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

“Well, think about it,” I said. “It might get you back to your studies.”

She fiddled with an earring. “Not that bothered, now,” she said. I made a promise to myself to follow up with her in September, then headed to the French club display, where Sam and Darlene were straightening a poster.

“Bonjour, mes amis,” I called and they responded in French. I complimented them on their stellar display. A range of project work lined the table along with some RCMP and other federal agency brochures in French. There were tourist flyers for Saint-Pierre et Miquelon, a French colony off the coast of Newfoundland. I hadn’t even known it existed until Sister Mary Catherine mentioned it. I had immediately gone to see Patrick about organizing a school trip there in the spring. “My God, there’s no stopping you,” he’d said.

Cynthia’s mother walked by, and I reached out and touched her arm.

“How’s Cynthia?”

Her face fell. “I wish she was here. I miss her some lot.”

“I do too, Mrs. O’Leary. I’d like to get her back to school in September.”

“If she ever comes home. She’s gone to live with her sister in Halifax. She’s got a steady job at a restaurant there.”

“Oh, that’s—” I faltered, unsure what to say.

“She says she likes the money.”

I could see it would be hard to argue with that. I headed over to the stage, where Beverley was organizing the instruments and the microphone. “Miss,” she said. “We’re after changing the band’s name. It’s the Forget Me Nots now.”

“Sweet,” I said and she laughed.

I kept on wandering. I could hear Doug calling the bingo numbers into the PA system in the gym. I passed a wheel of fortune where Belinda Corrigan and a few other students were placing bets. Bill was in charge of spinning the wheel.

“Try your luck, Rachel?” he said. “You, too, could be a winner.”

“I already am, Bill,” I said.

Eddie Churchill was giving wagon rides to younger children, his placid horse ignoring their squeals of delight.

In every direction, I saw familiar faces. In Toronto, you could walk all day and not meet a soul you knew. I was glad I no longer lived in Little Cove, but I was gladder still that I’d be back teaching in September.

I browsed the handicraft displays, passing table after table, until I came upon a collection of wood carvings and looked up into the face of a smiling Calvin Piercey.

“Calvin, you look so happy.”

“Last day at St. Jude’s, right?” He grinned. “Starts at the trades college in September.”

There were several bird carvings on Calvin’s table and I examined them one by one, holding them up and turning them in the light before making my final decision.

“I’d like to buy this one for my mother.”

“Ah, sure, take it, miss,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You must treat me like any other customer.”

“Five dollars, then. It’s a puffin, miss.”

I decided that when I gave it to my mom, I would tell her it was a lesser spotted cuckoo bird.

Biddy was in charge of the next booth over, and after I selected four rugs and three quilts, she wouldn’t sell me any more. “There’ll be none left for anyone else,” she chided.

Two of the senior boys had organized a games arcade for the youngest children. I stopped to watch the action at a fishing booth, where a little girl was about to haul her pole back, to see what she had caught. A boy of about four years old who was waiting his turn tugged my sleeve and asked, “Are you that French nun?” There was still work to be done out here, clearly.

I hadn’t seen Doug’s mother arrive, but she was deep in conversation now, with Mrs. Piercey at one of the tables. They both waved at me when I went past.

There was just time to put my purchases in the back of the car before Patrick mounted the stage to introduce the band.

We began the set with “Four Strong Winds.” At first the various activities carried on, but soon most people gathered around the stage to listen. As the music grew livelier, couples began to dance on the grass in front of us. Eddie Churchill waltzed past, a nimble Lucille in his arms.

Beverley and Roseanne were very much in charge, taking it in turn to announce each piece and engaging in light banter with each other and the crowd. I felt a bit sorry for Jerome, but he didn’t seem to mind. Phonse and I concentrated on avoiding the camera. Whenever it panned across the stage, we would turn our backs, laughing.

“We’re bound to end up on the cutting-room floor,” I said.

“Proper t’ing,” he replied.

We worked our way through a varied repertoire of traditional ballads and sea shanties. For our final number, Beverley had chosen “Sweet Forget Me Not.” I spotted Doug in the crowd, sitting at a table with Judy and Bill. He looked up and smiled, and the bow felt a little lighter in my hand as Beverley began to sing:

She’s graceful and she’s charming, like the lily on the pond

Time is flying swiftly by, of her I am so fond.

The roses and the daisies are blooming ’round the spot

Where we parted when she whispered, “You’ll forget me not.”

As the final notes hung in the air, there was prolonged applause and whoops of delight. We stood in a row at the front and bowed. I was smiling so hard it hurt. Phonse asked me to hand over my fiddle and Roseanne escorted me off the stage. I went and sat beside Doug, and he squeezed my hand under the table and told me how wonderful I was. Which was kind of wonderful.

“Now then, my dears.” It was Beverley, back on the stage. “We got one more song for yez. It’s dedicated to Miss O’Brine.”

I looked up warily. This had not been in the script.

“It’s a French song that she taught us and it’s called, ‘Je l’aime à mourir,’ which kind of means,