New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  “I usually am.” There was that easy smile. Things were back to normal.

  “Maybe a French club would be better,” Doug added. Then he bit into a butter tart, making appreciative noises. “How come you’re in Clayville?”

  I sipped my drink. “I needed a change of scene.”

  He nodded. “I guess Little Cove seems pretty small after Toronto. My sister couldn’t wait to get out of Little Cove.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Boston. She used to come home every summer, but she’s got three youngsters now, so she hasn’t made it back the last few years.”

  Then he grabbed another muffin and leaned back in the chair. “What’s your story?”

  “The Handmaid’s Tale,” I said, holding up my book.

  He ignored my flippancy. “Seriously, what brought you down this way?”

  “A bunch of things,” I said. “I told you about my dad. Then I had a bad breakup and my mother went off to Australia on a sabbatical.”

  Doug cocked his head. People obviously didn’t like this story about my mother. The truth is, even if Dad hadn’t made her promise, she might’ve gone. She’s very career driven. But I took the time to explain the deathbed promise to Doug.

  “Anyway, I hadn’t applied for any teaching jobs because of Dad, and then I missed all the deadlines. I was really surprised to see the St. Jude’s advertisement in the newspaper.”

  “Yeah,” said Doug. “Brigid’s situation was a real shock and it took them awhile to get their heads ’round what to do. And of course, a new priest was the bigger priority. Tell me about the breakup.”

  Normally, I might not have, but he seemed genuinely interested, so I said that Jake and I had met at university.

  “He was amazing when Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Sometimes I think Mom leaned on him as much as I did.” I looked out the window, remembering how Jake had raked leaves and later shovelled snow at our house.

  After a minute, Doug said, “So, what happened?”

  I looked away, biting a nail. Then the words came out in a rush. “He cheated on me. He started seeing someone else and she actually crashed a graduation party at my house looking for Jake.”

  “Ouch.”

  I took a sugar packet out of the bowl and began flicking it back and forth. “Yeah, it got pretty ugly.”

  “So that was it?”

  I threw the sugar on the table. “Pretty much.” Anger flared as I remembered Jake’s justification for the affair. “You know what he said to me later, when I asked him why?”

  Doug shook his head.

  Tears filled my eyes. “He said it wasn’t fun anymore. That I was too sad all the time. My goddamn father had just died.” My voice cracked on the word died. I was quiet for a minute and then I whispered, “I mean, who says things like that?”

  “Jerks,” said Doug, handing me a paper serviette. “Jerks says things like that.”

  After a minute, I said, “He wasn’t a total jerk, actually.”

  “No,” said Doug, “or you wouldn’t have been with him. People does stupid things every day of their lives. I guess at some point we needs to forgive them.”

  I decided he must be talking about me and the remedial English club. Because although I could concede that Jake wasn’t a total jerk, I hadn’t yet reached the point where I was ready to forgive him.

  13

  A few weeks after our girls’ night out, Lucille said, “I thought we might go over to Mardy. Johnny’s Crew is playing with Phonse and the b’ys tonight.”

  I could think of no good reason not to go, but I inwardly bristled at her use of the word we. As much as I liked Lucille, I was already spending most Friday nights with her and the hookers. I didn’t want to hand over my Saturday nights too. Then again, it wasn’t as if I had any plans besides reading a library book or listening to music.

  Lucille went to get dolled up. I roused myself enough to brush my teeth.

  But my spirits lifted on the drive over as I thought of the jaunty music I’d soon hear. Phonse was warming up onstage when we walked in, and he sat a little taller when he saw me. Or maybe he was stretching. The usual assortment of musicians was gathered around him, but front and centre of the stage were three familiar-looking teens.

  Lucille went off to talk to a woman in the corner. I bought her a drink and myself a beer, and wandered over to the stage.

  “Hiya, miss,” said Beverley, who was adjusting the microphone stand. She was one of the brighter senior students. She was no Cynthia, but she was smart. Behind her, Roseanne was tuning a fiddle, and to her left was Jerome, holding a guitar. All three were in the senior French class.

