New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (fun books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

in, and he sat a little taller when he saw me. Or maybe he was stretching. The usual assortment of musicians was gathered around him, but front and centre of the stage were three familiar-looking teens.

Lucille went off to talk to a woman in the corner. I bought her a drink and myself a beer, and wandered over to the stage.

“Hiya, miss,” said Beverley, who was adjusting the microphone stand. She was one of the brighter senior students. She was no Cynthia, but she was smart. Behind her, Roseanne was tuning a fiddle, and to her left was Jerome, holding a guitar. All three were in the senior French class.

“You guys,” I squealed. “I didn’t know you played. I’m excited to hear you.”

“You might change your mind when you does,” said Beverley, in what I had come to recognize as her habitual self-deprecation.

The bar was filling up rapidly and Lucille was waving an agitated arm at me. Yet again, she had managed to find a table. It was clear this was her superpower. I went over to join her and mentioned the students who were up on stage.

“I knows,” she said. “That’s Johnny’s Crew, that’s the name of their group.”

I’d forgotten that Lucille knew everything.

Then although she was the one talking, she shushed me as the opening bars of a familiar song filled the room. Up on stage, a barefoot Beverley, eyes closed, began to croon the folk song “Four Strong Winds.”

Beverley was shy in class and blushed easily if called upon. But up on that stage, she looked completely at ease, her voice caressing the words.

I’d heard the song many times, of course. Dad used to have the Ian and Sylvia version, and more recently Neil Young had released it. But hearing it sung live heightened the significance of the lyrics, somehow. That’s what it had come down to for Jake—the good times were gone, and he’d moved on. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to forgive him after all.

Lucille leaned in, her breath reeking of cigarettes. “You’ve gone right quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I said, patting her arm. We both turned our attention back to Beverley, who swayed softly on the stage, seemingly oblivious to the crowd. As she reached the final chorus, many in the audience crooned softly along, the odd baritone wending its own way through the lyrics.

Amidst the prolonged clapping, Beverley and Jerome hopped down from the stage, threading their way through the crowd. They left Roseanne in conversation with Phonse. She glanced my way once and her head bobbed enthusiastically.

“That was amazing,” I said when Beverley and Jerome reached our table. “You’re all so talented.”

Beverley rolled her eyes, a physical manifestation of “this old thing.”

“Miss,” she said, “Phonse is after telling us that you plays the fiddle. Will you play a tune with us?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Beverley. I’m not that good.”

“Please, miss,” she wheedled.

“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” Jerome simpered, batting his eyelashes.

“I haven’t got a fiddle,” I said.

“Phonse has a spare.”

“He does, eh?” I caught Phonse’s eye up on the stage and shook my finger at him.

“C’mon, miss, it’ll be fun.” Beverley tugged my sleeve and I stood up, allowing myself to be gently pulled towards the stage.

“Thought it was time you showed them yer stuff,” Phonse said, handing me a fiddle.

As I quickly tuned the instrument, the pub went quiet.

Beverley spoke into the microphone. “By special request, our teacher Miss O’Brine is going to play a tune with us.”

A male voice bellowed from the back of the room, “Heave it out of ya, miss.”

There was laughter and the thumping of bottles on tables. I squinted into the crowd; there was nothing but friendly faces smiling back. I leaned into the microphone. “Only one song,” I said, pausing for effect before adding, “That’s all I know.”

There was more laughter as I took my place next to Phonse. We’d been working on a piece called “Sweet Forget Me Not” and it was fresh in my mind. I was grateful that he’d chosen that one for my debut.

I nestled the fiddle beneath my chin. Beverley counted down, mouthing three, two, one, and as we began to play, I shifted my focus to Phonse. But even as I concentrated on my playing, I was enthralled by the lyrics, which I’d not heard before.

She’s graceful and she’s charming, like the lily in the pond

Time is flying swiftly by, of her I am so fond

The roses and the daisies are blooming ’round the spot

Where we parted, when she whispered, “You’ll forget me not.”

I mostly kept my eyes trained on the clock behind the bar, but occasionally I glanced over at Phonse. Once he caught my eye and winked, and when I smiled back, it stayed. I couldn’t think of a single violin recital where I’d smiled as I played. After, sure, but not during. Despite my inexperience, this music and these people pleased me so much more than all the classical violin recitals of my youth.

By the time we finished the song, the beer bottles were banging so hard on the tables, I worried they’d break. Phonse patted me on the shoulder.

“Some good, girl. You’ve been practising.”

I was glad not to be a disappointment this time.

“But why did you say you only knows one song?” he asked. “Sure you’ve got half a dozen under your belt now.”

“Always leave them wanting more.”

He slapped his knee. “Proper t’ing, my dear. But I hope you’ll come and play with us again some time.”

“Try and stop me.”

When I got back to the table, Lucille was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “My John used to sing that song to me,” she said. “You did us proud, girl.”

I was so used to seeing Lucille on her own that I sometimes forgot she had her own grief to bear. I shuffled my chair closer to hers as the band began another tune.

During a break, I was pleased to see Judy approaching our table. She sat with us for a while, introducing her husband, Bill,