New Girl in Little Cove Damhnait Monaghan (best ebook reader android .txt) 📖

I turned on the class, snarling. “Get out your books and do some exercises.”

“Which ones?” a few of them asked.

“Any,” I said. “Just get to work. I don’t want to hear another word. From any of you.”

Maybe I was good at French, but I couldn’t control these feral teenagers. I sat down at the desk and stared at the planner where last night I’d set out a carefully constructed learning objective. “Students will demonstrate an understanding of the negative.” Bonus marks for Trudy on that one.

There was a tap at the door and Judy came into the classroom. “Miss O’Brine, a word in the hall, please.” Her voice was crisp, but it softened when I shut the door behind me and joined her outside, one hand still resting on the knob.

“Patrick wants you in his office in five minutes,” she whispered. “I’ll cover the lesson.”

I took a detour to the women’s bathroom. My face was blotchy in the mirror and my eyes were full. I splashed water on my cheeks and scratched them dry with a paper towel. Taking a deep breath, I went to Patrick’s office, ready to defend my honour.

He rose from behind his desk and motioned me into a chair, then handed me a steaming mug of tea from a side table.

“Where’s Trudy?” I asked, hoping she’d been suspended, or even better, expelled.

“I’m after sending her back to class,” he said. “I had a word, but to be fair, she was only repeating what Bertha Peddle said.”

I put down the mug lest I spill it. “So it’s okay for a student to call me a slut?” My voice was tight.

Patrick choked mid-slurp, spitting tea onto his desk. “Jumping Jaysus,” he said. “Is that what you thought Trudy called you?”

“She did call me that.”

Patrick put down his mug. “I can see why you tossed her out, but no, my duckie. Bertha said you were a scut. S-C-U-T.”

It didn’t sound much better. “What does it mean?”

“Mean.”

“What?”

“It means mean, like you’re a mean person.”

“I’m not mean,” I said, pulling a tissue from the box on Patrick’s desk and wiping his spill. “If anything, Bertha was mean.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “But it’s you that needs to fit in around here.”

Behind Patrick’s desk was a table covered in neat piles of paper. Above it, on the bulletin board, was a yearly planner and a to-do list, which included the notation—“Probationary Reviews—Rachel and Doug.”

I imagined my review thus far: “Takes offence easily; struggles to understand students; no classroom control.” I put my head in my hands.

“Chin up, girl. The first few weeks are hard but you’ll get the hang of it.”

“But what do I say to Trudy next class?”

“Not a God-blessed thing.”

“But what if she says something to me?”

Patrick drained his tea noisily. “Do you think you’re the first teacher ever got mad at a youngster for no reason?”

I thought about my own time as a lippy young thing. To be fair, when the nuns used to get mad at Sheila and me, it was usually for a very good reason.

After school I lingered at my desk long after the bell had rung. Students thundered down the hall, conversing loudly, some rushing for buses that would take them to outlying communities. The footfalls subsided, car doors slammed, engines turned over, and then, there it was, blissful silence. I put my head on my desk and replayed the conversation with Patrick. It’s you that needs to fit in, he had said. But how?

Gradually I became aware of my foot tapping along to music. I lifted my head. It sounded like a violin, but the tune was much jauntier than any I’d ever learned. It built to a crescendo, then after a final thrust of the bow across the strings, there was silence. Had I dreamt it? But then a slow, melancholy tune filled the air. It was the soundtrack to my mood, and I followed it down the hall and around the corner to an open door I’d not noticed before.

I peeked inside the small room, barely bigger than a closet. Wearing a faded but spotless green coverall, Phonse sat in a chair, eyes closed, arm swaying back and forth as he played. A neat assortment of mops, buckets, brooms and cleaning supplies surrounded him. When the tune ended, I clapped softly and his eyes jolted open.

“Jaysus, girl,” he said. “You scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had cleared out.”

“I didn’t know you played the violin,” I said.

“I don’t.” He raised his instrument in the air. “This here’s a fiddle.”

“Whatever it is, you play beautifully.”

He ducked his head. “Ah, sure I learned at me fadder’s knee,” he said. “Do you play anything yourself?”

I thought about all the tears and tantrums that had accompanied my violin lessons. Those Thursday-afternoon sessions had lasted long after my passion for the instrument had waned.

“You’re away with the fairies, sure,” said Phonse.

I gave my head a shake to dislodge the memories. “Sorry,” I said. “I used to play the violin.”

He thrust the fiddle at me. “The violin’s cousin,” he said. “Have at it.”

“Do you have any sheet music?”

Phonse tapped the bow to his head. “It’s all in there, girl.” Then he handed me the bow and said, “Have a go, sure.”

I drew the bow across the strings, flinching at the high-pitched squawk.

“Sounds like a chicken getting its neck wrung,” Phonse said.

I wanted to give up, but was reminded of Patrick’s challenge to fit in. I forced myself to try again, the squawks gradually turning to notes. And suddenly it came back to me: Vivaldi’s “Spring,” the last piece I mastered before I quit. I closed my eyes and concentrated, picking up speed and making fewer errors.

When I finished, I kept my eyes shut, remembering how Dad used to sit in his armchair, newspaper tossed aside, and listen to me play. Phonse’s soft clapping brought me back.

“I don’t know that tune,” he said, “but it was wonderful grand.”

I felt my