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

An old iron bed dominated the small bedroom to the right of the stairs. A faded pink-chenille bedspread was laden with hooked rugs. I ran my hands over them, exclaiming at the fish, birds, dories and rural scenes.

“They’re gorgeous,” I said. “I couldn’t possibly choose.”

“Think on it,” she said. “Come back next Friday if you’ve no plans.”

If? I nearly said.

On the way back down the stairs, I was ahead of Biddy, and she patted my back softly. “You come back to us any evening you likes,” she said.

Once we were back downstairs, Biddy asked the other women, “How’re ye all getting on? Is it time for a drop?”

When they concurred, Biddy took a bottle of sherry down from the cupboard and laid it on a tray of glasses, which tinkled as she slid it along the table. Lucille sloshed sherry into her glass and returned to the daybed. Flossie poured slowly, alternating between two glasses, stopping to ensure her careful measures were equal, before giving one to Annie. Biddy handed me the bottle. “You do the honours, my dear.” I poured a serving somewhere between modest and generous.

I sipped the sherry, trying not to shudder visibly at its sweetness. By my second glass, the shudders were gone.

“Tell us now,” said Biddy, “how are you making out over to the school?”

Leery of possible relations or other connections the women might have with the school community, I spoke generally. I said it was good to put into practice the theories I’d learned at teachers’ college. I didn’t mention my difficulties or the loneliness I felt, especially now that Doug seemed to hate me. I bypassed the frustration of teaching someone like Calvin and the thrill I felt when Cynthia spoke French so beautifully.

During a subsequent lull in the conversation, it occurred to me that Cynthia and Calvin were the yin and yang of my teaching. Calvin loathed French, me and school, while Cynthia loved all three. Calvin’s future was uncertain, Cynthia’s looked golden.

I was jolted back to the conversation when Flossie said she’d heard that Brigid Roche had been seen in St. John’s and asked what would happen if she came back to Little Cove.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she landed back here with the Irish toothache,” said Annie, brandishing her glass for a refill.

Biddy tutted. “Annie, you’re shocking, you are. Don’t mind her, Rachel.”

Lucille said, “Rachel, when you’re done pouring for Annie, pass ’e over.”

I topped up Annie’s glass, then Lucille’s, but Flossie and Biddy both demurred.

“What’s an Irish toothache?” I asked, filling my own glass.

Lucille breathed out a stream of smoke as she answered. “Bun in the oven.” She drew an exaggerated pregnant belly in the air.

“But what if Brigid do come back?” Flossie persisted. “What’ll happen to Rachel?”

Lucille stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her hooking. “Rachel’s got a one-year contract with the Board,” she answered on my behalf. “If Brigid comes back, I allows she’ll have to wait ’til Rachel’s year is up.”

“Speaking of bun in the oven,” said Annie. “Georgie’s is starting to rise.”

“It’s such a sin for Georgie,” said Lucille.

Anger flashed in me as I wondered if I’d misjudged these women who had seemed so kind. But then Biddy said, “Yis, maid. She has to drop out and Charlie gets to stay on. It’s a proper sin.”

“’Twas ever thus,” said Annie.

“And ever shall be,” Flossie replied.

“But it shouldn’t be,” I said, mostly to myself.

10

The women went back to their hooking and chatting. I was knocked flat on the daybed wondering what proof the sherry was. My mother sometimes reminisced about her single days when she used to sip sherry on the front porch with her own mother. I had a whole new respect for their livers. That made me wonder what time it was in Australia and what my mom was doing right then.

Isn’t it odd, I realized. Mom and I are alone, far from home, and separated from each other in our grief. Lucille was right—grief was best shared. I hoped my mother had found someone in whom to confide over in Australia. I made a mental note to ask her when she next called me. If we were going to repair our relationship, at some point we’d have to speak about the tough stuff.

A faint knocking had been going on for a while in the background, but as none of the women reacted, I decided it must be a branch tapping on a window. Then it became more of a banging.

“Who in God’s name is at the door?” said Lucille.

“No one knocks with good news,” Flossie said. “Must be some bad, else they’d be in here by now.”

They were still debating the best course of action when the door finally opened, sending gusts of wind into the kitchen.

“Geraldine!” cried Biddy, rising nimbly from the rocking chair to embrace the blonde in the doorway. “My dear, you’re too long in St. John’s picking up them fancy ways. Imagine knocking at your own aunt’s door.”

Biddy’s niece was beautiful. There was no other word for her. Her hair was impossibly straight, her complexion flawless, her smile wide.

“You needs to get that door fixed, Biddy,” said Geraldine. “It was stuck.”

“I’ll have a word with Phonse, by and by,” said Biddy. “Now come in out of it ’til we gets a look at you.”

I fought my way up from the depths of the daybed, waiting to be introduced. The women clustered around Geraldine, exclaiming over every part of her.

“Loves your coat,” said Annie. “Some style on ya, girl.”

“How’s the hospital?” Lucille asked. “You running it yet?”

There was laughter and more questions.

Then Geraldine fetched a chair from the hall and sat down beside her aunt.

“I’ll not stop long,” she said. “Mam will be waiting.”

“My little sister can wait,” said Biddy. “She’s into town to see you all the time. I haven’t set sight on you in weeks.”

I stood up and put a steadying hand on the wall. “I should go.”

Biddy clucked. “Here’s me forgetting my