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

There was a pause, then she said, “Yes, b’y, I knows, sure she’s sat here with us. She’s leaving tomorrow so we’re giving her a send-off.”

Another pause. “Right, we’ll see you the once.”

She hung up, then dialled another number, inviting more people over. “Yes, maid,” I heard her say. “Round that crowd up, too.”

“Now, then, Rachel,” she said, coming back into the kitchen, “there’ll be a party here before you knows it.”

“C’mon now, Floss,” said Annie. “We’ll nip over the road and get some provisions.” Biddy left with the two sisters as well, saying she’d see us later. I went upstairs to pack.

An hour later, the women were back, laden with food and drink. People began to arrive, in groups of two or three at a time. Judy and Bill had been first, arms full of Newfoundland-branded beer.

“My God, you should’ve seen the lineup outside the Clayville liquor store,” Bill said.

“He was first in line, though,” said Judy. “Got in there at seven thirty this morning. Initiative, right?”

Bill laughed. “Desperation, you mean.”

Judy introduced me to so many people that I lost track of their names, though I recognized a few from those early days of enforced church attendance. As more people came, chairs were pushed back against walls wherever they fit.

Phonse and a few other musicians began setting up in a corner. A stooped old man was installed in an easy chair dragged in from the living room. Biddy handed him a battered black case from which he pulled an accordion. When he started to play, an ancient couple began creaking slowly around the crowded room, somehow mostly avoiding contact with all who filled the kitchen.

Platters of food covered the table—crackers and cheese, sliced meat, cakes and cookies—and bottles of every shape and size. Lucille began slicing a loaf of bread, cigarette dangling from her lips.

On the daybed, squished between Annie and the wall, I sipped a warm rum and cola. It wasn’t half bad. Biddy poured more rum in, despite my protestations. Annie held her glass out for a refill, pressing the bottle down again when Biddy lifted it from her glass too soon. When the accordion music stopped, the dancers bowed to the applause, as if it was meant for them too, which maybe it was.

A tall dark-haired man strode into the centre of the room and Annie elbowed me. “That Jacko Parsons got some voice on him.”

The accordion player started up and Jacko began to sing:

I’se the b’y that builds the boat and I’se the b’y that sails her

I’se the b’y that catches the fish and takes it home to Liza

The song was instantly familiar. I’d learned it in grade six, thinking the lyrics sounded almost like a different language. I’d had no real concept of Newfoundland back then, or fish for that matter, apart from fish sticks. Now, of course, I knew that it was all about the fish in Newfoundland—catching it, eating it, singing about it.

When Jacko reached the end of the song, there were cheers and someone called out, “Good man, yourself.”

Biddy handed Jacko a beer. “You got the voice of an angel, my son.”

“And the thirst of the devil,” he said, tipping his bottle in thanks.

“Or a drunken sailor,” quipped Lucille. Within seconds, the musicians had started up again, and everyone, including me, sang at the top of their lungs:

What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor

What do you do with a drunken sailor, ear-ly in the morning?

The easy banter and joyful celebration of music almost made me question my imminent move to Clayville. But, as much as I had come to like Little Cove and its inhabitants, I had needs! I wanted good coffee, fresh milk, pizza, a liquor store, a library. None of that was available in Little Cove.

Towards the end of the evening, Lucille asked Phonse and me to play “Sweet Forget Me Not.” To my surprise, she and the other hookers linked arms and sang along, their soft voices rising sweetly in the air. I couldn’t have been the only one to wipe away tears.

My head was right sore (as the locals would say) the next morning, but I forced myself to rise early, determined to leave before Mass. When I dragged the suitcases downstairs, Lucille was in the front hall, straddling a large cardboard box, a bracelet of duct tape around her wrist.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A few bits and bobs to get you started.”

I gave her a hug, her curlers pressing into my neck.

“I’ll miss you, girl,” Lucille said. “But a young one’s got to live. Don’t be a stranger now. You come and see us anytime.” She followed me outside as far as the gate and waved goodbye as I drove off. When I looked in the rear-view mirror, she was still waving. Then my car dipped down the hill and I lost sight of her.

I met Ellen at the coffee shop to exchange cheques for keys. Entering my new home, any niggling doubts disappeared. I leaned against the front door, inhaling furniture polish and bleach, instead of cigarettes and deep-fried fat. Ellen had left a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine on the table. I threw off my coat and danced wildly around the room like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. A teenage boy strolling down the path towards the sea saw me and walked more quickly, no doubt wanting to distance himself from the crazy lady.

I spent the next half hour exploring the house, opening cupboards and turning lights on and off. I stood at the bedroom window and looked down at all the gravestones. It was a bright day and the cemetery looked benign. Would I still feel that way tonight? I shrugged off any feelings of unease and walked into town to explore.

That evening, I ate Tony’s takeout pizza at the kitchen table,