New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  “So, I’ll see you here tomorrow morning after Mass,” she said.

  Well, you won’t see me at Mass, I thought. Driving back to Little Cove, my stomach fizzed as I wondered how best to explain to Lucille that I was leaving and why so suddenly. Would she be annoyed? Or hurt? Then I thought about the loss of rent money, a month before Christmas. I took my foot off the gas, less keen all of a sudden to reach Lucille’s.

  When I arrived, I heard voices in the kitchen as I shut the door. Biddy and the other hookers were sitting with Lucille around the table. Lucille was taking notes.

  “Didn’t you do enough hooking last night?” I said.

  “We’re having a meeting of the Holy Dusters,” Biddy said. “Father Frank has some special jobs he wants done before Christmas. The archbishop might come for a visit.”

  “The archbishop is always coming for a visit,” said Lucille.

  “Yis,” said Flossie, “he’s always coming, but he never comes.”

  “Right,” said Biddy. “Are we done? Sure we all knows what to do over to the church anyway. Don’t we run it?”

  “More or less,” said Lucille. “You’ll be saying Mass soon enough, Sister Biddy.”

  The women chortled.

  “Now, then,” said Flossie. “Georgie Corrigan is due before Christmas, so we needs to plan some gifts for her.”

  “I’m after finishing a lovely rug with ducks all ’round it,” said Lucille. “The perfect size for a baby to roll ’round on.”

  “What about a quilt, now?” said Flossie. “Can we put one together before Christmas?”

  “You knows we can,” said Lucille. She retrieved a bag of rags and wool from under the daybed and began rummaging. “There’s your old tablecloth, Biddy, girl,” she said, pulling out a soft yellow fabric. “We could use that as a border.”

  Flossie chuckled. “I minds the day you got blueberry jam all over it, Annie.”

  Annie took the tablecloth from Lucille and turned it over, looking for the stain and displaying it triumphantly when she found it. “Yis, maid, I was that tired. Sure we was after staying up all night.”

  “Hooking rugs?” I asked. “That’s dedication.”

  “No, girl,” said Annie. “We was having a time.”

  “A hard time?”

  The women burst out laughing.

  “A time,” said Lucille, “a do . . . a party,” she elaborated.

  “A soir-ee,” trilled Biddy, getting up and twirling around the room.

  My eyes widened. “And the four of you stayed up all night?”

  “The four of us and half of Little Cove,” said Lucille. She clasped the bag of wool to her chest, as if lost in memories of their big night in. Then she said, “Listen now, me duckies, we could show Rachel a time this evening. Give her a proper send-off before she disappears off to Clayville.”

  “Who told . . . how did you . . . ?” I spluttered.

  “My cousin Val was into Clayville today to visit her husband in the hospital. She went into that coffee shop near the town hall to get him some baking. He loves their date squares, right? She said she heard you talking about a place to rent. And since you’ve been back, you’re twitchy as a cat, so I figured.”

  “I was going to move out tomorrow,” I said softly. “If . . . if that was okay with you.”

  “Not a bother,” said Lucille, batting her hand at me. “I had a call yesterday from the fisheries crowd in St. John’s. Some fella coming out to do some research needs a place for most of December. I’ll call them back and tell them yes.” She reached for a cigarette. “Now girl, you already paid me for the next month.”

  “Lucille,” I said, “I’m giving you no notice at all, so I would expect you to keep that money.”

  She clapped her hands and said, “Now that’s another reason for a kitchen party.”

  “Don’t you need to plan a party?” I asked.

  “Not really, girl,” said Biddy.

  “This is me planning it,” said Lucille. She went to the living room, and I heard the clicks as the rotary dial circled again and again on the phone. “That you, Phonse?” she said. “Come ’round this evening for a drop, if you’re free.”

  There was a pause, then she said, “Yes, b’y, I knows, sure she’s sat here with us. She’s leaving tomorrow so we’re giving her a send-off.”

  Another pause. “Right, we’ll see you the once.”

