, soft and floaty. Mine sounded staccato, laboured and stodgy.
“I’ll never crack it,” I said.
“You got the talent, all right,” he said. “But you’re stiff as a plank, maid. Loosen up.”
Even as he spoke, I could feel my shoulders hunch forward and my right arm tighten. I wriggled my shoulders, then started over from the beginning. Phonse set aside his fiddle and sat with his head down, listening to me. I was glad I couldn’t see his face.
“Better,” he said when I’d finished. “Give ’er one more go, now.”
I closed my eyes and concentrated, swaying to the music. Was it a bit better? Maybe. When I got to the end of the piece, there was a long whistle of appreciation and I flushed, happy to have pleased Phonse. But when I opened my eyes, it was Doug leaning in the doorway, staring at me.
I thrust the fiddle at Phonse. “That’s enough for today.”
“That was grand,” he said. “It’s brought the colour to your cheeks, too. Sign of a good player.”
He gave me back the fiddle. “Hang on to that one, sure. I got a few spare.”
“Now then, sir,” he said to Doug. “Will we be seeing you tonight?”
“You might,” said Doug.
“What’s happening tonight?” I asked. The last few Saturday nights, I’d been in bed before ten. Something had to give.
“Phonse and the b’ys are playing in the pub,” Doug said. It was the first time he’d spoken to me in what felt like forever.
Phonse said he had a regular gig in the pub “with a few fellas.”
“Wait, there’s a pub in Little Cove?”
“Mardy, next town over.”
“You should come see us,” said Phonse. “The b’ys are right good. I does me best to keep up.”
Doug was having none of that. “Go on, Phonse. You carries them.” Then he said to me, “Think you’ll go?”
“Yes, b’y,” I said, pleased to see a brief smile in return.
“Might see you there,” said Doug.
After he left, I asked Phonse for more details. Then I said, “If I’m going out tonight, I better crack on with my work.”
“Got to keep on top of it,” he agreed.
“Well, some of it seems pointless,” I said. “I mean, when you’re dealing with students like Calvin Piercey . . .” I threw my hands up in the air dramatically, waiting for Phonse to sympathize.
Instead he frowned. “There’s more to Calvin than maybe meets the eye, Rachel. He has other gifts.”
Heat rose from my chest and I blushed. I wasn’t used to disappointing Phonse.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “See you later.” I walked down to my classroom thinking maybe there was more to Phonse than I’d thought.
I worked extra hard on my lesson plans for the next few weeks, then headed back to Lucille’s and offered to take her on a night out to the pub in Mardy. She looked up from her crossword.
“To hear the b’ys?”
I nodded. “Phonse asked me to go.”
“I don’t know, girl.” She stretched her legs out and wriggled her fluffy slippers. “I’m right cozy now. And I’d have to do me hair.”
“You have to do it anyway for Mass tomorrow,” I said.
But she was back to her crossword. “Three across, four letters, place of torment and punishment.”
“Mass,” I said.
Lucille looked up, her mouth agape.
“Ha ha, no, that was a joke, Lucille. Hell, the answer is hell.”
“That’s where you’ll end up if you keeps up that sauce,” she said.
I brought her back to the matter at hand. I didn’t want to go on my own, and while Lucille wasn’t my ideal drinkin
g partner, she did have local knowledge. “You’d actually be ahead of the game if you did your hair tonight, Lucille. And we won’t stay late, I promise.”
“That’s what they always says. One set, then.”
We retired to our respective bedrooms to get ready, then met at the front door and gave each other the once-over. Lucille had removed her curlers and sprayed her hair silly, while I’d re-straightened mine. Each seemed satisfied with the other’s efforts.
It didn’t take long to drive to Mardy, but I was glad of Lucille’s directions, especially as she warned me about various potholes.
“Hard left now, missus,” she said at one point, going so far as to grab the steering wheel. “They calls that one ‘the killer.’ No tire has ever been known to survive contact.”