  “You guys,” I squealed. “I didn’t know you played. I’m excited to hear you.”

  “You might change your mind when you does,” said Beverley, in what I had come to recognize as her habitual self-deprecation.

  The bar was filling up rapidly and Lucille was waving an agitated arm at me. Yet again, she had managed to find a table. It was clear this was her superpower. I went over to join her and mentioned the students who were up on stage.

  “I knows,” she said. “That’s Johnny’s Crew, that’s the name of their group.”

  I’d forgotten that Lucille knew everything.

  Then although she was the one talking, she shushed me as the opening bars of a familiar song filled the room. Up on stage, a barefoot Beverley, eyes closed, began to croon the folk song “Four Strong Winds.”

  Beverley was shy in class and blushed easily if called upon. But up on that stage, she looked completely at ease, her voice caressing the words.

  I’d heard the song many times, of course. Dad used to have the Ian and Sylvia version, and more recently Neil Young had released it. But hearing it sung live heightened the significance of the lyrics, somehow. That’s what it had come down to for Jake—the good times were gone, and he’d moved on. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to forgive him after all.

  Lucille leaned in, her breath reeking of cigarettes. “You’ve gone right quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, patting her arm. We both turned our attention back to Beverley, who swayed softly on the stage, seemingly oblivious to the crowd. As she reached the final chorus, many in the audience crooned softly along, the odd baritone wending its own way through the lyrics.

  Amidst the prolonged clapping, Beverley and Jerome hopped down from the stage, threading their way through the crowd. They left Roseanne in conversation with Phonse. She glanced my way once and her head bobbed enthusiastically.

  “That was amazing,” I said when Beverley and Jerome reached our table. “You’re all so talented.”

  Beverley rolled her eyes, a physical manifestation of “this old thing.”

  “Miss,” she said, “Phonse is after telling us that you plays the fiddle. Will you play a tune with us?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, Beverley. I’m not that good.”

  “Please, miss,” she wheedled.

  “S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” Jerome simpered, batting his eyelashes.

  “I haven’t got a fiddle,” I said.

  “Phonse has a spare.”

  “He does, eh?” I caught Phonse’s eye up on the stage and shook my finger at him.

  “C’mon, miss, it’ll be fun.” Beverley tugged my sleeve and I stood up, allowing myself to be gently pulled towards the stage.

  “Thought it was time you showed them yer stuff,” Phonse said, handing me a fiddle.

  As I quickly tuned the instrument, the pub went quiet.

  Beverley spoke into the microphone. “By special request, our teacher Miss O’Brine is going to play a tune with us.”

  A male voice bellowed from the back of the room, “Heave it out of ya, miss.”

  There was laughter and the thumping of bottles on tables. I squinted into the crowd; there was nothing but friendly faces smiling back. I leaned into the microphone. “Only one song,” I said, pausing for effect before adding, “That’s all I know.”
/>   There was more laughter as I took my place next to Phonse. We’d been working on a piece called “Sweet Forget Me Not” and it was fresh in my mind. I was grateful that he’d chosen that one for my debut.

  I nestled the fiddle beneath my chin. Beverley counted down, mouthing three, two, one, and as we began to play, I shifted my focus to Phonse. But even as I concentrated on my playing, I was enthralled by the lyrics, which I’d not heard before.

  She’s graceful and she’s charming, like the lily in the pond

  Time is flying swiftly by, of her I am so fond

  The roses and the daisies are blooming ’round the spot

  Where we parted, when she whispered, “You’ll forget me not.”

  I mostly kept my eyes trained on the clock behind the bar, but occasionally I glanced over at Phonse. Once he caught my eye and winked, and when I smiled back, it stayed. I couldn’t think of a single violin recital where I’d smiled as I played. After, sure, but not during. Despite my inexperience, this music and these people pleased me so much more than all the classical violin recitals of my youth.