  She hung up, then dialled another number, inviting more people over. “Yes, maid,” I heard her say. “Round that crowd up, too.”

  “Now, then, Rachel,” she said, coming back into the kitchen, “there’ll be a party here before you knows it.”

  “C’mon now, Floss,” said Annie. “We’ll nip over the road and get some provisions.” Biddy left with the two sisters as well, saying she’d see us later. I went upstairs to pack.

  An hour later, the women were back, laden with food and drink. People began to arrive, in groups of two or three at a time. Judy and Bill had been first, arms full of Newfoundland-branded beer.

  “My God, you should’ve seen the lineup outside the Clayville liquor store,” Bill said.

  “He was first in line, though,” said Judy. “Got in there at seven thirty this morning. Initiative, right?”

  Bill laughed. “Desperation, you mean.”

  Judy introduced me to so many people that I lost track of their names, though I recognized a few from those early days of enforced church attendance. As more people came, chairs were pushed back against walls wherever they fit.

  Phonse and a few other musicians began setting up in a corner. A stooped old man was installed in an easy chair dragged in from the living room. Biddy handed him a battered black case from which he pulled an accordion. When he started to play, an ancient couple began creaking slowly around the crowded room, somehow mostly avoiding contact with all who filled the kitchen.

  Platters of food covered the table—crackers and cheese, sliced meat, cakes and cookies—and bottles of every shape and size. Lucille began slicing a loaf of bread, cigarette dangling from her lips.

  On the daybed, squished between Annie and the wall, I sipped a warm rum and cola. It wasn’t half bad. Biddy poured more rum in, despite my protestations. Annie held her glass out for a refill, pressing the bottle down again when Biddy lifted it from her glass too soon. When the accordion music stopped, the dancers bowed to the applause, as if it was meant for them too, which maybe it was.

  A tall dark-haired man strode into the centre of the room and Annie elbowed me. “That Jacko Parsons got some voice on him.”

  The accordion player started up and Jacko began to sing:

  I’se the b’y that builds the boat and I’se the b’y that sails her

  I’se the b’y that catches the fish and takes it home to Liza

  The song was instantly familiar. I’d learned it in grade six, thinking the lyrics sounded almost like a different language. I’d had no real concept of Newfoundland back then, or fish for that matter, apart from fish sticks. Now, of course, I knew that it was all about the fish in Newfoundland—catching it, eating it, singing about it.

  When Jacko reached the end of the song, there were cheers and someone called out, “Good man, yourself.”

  Biddy handed Jacko a beer. “You got the voice of an angel, my son.”

  “And the thirst of the devil,” he said, tipping his bottle in thanks.

  “Or a drunken sailor,” quipped Lucille. Within seconds, the musicians had started up again, and everyone, including me, sang at the top of their lungs:

  What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor

  What do you do with a drunken sailor, ear-ly in the morning?

  The easy banter and joyful celebration of music almost made me question my imminent move to Clayville. But, as much as I had come to like Little Cove and its inhabitants, I had needs! I wanted good coffee, fresh milk, pizza, a liquor store, a library. None of that was available in Little Cove.

  Tow
ards the end of the evening, Lucille asked Phonse and me to play “Sweet Forget Me Not.” To my surprise, she and the other hookers linked arms and sang along, their soft voices rising sweetly in the air. I couldn’t have been the only one to wipe away tears.

  My head was right sore (as the locals would say) the next morning, but I forced myself to rise early, determined to leave before Mass. When I dragged the suitcases downstairs, Lucille was in the front hall, straddling a large cardboard box, a bracelet of duct tape around her wrist.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A few bits and bobs to get you started.”

  I gave her a hug, her curlers pressing into my neck.

  “I’ll miss you, girl,” Lucille said. “But a young one’s got to live. Don’t be a stranger now. You come and see us anytime.” She followed me outside as far as the gate and waved goodbye as I drove off. When I looked in the rear-view mirror, she was still waving. Then my car dipped down the hill and I lost sight of her.

