I sat at one end of the table with Mrs. Bishop opposite me and Doug and Geri on either side. Doug loaded my plate with what looked like chicken nuggets topped with little hash browns. When Geri declined both, Mrs. Bishop clicked her tongue.
“I’ve seen more meat on Good Friday than on your bones, Geraldine,” she said. “Doug’s after making us a proper feast. Cod tongues and scruncheons.”
Her words sank in. Cod had tongues? And if so, what were the little scruncheons? Did cod have testicles?
Geri waved her hand at Mrs. Bishop. “Sure, you knows I don’t like fish.”
Mrs. Bishop was watching me, so I stabbed a cod tongue with my fork and began to chew. And chew. It was cod chewing gum. Finally, I swallowed it down with water, then speared a scruncheon with my fork. I brought it close to my face for a discreet sniff. My taste buds relaxed; any cousin of bacon was fine by me.
“The scruncheons are good,” I said.
“Does that mean the tongues aren’t?” Doug asked.
“Don’t eat them if you don’t want,” his mother said. “They’re an acquired taste.” She glanced sideways at Geri. “Sometimes a forgotten one, too.”
“I like the taste,” I said, aiming for diplomacy. “But the texture . . .”
“Have the small ones,” said Doug. “They’re less chewy.”
“Still gross, though,” said Geri, so I ate the lot.
When our plates were empty, Geri cleared them and fetched bowls from the cupboard, placing one in front of me. “Do you have any family in Newfoundland?” she asked.
“She’s all on her lonesome down here,” Doug answered.
His words had me wondering if this was a pity invite.
Doug placed a steaming casserole dish in the centre of the table. “Rabbit stew. Caught and skinned the bugger myself.”
Images of famous bunnies hopped into my mind: Peter Rabbit, the Easter Bunny and old Bugs himself. I found myself wondering if it was too late to claim a sudden conversion to vegetarianism.
Doug’s mother filled her bowl, then passed the serving spoon to me. I churned through the stew, ladling potatoes, turnips, carrots and parsnips into my bowl. But Doug was watching me closely, and it was his birthday, so I added the smallest bits of meat I could find. I told myself it was chicken. And I kept telling myself that all through dinner, even when I asked for seconds.
“Do you do all the cooking?” I asked Doug.
“Since my accident,” said his mother. “But it’s not right. I’m hiring a cook in the new year.”
“You’re not,” said Doug.
“You’d have more free time. You could go to St. John’s and see Geraldine,” she said. “Not be stuck out here looking after the likes of me.”
Doug and Geri exchanged glances. Doug frowned, then after a minute, he said, “You knows I don’t like being in amongst the townies. And I’m not going anywhere just yet. I signed a two-year contract, remember?” He gestured across the table at me. “Rachel’s got her licked though.”
I froze, wondering if I had gravy on my face. I discreetly mopped my mouth, but the napkin remained pristine white.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Your one-year contract. How’d you swing that? Probationary is usually two.”
“I asked for one year,” I said. “I think they were a bit desperate, because of the . . . situation. So they said yes.”
“Brigid Roche.” Mrs. Bishop sighed. “Grief makes us do foolish things. Don’t we know that in this house.” She twisted her wedding ring and the room went quiet.
To fill the silence, I asked Geri what type of nursing she did.
“General surgery,” she said. “Never a dull moment.”
“Geri likes plenty of excitement,” Doug said. “Even on the job.”
“I likes to be on the go,” she said evenly. “Nothing wrong with that. And I likes being amongst the townies. Anyway, enough about the townies, now. Why did you become a teacher, Rachel?”
“Maybe because my dad was one,” I said. “He passed away in April.”
“I’m so sorry,” both Geri and Mrs. Bishop murmured.
“Thank you,” I said simply. “His students loved him.”
Doug caught my eye and gave me a little smile. For a minute, the only sound was the wall clock ticking. My mind wandered to Dad’s funeral. A girl with little round glasses had clung to Mom, sobbing, “I loved him so much.” Mom told me later that she couldn’t decide whether to hug her or hit her.
