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

She batted her hand at me. “Now who ever heard of paying someone for a Christmas present?”

As usual, she had the last word.

Lucille walked me out to the car and pointed the way to Doug’s place.

The house was perched high on a hill; the lights of a Christmas tree blinked in the front window. I walked up a ramp that zigzagged back and forth, and knocked at the door.

Geri opened the door and said hello. Then she whispered, “In case Doug didn’t tell you, his mam’s in a wheelchair.”

“Thanks,” I said. “He didn’t.”

She frowned. “He never does.”

She led me to a large living room where Mrs. Bishop sat by the fire, sipping a glass of red wine. She was the most elegant woman I’d seen in Little Cove. She had long black hair, with only a few streaks of grey, tied in a low ponytail. Her cherry-red lipstick matched her wool dress perfectly.

“You’re very welcome here, Miss O’Brien,” she said. It was the first time my surname had been pronounced correctly since I pitched up in Little Cove. I was so used to hearing O’Brine that I nearly corrected her.

“Call me Rachel,” I said, then held up a poinsettia. “I brought this for you.”

Geri took it and placed it on the coffee table.

“Then you must call me Grace,” she said. Then she called out to Doug to tell him I had arrived.

He came through from the kitchen wearing an apron emblazoned with a picture of a Newfoundland dog, above which was written “Top Dog.”

“Whaddya at?” he asked.

“Happy birthday. I wasn’t sure what to get you, but I know you like to eat, and I have my own kitchen now.” I handed over a container of my signature chocolate chip cookies.

“They looks good, t’anks.” He leaned down and pecked my cheek. I was conscious of Geri, but she seemed completely indifferent.

“Geri, can you get Rachel a drink?” Doug said. “I’m wrassling with the cod tongs.”

I hadn’t heard Lucille ever mention cod tongs. Perhaps it was one of the “new-fangled gadgets” she loved to denigrate.

Geri brought me a glass of wine, and I sat on the sofa across from Doug’s mother, trying to ignore the framed picture of Jesus that hung on the wall above her. His sacred heart was exposed and his sad eyes seemed to follow mine, no matter where I looked. He would totally beat me in a staring contest.

“You must be finding Little Cove a big change from the mainland,” Doug’s mother said.

“It has its charms,” I said. “But I live in Clayville now.”

“Even Clayville isn’t big enough for some,” she said, glancing over at Geri, who was flicking through a fashion magazine.

“Don’t you miss Toronto?” Geri asked, looking up. “All those malls.”

“There are things I miss, sure,” I agreed.

Doug shouted from the kitchen, “Grub’s up.”

Geri wheeled Mrs. Bishop into the kitchen, while I followed ineptly behind. Over at the stove, Doug stood on a hooked rug that wasn’t a patch on any Lucille made. Red gingham curtains hung at the large window, and the seemingly mandatory daybed was over in the corner.

I sat at one end of the table with Mrs. Bishop opposite me and Doug and Geri on either side. Doug loaded my plate with what looked like chicken nuggets topped with little hash browns. When Geri declined both, Mrs. Bishop clicked her tongue.

“I’ve seen more meat on Good Friday than on your bones, Geraldine,” she said. “Doug’s after making us a proper feast. Cod tongues and scruncheons.”

Her words sank in. Cod had tongues? And if so, what were the little scruncheons? Did cod have testicles?

Geri waved her hand at Mrs. Bishop. “Sure, you knows I don’t like fish.”

Mrs. Bishop was watching me, so I stabbed a cod tongue with my fork and began to chew. And chew. It was cod chewing gum. Finally, I swallowed it down with water, then speared a scruncheon with my fork. I brought it close to my face for a discreet sniff. My taste buds relaxed; any cousin of bacon was fine by me.

“The scruncheons are good,” I said.

“Does that mean the tongues aren’t?” Doug asked.

“Don’t eat them if you don’t want,” his mother said. “They’re an acquired taste.” She glanced sideways at Geri. “Sometimes a forgotten one, too.”

“I like the taste,” I said, aiming for diplomacy. “But the texture . . .”

“Have the small ones,” said Doug. “They’re less chewy.”

“Still gross, though,” said Geri, so I ate the lot.

When our plates were empty, Geri cleared them and fetched bowls from the cupboard, placing one in front of me. “Do you have any family in Newfoundland?” she asked.

“She’s all on her lonesome down here,” Doug answered.

His words had me wondering if this was a pity invite.

Doug placed a steaming casserole dish in the centre of the table. “Rabbit stew. Caught and skinned the bugger myself.”

Images of famous bunnies hopped into my mind: Peter Rabbit, the Easter Bunny and old Bugs himself. I found myself wondering if it was too late to claim a sudden conversion to vegetarianism.

Doug’s mother filled her bowl, then passed the serving spoon to me. I churned through the stew, ladling potatoes, turnips, carrots and parsnips into my bowl. But Doug was watching me closely, and it was his birthday, so I added the smallest bits of meat I could find. I told myself it was chicken. And I kept telling myself that all through dinner, even when I asked for seconds.

“Do you do all the cooking?” I asked Doug.

“Since my accident,” said his mother. “But it’s not right. I’m hiring a cook in the new year.”

“You’re not,” said Doug.

“You’d have more free time. You could go to St. John’s and see Geraldine,” she said. “Not be stuck out here looking after the likes of me.”

Doug and Geri exchanged glances. Doug frowned, then after a minute, he said, “You knows I don’t like being in amongst the townies. And I’m not going anywhere just yet. I signed a two-year contract, remember?” He gestured across the table