  I met Ellen at the coffee shop to exchange cheques for keys. Entering my new home, any niggling doubts disappeared. I leaned against the front door, inhaling furniture polish and bleach, instead of cigarettes and deep-fried fat. Ellen had left a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine on the table. I threw off my coat and danced wildly around the room like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. A teenage boy strolling down the path towards the sea saw me and walked more quickly, no doubt wanting to distance himself from the crazy lady.

  I spent the next half hour exploring the house, opening cupboards and turning lights on and off. I stood at the bedroom window and looked down at all the gravestones. It was a bright day and the cemetery looked benign. Would I still feel that way tonight? I shrugged off any feelings of unease and walked into town to explore.

  That evening, I ate Tony’s takeout pizza at the kitchen table, revelling in the smoke-free meal. The pizza wasn’t quite as good as Luigi’s, where Sheila and I often dined back home, but it came close. Afterwards I opened Lucille’s box and found a fresh loaf of bread, a jar of her famous blueberry jam and a can of evaporated milk. I put the so-called milk in the centre of the mantelpiece, a souvenir of my time at Lucille’s. A carton of fresh milk was stowed in my fridge and I vowed to never run out.

  Digging further in the box, I found a hooked rug and a quilt, neither of which I had seen before. The quilt featured a simple pattern, blue and red fabric squares in repeating rows. But the rug was a heavily detailed winter scene: a frozen bay, on which dozens of children played while dogs jumped between them. Beyond the bay, a series of colourful houses spread up the hill, a long plume of white smoke rising from each chimney. It was far too beautiful to go on the floor. It was a work of art. That evening I hung it on the living room wall and toasted its creator, lifting a mug of hot chocolate, made with fresh milk, of course.

  15

  A week into my new commute to Little Cove, I was still leaving Clayville quite early in the morning, honing my mental map of the numerous potholes along the way. On the Monday of the second week, I pulled over at the same spot where I’d first met Phonse. The bay was the calmest I’d seen since my arrival, reflecting the hues of the houses curled around it. Although still low in the sky, the sun cast a soft light. It was a glorious November morning, heralding great things: all homework would be handed in, the grade nines would pay attention, and Calvin flipping Piercey himself would stand up and tell me he’d spent the weekend reading Proust’s À la recherche de . . . who’s kidding who.

  I thought I would arrive at school before anyone else, but there was already a car in the parking lot—Judy’s. She met me in the foyer.

  “Morning, Rachel,” she said. “I’ll be observing some lessons today.”

  “Oh. Patrick mentioned a date later in the month.”

  “Yes, he likes to be organized with his reviews,” Judy said. “I likes . . .”

  Ambush? I wanted to say.

  “. . . to keep it casual.” She consulted her planner. “Let’s see, what class can I visit this morning?”

  I didn’t answer but crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t pick . . .

  “I’ll start with grade nine.”

  I must have winced, because she added, “I’m sure it will all be grand. But if not, we’d better nip any problems in the bud.”

  ANY problems? Don’t you mean MANY problems, Judy? I didn’t say.

  “We have some time before first period,” I said. “Would you like to review my lesson plans?”

  “That’s okay, you can surprise me.”

  Conversation turned to my new home. We stood chatting about the delights of Clayville, and Judy told me that she and Bill often drove over for Tony’s Pizza and to hit the liquor store. We were still chatting when Doug arrived.

  “Some fine day for November,” he said.

  “Fine day for your first assessment,” said Judy. She told him she’d be in to see him after lunch. As she walked off towards her office, Doug cursed.

  “Gentle Jaysus in the garden. So much for winging it today. I’d better get something planned right quick.” He jogged down the hall to his classroom while I fretted off to mine.

  On the way, I passed the shrine to Mary, set in a small recess in the hall. I reached out and patted her right foot. It felt cool and smooth, like a beach rock. How many teachers had reached out to her in times of trouble? Her serene face revealed nothing.

