New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

After we’d ordered pizza and beer, I settled back in my chair and looked around. There was a bar on the other side of the restaurant where two women had their heads together, laughing. Their easy camaraderie made me miss Sheila even more.

  “That lesson plan saved my arse today,” Doug said.

  “What lesson plan? This morning you said you’d have to wing it.”

  “I pulled out the big guns for grade eleven biology. My top-secret weapon.”

  I snorted. “What are you, James Bond?”

  A waiter arrived with our beers and we clinked bottles.

  “To probation,” said Doug.

  “To the end of probation,” I corrected him. “So, tell me about this secret weapon.”

  Doug took a long drink of beer. “Ahh, some good. No more American watery beer.” He put the bottle down on the table and said, “It’s something I learned from my supervisor when I was a student teacher. You puts together a killer lesson plan and files it in your bottom drawer. It’s there, on tap, when you needs to impress someone. Golden.”

  I had to admit, it was genius. “So you’re prepared for when you’re unprepared.”

  “Exactly.”

  The waiter came back with our pizzas and we were quiet as we began to eat.

  “So how did you make out?” Doug asked after a few minutes.

  “Calvin spoke French today, unasked,” I said. “So basically, I’m a goddess.”

  “Nice.”

  My pizza was delicious, but huge. I had a feeling I’d be having pizza for breakfast the next day.

  Then Doug said, “Can I have a piece of your pizza?” and I saw his was all gone.

  “God, you can eat. Help yourself.”

  He slid a slice from my plate to his, smearing tomato sauce on his thumb in the process. He licked it off contentedly, then carefully picked off the mushrooms. He ate the slice, then looked with puppy eyes from me to the rest of my pizza. I nodded.

  When he had finished the last bit of my breakfast, he patted his stomach. “The beast has been fed.”

  “Beast is the word for some of the grade nines,” I said.

  “Go on, girl, they’re not that bad.”

  “No, they’re not,” I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “Trudy and Calvin are the ringleaders; they stir the others up. Trudy was off sick today and I got lucky with Calvin.”

  “Ba-dum-dum.”

  “You know what I mean.” I told him about the habitual noise levels and inattention in grade nine.

  “You needs to get on top of that right quick. Show them who’s boss.”

  I reached for my beer. “Easier said than done.”

  Suddenly, Doug stood up and came around to my side of the table, folding his arms. “Let’s go.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “I’m not finished.”

  He leaned down and put an arm on either side of my chair, moving uncomfortably close. “Rachel, get up now.”

  Flustered, I looked away and caught the woman at the next table staring.

  “Doug, what are you doing?” I hissed. “Knock it off.”

  He leaned in close and I smelled a musky aftershave under the beer. Then he pushed himself back up and punched me very lightly on the arm. “That’s how I would get respect if I had to. You needs to find out what works for you. Want some dessert?”

  “Dessert?” I practically screamed. “How about a knuckle sandwich?”

  We compromised on ice cream. Afterwards, Doug offered to drive me home, but I declined. I liked the short walk past my new landmarks and seeing my little house, with the porch light shining its welcome, as I came around the corner. I stood outside and looked up at the stars, remembering Lucille’s comment that stars were stars. I wondered what Lucille was doing that evening and whether her new boarder appreciated her. But I was enjoying living on my own for the first time in my life. Spending Friday nights in Little Cove was no longer appealing, but I planned to stop by after school one day soon to visit Lucille and buy one of her rugs for Mom’s Christmas present.

  16

  November slipped past and December arrived with the first snowfall. We watched it come down, soft and steady, outside the classroom windows. I was almost as restless as the students. When the afternoon bell finally rang, they exploded into the schoolyard. I watched from my classroom window as Calvin made a big snowball with his bare hands and chased Cynthia around my car. When he caught her, he shoved the snowball down the back of her coat. She shrieked blue murder but wore a huge smile. She grabbed his toque and sped off, looking back over her shoulder and laughing as he slipped in the snow, trying to catch up. A dump of snow could make a pair as disparate as Calvin and Cynthia find common ground.

