“Well here’s to our fadders,” said Phonse. “I think we’ve earned a cup of tea. Will you do me the honour?”
Dad always said that support staff were a teacher’s most important ally, and I found myself thinking he would’ve liked the down-to-earth Phonse.
In the corner of the room, a hot plate sat on a rickety table, a can of milk beside it. When the kettle boiled, Phonse made tea, handing me a mug emblazoned with a slogan.
“World’s Greatest Teacher,” I read aloud.
“Now, don’t be getting ahead of yourself,” said Phonse. “It’s only your first week.”
That evening Mom called from Australia, except it was already the next day for her. She filled me in on her life in Sydney—the classes she was teaching, her new neighbourhood and the quirks of her apartment. She asked lots of questions about Little Cove, which I tried to answer as neutrally as possible, aware of Lucille in the kitchen. It wasn’t the most satisfactory conversation, but we were still renegotiating our relationship following Dad’s death and what she deemed my disappointing behaviour afterwards. But she promised to call me regularly, and we said our goodbyes.
5
Lying on the bed listening to Bruce Springsteen sing “No Surrender,” I could feel my stomach vibrating in time to the music. Why were no delicious supper smells wafting up the stairs from the kitchen? I removed my earphones and went downstairs, where I met Lucille at the front door, coat on and scarf over her curlers.
“I was about to holler up to you, girl,” she said. “I forgot to tell you this morning. I don’t cook on Fridays. It’s my ladies’ night.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering if I was meant to cook for myself.
“There’s cold meat in the fridge,” Lucille continued. “Or, I s’pose you could get fish and chips from the takeout.”
Decision made. Like Pavlov’s dog, I was. I watched Lucille walk out of the yard, wondering how late she’d be. It was my first weekend in Little Cove and I was spending Friday night alone. Dad used to say start as you mean to go on, but I hoped this wasn’t how I’d be going on all year.
I debated walking to the takeout, but in the end, I decided to drive so the food would stay warm. A girl of about sixteen, hair in a messy bun, leaned on the counter, chin resting on one hand. Her petite frame was dwarfed in a man’s shirt. Dark eyeliner highlighted an odd puffiness around her eyes. I placed my order and she wrote it down. Her nails were bitten right off.
“You’re Miss O’Brine,” she said. “My sister Belinda is in grade nine. I’m Georgie.”
“I haven’t seen you at school, Georgie. I guess you don’t take French?”
“I did,” she said softly, “but I had to drop out.” Then she turned to put my order on the pass-through and I saw she was pregnant.
I was silent, unsure of the correct response given the fact that I was teaching in a Catholic school. I left the counter and went to sit in a nearby booth.
“I’ll wait here,” I said. Then I fixed my gaze out the window, suddenly fascinated by the wildflowers growing up through the carcass of a rusted-out car in the field opposite.
“Order’s up,” Georgie called a few minutes later. But when I reached the counter and went for my food, she didn’t let go. Grease stained the brown paper bag, which shook slightly in her hand. “Do you think it’s fair?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“What?”
“I got pregnant, so I had to drop out. I didn’t exactly get like this on my own. Only the Blessed Virgin managed that, to my knowledge.” She made a sound, more bark than laugh. “My boyfriend, Charlie, is still at school.”
She let go of the bag and it sat between us on the counter, the grease spreading slowly across it.
“I don’t want Charlie to be kicked out,” Georgie said. “He needs his certificate.” Then she lifted her chin, face defiant. “But I needs mine too. It’s not fair.”
Behind her, in the pass-through, a woman wearing a pink hairnet lifted a basket of chips from the fryer and threw them on a large tray. “Chips up,” she called. “Come and bag ’em, Georgie, and never mind the chit-chat.”
Georgie’s eyes were pleading with me now.
“You’re right,” I said, picking up my order. “It’s not fair. In fact, it sucks out loud.”
She smiled weakly. “T’anks, miss. Belinda said you were right cool.”
Calvin Piercey was standing at the bottom of the steps beside my car when I went outside. His open palm revealed a scattering of coins.
“You hungry?” I asked.
When he didn’t answer, I thrust my supper in his hands. “Have this,” I said. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Then I saw a note stuck under my windshield wiper. I snatched it and slid into the driver’s seat. My hands fumbled and I cursed—it was the same block lettering as the first note. “Batter to Jesus.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it didn’t sound like a call to prayer. Could Calvin be leaving the notes?
Someone rapped on the window and I jumped, crumpling the paper in my fist, then relaxing when I saw who it was.
“Hey,” I said, rolling down the window.
Doug leaned in, his elbow pushing the window down further.
“How’s she going?” he said.
“The car? Seems fine.”
He grinned. “Nah, I meant how’s things.”
“So much to learn,” I said. “And I’m supposed to be a teacher. Although the grade nines might debate that point.”
“Rough week?”
Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over, so I started the engine. “Gotta go,” I said, aiming for a breezy tone.
“Wait. You free tomorrow morning?”
“Think so,” I said. There would be no need to check my diary, but I didn’t want to advertise the fact.
“Great. I’ll take you jigging.”
“Jigging? Like folk dancing?”
He burst out laughing. “Ah, Rachel, I dies at you. Cod