I forced myself back to the present. “What about you, Doug, why did you become a teacher?”
“NBA never came calling.” He stood up then and said, “Time for cake.” He opened the fridge and removed a large chocolate cake. I found myself wondering if Geri had baked it, but then she said it looked delicious, so I decided she hadn’t.
We sang “Happy Birthday,” then Doug blew out the candles and cut the cake. As Mrs. Bishop passed me a slice, she said, “What are your plans for Christmas, Rachel?”
Doug answered for me. “Sure you knows she’s going up to the mainland.”
I didn’t correct him, not wanting another pity invitation. I would be in Clayville, all on my lonesome as Doug had put it earlier. The Christmas break was less than two weeks long, too short a time to go to Australia, I’d reasoned, especially with all the plane changes. And it had seemed pointless to go back to Toronto with Mom not there and our house rented out for the year.
“Pointless?” Sheila had practically shouted down the phone line when I told her. “What about me? Don’t we always go for dim sum on Christmas Eve? And who’s going to carry my bags during the Boxing Day sales?”
But by the time I decided Sheila was right and I should go visit her in Toronto, there were no flights left. It would be me, myself and my fiddle having a festive little pity party.
I was tired, so when my offer to help do the dishes was gently declined, I made my leave. Geri asked if I would mind dropping her at her mother’s, explaining that it was on the way.
During the short drive, we chatted about the holidays. Geri said she would be home for a few days over Christmas, but would be attending a big New Year’s Eve party in St. John’s. I wondered if Doug would go too. It didn’t sound like his scene to me.
I dropped Geri at a small house ablaze with light, waiting, probably unnecessarily, until she went inside.
Afterwards, as I drove home, I found myself speculating about Geri and Doug. They seemed at ease with each other, but lacking in affection. Why hadn’t she asked Doug to take her home? The whole thing seemed odd, but then again, as my romantic history would attest, I was no expert on relationships myself.
19
On the last day of term, the faded red-velvet curtains on the stage at the front of the gym opened to reveal a choir dressed in white robes. Stage left, seated at the piano, was Sister Mary Catherine. As the opening notes of “Away in a Manger” rang out, a dozen tremulous voices gained confidence and volume. When the song was over, the grade seven pupils arrived onstage to present the nativity. Hanging at the back of Sister’s classroom, their costumes hadn’t looked like much, but now, as the children took their positions, a charming tableau emerged with shepherds in bathrobes and tea towels and angels in white bedsheets and silver tinsel. The narrator took a deep breath and began. “Many people were on the road to Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph among them.”
I stood against the back wall, having arrived too late to find a seat in the packed house. Phonse was next to me, leaning on his broom. My eyes roved over the audience and landed on the hookers, all sitting in a row. Lucille caught me looking and nodded. Further along, Cynthia sat with a guy in a black leather jacket. His arm was wrapped tight around her shoulder and he looked too old for her. Heck, he looked too old for me. I didn’t recognize him, not even when he glanced over his shoulder. His scowl would have done Billy Idol proud.
The narrator was reaching the conclusion of the familiar story when I spotted Georgie Corrigan, coat open ov
er her distended stomach. She must be due any day. As a homemade donkey crossed the stage pushed by Mary and Joseph, I was reminded of Georgie’s comment that day in the takeout about the Virgin Mary.
When the vignette ended, the audience clapped loudly. As the curtains swung shut, the back door of the gym opened behind me, blowing in a gust of cold air, and Doug. He shut the door carefully so it didn’t slam and came over to stand beside me.
“Where were you?” I whispered.
“Clayville. Patrick asked me to get the booze for the staff party,” he said. “The road was right slippery so I had to take ’er slow coming back. Then I had to drop it all off at his place.” He blew on his hands. “Some cold out there, too.”
