The Secret Life of a Funny Girl

by Susan Chalker Browne

  Copyright

  ——————————————

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Browne, Susan Chalker, 1958-

  The secret life of a funny girl [electronic resource] / Susan Chalker

  Browne.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-77117-013-0 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-77117-014-7 (Kindle).--

  ISBN 978-1-77117-015-4 (PDF)

  I. Title.

  PS8553.R691S43 2012 jC813’.6 C2012-904208-0

  ——————————————

  © 2012 by Susan Chalker Browne

  all rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

  Printed in Canada

  Cover Design: Adam Freake

  Edited by Nora Flynn

  Pennywell Books is an imprint of Flanker Press.

  Flanker Press Ltd.

  PO Box 2522, Station C

  St. John’s, NL

  Canada

  Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

  www.flankerpress.com

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  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities; the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada; the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation.

  Dedication

  In memory of my parents

  James and Barbara Chalker

  who always encouraged me to write

  Author’s Note

  The Secret Life of a Funny Girl is a work of pure fiction. Fragments of experience have been pulled from real life, but have been kneaded and massaged by creative imagination, ballooning into events that never happened and people who never existed. The mental health theme is wholly drawn from imagination and in no way reflects anyone living or dead. The story is meant to feel familiar, about a time and place and way of life that is gone forever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  YOU KNOW, I HATE THE MONTH OF MARCH. So drab and dull and dreary. Jammed in between the pure white weeks of winter and the soft damp days of spring, it’s got to be the ugliest month of the year. Nothing fun ever happens in March; it just drags on and on and you wonder if it’s ever going to end.

  This is what I’m thinking on a grey Wednesday afternoon, stuck in a stuffy classroom, one eye on the big round clock over the blackboard. Then at exactly two o’clock—she must have been outside counting down—the classroom door opens and in steps Miss Godwin, our music teacher. She’s not quite stepping, though—it’s more like a bouncy hop. It just looks so funny, I’ve never seen anyone else walk this way.

  “Good afternoon, Sister Marion,” she says, in her fancy English accent, dipping and nodding her head like a puppet on strings.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Godwin,” replies Sister Marion, her voice steady and controlled, each syllable perfectly formed and delivered. Sister Marion can’t stand sloppy enunciation and is always correcting our slurry townie accents. Whenever she speaks, it’s like a lesson in proper diction.

  “The girls are ready for music education class,” says Sister, rising from her chair carefully and deliberately. She never rushes, always moves like someone’s got her on slow motion. I think she feels it’s dignified—actually, she’s probably right about that. “And what will our Grade Eight girls be learning today, Miss Godwin?” she asks.

  “Oh Sister, such an interesting lesson I have planned for this afternoon. We’re continuing the Composers’ Alphabet and today it’s H for Handel!” Miss Godwin’s eyes shine with happiness—wow, she’s genuinely looking forward to this. I stare at her, amazed. I mean, how is it possible to get this excited over classical music?

  Poor Miss Godwin. She has to be the worst teacher ever. Zero control over the class—how she got this job, I’ll never understand. Sometimes I wonder about her—like, what does she do in the nighttime? All by herself, nothing but dead composers to keep her company. I mean, just look at her. Even her clothes are from another age.

  First there’s the plaid skirt. Really long, down past her knees, with the colours all faded together—bet that fabric’s really itchy too. Then there’s the white blouse buttoned up to her neck, a silver brooch keeping it shut tight. (Some kind of flower painted on that brooch, I think.) Over this goes the droopy brown cardigan with bulging pockets stretched out of shape from all the tissues she keeps stuffed in there. Heavy shoes like something a man would wear, scuffed and dusty and worn-out looking. Short tight grey curls pasted all over her head, wire-framed glasses halfway down her nose, everything hanging loose on her long, thin body. What a sin. Is there no one in her life to take her shopping?

  Sister Marion probably doesn’t notice Miss Godwin’s outfit, though. (Not surprising really; nuns are hardly known for their fashion sense.) Sister’s just talking away to Miss Godwin like the rest of us aren’t in the room, which always drives me nuts. Teachers speaking in front of us—about us—like we aren’t even there.

  “I am sure the girls are quite anxious to learn about the composer Handel,” says Sister Marion. “I know they will give the composer Handel their complete attention. Please let me know, Miss Godwin, if any of the girls do not give the composer Handel the respect he so richly deserves.” Hmm, sounds like a warning.

  I flick my eyes toward Debbie Thomas, sitting right across the aisle. Debbie smothers a giggle and quickly looks away. See, I just can’t help myself, this is all so foolish. Sister speaking to Miss Godwin like we’re all deaf or something. I mean, how will I manage another hour in this warm, smelly classroom, listening to facts about deceased composers? Honestly? I just want to go home.

