Monologue available from author Tom Finn

[Tom Finn, author]

MONOLOGUE set in Newfoundland, Placentia Bay area c. 1940s. (see below). Female voice. Colloquial, parochial take on personal and family history, work, love, sex, with nostalgia, novelty and humour.  Unpublished extract from a new novel by ex-pat Newfoundlander Tom Finn (b. 1931), the author of Malpeque Bay (poetry), Princes (short stories) and Westsiders (short stories), all well-received.

Tom would be pleased to hear from you via his publisher Peter Geldart at Petra Books, Fifth Avenue Court, Suite 140, Ottawa Ontario K1S 5P5 Canada | petra at petrabooks.ca | 613-294-2205 | http://www.petrabooks.ca

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Working title: IWEMEUS
Author: Tom Finn
Chapter title extract: Vi
Word count: 7,300
January 2012

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Testing...
One...two...three...
click whirrrr
Let's see now.
Testing hello one two three
whirrrr
...testing hello one two three
Okay then.
Ahem.
	Hi there. My name is Violet, Violet May Drodge, but you can call me Vi if you want to, like all the regulars do down at the lounge at the Harbourview Lodge. Except for you, Napper my love, I mean you're not a regular there are you, not yet anyways, although I hope you will be now. I could see by the way you were looking at me you was half-remembering, right? Was I blushing at all? You must have noticed. And the one you was with, wasn't that one of the Musbury girls? Your cousin?
	I really don't know why I agreed to be talking into the machine at all. That big tip I suppose, except you didn't need to do that either, made me feel like I was a, you know, one of them, after you come back here with me. And I hope your car is still there behind the Newfoundland Hotel and not towed off like they do sometimes, because they usually only allows guests to park there overnight, didn't you see the notice? Of course they mightn't even bother this time of year, with the summer crowd not here yet, not in full force anyways.
	I hope nobody else ever hears this, but if they do, well, he talked me into it, Napper O'Donal did, asking me to do this for him, telling him my 'life story' was the way he put it. For the Lord's Sake, Napper, I says to him, my what? The story of your life, Vi my darling says he, you know what I mean, why and where and when you was born, what's happened to you so far in your life, all your adventures and everything.
	I thought you were gone queer, I really did. Sure you must be mad, I says to him. And what kind of a story do you think the likes of me would have to tell about that anyone would be interested to listen to? Well, he says, stroking my behind at the same time, but what could be more interesting, my darling girl, a bright young thing like yourself growing up in Placentia and all that?
	Pushby Cove I had to remind him. And Oh yes he says, yes, I remember that now, Pushby Cove. But that's in Placentia Bay, though, right? So see how easy it all gets tangled up, Vi, if it's not put on the record like? And what good is that I told him and that's when he confessed what was really on his mind, and can you guess what that was? Writing a book he was, a study sort of thing, all about outports and all that and what the people were like and what they went through and all that sort of thing. I could tell he was serious about it too, and that it meant a lot to him, so, well, being so sweet on him as I was, I says okay I would.
	Lord save us, here I am talking to this machine but all the time I think I'm talking to you yourself. I suppose I am, too, least it'll be you that will be listening to it. Anyway, he's gone to fetch the car, which is just as well, because I wouldn't be talking at all if there was any company in the place. There, now I'm ready to go, I think.
	Oh wait, got to take the kettle off first and get myself a cup of tea.
	There, now I'm all set. A bit of toast and a brew.
	Hope I didn't wipe any of this out. Let's see. I don't know.
	I'll just start over again then, just in case.
	Like I said, my name is Violet May Drodge. I think I did anyways, if I didn't wipe it all out. I'm saying this into this old tape thing because Napper O'Donal, my new lover, asked me to so he could write up his book about it. I said new lover but he's in for a bit of a surprise about that. But you'll have to hear the whole of it first, Napper my dear.
	Now, what was the first thing then. Why was I born, I think. Now that's a really weird thing to put to anyone, as if I could know, or as if anybody could ever know why they ever came to be. I suppose he was joking, but all the same they say some are born to do this or that so I suppose some do know, like I suppose Shakespeare might have known he was to going to write all those plays and all, or a fellow like Mozart for the music and so on. But like the most of us, if there was a reason why I was born, well, I guess they must have forgot to tell me what it was.
	How I was born was in the good old-fashioned way, in our house in Pushby Cove, out of me mom's womb with the help of Nurse Ida Benny from the hospital in Placentia. I come out as easy as could be is what my mum always said, she hardly felt a thing she said, the easiest one of them all to come out I was. Even Nurse Benny, according to mum, said I was the easiest one she'd ever had a hand in, a no-stitch baby she called me. 
	I was almost ten pounds, a good sized catch as my dad always said. I bet that one that was with you in the lounge, she probably wouldn't have been half that, would she, she looks that skinny and delicate. Anyways, now you can tell where I got my extra sized thingees; where they come from, eh? Runs in the family, because my mum had a big porch on the front of her too. She always said I got my good looks from my dad's side of the family, so now you know where my face comes from, so my good looks is me dad's and the rest of me is me mums and I suppose I'm lucky it's not the other way around. Pretty as a picture, you said, but what picture you had in mind I'm not sure about, one of those French fellers you mentioned, or Italian and all, but what I do know is that you likes things in the jumbo size all right, don't you now. 
