The door to the staff room opened and Patrick strode in, rubbing his hands together. “I’m so hungry I could eat the leg off the Lamb of God,” he said.
My laughter died when I heard more tsking from Sister.
“Don’t encourage him, Rachel,” Judy said. “And for the love of God, don’t get him started on the fish puns.”
Dad had been a punster; I was pretty sure I knew all the fish ones.
“I don’t want to rise to the bait,” I said, “but I love puns.”
Patrick was reaching for a carton, but stopped. “They has their plaice.”
“Whale,” I replied, “too many give me a haddock.”
Judy slapped Patrick’s arm. “She might know more puns than you, Pat.”
“You cod be right,” he said.
“Speaking of cod,” Doug interrupted, “any seconds on the go or wha?”
“Yes, b’y.” Patrick pushed a brown bag towards Doug. “Sure this fish is so fresh it practically swam to the takeout.”
I had been sneaking sideways glances at Doug, and he caught me staring. Our eyes held for a few seconds, then he said, “I’ve been wondering, Rachel.”
Maybe it was my proximity to the nun, but I found myself praying he wouldn’t mention the Spider-Man incident. He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “What brings a mainlander down this way?”
His question coincided with a lull in the conversation; everyone turned to hear my response. I didn’t exactly blend in around here. I reached for my drink and took a long sip.
“Ah, I’m just here for the halibut,” I said.
Taking advantage of the scattered laughter, I made my exit, tossing the paper plate in the garbage and making a mental note to come up with a better answer before I was asked again. This job had been my only option, but they didn’t need to know that.
After school, I stopped for gas on the way back to Lucille’s. That morning I had briefly toyed with the idea of walking to school, but the rain changed my mind. Now I was glad to have my own little space, even if only for a few minutes.
I pulled in behind a huge pickup truck that was blocking the pumps. Its mud flaps had not lived up to their billing. I’d arrived only twenty-four hours earlier, but my car was caked in a thin layer of dust, like most of the vehicles in Little Cove.
Visible through the window of the gas station, a stocky man in a jean jacket and baseball cap leaned over the counter, his face inches from that of the woman at the cash register. When I pushed open the door, the tinkling bell above me was barely discernible over his loud voice.
“I got the wrong change in here last night,” he said. “You owes me three dollars.”
The woman behind the counter leaned away from him, hands planted on her hips. “Nothing to do with me, b’y,” she said. “I wasn’t working yesterday.”
I cleared my throat loudly and he jerked his head around. “What the Christ do you want?”
“Gas,” I said. “But your truck’s in the way. Would you mind moving it, please?”
“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?” he mimicked. “Miss Hoity-Toity, come from away, taking our jobs.”
“Oh, so you’re a French teacher?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
The woman behind the counter covered her mouth to hide a smile.
He stared at me for a good minute before finishing his transaction with the cashier. Then he brushed past me, a little too close, muttering, “Comes down from the mainland and thinks her shit don’t stink.”
He slammed the door and the bells jangled frenetically. “Well,” I said. “Someone’s in a mood.”
There was the sound of an engine being revved, and then his truck peeled out onto the road, a trail of dust rising in the air behind it.
The woman shrugged. “That’s Roy Sullivan for you,” she said. “He’s the most contrary man you ever laid eyes on.”
She began slotting chocolate bars from a large box into the display below the counter. “You’re Miss O’Brine,” she said. “Did you meet my Cynthia today? She’s right mad for the French.”
That didn’t sound like any student I’d met so far, but much of the day had been devoted to administrative tasks. I told her I hadn’t met everyone yet, but would be sure to look out for Cynthia.
“You gonna pump yourself?” she asked.
It took me a minute to realize she meant gas. Back outside, I shoved the gas nozzle in, wondering if Roy Sullivan had any children at the school. Then I noticed a piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper, flapping in the breeze. I pulled it out. In big, black capital letters, someone had written, “You’re not wanted here. Go on back home.”
I slumped against the car. This was my home. At least for the next year. And who had left the note? Roy Sullivan had driven off immediately. He wouldn’t have had time. There was no one but me on the gas station forecourt. The dark windows in the cluster of houses across the road gave no clue. I crumpled up the note, shoved it in my pocket and went inside to pay.
3
How was your first day?” Lucille called from the kitchen before I’d even shut the door.
Not bad, just the one piece of hate mail, I thought, but didn’t say.
She was feeding sheets through a wringer, her face ruddy with exertion. I’d only ever seen a washing machine like that in a museum.
“Be back the once,” she said. “There’s a fine breeze so I wants to get these out.”
I said I’d help her peg, but she said no and pointed me to the table, where a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin waited. When she came back inside, she sat down opposite me, lit a cigarette and returned to her half-finished crossword.
“Classes all good?” she asked.
I considered telling