  By the time we finished the song, the beer bottles were banging so hard on the tables, I worried they’d break. Phonse patted me on the shoulder.

  “Some good, girl. You’ve been practising.”

  I was glad not to be a disappointment this time.

  “But why did you say you only knows one song?” he asked. “Sure you’ve got half a dozen under your belt now.”

  “Always leave them wanting more.”

  He slapped his knee. “Proper t’ing, my dear. But I hope you’ll come and play with us again some time.”

  “Try and stop me.”

  When I got back to the table, Lucille was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “My John used to sing that song to me,” she said. “You did us proud, girl.”

  I was so used to seeing Lucille on her own that I sometimes forgot she had her own grief to bear. I shuffled my chair closer to hers as the band began another tune.

  During a break, I was pleased to see Judy approaching our table. She sat with us for a while, introducing her husband, Bill, before sending him off for a round.

  “Rachel, that was something,” she said. “I had no idea you were so musical. I was minded to put you in charge of the yearbook after Christmas, but now I’ve got a better idea. I wants you to organize a group of students to play at the garden party in June.”

  “Um,” I said. “I’m not sure, I . . .”

  “You knows she’ll do it, sure,” said Lucille. And the matter seemed to be settled.

  Then Lucille began discussing the upcoming funeral of someone I didn’t know with Judy and Bill.

  The band started up again with a jaunty reel and people headed for the dance floor. There was a tap on my arm and a swarthy young man I didn’t recognize waggled a beer bottle at me and said, “Fancy a scuff?”

  I was getting good at Newfinese but this was a new one. Still, if a scoff was a big feast, then a scuff was probably a drink.

  I waggled my bottle back at him. “Thanks, but I’ve got one and I’m driving.”

  He wandered off shaking his head, as Judy and Lucille burst into laughter.

  “A scuff is a dance, you ninny,” said Lucille. “That’s what buddy was after.”

  “Oh.” I was glad of the dark to hide my red cheeks. “Maybe I can dance with him later.”

  Judy said, “If you dances with him, you’ll have them all lined up for a go.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to dance to this music anyway,” I said as a couple whirled past, inches from our table.

  “Ah sure, it’s easy enough,” said Lucille. “You catches the beat, and off you goes.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  As soon the music stopped, the trio of students from the band came to our table.

  “Miss,” said Roseanne, “you were some good.”

  “Never mind me, you guys were fabulous. If you bring your instruments to school, we could play together.”

  Jerome looked down at his feet. “Nah, sure we only plays here ’cause we’re made to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dad owns the pub,” said Beverley. “He’s their uncle.” She jerked her thumb at the others.

  “We’d rather play rock music, not this stuff,” said Beverley, casting such a disdainful look at Roseanne’s fiddle that I wanted to cradle it. “But Dad says we has to play sometimes, so . . .” She turned her palms up. “We does.”

  Roseanne said, “Anyway, we’re done now, sure. Let’s get a drink.”

  After they’d gone, I said to Judy, “So much for your idea.”

  “Uh-uh,” she said. “You can’t give up so soon. I’m counting on you to deliver.”

  Bill arrived at the table with a round of drinks and he, Judy and Lucille returned to their earlier discussion about the funeral. I picked at the label of my beer bottle. I had enjoyed being up on stage. Maybe I could get those students to play at the garden party. I just needed to figure out how.

  14

  The frequency of my visits to Clayville had increased over the autumn. I was often there both days of the weekend, visiting the library and the coffee shop.

  “Good morning, Wilf,” I said as I entered his establishment on a bitterly cold November morning. I inhaled the smell of baking and my shoulders relaxed.

  “You mean great morning,” Wilf said. “Better than great. Excellent morning!”

  “Why?”

  “Beer strike’s over. I’m closing up early today to go buy some.”

  “You can buy beer in Clayville?”

  He nodded. “Beer, wine, liquor. There’s a liquor outlet attached to the gas station. In the back of the store.”

