New Girl in Little Cove

by Damhnait Monaghan

  When I came back downstairs, Biddy was standing at the mantelpiece.

  “Is that one of Lucille’s?” she asked, gesturing at the rug hanging on the wall.

  “She gave it to me when I moved out,” I said. I still felt a bit bad about my hasty departure even after all this time. “Do you think Lucille was annoyed when I moved out?”

  “I don’t think so. You’re not carrying around guilt about that, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.” Even lapsed Catholics tended to keep at least some carry-on baggage.

  “My dear,” said Biddy. “Lucille is my best friend but she’d try anyone’s patience on a full-time basis. I loves spending time with her, but I also loves closing the door behind her to be all alone in me own house.” Biddy seemed to have put into words my exact feelings about Lucille.

  She went back to the loveseat and sat down. “I think you did well to get your own place.” Her eyes darted around the room. “And it’s right cozy here, girl, although that’s a funny old place to keep your milk, if you don’t mind me saying.” She pointed at the can of milk that had been sitting on my mantelpiece for months.

  The kettle began whistling, so I grabbed the can and went to the kitchen. I made a pot of tea, and put fresh milk in a little jug but also opened the evaporated milk just in case. Then I put some cookies on a plate. I wanted to make a bit of an effort. Sheila and Doug had been my only visitors thus far. I decided that I would invite Maggie Vincent, the teacher I’d met at the pool, over for coffee soon. It was past time to make a few local friends in Clayville.

  I sat down beside Biddy and poured the tea, glad I’d tidied up the evening before. It was only me, and I wasn’t a complete slob, but sometimes I let things slide. Often there would be empty teacups and magazines strewn around. My mother would’ve been horrified.

  Biddy sipped at her tea. As expected, she went for the tinned milk. She said she wasn’t hungry, but after a few minutes reached for a cookie. Their one-hundred-percent-irresistible success rate remained intact. She took tiny bites and chewed for ages between each bite, until the cookie was gone. Then she told me about the accident.

  She said it had been foggy, but Eddie was careful, not driving too fast. “But the moose come out of nowhere, as they does.”

  Apparently, Eddie slammed on the brakes, “Which probably saved us,” she said. Instinctively, she reached up and gently patted her goose egg.

  “Were you wearing a seat belt?” I asked.

  She tutted. “Course I was. It might’ve been a bit loose, but I was wearing it.”

  She said Eddie hadn’t been wearing his. “He never does.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  She clasped her hands together as in prayer. “They wouldn’t say much because I’m not a relation. I expect Phonse will know. I’ll check with him when we gets back to Little Cove.”

  I took that as a hint and cleared up, putting the tray on the kitchen table. Seeing the two kinds of milk side by side, I decided to pour fresh milk into a flask to bring to Biddy’s. I might be roughing it out there, but I wasn’t going back to tinned milk. A girl had her limits. At the last minute, I grabbed the cookie jar as well.

  I drove slowly, partly because I was now terrified of hitting a moose—something I had never before even contemplated—and partly because of the potholes that jolted us on our journey.

  Biddy’s house was unlocked. I readied myself to shove the door, but it glided easily open.

  “Phonse is after fixing that door for me,” Biddy said as I followed her inside. It was dark and cold in the kitchen.

  She sighed. “Fire’s gone out in the stove.”

  “You sit down in the rocking chair,” I said. “I’ll light the stove.”

  “There’s a knack to it,” she said. “She’s a temperamental old thing.” She gestured at the wood and kindling stacked neatly against the stove. “You needs a few blasty boughs.”

  I took a quilt from the daybed and tucked it around Biddy. “I’m used to temperamental old things,” I said, smiling. “We have an old stove at our cottage back home that we use when the power goes out.”

  With Biddy instructing me, I was able to get the fire going. The room quickly began to warm up.

  “I could turn on the heat too,” I said.