  “Have I made myself perfectly clear?” Now Sister Marion’s sharp eyes rake over each girl’s face, drilling from one to the other, finally boring in on me. “Miss O’Neill, have I made myself clear?”

  “Oh yes, Sister,” I say, straightening my back and blinking my eyes brightly. “None of us can wait to hear about the composer Handel.” Cripes! Why did I say that?

  A titter, two coughs, and some shuffling break the thick silence that follows. Sister Marion’s eyes stab into mine like darts, her voice suddenly low and ominous. What’s wrong with me, anyway?

  “As I said before, Miss Godwin, please alert me if any of the girls is less than attentive.”

  “They’re lovely young ladies, Sister. I don’t expect any difficulty.”

  “Very well, Miss Godwin.” Sister Marion’s lips press into thin white lines as she breaks her visual lock on me and leaves—shoulders back, chin up, and out the door.

  “Maureen, where do you get the gall?” whispers Debbie beside me. “Sister frightens the life out of me.”

  I let my breath out slowly, in a soft whoosh. Then I turn toward Debbie. “I’m not scared of Sister Marion.”

  Actually, this isn’t quite true. Sister Marion is definitely very scary. So I’m not quite su
re why sometimes my big mouth opens and saucy remarks fall out. I look around the classroom and all the girls are grinning at me, admiring my nerve.

  People think I’m funny sometimes. That’s the first thing you need to know about Maureen O’Neill.

  OTHER STUFF TO KNOW ABOUT MAUREEN

  Hair: Mousy brown. Long, straight, falling on either side of my face like a set of curtains. Most of the time I wish it was curly, like Debbie’s.

  Face: Mousy brown eyes too. Kind of like the hair. A bit weird, but what can you do. Freckles sprinkled over nose and cheeks. This gets worse in summer. And currently one large pimple centred on my chin, the size of a ripe raspberry.

  Body: Halfway between short and tall. Halfway between skinny and fat. Legs too thick and stumpy—Mom says they’re not, but I know they are. If only they were long and thin like Debbie’s, then I would be truly happy.

  Brain: Okay, I’m smart. I study hard, like high marks. I play clarinet, sing in the choir. Not very cool, I know, but this is who I am.

  Meanwhile, Miss Godwin is definitely taking her time up there, setting up for Mr. Handel. Idly, I look around the classroom. Forty-one girls dressed in dark green uniforms, thick wool tunics that scratch against your legs if all your tights are in the wash and you have to wear knee socks instead. We’ve got on white blouses underneath, although some are in better shape than others: clean and ironed, for example, as compared to dirty and wrinkled. Look at the O’Brien sisters, Brenda and Yvonne. What a sin—doesn’t anyone take care of them? Yvonne’s hem is right down in back and Brenda’s cardigan is frayed at the wrists. Greasy hair. Faces full of acne. I feel so sorry for Brenda and Yvonne but I don’t really know what to say to them. There’re a few other girls like this in class and they sort of stick together.

  The teachers are good to the O’Brien sisters, though. I notice that. Particularly Sister Marion. She goes right over and bends down next to the two of them, helping with their work. The smell doesn’t seem to put her off at all.

  Sister Marion’s not your average sort of nun, that’s for sure. For starters, she’s not as crooked as some of the older ones. She uses her own name too. No Sister Mary Mark or Sister Aloysius for her. Just Sister Marion Burke, thank you very much. Her nun’s habit is short—the new style with the skirt to the knee. She wears nothing around her neck, bare skin there, if can you believe it. Her veil is pushed back on her head, so you can see quite a bit of hair, which is wavy and brown. None of the older sisters show any hair at all. They’ve all got themselves wrapped up tight as mummies.

  But the most amazing thing about Sister Marion is how she can control a class without saying a word. Just stands there in silence, looking around. It’s incredible. All you can hear is the hiss of the heaters.

  I’ll always remember the first day of school, back in September. Sister Marion was new then. She came into our class and stood there for a full minute before saying anything at all. No one knew what to think. Then when she did speak, her voice was so low everyone had to lean forward to hear.

  “I am Sister Marion Burke,” she said. “I have heard much about this class. I have heard this is a very bright class, that there are many leaders in this class. I do not have to remind you ladies that as Grade Eights you are the oldest students at Fatima Academy. Your actions set an example for the younger girls. I have high expectations for those actions. My expectations are here . . .”

  With this, Sister Marion lifted her arm straight up from the shoulder, her hand flattened out at the top like she was holding an invisible tray. “These are where my expectations are for you girls, for this Grade Eight class, in this year of our Lord 1970. Up here . . .” she repeated, wiggling her fingers under the phantom tray, “not down here.” The arm fell suddenly down her side, hand flattened straight out from her hip, like an odd branch on a tree. “My expectations for you girls are not down here. I have much higher expectations and I expect to see them fulfilled. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “Yes, Sister Marion,” we all chimed together.