  Later, when I left school in the dark blue early evening, the snow had been cleared from my windscreen. I smiled, imagining Phonse sweeping it off with a broom. But when I slid into the driver’s seat, I saw a note taped to the steering wheel: “Clayville’s not far enough. Piss off home out of it.”

  My stomach lurched. Someone had been in my car, maybe even sat in the driver’s seat to put the note there. I banged my fist on the steering wheel, and the paper split in two. I ripped the pieces off and threw them on the passenger seat.

  Screw this place and the people in it. I pulled out of the parking lot and put my foot down hard on the accelerator. By the time I left Little Cove, I had fishtailed twice, scaring myself enough to slow down.

  For a minute I kept my eyes on the road, the car lights drilling amber tunnels into the falling darkness. But I couldn’t help but look over at the torn paper, wanting to check the handwriting. Was it the same person? And why? What had I done to deserve this treatment? When I shifted my eyes back to the road, my car had veered over to the wrong side and two headlights were coming straight at me. I swerved, then braked hard, remembering too late that you should pump the brakes on icy roads. My car spun around, then slid off the road into the ditch.

  I heard a door slam, then a voice called, “Miss O’Brine?”

  My driver’s door opened and a wrinkled face under a red toque peered in.

  “Lord thundering Jaysus,” said the man. “You scared the frigging life out of me. You all right?”

  I opened my mouth but no words came. The most I could manage was a thumbs-up. He reached over, undid my seat belt and helped me out of the car and up from the ditch.

  I gulped in the cold air. When my breathing returned to normal, I thanked my rescuer. He introduced himself as Eddie Churchill and said that Phonse had told him all about me.

  I sagged against the side of his truck. “You know Phonse.”

  “Know him? Sure he’s my cousin and next-door neighbour, can’t know him much better than that.”

  He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a flashlight, which he shone at my tires. “No snow tires on ’er,” he said. “No wonder you’re after sliding off the road.”

  “The garage in Clayville is putting them on for me,” I said. The day I’d bought the winter tires, the garage had been too busy to put them on and I hadn’t been back since.

  “No, my dear,” he said. “I’m doing it the once. It’s a bad road the best of times, and when it’s icy, she’s like the bottle. Let’s push her out first.”

  From the back of his truck, he fetched some cardboard. We climbed back down into the ditch and he put the cardboard behind my wheels for traction.

  “You okay to push?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He put my car in neutral and joined me at the back bumper.

  “Now then, missus,” he said, “we needs a bit of the old rock and roll.”

  We pushed the car, back and forth, working it up and eventually out of the ditch.

  Then he handed me the flashlight to hold, got the tires and jack from my car, and set to work.

  “So you teaches French,” he said. “I wish I could do the parlez-vous.”

  “It’s never too late,” I said.

  My fingers grew numb clutching the flashlight and I changed hands per
iodically, shoving the cold one in my pocket. Mr. Churchill didn’t seem to notice the cold. He worked methodically, whistling.

  “What’s that tune?” I asked at one point.

  “It’s called ‘Sonny’s Dream,’” he said. “Phonse’ll know it.”

  Finally, he cranked the jack back down and put my summer tires and the jack in the trunk. “Put those away now when you gets home,” he said. “You won’t be needing them for a keen spell.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Churchill.”

  “It’s Eddie,” he said, blowing on his hands, then rubbing them together.

  I opened my purse. “How much do I owe you, Eddie?”

  “I can’t take nothing for that,” he said. “For one thing, it was a five-minute job.”

  “More like forty-five,” I said.

  “Plus, Phonse would have me head. Sure you’re part of the community, now, right?”

  Whoever was sending me those notes might not agree with Eddie, but as I drove slowly home through the falling snow, the words part of the community glowed in my heart.

  When I arrived at school the next morning, Phonse was shovelling the front steps.

  “Morning, Rachel,” he said. “Heard about your tires. With all that travel back and forth to Clayville, you might want to ask himself to look out for you.”

