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

I must have looked less enthusiastic, because Judy said, “Come on, Rachel, it’s fun. Music, entertainment, a few laughs.” She turned to her husband. “Tell her, Bill.”

“It’s an excuse to get hammered,” said Bill.

“It’s more than that,” chided Judy. “It’s an important part of our heritage, a fine cultural tradition that needs to be maintained, it’s . . .” She grinned. “Yeah, it’s also an excuse to get hammered.”

She eyed us appraisingly. “We could have real fun with you. No one would expect a mainlander to mummer. With the right disguise, they’d never guess who you were.”

Bill waved his hand in the air. “One problem with your plan, me duck.”

“What’s that?”

“Soon as she opens her mouth, the crowd will know she’s that Miss O’Brine from over to the school.”

The beer I’d been drinking may have been a factor, but I rose to Bill’s challenge, leaping from my chair and shouting in the broadest Newfoundland accent I could muster. “I’m a Newfoundlander, luh. Best kind, right? Proper t’ing. How’s she going, b’y?”

Our waiter was on his way over but, after my little performance, veered quickly away.

“Not bad,” said Bill, rubbing his chin.

“Not bad,” agreed Judy. “Talk in a deep voice. You can be Jenny the Wren.”

“A wren? Wasn’t that a World War II women’s regiment thing?”

“Ah Rachel,” said Bill. “I dies at you. Judy, me darling, do us the honours, will ya?”

Judy cleared her throat, then recited a long verse about a wren on St. Stephen’s Day.

I wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but Sheila and I clapped loudly, as did the family at the next table. Judy bowed low. She was a natural performer.

“Do you think you can learn that if I writes it down?” said Judy.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Great. We’d better get to our table now before we loses it, but let’s talk before you goes.”

Sheila and I had another beer and then, after paying our bill, stopped by Judy and Bill’s table. Judy had written out lines for both of us on the back of a paper placemat. She told me I was to dress like a bird.

“Sheila,” she added. “You needs to dress like a bit of a hussy.”

“I thought she was supposed to be disguised,” I said, and Sheila thumped me.

Judy rubbed her hands together. “It’s going to be some fun. Even when Sheila takes off her disguise, they won’t know who she is.”

“That’s me,” said Sheila. “The Russian doll of disguises.”

Sheila and I left the restaurant and linked arms to walk home.

“Will Doug be murmuring?” she asked.

“It’s mummering,” I said, displaying my new-found vocabulary. “And I don’t know.” Then I remembered. “Oh, crap. I kind of let him think I was going to Toronto for Christmas. I hope he’s not mad at me.”

“Oh my God,” said Sheila. “Imagine if you had gone to Toronto to surprise me and I’d come down here to surprise you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like ‘The Gift of the Magi.’”

“But with better hair,” said Sheila.

22

The next morning Sheila and I went to the coffee shop for breakfast. Although she’d been up for mummering the previous night, she was less keen today.

“Do we have to go?” she whined. “Aren’t we a bit old for dressing up?”

“Wilf,” I said, after we’d placed our order. “What are your thoughts on mummering?”

“The wife makes me do it every year,” he said, loading a plate with butter tarts and muffins.

Sheila gave me a triumphant look. “Makes him do it, see? This poor man is forced to participate. Against his will, Rachel. I will not be forced.”

Wilf put the plate on the tray with our coffee mugs. “And every year after it’s over, you know what I says to her?”

“Never again?” said Sheila.

He laughed. “Nope. I says, Darling, remind me next year how much fun it was.”

It was my turn for the triumphant look.

“Okay, okay,” Sheila grumbled. “But what are we going to wear?”

“You needs to have a rummage over to the second-hand store,” said Wilf.

After treating us to a detailed history of mummering outfits he had worn over the years, Wilf gave us directions to the second-hand store, where later that morning, we spent an enjoyable hour trying on ridiculous combinations of clothing. It was a far cry from our former shopping sessions at the mall, but just as fun.

We spent some time memorizing our lines over takeout pizza from Tony’s that evening. Then we changed and drove out to Judy’s.

When the back door opened, Sheila began humming the Twilight Zone music because whoever was beckoning us in wore a pillowcase over their head, with cut-outs for eyes and mouth. We guessed it was Judy, since it was too short to be Bill. She was sporting a plaid shirt, denim overalls and big rubber boots. She had a massive hump on her back; a tweed cap and a pair of men’s gloves completed her look. She hustled us into the kitchen, where Bill sat in a wedding dress with full train. He wore a curly red wig and white gloves up to his elbows.

Bill and Judy exclaimed over our outfits.

I was wearing rubber boots and a blue coverall. I’d made wings from coat hangers and wore a balaclava to hide my face. Perched on my head, tying the ensemble together, was a tea cozy in the shape of a bird.

Sheila wore a tropical bikini top over her black turtleneck and a red skirt over her jeans. A bandana covered her mouth; dark sunglasses and a sombrero completed her ensemble. Bill was wearing a worn, white baby blanket for a veil. Once Judy fastened it over his face, he couldn’t see anything. He kept stumbling and swearing softly to himself whenever he tried to walk.

We left the house and shuffled down the road.

Sheila kept whispering her lines over and over again to practise, but Bill shushed her as we approached the door of a lime-green house, and then he rapped sharply at the door.

When someone finally answered, Sheila stepped forward as instructed and shouted, “Any