  “A new decade unfolds before us,” Sister went on, her voice super serious. “In this decade you girls will graduate from high school and choose a path in life. Some of you will find a career, perhaps get married, while others will choose a religious vocation. Some of you will live in St. John’s while others will move far away from Newfoundland. You will be presented with opportunities and decisions. Many of these opportunities will depend on your achievement in school, including the work you will do this year. So do not waste your time in school, ladies—and never waste your time in my presence.”

  No one spoke. We barely breathed. It was like someone had thrown a spell over us. No teacher had ever spoken to us like that before, almost like we were adults. Sister Marion had total control and had hardly raised her voice above a whisper.

  A far cry from poor old Miss Godwin, all set now to launch into her topic.

  “George Frideric Handel was born in Germany in 1685.” Miss Godwin’s thin, quaky voice is no match for the steady rumble in the class. Most of the girls are turned around in their desks, chatting and completely ignoring the big letter H scrawled on the blackboard. “I say, he was born in Germany in 1685,” she tries again, her tone tremulous with uncertainty. “Later, he became a British subject.” She pauses here, waiting to see if anyone picks up on this bit of information.

  I don’t even think about it. (And this is my problem.) I just do it. Up goes my hand.

  “A British subject?” My words are clear and distinct. “You mean like you, Miss Godwin?”

  “Yes, indeed, a British subject like me.” Miss Godwin smiles indulgently, fluttery and pleased that I’ve picked up on the connection.

  “Well, that must make you so proud, Miss Godwin! Does it make you proud to share your native land with the composer Handel?”

  Everyone’s grinning now, watching to see what happens next.

  “Oh yes.” Miss Godwin’s on to her favourite theme. “I am thrilled to think that George Frideric Handel chose England above all other countries as his home. England has always held a high regard for the performing arts. I’m not in the least surprised that Handel would want to move to England.”

  “I’m not surprised either,” I agree, nodding soberly. “As a matter of fact, I think every single performing artist in the world should move to England without a second thought!”

  There are giggles and muffled laughs. The girls look around at each other, delighted to be so off-topic.

  “My goodness! I don’t think that would work. Even though I’m sure that most artists would prefer to live in England, given the choice.”

  “Of course.” And I’m so polite here. “Just one more thing, Miss Godwin.”

  “Yes, Maureen?”

  “I have to say, Miss, I love your shoes.” There’s a rough burst of laughter from the back of the classroom. But not a muscle moves in my face. I smile sweetly at Miss Godwin as she looks down at her heavy brogues, all flushed and pleased.

  “Well, thank you, Maureen. I picked them up last summer in London. Although I think they need a good polishing at the moment.”

  “Very stylish,” I say, like I’m her best friend. Soft laughter ripples around the room. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud of cleverness.

  Just then there’s a loud rap on the classroom door. It opens suddenly and Sister Marion pokes her head in. “Excuse me, Miss Godwin. May I have Maureen O’Neill, please?”

  Forty-one girls suck in their breath so fast you can hear it. My stomach knots hard and I think I’m going to throw up. Did Sister hear me? Was she outside listening? Slowly I get up and move toward the door like I’m walking to my doom.

  “Just when we were having such a lovely chat, too!” Miss Godwin is beaming at me like I’m her best student ever—what’s wrong with me, why do I have to be so mean to her? I close the classr
oom door behind me, the soft click like a gunshot in my brain.

  “Yes, Sister?” My fingers feel cold and shaky. Then I see Dad. Standing behind Sister Marion, all six feet of him, his face grave and tight.

  “Dad? Why are you here?” Every nerve in my body is instantly on guard.

  “Maureen, I’m afraid your father has some bad news to tell you.” Sister Marion’s voice is horribly serious.

  “Honey, there’s no easy way to say this.” Dad pulls me close, wraps me into the folds and Old Spice smells of his navy blue coat. “Granny Brennan just died. I’ve come to take you and your sister home.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? Gran can’t be dead; sure, she’s not even sick.” I pull abruptly away from Dad. This can’t be true. A coldness creeps over me and my brain feels fuzzy.

  “My child, you must come with us now,” says Sister Marion, and I feel the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder. “This is a terrible shock, I know.”

  “But Gran can’t be dead—she was just at our house last night.” I stumble through the corridor between Dad and Sister Marion, my words sounding so strange, like they’re coming from someone else.

  On the drive home down Elizabeth Avenue, I stare out the car window, watching houses fly past like moving images in a kaleidoscope. Gran, dead? “Dad, how could this happen? I don’t understand. Gran’s not that old and she’s never sick.”

  Dad’s voice is calm and soothing. His big hands rest lightly on the steering wheel as he slows down for a red light. “I don’t understand either, Maureen, it just happened. Your mother and Gran were at Dominion and apparently Gran just collapsed. She was right in the middle of saying something—something about the price of the salt meat, according to your mom, when suddenly she stopped talking and collapsed in the checkout line.”