New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

Then I remembered the weekend I stayed with Biddy after her accident. She had told me that Doug and Geri weren’t a love match. Had she been trying to send me a message in her subtle way? There was the quite the history of me and misunderstandings during my year in Little Cove. I guess there was room for one more.

  Doug spoke again. “Geri thought it was best if we let people down gently. She pretends she’s working every weekend and I hates town, so no one expects me to go in to see her.”

  It was getting dark in the living room, but neither of us made a move to turn on the lights.

  “Anyway, last week I told Mudder about Geri.” He laughed. “I should’ve told her ages ago. She said she was some glad we came to our senses because we weren’t a good match. And I told her I’d found a better match.”

  “Who?”

  He kissed my nose. “You. Right from the first day when I saw you slammed up against the blackboard.”

  “Now there’s an image I’d like you to forget.”

  “And you’re so sparky.”

  “What am I? A battery?”

  “See!” he said, pointing a finger at me. “Like that, I loves those little zingers. And your enthusiasm. You makes things happen.” He pulled me in close and finally kissed me. Then he released me and whispered, “You makes me happy.”

  I took his hand and led him upstairs to my bedroom. But once we crossed the threshold, I hung back.

  “Let’s take it slow,” Doug said. “I wants it to be special.” He picked me up and carried me over to the bed, then lay down beside me, stroking my hair.

  I thought of that time he’d taken me fishing, how his strong hands had steadied me when I jumped into the boat. I put my hand to his cheek and felt its softness. Then he took my hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing my fingers.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  Was I? I thought about the last time I’d been with Jake, and the aftermath. For what seemed a long time, I didn’t answer, just stared at Doug.

  But then I nodded and leaned in to kiss him. Then he was kissing me back and I slowly undid the buttons on his shirt. I ran my hands over his chest, pausing to examine a cluster of freckles on his shoulder. I wanted to map every bit of him. I pulled my T-shirt off and Doug propped himself up on his elbow and traced the outline of my bra with his finger. Then we were tumbling into each other, headlong, full tilt, down, down into the deep.

  Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms, sleepy and content.

  “I s’pose you’ll be going back to Toronto for a bit once school ends,” Doug said. “I finally got you and now you’re leaving.”

  “Not for a while,” I said. “I want to see my mom but she’s not back until August. Come with me. We could do a road trip.”

  “Not in your car,” said Doug, dropping a kiss on my shoulder. “It would never make it. And I’ll bring you to the cabin. There’s no electricity and no one for miles around.”

  “And we’ll go to our cottage,” I said. “Mom and I haven’t been up since Dad died. But we can make new memories there.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re teachers,” Doug said, pulling me close. “We needs the whole summer to fit all these plans in.”

  39

  The school year was over and it was time for the garden party. As I drove towards Little Cove, the sun was weak in the sky, overpowered by thick, grey clouds.

  “Please don’t let it rain,” I said on auto-repeat until I pulled into the parking lot. The schoolyard was a frenzy of activity. A group of senior boys, supervised by Patrick, were in the midst of lugging large trestle tables and chairs into the gym, where tea and baked goods would be served, courtesy of the local women. Just outside the gym doors, picnic tables and chairs were arranged for a refreshment area. Meanwhile, Eddie Churchill and Roy Sullivan were reinforcing a makeshift outdoor stage for the musicians: Phonse, Johnny’s Crew and me.

  I found Doug in the staff room. When I fretted about the weather, he smiled and said, “Sure, it wouldn’t be a garden party without a passing shower.”

  He was on bingo duty, and after sneaking a quick kiss, jogged off to the gym to set up the PA system. I wandered around looking for Mike. He’d left a message on my answering machine to say that he and the cameraman would meet me at the school.

  I went back outside, passing a variety of local people setting up booths to sell baked goods, jams, quilts and other handiwork. Elsewhere students finalized educational displays.

  After a few minutes I headed back inside and found Mike in the gym, chatting to Doug, and gave him a hug. He introduced me to the cameraman.