  Since my arrival in September, Judy had been nothing but friendly and helpful. But when she arrived at my classroom, she was wearing a blazer—a blazer! She might like to keep things casual, but I knew this was serious. This was my career. This was me being assessed. This mattered.

  Judy slid into an empty desk at the back of the class, rested her chin in one of her hands and smiled at me. I took a deep breath in, then released it, ready to begin. But my usually boisterous students were quiet. I asked several easy questions, part of our habitual warm-up, but no one volunteered an answer. They kept their heads down, so I couldn’t even catch anyone’s eye.

  The silence grew uncomfortable; I tugged at my sweater, feeling the heat rise. Why had I worn a turtleneck today? As I went to open a window, Judy picked up her pen and began to write. I could just imagine her assessment: “Class unresponsive. Rachel unprepared.” In my misery, I realized it would also work the other way around: “Class unprepared. Rachel unresponsive.”

  From the window, I lurched to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. Something about its familiar weight grounded me. Have fun with it, I could almost hear Dad say.

  Screw the lesson plan. I quickly wrote two verbs on the blackboard: aimer and détester. Then I told the class in French that I hated peanut butter, but loved ice cream.

  “Now,” I said, “I want all of you to tell me about your likes and dislikes. En français, bien sûr.”

  I looked expectantly around the room, but no one wanted to share. The seconds ticked by. Then, slowly, like a wraith sent from the netherworld to haunt me, a long white sleeve rose. What the hell? The hand at the end of the sleeve belonged to none other than Calvin. Nervous twitch? Nope. Son of a . . .

  It was impossible not to call on him. No one else had volunteered. “Oui, Calvin?” I said, my voice squeaking like a smoke detector in need of a new battery.

  He put down his hand and began to speak. In French!

  “Je . . . déteste . . . .”He stopped, and looked around the room. “Je déteste . . .”

  I waited for him to reveal his hatred of me.

  “. . . français. Je déteste français.”

  There were scattered bursts of nervous laughter. I walked down the aisle and stopped beside his desk. He met my gaze, his chin jutting out. How to respond in front of Judy? A row of neat stitches marched along his sleeve, nimbly mending a rip, and reminding me of my conversation with his mother. Calvin Piercey would not be hauling wood on my watch.

  “Non?! Tu détestes le français?” I put my hand to my heart as if in shock, then pretended to shed a few tears.
“Oh, Calvin, quelle tristesse!” I was hamming it up now, mock-rubbing my eyes.

  Something shifted. Calvin sat back in his chair and grinned. The boy behind him reached up and mussed Calvin’s hair. By the time I walked back to the front of the classroom, the air was full of waving hands and Judy was writing furiously in her notebook. By the end of the class, I had revised Judy’s assessment to: “Class responsive. Rachel undaunted.”

  After school, I met Judy for a debrief. She was sitting at her desk drinking tea from a mug that read “World’s Greatest Teacher.” I wondered how many of those were kicking around.

  “I was some pleased to see the great relationship between you and Calvin,” she began. “Not many of the teachers has that.”

  I coughed to cover my surprise. Calvin and I didn’t exactly have much of a rapport.

  “You know, Rachel, humour is an important teaching tool and you used it so effectively today.”

  “I tried to have fun with it, I guess,” I said, as if that had been my plan all along.

  Judy spent the next ten minutes reviewing my performance in the three classes she’d observed. She provided constructive comments on several areas that needed improvement, but said that overall things seemed fine.

  As I was leaving her office, Doug was heading in. He suggested we meet for dinner to compare notes after our first review. “We’ll go to Tony’s,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  I gave him my new address and headed home, a bit giddy after my talk with Judy. I found myself wishing I could talk to Dad about my review. He would’ve been so interested. I would update Mom, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  When Doug arrived, his car lights lit up the living room and I ran out to meet him.

  “Some cold, b’y,” he said, as I slid into the passenger seat. “Winter’s coming.”

  Tony’s was busy, but the proprietor found us a small table near the back. The red and white tablecloths were identical to those at Luigi’s and I thought, with a pang, about Sheila.