It felt like years since I’d been in a bar. A rush of heat, smoke and loud music swirled around us like a storm when we went in. Lucille walked ahead of me, waving at people like a visiting dignitary. Which maybe she was. I stopped to watch Phonse up on stage, eyes squeezed shut, fingers flying. Beside him were two more fiddlers, and to the left of the stage, a huge man with a long beard squeezed an accordion.
Then Lucille waved at me from the other side of the room, indicating she’d nabbed a table. I joined her and she took her cigarettes out of her purse, pulled the ashtray close and sent me off for drinks. Doug and Geri were side by side at the bar, but Doug’s stool was facing the stage; Geri had her back to the musicians. Doug’s right knee jiggled in time to the music, but he raised his beer bottle in greeting. Geri was chatting to the bartender. I sidled up beside her to place my order.
“Hiya, Rachel,” she said. “We never got to talk much over to Biddy’s.” She gestured dismissively at the stage. “What do you think of that racket?”
“I love it.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I hates it almost as much as fishing. Wham!, Madonna, Simple Minds. That’s my music. I wish I’d stayed in town this weekend but Mam wanted me to come home.”
The bartender came back with my drinks so I said goodbye to Doug and Geri and walked back to the table, where I handed Lucille a rum and cola. I sipped my American beer while admiring a couple waltzing nimbly around the dance floor. Over in the corner, an older man danced by himself. His arms were rigid at his side, but his feet moved so quickly they were blurred. “That’s Ambrose,” said Lucille. “He’s shy as a bat, but he’s got some moves on him.”
Around us, people sat at tables and listened to the band. Many of them joined in lustily with the singing as if they were part of the show. The singer had a clear, strong voice; the lyrics mostly involved life at sea. With the strains of a tin whistle as an introduction, he sang about being a cook on a trader:
I can handle a jigger, I cuts a fine figure
Whenever I gets in a boat standing room
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true Newfoundlanders
We’ll rant and we’ll roar on deck and below
Until we strikes bottom inside the two sunkers
When straight through the channel to Toslow we’ll go.
I had no idea what Toslow or the two sunkers meant, but it didn’t matter. And the extra s on words like cuts and gets didn’t bother me anymore. I got it now. Hell, I liked it. When the chorus came around a second time, I joined in with the crowd:
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true Newfoundlanders
We’ll rant and we’ll roar on deck and below
Most of the audience were on their feet by the end of the song, drinks aloft and shouting more than singing along. After a few more songs, the band announced a short break. Phonse stopped by our table on his way to the bar.
“Lucille Hanrahan, it’s a keen spell since I seen you in this pub.”
Lucille tilted her head at me. “This one got me on the go, right.”
“Proper t’ing.”
I was still buzzing from the music. “Phonse,” I said. “I love this music! Will you teach me properly, so I can play songs like this? I’ll pay you for lessons.”
“You will not,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”
On impulse, I kissed him on his cheek. He smiled awkwardly. “Best get me drink and head back to the stage.”
Lucille tutted. “You haven’t got a hope there, girl,” she said. “Phonse is a confirmed bachelor.”
She was teasing of course.
Wasn’t she?
12
The pelting of heavy rain against the window and eaves woke me the next morning. Out the bathroom window, the sea was churning grey. Sundays were tough in Little Cove; I couldn’t imagine a rainy one. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. Lucille was already installed at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea.
“I’m dropping from last night,” she said. “But it was some fun, girl.”
I told Lucille I didn’t want breakfast and would be out all day.
“But what about Mass?” she called after me as I slipped out the door.
An hour later, just as the rain stopped, I saw the sign for Clayville. Its population was 4,500, much larger than that of Little Cove. Just past the sign, the road turned from gravel to pavement. When my car made the transition, it stopped juddering. I’d assumed it was the car’s age that made it so sluggish, but now it rolled smoothly through the town. As I approached an intersection, the light turned red and I was slow to brake, almost forgetting how. It had been so long since I’d seen a traffic light, let alone traffic.
