When I put the boomerang under the tree, my fingers brushed against Sheila’s envelope and I swear it seemed to open itself, although it was me who pulled the card out. Sheila’s message was brief: “Your present will arrive on Boxing Day. Please be home to accept delivery.”
This would not be a problem, since I had no plans to speak of.
It seemed silly to leave the last package sitting all alone under the tree. And as I turned it over, I noticed a label: “For my fiddle girl.” Ah, Phonse. It was a homemade cassette tape. I stuck it in my boombox and almost immediately recognized the tune Eddie Churchill had whistled as he changed my tires. “Sonny’s Dream,” he’d called it. I listened as Sonny’s mother begged him not to leave her.
When the song ended, I pressed rewind.
Sonny’s lamenting mother didn’t sound like the women I knew. Lucille, so proud of her daughter, Linda, teaching in Labrador; Cynthia’s mother, so supportive of her scholarship hopes; and even Mrs. Piercey, who wanted something more for Calvin.
I listened on repeat until I knew every word of “Sonny’s Dream” by heart. When I stopped pressing rewind, the tape moved to the second track and I smiled as “Sweet Forget Me Not” filled the room. The singer was nowhere near as good as Beverley, whose voice had astonished me that night in Mardy. I carried the boombox up to my bedroom and fell asleep listening to the music.
Mom’s call woke me on Christmas morning. She exclaimed over Lucille’s rug, then said she’d spent her Christmas Day at the beach.
“How was that?”
“Odd,” she said. “But also, wonderful. Different.”
We caught up on each other’s news and exchanged book recommendations. We kept it light, neither of us mentioning how much we missed Dad.
“You’re not spending today on your own, are you?” Mom asked.
“No,” I assured her. And I wasn’t. I would have the best company: Mr. Red Wine, Ms. Paperback and my very dear friends Cashews and Chocolate.
After we hung up, I made myself a toasted bacon and cheese sandwich for breakfast and drank gallons of coffee. I tried not to think about Dad’s grave under a shroud of snow with no visitors. And really, as far as I was concerned, Dad’s spirit wasn’t there in the ground. It was in books and music and birds. Still, something drove me to bundle up and explore the deserted cemetery behind my house.
Most of the headstones were faded and covered in lichen, which peeked out from beneath the snow. One read simply, “Dear Mother.” Others gave incredibly detailed biographical information. Many people had drowned or been lost at sea; I thought of Lucille’s husband and Doug’s father. On the gravestone of two brothers killed at Beaumont-Hamel, I read, “There is a part of France that will always be English.” It took me a minute to decipher it until I remembered that Newfoundland had not joined Canada until 1949. Then, it hit me; people like Lucille and Phonse had basically lived through their own Confederation.
Later, I had a long bath, not even bothering to straighten my hair afterwards, moving instead directly to pyjama time. I lay in the dark, sipping red wine and watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I drifted off, dreaming that Calvin was Clarence the angel, desperate to get his wings.
A BELL WOKE ME, and I half shouted, “He got his wings!” Then I realized it was the doorbell. The house was freezing and my neck ached from having fallen asleep awkwardly on the sofa.
“Go away,” I groused, wrapping the quilt tighter around me.
But whoever was at the door kept on banging, and I remembered Sheila’s advice to be home on Boxing Day. Still wrapped in the quilt, I dragged myself to the door and saw the familiar face that I loved so well. I burst into tears and threw my arms around Sheila.
“Never mind that for now,” she said, pushing past me and dropping her suitcase on the floor. “I’m freezing!” She stamped her feet to shake the snow off her boots. “Now we can hug,” she said. And we did.
“How did you? When did you?” I kept changing the question, finally settling on, “How was the trip down?”
“Godawful. Crying baby all the way from Halifax, spent the night in a questionable B&B in St. John’s, mad taxi driver on the three-hour drive out here . . . but it was worth the nightmare to see that look on your face when you opened the door.”
“How did you get a flight?”