  “Are you in charge?” asked the cameraman. “It’s too dark outside, we won’t get anything in the can.”

  “If you don’t like the weather, stick around,” I said, glad of the chance to use the local saying. But then I had to explain the joke, thereby rendering it unfunny.

  “Don’t you worry, my son,” said Patrick, who had arrived for the tail end of the conversation. “The sun’ll be splitting the rocks before you knows it.”

  As ten o’clock approached, I headed to the parking lot entrance for ticket duty. There was no gate and half the community was already inside setting up, but a few people began to trickle in, handing me their tickets.

  “Hiya, Miss O’Brine,” said Georgie, walking with Charlie, who was pushing their son in a stroller. Mrs. Piercey stopped to say hello and I forgot to ask her for a ticket.

  Ten minutes later, the flow of people was so thick that I gave up, abandoning my post. Every inch of the schoolyard was full of people. Georgie took Alfie out of his stroller; he squirmed in her arms and she handed him off to Charlie.

  “Take him, will ya? He got me drove with his wriggling.”

  Charlie took him, giving Georgie a kiss on the cheek. Then he went to inspect the booths, jiggling his son expertly.

  “Did you hear I’m staying on next year?” I asked Georgie.

  “Yis, everyone’s right pleased.”

  “I was thinking about trialling a French class in the evening, for people who wanted to earn a credit. I really hope you’ll join. Mr. Donovan says your French is excellent.”

  She was watching Charlie over at the stalls. I followed her gaze to where he was talking to Sister Mary Catherine. The nun reached up to chook Alfie’s chin and he batted his fist at her wimple.

  “I don’t know,” Georgie said after a minute.

  “Well, think about it,” I said. “It might get you back to your studies.”

  She fiddled with an earring. “Not that bothered, now,” she said. I made a promise to myself to follow up with her in September, then headed to the French club display, where Sam and Darlene were straightening a poster.

  “Bonjour, mes amis,” I called and they responded in French. I complimented them on their stellar display. A range of project work lined the table along with some RCMP and other federal agency brochures in French. There were tourist flyers for Saint-Pierre et Miquelon, a French colony off the coast of Newfoundland. I hadn’t even known it existed until Sister Mary Catherine mentioned it. I had immediately gone to see Patrick about organizing a school trip there in the spring. “My God, there’s no stopping you,” he’d said.

  Cynthia’s mother walked by, and I reached out and touched her arm.

  “How’s Cynthia?”

  Her face fell. “I wish she was here. I miss her some lot.”

  “I do too, Mrs. O’Leary. I’d like to get her back to school in September.”

  “If she ever comes home. She’s gone to live with her sister in Halifax. She’s got a steady job at a restaurant there.”

  “Oh, that’s—” I faltered, unsure what to say.

  “She says she likes the money.”

  I could see it would be hard to argue with that. I headed over to the stage, where Beverley was organizing the instruments and the microphone. “Miss,” she said. “We’re after changing the band’s name. It’s the Forget Me Nots now.”

  “Sweet,” I said and she laug
hed.

  I kept on wandering. I could hear Doug calling the bingo numbers into the PA system in the gym. I passed a wheel of fortune where Belinda Corrigan and a few other students were placing bets. Bill was in charge of spinning the wheel.

  “Try your luck, Rachel?” he said. “You, too, could be a winner.”

  “I already am, Bill,” I said.

  Eddie Churchill was giving wagon rides to younger children, his placid horse ignoring their squeals of delight.

  In every direction, I saw familiar faces. In Toronto, you could walk all day and not meet a soul you knew. I was glad I no longer lived in Little Cove, but I was gladder still that I’d be back teaching in September.

  I browsed the handicraft displays, passing table after table, until I came upon a collection of wood carvings and looked up into the face of a smiling Calvin Piercey.

  “Calvin, you look so happy.”

  “Last day at St. Jude’s, right?” He grinned. “Starts at the trades college in September.”

  There were several bird carvings on Calvin’s table and I examined them one by one, holding them up and turning them in the light before making my final decision.