  “Heat?” said Biddy. “That is my heat. I never bothered getting anything else installed when the others around here did. I figured it was only me, and when the stove’s going, it’s warm enough. When I was a youngster, we used to take an old brick to bed that was warmed up on that very stove and then wrapped in a pillow case. Now I takes a hot water bottle. Progress,” she cackled.

  “It must’ve been so different in Little Cove back then,” I said.

  “In some ways, sure,” she said. “But lots is the same. Lucille and I in and out of each other’s houses. Annie and Flossie tagging along after us.” She frowned. “Those two used to be real trouble, but they came around in their widowhood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, I’d best not tell tales out of school,” she said. Annoyingly.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and we were both quiet for a minute. Biddy instructing me in how to light the stove had reminded me of the last time I’d been at our cottage. Dad had been lying on the sofa in front of the bay window, watching the wind move the trees and the rain pelt the lake. I’d been putting the finishing touches on a pizza, which Dad had requested, even though we all knew he wouldn’t eat any of it. Mom was in the bedroom working.

  Then the power went out and we were immediately plunged into darkness. Mom came out and got the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. She held it over the stove while Dad talked me through how to light it. We’d even cooked the pizza on top of the stove and Dad had managed almost a whole piece, saying it was the best he’d ever eaten.

  Mom and I couldn’t face going up to the cottage after Dad died. It had sat empty all summer, and then our handyman shut it up for the winter. But lately, I’d been missing it, and Sheila and I had made plans to spend some time there in the summer.

  I got up to put more wood in the stove, then asked Biddy if there was anyone I should call. “Do you have a number for where your sister’s staying in St. John’s?”

  “I don’t want them fussing and worrying when they’re meant to be enjoying themselves at the wedding. She’ll be home on Sunday and you can get home then.”

  “Trying to get rid of me already,” I said.

  Biddy asked me to call Phonse. “He might have some news about Eddie,” she said.

  Tacked to the wall beside her telephone was a faded list of names and numbers. I noticed Lucille was at the top and Brigid Roche’s name had been scratched out. I found Phonse’s number, but there was no answer.

  “He might be over in Mardy playing tonight I s’pose,” she said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  We sat and chatted idly until Biddy said she was tired. I helped her undress, then settled her in bed, plumping pillows and adjusting quilts. Then I made her a hot water bottle. Her eyes were closed when I returned with it, but she opened them and smiled.

  “I usually reads before I goes to sleep, but I don’t think I can manage it tonight,” she said.

  “What are you reading?”

  She pointed to the bedside table and I recognized the book immediately: Light a Penny Candle. I’d read it last year, enjoying the gentle writing and the story of two girls whose lives were entwined. I hoped Sheila and I would be friends for life the way Elizabeth and Aisling were, although preferably without all the drama.

  “I could read you a chapter,” I offered.

  Biddy smiled. “That would be grand, Rachel.”

  I dragged the rocking chair in from the kitchen, wrapped myself in a quilt and began to read.

  31

  I woke in the middle of the night, still in the rocking chair. My watch told me it was two o’clock. Some nurse I’d turned out to be. I gently roused Biddy, who grumbled that she was fine and told me
to leave her be. So I went to the kitchen, put some wood in the stove and curled up on the daybed under a quilt.

  Biddy’s voice woke me in the morning. She wanted help getting out of bed. I asked her if she wanted me to take her to the bathroom.

  “My God, girl, I’m not that far gone,” she said. She climbed slowly up the stairs and I tried not to fret. But twenty minutes later, she was back, hair brushed and a smell of minty toothpaste about her. She needed help to get dressed, but that was all.

  I was desperate for my Saturday morning coffee fix, but settled for tea. I set to work on breakfast, after turning on the radio. Soon enough I was singing along with the folk music they played.

  “Nice to hear a young one singing in this house,” said Biddy. “I miss Geraldine. She don’t come home much these days.”

  I kept my attention fixed on the stove while I digested this information. “Maybe she’s really busy at work.”

  “Yes girl, I allows. But I think she also got the taste for life in town now. I never sees her with Doug anymore. He’s a bayman through and through. I don’t think that was ever a love match.”