  “Who? Eddie Churchill?”

  “No, girl.” Phonse pointed at the statue inside the door. “St. Jude. Patron saint of lost causes. That road is a lost cause if I ever saw one.”

  I hadn’t fully twigged to the name when I’d first arrived. But when Phonse said “lost causes,” Calvin’s sulky face appeared in my mind’s eye. Apart from that brief moment of participation when Judy had visited the classroom, he’d reverted to his sullen self. No wonder Patrick wasn’t so keen on the statue in the front hall.

  17

  As the first term drew to a close, I was quietly pleased with the progress I’d made with the students. Sure, there were days I wanted to brain every last one of them, but for the most part, they were coming to respect me. Some of the older girls talked to me about their social lives. And I liked to think I was developing a rapport with them.

  I had lunch duty that day and a few of the students came and sat with me, sharing stories of a weekend gathering at Bob’s Cove, halfway between Little Cove and Clayville. I found myself wondering how they could possibly enjoy spending time there in the bleak weather.

  “Miss, Pam was some mad at Jimmy,” Roseanne confided this time. “She went mental.”

  “Why?”

  “He hung a rat in her face,” Beverley shrieked in response.

  “Was it dead?” I asked.

  There was a half second of silence, then the girls began whooping with laughter.

  I screwed up my face. I wasn’t sure what she meant but was beginning to think I didn’t want to.

  Roseanne spoke very slowly. “He took down his pants and wiggled his bird in her face.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s . . .” I didn’t have the words. “Excuse me, girls,” I said. “I think I’m needed over at the grade sevens’ table.”

  I fled, the girls’ giggles resonating behind me. For all their isolation and lack of amenities, these girls were far worldlier than I’d ever been at their age. The first “bird” I’d ever properly seen had belonged to Jake.

  Inevitably, I overheard the story repeated in the hall that afternoon, culminating with, “And then miss asked if it was dead.” I closed the classroom door against the laughter.

  The drive home after school took me straight past the turnoff for Bob’s Cove, and on impulse, I turned down the track, despite the growing darkness. I drove a few hundred yards to the dead end. Grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment, I walked to the cliff’s edge; waves crashed against scarred rocks, then reeled back again. The wind gusted fiercely, slowing the progress of a lone seagull that screamed its frustration.

  Crouching low in the wind, I scuttled down the path to the rocky beach that was the students’ social club. Straight ahead were remnants of a bonfire, the charred black logs scattered like bowling pins against the white snow. Glass shards littered the beach rocks where bottles had been smashed.

  I nearly dropped the flashlight when its arc revealed what looked like a body lying in the distance. As I got closer, I saw it was a large piece of driftwood. To the left was a small cave, tucked out of the wind and protected from the snow. The howling in my ears softened. The flashlight shone on discarded cigarette butts and a plaid blanket bundled in a corner. Father Frank’s comment about “the vexing problem of chastity” rang in my ears as I headed back to my car.

  What exactly did these kids get up to down here? Jake and I had struggled to find places to go when we started sleeping together. There’d been lots of sneaking around, including a painful experience in a boat out on the lake at my family cottage. There’d been many back-seat encounters, including, I now recalled, the night a campus police officer had tapped on the window of Jake’s car and told us to move along. There was nothing particularly romantic about young love, it seemed, no matter where you lived.

  18

  Near the end of term, Doug stopped by my classroom.

  “Mudder’s invited you for dinner on Friday,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. With this invite, and the upcoming Christmas concert and staff party, it was almost like I had a social life.

  “She said she’s after hearing so much about you, it was time she clapped eyes on you.”

  I hoped her sources did not include Bertha Peddle from the store or angry Roy Sullivan.

  “Geri will be there too,” Doug added. “It’s my birthday.”

  I hadn’t heard Geri mentioned in quite a while, but then again, I hadn’t been spending much time in Little Cove. Apart from that brief encounter at the Mardy pub, this would be the first time I’d be seeing Geri and Doug together. Doug and I had developed an easy banter, and I found myself wondering if it was the same between him and Geri.

