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

goodbye and went to join Calvin on the other side of the room. He smiled down at her, took her arm and escorted her out of the room, like a true gentleman.

Then Cynthia pitched up, tugging along the woman I’d met at the gas station. In flawless French, she introduced us to each other and we two adults beamed at her.

“I got no clue what’s she saying,” Mrs. O’Leary said, laughing. “But all the teachers says she’s doing some good at school. That scholarship’s looking like a real possibility, so we’re going out to celebrate.” She put her arm around Cynthia, and my heart hurt as I thought about Mom in Australia. A year without her suddenly seemed really long. I decided to tell her about Cynthia and Mrs. O’Leary when she next called.

“We’re going to Tony’s in Clayville, miss.” Cynthia’s face was alight. “They does the best pizza.”

“Do,” I said.

“Wha?”

“They do the best pizza.”

“Yes, miss, that’s what I said.”

There were several bright pupils in the senior French class, but Cynthia was the shining star. Her accent was good, her grammar stellar. But like many of the students, her English was another story. What had she said? They does the best pizza.

I said goodbye and wished them bon appétit, but my mind was already on a new extracurricular activity. When the last parent had left, I went looking for Doug and found him at his desk, eating an apple.

“How’s she cutting?” he said.

“Like the knife.”

He grinned. “You’re learning.” Then he flicked his apple core into the garbage can, pushed aside his planner and began stacking notebooks on his desk, ready to leave.

“Can I run something by you?” I asked.

“Shoot.”

“I was thinking of starting a remedial English club. You know, so the kids make less mistakes when they talk. And, I guess, when they write too.”

“Fewer,” said Doug.

“Pardon?”

“You just said so the kids make less mistakes. But it’s fewer. So the kids make fewer mistakes. I guess you made a mistake there too.”

“Oops, ha ha, you’re right.”

“Ha ha?” Doug put down his notebooks, now giving me his full attention. “Have you mentioned this idea to Patrick?”

“Not yet, but do you think he’ll go for it?”

“Oh yeah, it’s a real beaut.” There was an edge to Doug’s voice that I hadn’t heard before. He stood up and roughly pushed his chair in. The legs squeaked in protest.

“I thought you were okay, Rachel. I thought you got it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Got what?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if afraid of what he might say.

“Doug, what is it?”

He put up a hand as if to push away my questions. And me. Then he spoke with slow, controlled calm.

“I sees who you are now. Little Miss Mainlander wants to help us poor dumb Newfoundlanders talk nice, is that it?”

Prickles of heat burst on my neck and chest. “Doug,” I began. “I’m not sure what . . .”

But he talked right over me. “Bet you didn’t know our linguistic history has roots in Irish and Scottish Gaelic, did you? Or that our dialect has been the subject of academic papers by eminent folklorists? Or that—”

“Doug, please.” I covered my face and he stopped talking.

Silence fell like a heavy weight between us. After a minute, I peeked out from between my hands. Doug was leaning against the blackboard, arms folded, looking down at the floor. I lowered my hands and he looked up. Our eyes met and he crooked his finger at me.

“Come with me.”

Heart thudding, I followed him down the hall, walking quickly, trying to match his stride. But by the time I reached the library door, he was already inside, over at the reference shelf. He pulled out two books and put them on a study table.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat.

“Read,” he said.

And before I could say anything else, Doug left the library without saying goodbye.

I picked up a heavy yellow hardback book—Dictionary of Newfoundland English—surprised to find they had their own dictionary. I flipped through the pages, randomly reading entries. The discourse on arse went on for two columns, and the entry for seal, and related words and expressions, lasted more than seven pages. A bazz was a blow or a slap. To blear was to utter prolonged complaints. Blearing. Is that what I’d been doing about Little Cove and its people?

On and on I read, marvelling at the strange and wonderful words. Eventually I took the books to the deserted staff room and made a cup of tea, amazed to see it was after seven o’clock. It didn’t matter, Lucille was out. I could have read that dictionary cover to cover, but after a while, I set it aside.

The other book was a faded folder, labelled a dissertation for a master of arts degree from Memorial University of Newfoundland. I flicked idly through it. A footnote explained that the impetus for the thesis had been a summer spent in Toronto, where the author’s dialect had been relentlessly mocked. The rationale read in part: “I determined that a substantive study of the history of the Newfoundland dialect would demonstrate that the manner in which we speak is neither wrong nor ignorant, but the result of our distinctive history, culture and geography. It is a cause for celebration, not derision.”

The dissertation was a thoughtful analysis of Newfoundland’s distinct dialect. It was well written and persuasive; the author’s pride in the local culture gleamed through every word. I flipped back to the cover page to see who had written it. The author was Patrick Donovan.

Shame roiled in my gut as I imagined Patrick’s reaction had I proposed a remedial English club to him. Slowly, like fog lifting from the bay, I made the connection that had eluded me until now. My snooty aversion to the local parlance and my lack of appreciation for their distinct dialect was no different than the attitude of many French-speaking purists towards the Québécois. I was no better than the French tourists who had complained to me about the Québécois