  I joined Biddy at the table, dishing up eggs and cutting up the bacon for her. She ate left-handed and seemed to manage well enough. After breakfast, she asked me to phone Phonse, but again there was no reply, and she began to fret.

  “Maybe he’s at the school,” I said. “I could drive down and see. Will you be all right on your own for ten minutes?”

  She batted her hand at me, which I interpreted as a yes.

  Phonse was not at the school, but Doug was. He said Little Cove was abuzz with news about the accident and asked me how Biddy was doing.

  “I’m driving Phonse into St. John’s this afternoon so we can get Eddie.”

  “So he’s okay?”

  “Broken arm and pretty banged up, but he’ll live. His truck is totalled, though.”

  “From hitting an animal?”

  “Have you ever seen a moose? They’re huge.” He gestured with his arms.

  “It’s good of you to pick up Eddie.”

  “He’d do the same for me. Eddie Churchill is our unofficial taxi service. He’s driven Mudder around for years when I’m not able.”

  I thought about all the times I’d seen Eddie driving Lucille and others around. A good man.

  “I guess Elsie will be back tomorrow to take over,” said Doug.

  “Who’s Elsie?”

  “Biddy’s sister.” He paused, then added, “Geri’s mom.”

  Ah.

  “Doug, why wasn’t Biddy invited to this wedding that half the ladies in Little Cove seem to be attending?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “You’re no good for gossip.”

  Doug gave me a funny look. “When your own mudder is a constant source of gossip,” he said, “you learns right quick it’s a hateful beast. Besides, who says she wasn’t invited? Maybe she was and she didn’t want to go.”

  Thinking about what Biddy had said about closing the door and having time to herself, that possibility seemed more likely. But Doug was right, it really was none of my business. And nor, I realized ruefully, was the torrid history of Flossie and Annie. Chastened, I said goodbye and told him to drive carefully.

  “I always do.”

  “And give my best to Eddie.”

  When I returned to Biddy’s house, she was delighted to hear that Eddie was coming home so soon. After lunch I asked if she’d mind if I went for a walk.

  “I’m so much better today,” she said. “You could go home, sure.”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m staying until the reinforcements arrive.”

  It was a bright warm day, so I walked down the path to the wharf and leaned on the side for a while, staring out at the sea. Heading back up to Biddy’s something glinted in the sunshine. I stooped down and picked up a silver whistle on a thin, red string. It was too dirty to put in my mouth to see if it worked, but I shoved it in the pocket of my jeans.

  Back at Biddy’s I caught her doing the dishes one-handed. I scolded her and took over.

  “I’m getting right jittery sitting here doing nothing,” she said.

  “It’s called recuperation,” I said. “And since I’m apparently a nurse,” I winked at her, “you’d better follow my orders.”

  She sat down at the table, and I quickly washed the few dishes and left them to dry in the rack. Then I fished the whistle out of my pocket and gave it a quick wash too.

  “Look what I found coming up the path,” I said, putting it on the table in front of her.

  She picked it up and examined it closely. “Oh, that’ll do nicely for my treasure box if you don’t want it.”

  Intrigued, I asked her to explain.

  “Go on out to that cupboard in the front hall,” she directed. “Have a rummage ’til you finds a wooden box. Bring it here to me ’til we goes through it. That’ll keep us occupied.”

  I did as instructed and found the box under a bag stuffed full of wool. Back at the table, Biddy told me that as a young girl, she’d always been fascinated by found treasure, bringing old bits of coloured glass or seashells home from the beach.

  “I never stopped collecting things,” she said. “Of course, if I knows who it belongs to, I gives it back. I once found Judy’s engagement ring. She’d been beside herself, lying to Bill that she’d taken it into Clayville to get the diamond polished and wondering what she’d do if it never turned up.”

  Biddy reached into the box and pulled out a red mitten.