  On Doug’s birthday, to kill time between the end of the school day and when I was expected at his family home for dinner, I had arranged to drop in on Lucille. She was pleased to see me, although when I mentioned my plans, she got a funny look on her face.

  “So you’ll be meeting Grace.” It turned out this was Doug’s mother’s name. “Don’t mention you been here,” she said. “Might spoil your evening.”

  When I asked what she meant, she didn’t answer, and instead changed the subject. Over tea she caught me up on the hookers and her daughter, Linda, who was not coming home for Christmas because she had decided to stay in Labrador.

  When it was time to go, I handed Lucille a wrapped bottle of rum and she presented me with a quilt. It was all rolled up and tied with a string, but that didn’t hide its beauty.

  “Lucille,” I said. “I can’t accept this. You already gave me one when I bought the rug to send to Mom in Australia.”

  “That was the buy one get one free fall special,” she said.

  “Honestly, Lucille. I can’t accept this if you won’t let me pay for it.”

  She batted her hand at me. “Now who ever heard of paying someone for a Christmas present?”

  As usual, she had the last word.

  Lucille walked me out to the car and pointed the way to Doug’s place.

  The house was perched high on a hill; the lights of a Christmas tree blinked in the front window. I walked up a ramp that zigzagged back and forth, and knocked at the door.

  Geri opened the door and said hello. Then she whispered, “In case Doug didn’t tell you, his mam’s in a wheelchair.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “He didn’t.”

  She frowned. “He never does.”

  She led me to a large living room where Mrs. Bishop sat by the fire, sipping a glass of red wine. She was the most elegant woman I’d seen in Little Cove. She had long black hair, with only a few streaks of grey, tied in a low ponytail. Her cherry-red lipstick match
ed her wool dress perfectly.

  “You’re very welcome here, Miss O’Brien,” she said. It was the first time my surname had been pronounced correctly since I pitched up in Little Cove. I was so used to hearing O’Brine that I nearly corrected her.

  “Call me Rachel,” I said, then held up a poinsettia. “I brought this for you.”

  Geri took it and placed it on the coffee table.

  “Then you must call me Grace,” she said. Then she called out to Doug to tell him I had arrived.

  He came through from the kitchen wearing an apron emblazoned with a picture of a Newfoundland dog, above which was written “Top Dog.”

  “Whaddya at?” he asked.

  “Happy birthday. I wasn’t sure what to get you, but I know you like to eat, and I have my own kitchen now.” I handed over a container of my signature chocolate chip cookies.

  “They looks good, t’anks.” He leaned down and pecked my cheek. I was conscious of Geri, but she seemed completely indifferent.

  “Geri, can you get Rachel a drink?” Doug said. “I’m wrassling with the cod tongs.”

  I hadn’t heard Lucille ever mention cod tongs. Perhaps it was one of the “new-fangled gadgets” she loved to denigrate.

  Geri brought me a glass of wine, and I sat on the sofa across from Doug’s mother, trying to ignore the framed picture of Jesus that hung on the wall above her. His sacred heart was exposed and his sad eyes seemed to follow mine, no matter where I looked. He would totally beat me in a staring contest.

  “You must be finding Little Cove a big change from the mainland,” Doug’s mother said.

  “It has its charms,” I said. “But I live in Clayville now.”

  “Even Clayville isn’t big enough for some,” she said, glancing over at Geri, who was flicking through a fashion magazine.

  “Don’t you miss Toronto?” Geri asked, looking up. “All those malls.”

  “There are things I miss, sure,” I agreed.

  Doug shouted from the kitchen, “Grub’s up.”

  Geri wheeled Mrs. Bishop into the kitchen, while I followed ineptly behind. Over at the stove, Doug stood on a hooked rug that wasn’t a patch on any Lucille made. Red gingham curtains hung at the large window, and the seemingly mandatory daybed was over in the corner.