	My mum was a Violet too, Walsh was her family name, and she was born in Placentia. She was an orphan early on, both her mum and dad died of the TB when she was two or three years old, and she had to go stay with her Aunt Bridget, lived and died an old maid, God rest her soul, in Pushby Cove. May, my middle name, was my granny on my dad's side, so that's me, Violet May. I never use my confirmation name and I don't like it at all so don't be asking me what it is. My dad, Granet Drodge is his name, I'll tell you a bit more about that later on, was down there working for a while in Pushby, on a fish wharf I think it was, while she was serving meals at Mrs. Coffin's boarding house at the time, and working in the kitchen too, which is how she learned to be such a good cook. That's how they met up, you see, because he used to come in twice a day to have his dinner and supper and they just fell in love at first sight as they say. Struck it right off, according to my mum, like the two real lovebirds.
	Oh yes, and I was going to tell you about my dad's name, wasn't I? -  which I said was Granet except of course everybody called him Garnet which was what it was supposed to be. But Granet...g-r-a-n-e- t, did you ever hear the like of it. It was all a good joke to all of us, and even to my dad most of the time.
	Well, when he was baptized, you see, that's how the Reverend Temple, he was over ninety at the time, that's how he wrote it down in the church register, g-r-a-n-et. Granet should have been Garnet, of course, but there was no way to change that now, according to the Reverend, who was awful touchy my granddad used to claim when it came to his ministering, and the older he got the touchier he got too. And who cared about it anyways, because they all called him Garnet just the same, the way it was supposed to be. Only to the gover'ment and all, anything official like, he was always Granet Drodge, and still is.
	You mightn't think that was so funny, but it's a queer thing all the same, don't you think?	And you might find this funny enough, or queer enough for your precious book. Garnet, y' see, was my dad's father's name, and his grandfather's too, and his great-grandfather's too and, oh, as far back as around 1750 I think it was, or even earlier than that, there was always a Garnet Drodge living in Tickle Harbour. Only when me great-granddad, father's side, was still alive, his second son. . . Wilfred was his name. . . I'm not sure what that makes him to me and I haven't heard tell of him these last twenty years come to that. . .well, but no matter. Anyways, Wilfred decides he wants his first son to be called Garnet too, and there was no stopping him when he had his mind made up, he was that stubborn and opinionated, and there was some who said the poor man was really unhinged, that his head had gone and capsized on him. Why should Garnet, the first son, my grandfather that would be, why should he be the only one to have the only use of the name after all? What did he have, Wilfred used to say, a special license for it or something ? But then there was two other sons, too, that was Isaac and Freddy, and wouldn't you guess, they all decided that if Wilfred was going to have himself a Garnet, well then, so would they have one, and they did too, and by the time the war came along, what a scream when you come to think about it, there was...let me see now. . .six I think it was, yes, six Garnet Drodges living in Tickle Harbour, and with the whole place hardly three hundred souls in it at the most.
	A queer thing, don't you think? Oh I suppose there was some family fight going on at the time and that was the real cause of it, but what that was nobody ever told me exactly, something to do with somebody's fishing boat was the most I heard. But then two of them got themselves killed in the war, though, so that made it simpler afterwards. And there's only the two now. Wilfred's Garnet had only girls and said he'd be damned if he'd call one them Garnet. And one of them, another first cousin, lost his left leg three years ago when his pickup got run into by a snowplow down in Burin, so it wasn't hard to tell who was who any longer since one of them only got the one leg. And now, after my dad moved to Pushby Cove, there's only the one Garnet left and I often wonder if he'll be the last Garnet Drodge ever to live in the place. Garnet One-Leg, we used to call him, never did get himself married. Not a popular name either, Garnet, not any more anyways, because now they all wants their babies to be Clark and Ida and Ingrid and the like, ever since they started showing the movies in Tickle Harbour every Saturday. 
	Look, I'm not sure if this is the kind of stuff you had in mind, Napper me love, is it? Thing is, I'm getting to enjoy it, tell the truth, talking about the old times and all, even if it's just to meself. Anyways, if you get tired of it all you can always wipe it out whenever you feels like it. Got to pause a bit now, though, have to, you know, visit the little girl's room. The tea seems to go right through me these days it does, for some reason or another.
. . . 
	Had to pause it again. Had to go and have a you know what, and I hope I didn't wipe this all out by accident or anything. Let's see. . .
	whirr
	. . .by accident or anything let's see. . . 
	Okay then. Let me see now.
. . . 
	Me dad was a bit of everything, as you might guess, you just name it and he'd give it a go. Used to fish a bit, naturally, and. . .keep this to yourself now. . .he used to run a few smokes and drinks over from St. Pierre now-and-then, too. Not that he was a regular at it or anything like that, not like a good many I could tell you about if I wanted to, them making a fulltime living on it. He only used the little boat for it a few times a year because he didn't want to risk granddad's boat even if it was supposed to come to him by-and-by, which it did when the old man passed on.