A woman in the back row turned around and shushed Doug. After she’d turned back around, he made a face at her, and then I made one at him. Then the curtains reopened and we turned our attention to the stage.
The grade nines were dressed in red and green, girls on the right, boys on the left. Divide and conquer? A few of the girls had tinsel draped around their necks and wrists, and Calvin was wearing a Santa Claus hat. Surely it was not possible for that disparate and discouraging group to perform a cohesive piece of entertainment.
Judy crouched down on the floor in front of the stage and held up her right hand, with three fingers raised, then two, then one.
“Knock knock,” said the girls, in perfect unison.
“Who’s there?” asked the boys.
“Wenceslas,” came the reply.
“Wenceslas who?”
“Wenceslas bus to St. John’s?”
There was scattered laughter and a few groans from the audience.
Then the boys shouted, “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Wayne,” said the boys, and the audience chuckled when every boy pointed dramatically at Wayne Molloy in the front row.
“Wayne who?”
“Wayne in a manger.”
At that point, Wayne ran over to the nativity scene, lay down on the ground and began to suck his thumb. The laughter was longer and louder. The grade nines, Calvin and Trudy included, were enjoying themselves. I glanced over at Sister Mary Catherine, who did not seem to be amused by Wayne’s antics.
“Knock knock,” cried the girls again.
“Who’s there?”
“Mary.”
Sister stood up, fists clenched.
“Mary who?”
“Mary Christmas!” they all shouted, throwing red and green streamers out into the audience.
Sister sat back down, smoothing her habit. The grade nine class had been onstage for less than five minutes, but their performance had been enthusiastic and well received. It was a triumph for Judy.
At the end of the concert, Patrick headed to the stage to thank the performers and the audience. Then, with Sister playing along, everyone—pupils, parents and teachers—stood and sang the “Ode to Newfoundland.” Doug closed his eyes and put his hand on his heart.
When sun rays crown thy pine-clad hills,
And Summer spreads her hand,
When silvern voices tune thy rills,
We love thee, smiling land.
We love thee, we love thee
We love thee, smiling land.
When spreads thy cloak of shimmering white,
At Winter’s stern command,
Through shortened day and starlit night,
We love thee, frozen land.
We love thee, we love thee,
We love thee, frozen land.
I didn’t know the lyrics, but the heartfelt rendition had me blinking hard. When it was over, people clapped and cheered. “That was beautiful,” I whispered to Doug, my voice catching. “Like a prayer.”
“Newfoundlanders are a cult, sure.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. I jerked away when I saw Sister Mary Catherine frowning at us. As soon as the audience began to disperse, she left the stage, headed in our direction.
“I’m out of here,” I said to Doug. “It’s too warm. I’ll see you at the party.” I retrieved my coat and purse from the staff room, loitering there for a while in the hopes of avoiding Sister. Then I headed to the front entrance. It had snowed lightly during the concert and everything was covered in a “cloak of shimmering white.” I watched the last stragglers walk up the road, then Doug came hustling out, rubbing his fingers together in the cold.
“I left my car at Patrick’s when I dropped off the booze,” he said. “I’m low on gas. Can I snag a lift, maid?”
I exhaled loudly. “I hate when people call me that. It reminds me of an old maid.”
“Well, you’ll prob’ly end up one if you stays so sensitive,” he groused. “Jaysus God tonight, woman. It’s just an expression.”
When we got to my car, a note, wet with snow, was tucked under the wipers. Doug snatched it up. “Ohhh, what’s this? Someone’s got a secret admirer.”
“Give it to me, Doug,” I said, my voice sharp.
He held it high above his head, teasing me. I jumped to grab it, but I couldn’t reach. “Give it.”
He angled it towards the streetlight, saying, “I’ll just take a peek first.”
“No!”
He grinned and opened the note. I found myself wondering what his reaction would be. Would he be upset on my behalf?
“Nope,” he said. “Can’t make anything out. I think it’s in French.”
“It is?” I plucked it from his hand and read: “Tu es beau.”