  “I found this about three years ago out on the road. I left it on my fencepost for a few days, but no one claimed it, so I washed it and put it in here. Look at those stitches,” she said, holding it up. “They’re perfect. Whoever knit this is right crafty.”

  She put the mitten on the table and dug into the box again. “Of course, I favours shiny things. Bottle caps, bits of jewellery. I’m like a magpie.” Then she looked down at her sling and laughed.

  “A magpie with a broken wing, hey. Oh, I dies at myself sometimes, girl. Good thing I lives alone.”

  Her face was animated now and it seemed to me that the goose egg was shrinking.

  “Oh, my dear,” she continued, “I’ve found all sorts of things. People knows to come see me if they’ve lost something. Between me and St. Anthony, things tends to turn up.”

  “What’s St. Anthony got to do with it?” I asked, thinking, Does everything have to come back to religion in Little Cove?

  “And you a teacher in a Catholic school,” she said. “Shocking lack of knowledge.” But when I looked up, she was smiling. “St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost things.”

  Was there a patron saint for lapsed believers? I silently wondered.

  “Dear St. Anthony, please look ’round, something’s lost and must be found,” she intoned.

  I must’ve rolled my eyes because Biddy tutted and told me that the prayer was absolutely known to work. “You try it the next time you loses something, girl. Go on, now, say the prayer for me so I knows you’ll be ready if you needs it.”

  “Dear St. Anthony, please look around, something’s lost and must be found,” I said, somewhat sulkily, I realized. But thankfully Biddy wasn’t really paying me much attention. She was delving back into the box.

  “Some nights when I’m here on me own, I turns on the radio and then I gets the treasure box out. I likes to imagine stories about all this stuff.”

  Now I was interested. “Stories? That’s wonderful, Biddy. Why don’t you write them down?”

  “Oh go ’way with you, girl,” she said. “You’re talking nonsense now. Write them down? Sure who’d want to read them?”

  “Me!” I said.

  She shook her head. “No girl. The treasure box stories are for my own amusement, no one else’s.”

  “But, Biddy,” I began.

  “The only stories I tells are in the rugs I hooks,” she said. “And that’s final.”

  It seemed Biddy could be as
stubborn as me.

  She reached into the box again.

  “I found this when the snow melted,” she said. “It was on the path down to the wharf. I don’t recognize the initials and it don’t seem to work no more, but it’s real silver.”

  I was half paying attention and half thinking about a book of Biddy stories, but when I saw what she’d placed on the table, my hand went to my mouth.

  “What is it, girl?” she asked.

  I wiped tears from my eyes. “It’s mine,” I whispered.

  “J.O’B.?” Biddy said, puzzled.

  “Joseph O’Brien,” I managed to say. “My dad.”

  “Oh my dear,” she said, reaching over and patting my hand. “St. Anthony, you see?”

  I placed Dad’s lighter on the palm of my hand, tracing the engraving with the index finger of my other hand. As hokey as it sounded, especially to this non-believer, the return of the lighter seemed like a blessing.

  32

  If I hadn’t come to stay with Biddy, I might never have been reunited with Dad’s lighter. I said as much to her and offered to take her for fish and chips as a reward.

  “What a treat!” she said. “I never has that.” She gestured out the window and I saw it had begun to rain. “But I’m not sure I wants to brave that weather. Could you get takeout?”

  I said yes, as long she promised not to set the table.

  The first person I saw in the takeout was Cynthia, sitting with her mother at one of the booths. Mrs. O’Leary called me over and we chatted briefly. I tried to catch Cynthia’s eye but she stared resolutely down at her plate.

  Then I joined the lineup to order. Even though there were three people in front of me, Mrs. Corrigan bellowed, “What can I get you, Miss O’Brine?” from behind the pass-through.

  I bellowed my order back and the people in front of me shuffled to the side so I could pay.

  “You’re some good to be looking after Biddy,” said Mrs. Corrigan, wiping her hands on her apron and coming out to stand by the cash register, where Belinda was ringing up my bill.