New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (book club suggestions TXT) 📗

I was a long way from a state of grace when I went up for Holy Communion, but it seemed safer to risk the wrath of the Almighty than the shame of Lucille. Father Frank stood before me, the host in his hand.

“The Body of Christ,” he intoned, looking at me intently, as if to ferret out my sins.

“Amen,” I croaked, adjusting the collar of my trench.

When I returned to the pew and kneeled to say my post-Communion prayer, memories of Dad’s funeral came back to me. He’d been a much-loved English teacher; the church had been packed with weepy girls and stoic boys. Mom and I had been overwhelmed by it all. I pinched the skin on my inside wrist and began counting backwards in my head, to push the sadness away.

When Mass was over, Lucille whispered, “Father Frank wants a word with you. He says to wait here for him. I’ll see you later back home.”

I found myself wondering how Father Frank had managed to communicate all of this to Lucille when he gave her the host. Still, I sat and waited while the church emptied. The sun streamed in through the stained-glass window behind the altar. In an alcove to the right, rows of votive candles flickered. I glanced back to the church doors, flung wide like outstretched arms, but there was no sign of the priest. I began to think he’d forgotten until he surprised me, coming out from a door to the right of the altar, now wearing the simple black garb of everyday priesthood.

He walked towards me, his broad stomach rising like dough over his belt. He was nearly bald with scattered wisps of grey hair.

“Miss O’Brine,” he said, holding out a hand. There was a large gold ring with a ruby stone on his fourth finger, and for a second, I wondered if I was expected to kiss it.

“Rachel,” I said, taking his damp hand in mine.

He sat down beside me in the pew, drawing his hands into his lap. “So, you’re out here to teach French,” he said. “Now tell me this. Do the young people of outport Newfoundland need to be learning French?”

Before I could say anything, he answered his own question. “I have my doubts. It seems to me that there are far more important matters that could be taught.”

“Like what?”

“Manners, for starters. And faith.”

He unfolded his hands and raised them into the prayer position. “As a teacher in a Catholic school, Miss O’Brine, you will be expected to demonstrate a high code of moral conduct and set an example for the young people of this parish.”

“Yes, Father.”

“There is also the vexing problem of chastity.” He over-enunciated this final word while his eyes bored into mine as if seeking a confession of my full sexual history. “Do you know, Miss O’Brine, we have girls in this parish who have to leave school because they fall pregnant?”

“That is indeed shocking,” I said, choosing my words deliberately.

He looked sharply at me but I smiled back. If going to Catholic school all those years had taught me anything, it was how to suck up to a priest.

“You are young, Miss O’Brine,” he continued. “Some of the girls may therefore look to you as a confidante.” He straightened in the pew. “However, that is my role in this community. If any of the girls seek you out to confess to any sexual impropriety, you must refer them to me.”

When hell freezes over, I thought.

“Now, do you have any questions about your teaching position?” he asked.

“Mr. Donovan has briefed me on all my responsibilities,” I said, standing to go. “If there’s nothing else, Father, Lucille will be waiting for me.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She was waiting for me. At home.

There were a few stragglers outside the church when I left, pockets of women chatting to each other, some with small children pulling on their arms. I crossed the road to my car, sighing loudly when I saw the note fluttering in the soft breeze. Was it too much to ask that hate mail be banned on the Sabbath?

But when I opened the note, it said: “Hope it wasn’t the company that made you sick. You’ll get your sea legs yet. Doug.”

As I drove back up the hill towards Lucille’s, the sun shone on the water and I spotted a boat heading out of the bay, its wake trailing behind like a bride’s veil. Then a cloud crossed over the sun and the sea turned dark, the wake becoming shroud-like. I remembered what Doug had said about life jackets, and shivered.

7

After a few weeks, I knew my schedule by heart, including the sad fact that every Monday morning I had grade nine French first period. It was not the best way to start the week, and no sooner had I reached the front of the classroom than Calvin Piercey bellowed, “Can I go to the bat’room?”

I slammed my books down on the desk. No sign of a please, in either official language. And the golden rule from day one had been that anyone who wanted to go to the bathroom had to ask in French, no exceptions. God knows we’d practised that sentence enough times that the entire class should have been able to waltz their way across France without fear of being caught short.

But Calvin had his own rules, one of which seemed to be, I’m not saying nothing in French. You can’t make me.

I gritted my teeth. “En français, s’il vous plaît, Calvin.”

His habitual scowl intensified. “Come on, miss, I’m bursting.”

There was a buzzing in my ears and I fought the urge to run screaming from the classroom straight to Patrick’s office and quit. It was too hard. I couldn’t win against Calvin or any of this cohort. Dad was wrong. Sometimes a troublemaker was just a troublemaker.

I was about to