Sheila was actively snooping now, poking in the kitchen cupboards. “Mike pulled a few strings.”
Sheila’s brother was a big shot at MusiCan, the national video channel, and knew all the right people. “I fly back on New Year’s Day,” she added, heading for the stairs.
I followed her into the bedroom and she opened the curtains.
“Is that what I think it is?” She pointed down to the cemetery, where my tracks around the gravestones from yesterday were still visible in the snow.
“Uh-huh.”
“And to think I flew all this way to cheer you up because I thought you didn’t know a soul down here,” said Sheila.
Six days of bad jokes. Bliss.
21
Extra-large, double cheese, double pepperoni,” Sheila said to the shy waiter at Tony’s. “And two more beers, please.” She flashed her megawatt smile and he stumbled into a chair as he left.
“How’s the job?” I asked. Sheila was a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company. Her stock answer if anyone asked what she did for a living was “drug pusher.” She was made for sales; Dad used to say she could convince anyone to do anything if she tried hard enough.
“There’s talk of another promotion,” she said tucking her blonde hair behind her ears.
“How’s Peter?”
“Do keep up, Rachel. I dropped him a month ago.”
Sheila had a rule of three when it came to men: one on the way in, one on the way out, and one on the side. I operated a similar system, but mine was for books.
When the pizza arrived, we went quiet until a good dent had been made.
“Almost as good as Luigi’s,” Sheila said, patting her mouth with a napkin.
“I miss Luigi’s,” I wailed.
“Luigi misses you too,” said Sheila. “That’s our first stop when I break you out of this joint. Now, listen, how is everything down here, really?”
I told Sheila how pleased Phonse was with my progress on the fiddle. I complained about the impossible challenge Judy had set me, to convince the students to play traditional music at the garden party.
“Like that tape you were playing earlier?” she asked. “I loved it. I might see if I can buy some music like that for Mike.”
Then I launched into a long anecdote about how I’d cracked the discipline problem with worksheets. At first Sheila listened patiently. But after a minute, she held up her hand.
“Whoa, whoa. This is all deeply fascinating, but I want to hear about Doug.”
“What about him?”
“Rachel.” Sheila’s tone brooked no dissent.
So I told her about the moment in the car before Patrick’s party—the star comment, the maybe-almost kiss, the snowball that had ended whatever might have been before it started. I left out the part about how my lips had tingled.
“I think he might . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . like me. A bit,” I summed up.
Sheila reached out and patted my hand. “There you go with that huge overconfidence thing again, sweetie.” We dissolved into giggles. When Sheila had regained control, she said, “Do you think you might . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . like him? A bit?”
I shrugged. “He has a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah, he has a girlfriend. But I thought you said there was a weird vibe.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Geri seems great, but they don’t seem to have much in common. And they spend virtually no time together. She lives in St. John’s and hardly ever comes out this way.”
I paused and lined up my cutlery. “But, you know, when Jake cheated on me, it tore me apart. I could never do that to someone else.”
“You wouldn’t be
the one cheating.”
“Semantics.”
Sheila opened her mouth to argue the point, but a cry of “Rachel!” stopped her. Judy and Bill had arrived at the restaurant, and Judy was waving as they made their way across the room to our table.
“You’re back from Toronto already?” Judy asked. I ignored Sheila’s side-eye and introduced her to Judy and Bill, managing to duck the question in the process.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” Judy said. “You could come mummering with us.”
“Mumbling?” I said.
Judy laughed. “Mummering. It’s a Christmas tradition. You puts on an elaborate disguise, goes door to door, and does a little skit. And then, with any luck at all, they offers you a drink.”
“Halloween and Christmas all wrapped up in one magical night,” Sheila said. “Sounds excellent.”
I must have looked less enthusiastic, because Judy said, “Come on, Rachel, it’s fun. Music, entertainment, a few laughs.” She turned to her husband. “Tell her, Bill.”
“It’s an excuse to get hammered,” said Bill.