  What other delights were yet to be discovered in Clayville? I wondered. I waited at the counter while Wilf poured my coffee and put a date square on a plate. Then, as usual, he added a butter tart when he thought I wasn’t looking. In retaliation, I stuffed a dollar into the tip jar when his back was turned.

  As I settled in for the morning, I allowed myself to fantasize that Wilf would open a branch in Little Cove so I could get up in the morning and walk over for a cup of coffee excellence. When I shared with him my idea for his world domination, he said he was happy with the one coffee shop.

  “You could move to Clayville, right?”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “I spend enough time here.”

  Then it dawned on me. Maybe I could move to Clayville.

  “Wilf, any apartments for rent around here?”

  “You could check the board.” He pointed to a notice board on the wall near the bathroom. I took my mug of coffee over and scanned the notices while Wilf served another customer. There was a scrap of paper with “Free Kittens” written in swirly purple writing, a business card for “Bud’s Taxi” and a recruitment poster for the RCMP, “bilingualism an asset.” Damn straight. Guaranteed job security for French teachers.

  Then I saw it, tucked in the bottom corner: an ad for a one-bedroom house to rent. I ripped the card off the board and kept reading. “Would suit couple or single professional.”

  “Wilf,” I said. “Can I use your phone?”

  The realtor, a woman named Ellen, agreed to meet me at the property. I jotted down the address and showed it to Wilf. He said it was a five-minute walk and drew me a crude map on the back of the card.

  As soon as I turned off the main street, I was in a residential area. The houses were bigger than those in Little Cove and the roads were studded with streetlights. A few of the houses had the same bright paint colours as in Little Cove, but many were plain white or beige and seemed a bit dull in comparison.

  Mill Street was a quiet cul-de-sac with few houses. I spotted the “for rent” sign hanging outside a tiny sunshine-yellow house at the end of the road. A large bay window faced the street.

  Ellen was parked out front, engine running. She turned off the car and got out.

  “Mind the ice,” she said, leading me up
the driveway.

  The front door opened into a narrow hall, which led to a combined living, dining and kitchen area.

  “This was three pokey rooms,” Ellen said. “The owner knocked them together. Much more spacious now.”

  I admired the newly varnished hardwood floors. Besides the bay window, there was a smaller one near the kitchen. Ellen pointed out a tiny footpath beside the house that led down to the sea.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  I thought about how much I liked Clayville. I thought about how Lucille sometimes came and stood in the hall when I was in the living room, talking to my mother or Sheila on the phone. I ran my hand over the smooth finish of the kitchen’s pine table. The four matching chairs had blue-striped seat cushions. In the living room, a wooden rocking chair sat in the corner, tucked away from two loveseat sofas and a coffee table.

  “There’s not much room for anything else,” Ellen said as I gave the rocking chair a test run. “Do you have a lot of furniture?”

  “None,” I said. “I’m staying in a boarding house.”

  She took me up the narrow stairs. To the left, in the bathroom, was a claw-footed bathtub like Lucille’s, but smaller. To the right was the bedroom. I bounced on the bed and peeked in the closet. Then I looked out the window: less than ten feet away was a graveyard.

  Ellen came over and adjusted the muslin curtains. We stood for a minute, looking down at the cemetery. Only a few orange leaves remained on the trees, the branches bowing down at the gates.

  Back downstairs, I looked across the bay where the whitecaps rode to shore.

  “I’ll be honest,” Ellen said. “There’s not many wants to live so close to the graveyard.”

  I thought about all the high school bike rides with Sheila through leafy Mount Pleasant Cemetery. “I don’t think that would bother me. I’ll take it.”

  “You never even asked about the rent!”

  When she named the price, I tried to hide my shock. Sheila was paying three times as much for a pokey one-bedroom apartment in the Beaches back in Toronto.

  We agreed to meet the next day to do the paperwork. Ellen said if I brought along postdated cheques, I could move in right away.