I cruised Clayville for twenty minutes to get my bearings, spotting the fabled Tony’s Pizza opposite a coffee shop. On the next street over there was a grocery store and a library—a library! Both were shut, but I knew I would be returning to Clayville as soon as possible.
I circled back and parked in front of the coffee shop. It was small, with five or six tables, and smelled of fresh bread and cinnamon. I walked up to the counter and ogled the baked goods.
“Date square and a coffee, please,” I said to the middle-aged guy behind the counter. He wore a spotless white apron and a hairnet that must have shifted, because I could see a red line running across his forehead, just under the edge of the net.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
I decided it might be time to start wearing a mainlander sash.
“I’ve just driven over from Little Cove.”
“You on holiday or something?” he persisted.
“No. I work out there. I’m a teacher.”
I waited for him to “Miss O’Brine” me, to say that he was Cynthia’s uncle or Calvin’s older brother, that he’d heard all about me, and then to ask me how Lucille was keeping. But he just nodded, then poured the coffee, fetched my date square and rang up the bill.
I sat at the table nearest the window and took a sip of coffee. It was delicious. I sniffed it, then took another sip.
“Excuse me,” I called over to the counter. “Did you put fresh milk in my coffee?”
“Yeah, did you want this?” He held up a can of the ubiquitous evaporated milk.
“No!” I half shouted. “I wondered where you got it, that’s all.”
He gave me a suspicious look, like I was trying to trick him. “Over to the corner store.”
“The grocery store?”
“No, they got it there too, though.”
“In Clayville?” I could hear the note of hope in my voice.
Again with the look. “Uh-huh.”
My taste buds cheered.
I opened my purse, pulled out The Handmaid’s Tale and hunkered down for the morning. Periodically, I glanced out the window. Outside on the street, cars passed each other heading in opposite directions. Had I even seen that happen in Little Cove? And then, I swear I heard a horn beep. Two men in suits stood on the sidewalk in animated conversation. A woman in a bright-yellow slicker walked past. She was carrying a magazine with the headline “Madonna Weds Sean.” Okay, that news was weeks old, but it was still news. And she looked like fun. The woman, not Madonna. Seeing her ma
de me think of Sheila, and I wondered what she was doing. Then I remembered the time difference. She was probably still asleep or, knowing Sheila, heading home after a big night out.
I had the café to myself until midway through my second coffee, when a young family came in. After ordering, they sat at the table beside mine. Two girls, maybe six and eight, slurped hot chocolate and coloured while their parents talked in low tones about unemployment insurance and mortgage payments. As they got up to leave, the woman’s coat grazed the table, knocking a pamphlet to the floor. By the time I picked it up to return it to her, they were already out the door. It was a Mass bulletin for Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Clayville: “Sunday service: 10 a.m.”
My prayers had been answered. Henceforth, I would follow God’s call to Clayville on Sundays, bypassing the church to worship at the café. I slipped the bulletin inside my purse. It would be prominently displayed on my car dashboard all week.
I was contemplating a third coffee when, to my surprise, Doug walked in. A swarm of butterflies took up residence beneath my sweater. Was he still mad at me?
“Whaddya at?” he said.
“Not much.”
“Can I join you?”
“Only if you let me buy you a coffee,” I said. “Peace offering.”
“Is it still peace if it’s hot chocolate?”
“Sure.” I stood up and pulled out the other chair for him.
“With marshmallows.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said, heading to the counter.
I returned with two hot chocolates and a selection of butter tarts, muffins and cookies. Doug’s eyes lit up. “I’m gut-foundered.”
I took a butter tart—I mean it was practically lunchtime—and handed the rest to Doug. The hot chocolate was delicious and the butter tart a perfect mix of gooey and flaky. Doug was on his second blueberry muffin before I found the right words.
“About that crazy idea I had for an English club,” I began.
“Never mind, girl,” he said, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “I was right contrary that day.”
“I don’t know about contrary,” I said, “but you were right.”
New Girl in Little Cove Page 8