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

Lucille was on the phone in the living room. She kept saying, “I knows, girl,” every fifteen seconds. Eventually she hung up and joined me in the kitchen.

“Jaysus, Mary and Josephine,” she said. “That was Bertha Peddle. She’s after threatening to bar me from the store. Says you were right saucy.”

“But I . . . she . . .” I stopped talking as, really, there was no excuse for my rudeness.

But then Lucille said, “Let her try and bar me.” She took the can from me and put it on a shelf. “I got more dirt on her family than muck on a pig. Sit down now, for the love of God. We needs to eat early. I got a meeting over to the church.”

She went to the wood stove and began lifting food from an iron frying pan. “Fish cakes,” she said, putting a plate down in front of me.

I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of fish twice in one day. But these deep-fried golden discs were a delicious blend of potato and fish. A feeling of warmth spread from my stomach to my extremities. “Lucille,” I said, putting down my fork. “The fish from the takeout for lunch was really good. But this”—I gestured at my plate—“this is amazing.”

She waved her hand. “Go ’way with you, maid.” But the curve of a smile softened her features for a moment. She took down a pack of cigarettes from a shelf over the stove and lit up. Then she lifted the smallest lid from the stovetop and dropped in the match.

“Tell me about your people,” she said, sitting down on the daybed in the far corner.

As she blew a long stream of smoke up to the ceiling, it didn’t feel like the best time to talk about Dad’s death from lung cancer just a few months prior.

“Actually, Lucille, I’d love to hear more about the teacher I replaced.”

She scratched her head between the curlers and sighed. “Brigid Roche. Her husband, Paul, died last year. He was only twenty-eight.”

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“He was driving home from Mardy with Ron Drodge, Brigid’s brother, and they hit a tree. Not a scratch on Ron, but Paul died straight away. People said Ron was drinking that night, but no one knows for sure. Police never made it out this way until hours after the accident.”

“Poor Brigid,” I said. “Imagine being widowed so young.”

Lucille came over to clear the dishes, stubbing out her cigarette in the leftover ketchup on my plate. “There’s many left a widow too soon around here, myself included. But you don’t see me running off with the priest, now, do you?”

She returned with a dishcloth and began wiping the table with quick, hard strokes.

“Seemed like Brigid was coming out of herself by Easter. And everyone said Father Jim was a big help with his grief counselling.” She sniffed. “Grief counselling with a priest? I never heard the like. You buries your man, you gives it up to God and you gets on with life.”

I thought about Mom sitting in Dad’s leather chair for weeks after he died, stroking the worn arms, deaf to any attempts at conversation.

Lucille took a few more swipes at the table, though I could see no crumbs. Then she threw the dishcloth in the sink.

“Do you think Brigid will ever come back?” I asked.

“I expect she’ll stay well clear,” Lucille said. “She’s brought too much shame on this parish.”

She reached for a scarf lying on the daybed and wrapped it around her head. “I’m off to see Father Frank, now,” she said. “He’s got some fancy notions he needs to be set straight on right quick.”

After Lucille left, I went upstairs and pulled Dad’s school sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of my dresser. I put it on and lay down on my bed, thinking that grief counselling didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

4

Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

A girl in jeans and a sweatshirt stuck her head in my classroom. I was mid-gulp of a cup of coffee, so I beckoned her in. She chattered her way up to the desk, telling me, in perfect French, that her name was Cynthia and she was in grade twelve.

“Bonjour, Cynthia,” I said. “I think I met your mom at the gas station.”

She nodded. “She told me. Oh miss, I loves French,” she gushed. “It’s my favourite subject.”

“Mine too,” I said and we both laughed.

“I wants to be a French teacher,” she said. “I’m trying for a scholarship to get to university, like Doug did.” She covered her hand with her mouth. “Mr. Bishop, I mean. We’re not allowed to call him Doug at school.”

“Wait,” I said. “Is Do—Is Mr. Bishop from Little Cove?”

She nodded. “His family lives two doors down from us. But I won’t come back to Little Cove like he did,” she said. “I wants to see the world.”

The bell rang then, so I told Cynthia I’d see her later that morning. “Can’t wait, miss,” she said.

I quickly scanned my lesson plan, waiting for the grade nines to arrive. I could hear the shrieks and staccato bursts of laughter as they approached. The noise continued as they took their seats in the classroom. Calvin was semi-horizontal at his desk and Trudy was blowing the biggest bubble I’d ever seen. I willed it to burst all over her face, but she sucked it noisily into her mouth.

“Trudy,” I said. “Get rid of that gum, please.”

She sauntered past me to the corner, stood over the garbage can and spit. There was a soft thunk as the gum hit bottom.

“Miss,” Trudy said. “Can I just say something?”

She was clearly destined to be a teacher because all of a sudden, she had everyone’s attention.

“What is it?”

“Bertha Peddle says you’re a proper slut.”

I heard myself gasp as shouts of laughter erupted, and I looked around to a mass of braying mouths.

“Get out,” I said, my voice trembling.

“But, miss,” she protested.

“Right. Now.” I pointed to the door, my fingers jabbing the air. “Go see Mr. Donovan and don’t you