“It’s more than that,” chided Judy. “It’s an important part of our heritage, a fine cultural tradition that needs to be maintained, it’s . . .” She grinned. “Yeah, it’s also an excuse to get hammered.”
She eyed us appraisingly. “We could have real fun with you. No one would expect a mainlander to mummer. With the right disguise, they’d never guess who you were.”
Bill waved his hand in the air. “One problem with your plan, me duck.”
“What’s that?”
“Soon as she opens her mouth, the crowd will know she’s that Miss O’Brine from over to the school.”
The beer I’d been drinking may have been a factor, but I rose to Bill’s challenge, leaping from my chair and shouting in the broadest Newfoundland accent I could muster. “I’m a Newfoundlander, luh. Best kind, right? Proper t’ing. How’s she going, b’y?”
Our waiter was on his way over but, after my little performance, veered quickly away.
“Not bad,” said Bill, rubbing his chin.
“Not bad,” agreed Judy. “Talk in a deep voice. You can be Jenny the Wren.”
“A wren? Wasn’t that a World War II women’s regiment thing?”
“Ah Rachel,” said Bill. “I dies at you. Judy, me darling, do us the honours, will ya?”
Judy cleared her throat, then recited a long verse about a wren on St. Stephen’s Day.
I wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but Sheila and I clapped loudly, as did the family at the next table. Judy bowed low. She was a natural performer.
“Do you think you can learn that if I writes it down?” said Judy.
“I guess so,” I said.
“Great. We’d better get to our table now before we loses it, but let’s talk before you goes.”
Sheila and I had another beer and then, after paying our bill, stopped by Judy and Bill’s table. Judy had written out lines for both of us on the back of a paper placemat. She told me I was to dress like a bird.
“Sheila,” she added. “You needs to dress like a bit of a hussy.”
“I thought she was supposed to be disguised,” I said, and Sheila thumped me.
Judy rubbed her hands together. “It’s going to be some fun. Even when Sheila takes off her disguise, they won’t know who she is.”
“That’s me,” said Sheila. “The Russian doll of disguises.”
Sheila and I left the restaurant and linked arms to walk home.
“Will Doug be murmuring?” she asked.
“It’s mummering,” I said, displaying my new-found vocabulary. “And I don’t know.” Then I remembered. “Oh, crap. I kind of let him think I was going to Toronto for Christmas. I hope he’s not mad at me.”
“Oh my God,” said Sheila. “Imagine if you had gone to Toronto to surprise me and I’d come down here to surprise you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Like ‘The Gift of the Magi.’”
“But with better hair,” said Sheila.
22
The next morning Sheila and I went to the coffee shop for breakfast. Although she’d been up for mummering the previous night, she was less keen today.
“Do we have to go?” she whined. “Aren’t we a bit old for dressing up?”
“Wilf,” I said, after we’d placed our order. “What are your thoughts on mummering?”
“The wife makes me do it every year,” he said, loading a plate with butter tarts and muffins.
Sheila gave me a triumphant look. “Makes him do it, see? This poor man is forced to participate. Against his will, Rachel. I will not be forced.”
Wilf put the plate on the tray with our coffee mugs. “And every year after it’s over, you know what I says to her?”
“Never again?” said Sheila.
He laughed. “Nope. I says, Darling, remind me next year how much fun it was.”
It was my turn for the triumphant look.
“Okay, okay,” Sheila grumbled. “But what are we going to wear?”
“You needs to have a rummage over to the second-hand store,” said Wilf.
After treating us to a detailed history of mummering outfits he had worn over the years, Wilf gave us directions to the second-hand store, where later that morning, we spent an enjoyable hour trying on ridiculous combinations of clothing. It was a far cry from our former shopping sessions at the mall, but just as fun.
We spent some time memorizing our lines over takeout pizza from Tony’s that evening. Then we changed and drove out to Judy’s.