It was flattering, if grammatically incorrect. My shoulders relaxed. Maybe I did have a secret admirer. The writing was different, more childish looking. I was pretty sure this was nothing more than a teacher’s crush, but I would compare it with the others when I got home. I shoved the note in my pocket.
“So, what’s it say?” asked Doug as we got in my car.
“Just that someone thinks I’m pretty. Well, handsome, if we’re doing an exact translation.”
“Seems like a good omen,” said Doug. “You might not end up an old maid, after all.”
I whacked him. “And you might not end up bruised. But I doubt it.”
Patrick’s house was right down by the sea. We could hear the music before we reached the bend in the road. “It’s gonna be a time,” said Doug. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine.
“When’s your flight?” Doug asked.
“What fli—” Then I remembered that I was supposedly off home to Toronto soon.
“Oh, um, in a couple of days. What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’ll be around. Mudder needs me, though she denies it.”
The car windows had fogged up as we sat there, and Doug drew a little Christmas tree in the middle of the front windscreen with his index finger.
“You forgot the star,” I said, leaning over to add one.
“That’s you,” he said, his voice husky.
“Doug.”
“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger to my lips, the faint pressure making them tingle. He traced their outline lightly, then moved his hand to brush my hair out of my face.
Our eyes were locked on each other, and despite the chill in the air, I felt a heat rising in me. Doug leaned in and then, thwack! A snowball hit the back window of my car hard. I jerked my head, driving it up into Doug’s face.
“Oww,” he said, moving his hand quickly to his mouth.
A second snowball hit the car, and I got out in time to see two boys holding each other’s sleeves for balance as they slip-slid their way down the road, their laughter ringing in the night.
Doug got out and slammed the passenger door. “Gave me a fat lip,” he complained.
“Sorry.” I scooped up some snow so he could hold it to his mouth.
As we reached Patrick’s front door, I wondered whether Doug had been about to kiss me. Would I have kissed him back? And what about Geri?
20
At that time of year, it seemed that the main perk of being a
teacher, apart from the generous holidays, was the Christmas gifts. Finally, I had my very own “World’s Greatest Teacher” mug, not to mention perfumed soap, Christmas decorations, homemade jam and all the chocolate I could eat, which was a lot.
I slightly overdid it on Christmas Eve, eating an entire box. I slipped from the loveseat to the floor, cradling my stomach. “It was the Turkish delight,” I wailed into the silence. A new year was just around the tinsel, and I’d learned much since September, although clearly not when to stop eating chocolate.
Eventually, I felt well enough to crawl along the floor and turn on the Christmas lights. I snuggled under Lucille’s quilt and admired my short, fat Christmas tree, decorated simply with white lights and red bows. I turned out all the other lights and lay in the dark, watching the fairy lights twinkle.
Sparsely placed around the base of the tree were three items: a big box from Australia, an envelope from Sheila, and a squat and clumsily wrapped package that someone had left on my desk on the last day of the term. Sheila’s envelope had arrived two weeks ago, but I’d managed to restrain myself from opening it. It would be weird not seeing her over the holidays, maybe even weirder than not seeing Mom.
I stared at the presents, looked away, then looked back again. Those gifts were begging to be opened. After a short moral struggle, I decided that, since it was already Christmas Day in Australia, I was within my rights to open Mom’s gift.
I tore open the brown postal wrapping, pausing to smile at the Christmas paper featuring Santa on a surfboard. Then I dug through the tissue until my hand hit something hard.
I wrapped my fingers around it and raised it in the air. It was a boomerang. I laughed until my stomach hurt more than it had from the Turkish delight. Dad would’ve laughed at this gift, too. I was also pleased with the symmetry of the gifts Mom and I had chosen. She’d sent me a symbol of Australia and I had mailed her a piece of Newfoundland in the form of Lucille’s rug. The package still hadn’t arrived the last time we’d spoken, but I was hopeful that when she called me on my Christmas Day, she would have received it.
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