  “I’d like to buy this one for my mother.”

  “Ah, sure, take it, miss,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “You must treat me like any other customer.”

  “Five dollars, then. It’s a puffin, miss.”

  I decided that when I gave it to my mom, I would tell her it was a lesser spotted cuckoo bird.

  Biddy was in charge of the next booth over, and after I selected four rugs and three quilts, she wouldn’t sell me any more. “There’ll be none left for anyone else,” she chided.

  Two of the senior boys had organized a games arcade for the youngest children. I stopped to watch the action at a fishing booth, where a little girl was about to haul her pole back, to see what she had caught. A boy of about four years old who was waiting his turn tugged my sleeve and asked, “Are you that French nun?” There was still work to be done out here, clearly.

  I hadn’t seen Doug’s mother arrive, but she was deep in conversation now, with Mrs. Piercey at one of the tables. They both waved at me when I went past.

  There was just time to put my purchases in the back of the car before Patrick mounted the stage to introduce the band.

  We began the set with “Four Strong Winds.” At first the various activities carried on, but soon most people gathered around the stage to listen. As the music grew livelier, couples began to dance on the grass in front of us. Eddie Churchill waltzed past, a nimble Lucille in his arms.

  Beverley and Roseanne were very much in charge, taking it in turn to announce each piece and engaging in light banter with each other and the crowd. I felt a bit sorry for Jerome, but he didn’t seem to mind. Phonse and I concentrated on avoiding the camera. Whenever it panned across the stage, we would turn our backs, laughing.

  “We’re bound to end up on the cutting-room floor,” I said.

  “Proper t’ing,” he replied.

  We worked our way through a varied repertoire of traditional ballads and sea shanties. For our final number, Beverley had chosen “Sweet Forget Me Not.” I spotted Doug in the crowd, sitting at a table with Judy and Bill. He looked up and smiled, and the bow felt a little lighter in my hand as Beverley began to sing:

  She’s graceful and she’s charming, like the lily on 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.”

  As the final notes hung in the air, there was prolonged applause and whoops of delight. We stood in a row at the front and bowed. I was smiling so hard it hurt. Phonse asked me to hand over my fiddle and Roseanne escorted me off the stage. I went and sat beside Doug, and he squeezed my hand under the table and told me how wonderful I was. Which was kind of wonderful.

  “Now then, my dears.” It was Beverley, back on the stage. “We got one more song for yez. It’s dedicated to Miss O’Brine.”

  I looked up warily. This had not been in the script.

  “It’s a French song that she taught us and it’s called, ‘Je l’aime à mourir,’ which kind of means, I loves her so much I could die.”

  Jerome leaned into the microphone. “Or, like we says around here, miss, we loves you some lot.”

  I could feel tears pricking my eyes as Beverley sang. Her accent was perfect. Afterwards, the three musicians came to my table and I gave each of them a hug. “I’m going to miss you guys next year,” I said.

  “If we’re playing in the pub, will you join us?” Roseanne asked.

  “Definitely,” I said, “but you might be out of my league by then.” I pointed to Mike, who was coming over to talk to them.

  It was getting warmer, and the tea and cakes had been replaced by beer. Patrick came to join our table for a drink.

  “Well that was a fine finish to the year,” he said, clinking glasses all around. “I don’t know how we could ever top that.”

  “I’ve got all summer to think about it,” I teased.

  By five o’clock the crowd was mostly gone. A faithful crew of students along with Eddie, Phonse, Patrick, Judy, Bill, Doug and I cleared up the grounds. By the time we were done, I was exhausted. I arranged to meet Doug at Tony’s later and, car laden with booty, I pulled out of the school, heading for Clayville.

  Just past the Little Cove sign, something made me pull over. I crossed the road and stood where I had ten months earlier. Sunlight flirted with the waves. Boats swayed in the water, and I could see a few men squatting on the wharf near the stairs I’d scrambled down to rescue Ruthie. I looked up above the wharf and found Lucille’s house, remembering my first night there and all the evenings I’d shared with her and the Holy Dusters. They were good women. Finally, my eyes alighted on St. Jude’s, the school where, even though I was the teacher, I’d learned such important lessons.