When the back door opened, Sheila began humming the Twilight Zone music because whoever was beckoning us in wore a pillowcase over their head, with cut-outs for eyes and mouth. We guessed it was Judy, since it was too short to be Bill. She was sporting a plaid shirt, denim overalls and big rubber boots. She had a massive hump on her back; a tweed cap and a pair of men’s gloves completed her look. She hustled us into the kitchen, where Bill sat in a wedding dress with full train. He wore a curly red wig and white gloves up to his elbows.
Bill and Judy exclaimed over our outfits.
I was wearing rubber boots and a blue coverall. I’d made wings from coat hangers and wore a balaclava to hide my face. Perched on my head, tying the ensemble together, was a tea cozy in the shape of a bird.
Sheila wore a tropical bikini top over her black turtleneck and a red skirt over her jeans. A bandana covered her mouth; dark sunglasses and a sombrero completed her ensemble. Bill was wearing a worn, white baby blanket for a veil. Once Judy fastened it over his face, he couldn’t see anything. He kept stumbling and swearing softly to himself whenever he tried to walk.
We left the house and shuffled down the road.
Sheila kept whispering her lines over and over again to practise, but Bill shushed her as we approached the door of a lime-green house, and then he rapped sharply at the door.
When someone finally answered, Sheila stepped forward as instructed and shouted, “Any mummers ’lowed in?” Bill had been quite pedantic about Sheila not saying allowed. It had to be ’lowed.
The door opened wider and our prospective host smiled broadly. “Lord lightning Jaysus, come in out of it ’til we gets a look at ye.” Then he shouted over his shoulder, “Nettie, there’s mummers after coming.”
His wife came running, a dishtowel still in her hands. She waved shyly then invited us into the kitchen. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs. “Eugene,” she called. “Run next door and tell Phil and Bessie to come ’round and see the mummers.”
Eugene was a student at the school. With no sign of recognition, he ran past us and out into the cold, wearing only a T-shirt. His sister Darlene galloped down the stairs after him. “What crowd is this?” she asked, staring hard at us. She left the kitchen, and I heard her dialling the phone and then her breathless voice saying, “We got mummers here, come over the once!”
Within minutes a dozen people had crowded into the kitchen.
Bill b
egan to talk in an exaggerated whisper:
’Twas on my fateful wedding day
I should have been bright and gay.
But me darling sweetheart crept away
And married a girl from Witless Bay.
Amidst laughter and clapping, Bill began to sob hysterically and fell to his knees in front of Judy, who pointedly ignored him. He clasped his hands to his enormous bosom and jerked a finger at Sheila.
“That’s the hussy who stole him.”
Sheila strode into the centre of the kitchen. She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them from side to side. Then, with one hand on her sombrero and the other on her heart, she spoke loudly, not bothering to mask her own voice:
It was a shocking thing to do
I’m a bad one, through and through.
But please don’t put the blame on me
A little birdie made me, see?
There’d been more discussion about whether I should try to disguise my voice. Bill wanted me to hold up a sign, rather than speak. But in the end, I convinced him I could pull off an Irish brogue. As Sheila left the centre of the room, we gave each other a high-five and I took her place, wriggling my shoulders in an effort to flap my wings.
The Wren the Wren
The Queen of all birds
On St. Stephen’s Day she got caught in the furze.
She dipped her wing in a pint of beer
And bid everyone a Happy New Year.
Although she is little, her honour is great
So rise up now lads and give her a treat.
And if you don’t believe the words that I say
Here’s the old skipper to show you the way.
Someone grabbed my arm, but I pulled away and made for Bill and Sheila. Judy stepped forward and spoke her lines in a deep, low voice, ending with a flourish:
We fine mummers brave and true
Have now put on a show for you.
Guess who we are, go on now, think
While you’re at it, we needs a drink.
We bowed to great applause. We were then offered drinks, which we slipped under our various veils and coverings, sipping with difficulty. Then we waved goodbye and headed off to the next stop. As we walked single file up the road, we talked excitedly about our triumphal appearance.
New Girl in Little Cove Page 13