  There was a scrabbling noise behind me, and when I looked over my shoulder, it was Phonse, up above on his bicycle.

  “You lost?” he shouted down at me, grinning.

  “Nope,” I said and happiness surged inside me. “I’m found.”

  Acknowledgements

  Almost ten years ago, I sat down and wrote the opening chapters of what would become New Girl in Little Cove. Following countless rejections and a few near misses, I shelved the manuscript. But Rachel and the inhabitants of Little Cove kept nudging me, so I entered the 2019 Caledonia Novel Award. When my opening chapter was long-listed, I had six days to completely rewrite the novel. A subsequent short-listing convinced me to try one last time.

  There are 389 inhabitants of Little Cove; I wouldn’t be surprised if an equal number of people, on both sides of the Atlantic, supported me on the journey to becoming a published novelist. I couldn’t possibly name all of you, but heartfelt thanks to my fellow writers and friends who’ve cheered me on, particularly the Law Girls.

  Enormous gratitude to my brilliant agent, Hilary McMahon. When I discovered she was the daughter of Newfoundlanders, I dared to dream. In our first phone call it became clear that Hilary cared about my characters as much as I did. The fact that we share a similar taste in books and now swap recommendations is an unexpected bonus.

  Thank you to everyone at HarperCollins Canada. I’m hugely indebted to Janice Zawerbny, who acquired my book. Her sage editorial comments and guidance helped make the story a much better one. Thanks also to Natalie Meditsky, my ever-patient production editor, and to Catherine Dorton and Sarah Wight for stellar copy-editing and proofreading, respectively. Gratitude also to Susan Swinwood and the team at Graydon House Books.

  My brothers, Barry and Sean, provided helpful comments on an earlier version of the novel as well as constant encouragement. My cousin Ann Martin read several drafts and gave invaluable advice on the Newfoundland dialect, place names and folk music. Ann delighted everyone at my wedd
ing reception when she sang “Sweet Forget Me Not,” which might be why it features in this novel.

  Three women deserve particular mention; you could say they’re my Holy Dusters: Bobbi French, Ellen Goldstein and my sister Siobhan. I met Bobbi and Ellen online via the comment section of Betsy Lerner’s blog. In no time, I was swapping chapters and lamentations with both. Each was an excellent beta reader and a constant source of much-needed mirth. Bobbi’s feedback on all things Newfoundland was especially welcome. I look forward to holding her novel in my hands one day. It’s quite possible that Ellen has read more drafts of this book than me. Without her ALL CAPS emails of encouragement during the Six Day Caledonia Crisis (as I have come to call it), I doubt I would have met the competition deadline. Siobhan is my sounding board, my dial-a-therapist, and my biggest cheerleader. She too has read multiple drafts over the years and her constant counsel to “Keep the Faith” buoyed me during the tough times.

  Much love to my children, Ben and Rebecca, who are apparently proud of me, and gave me space and time to write, especially during the Caledonia Crisis when they ate sandwiches for dinner every night. Even more love and gratitude to my husband, Nigel, who supports my writing in every possible way, not least financially, and whose constant refrain has been “Don’t give up.” I’m so glad I didn’t.

  Finally, I was inspired by the handiwork and instructional videos of Deanne Fitzpatrick at www.hookingrugs.com.

  About the Author

  DAMHNAIT (pronounced Downith) MONAGHAN grew up in Ontario and Newfoundland. A former teacher and lawyer, Damhnait is an award-winning flash fiction writer with numerous publication credits. Her novella-in-flash, The Neverlands, was voted Best Novella in the 2020 Saboteur Awards. She lives in the south of England with her husband, two children and the family dog. New Girl in Little Cove is her debut novel, inspired by the years she spent teaching in outport Newfoundland. Find her online @Downith (Twitter) and www.damhnaitmonaghan.com.

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