	Hard times they lived in back then, Napper. You wouldn't know anything about that, I suppose, wouldn't believe half the things I heard from my folks and neighbours. Terrible times to get yourself married into, and a terrible place too, 'specially to bring the children up in, what with the people all starving to death practically, some falling down flat in the roadway for the want of decent grub. And then sure they went and lost the gover'ment altogether in, when was it, '34 or '35? That's how bad it was, when they couldn't even raise enough to pay the dole. Sad times and bad times.
	Now my dad's dad, granddad Garnet, was the lucky one all the same. He knew Mr. Squire there, enough to shake his hand, I'm sure you've heard of him, and Mr. Coaker too, and then a lot of the rest of them on the top of things, and it was a good thing for us that he did. He always managed to keep on the best of terms with the 'grand ones' as he used to call them with a sly wink, meaning the bosses up in St. John's. Used to lend his boat to help them out, arranged for meeting places and all that sort of thing, and I guess it didn't hurt either that he was Grand Master of The Lodge in Tickle Harbour. Anyways, one result was he got for my dad to be named as the Keyman for the stretch along the shore at Pushby Cove. That's what they called them you know, the ones who looked after giving out the dole, the Keymen, the ones who decided who got what and when and all that. Life and Death he had in his hands you might say, my poor old dad, holding the keys to the kingdom. It's what made him lose his hair, he used to say, doing that job.
	He lost being the Keyman though and it wasn't his fault at all, but let me tell you what happened. There was this poor feller come rowing into Pushby Cove once upon a time, coming in just the one night from King's Head Island and that's a long enough row, almost thirty miles or more, even if you're coming in with the tide. Mark Kidd was his name, and he left behind him on the island his wife and seven little ones, with three dried up old potatoes and a bit of salt cod between the lot of them.
	Broke my dad's heart it did to turn the poor lad away empty handed. But there was no Kidd on the list, y'see, not a one. Poor man wasn't even catlic either and was probably aiming to row into Tickle Harbour instead of into Pushby Cove. Dizzy in the head, I dare say, with the empty belly and all. There was some that even went down to the wharf too, and my dad said they give him a wonderful calling down for thinking he could take the bread out of their own children's mouths. Packed him off in short order, I can tell you, the crowd of them did, and when he got back to his island, didn't he take a musket out into the woods and go shoot hisself in the head with it. Between the devil and the deep blue sea my dad always said he was and that as the Keyman he had to be the devil betimes. It's just the way things were, look after your own and God help strangers at the door, and if you did give to strangers then God help you if and when your own crowd found out about it.
	Of course when St. John's got the news of what had happened, poor dad got the blame for it all and, like I said, lost his job in the bargain. Some hard years followed, not that I recall them being so awful or anything, but you should hear my dad telling about it. Would make your skin crawl, the way folks had to make do, though most folk today don't remember how bad it was and of course all the younger ones never went through it anyway. Then it wasn't too long before the war came along, thank God I suppose, and all the Yankee dollars along with it. I once heard old Mister - well, probably better to leave his name out of it - but he once said to my Dad, right over our kitchen table one day, that that feller Hitler was the best thing ever happened to our poor old Newfoundland. Wicked thing to say what was, but he wasn't the only one thought it, all the same.
	Now, you might be asking yourself, since Drodge is a protestant name along that part of the shore, how come I turned out to be catlic, like I am. The thing is, my mum was catlic, she was a Walsh she was, there's quite a few along that stretch, and I guess she just talked him into it. My dad I mean. I mean, if he wanted to have her, well, he had to cross over and that was that as far as she was concerned. And dad now, he was never much on religion anyways. He was C of E, of course, but they don't seem to be as fixed on things as the rest of them, like the Methodists and Pentecostals, and especially like the catlics are. More like the United Church crowd, the C of E was, at least around our parts, more bendable you might say, so it didn't make much difference to him then, I expect, as long as he ended up with her in the end. So she got him to switch over, y'see. True love that is, Napper, right? The things we do for it, eh?
	And that's how come we were the only Drodges in Pushby Cove because we had to stay on there if me mum wanted to get to mass and confession and so on. The priests never set foot over on the south side, down Tickle Harbour way I mean, as all the catlics lived up our way and mostly still do except all the troubles and all that stuff is just about all gone by now. I recall when Jenny Brake got herself done up by that scalywag from down along, I won't say his name, but he was a wild one, even tried after me ownself once or twice, but anyways, sure there was hardly a eyebrow raised when she went down to Tickle Harbour to live with him. Her and the baby is Pentecostal now, I think, but who cares about that in these times.
	But my mum, now, was strictly catlic all the time, like she felt she had to make up for me dad's half of the bargain, you might say. I think he got a great kick out of all her rosaries and scapulas and things, and I can hear him saying it now: - Better watch out now, me dears, she's went and gone on one of her novenas. Had a point, too, he did, because she could get moody like when she was at 'the devotions', as she called it. Don't go bothering me now when I'm at the devotions, do you hear me now.
	But all the same I had two brothers and two sisters so I guess she didn't let the devotions get in the way of that side of things too much. No reason they should, I suppose, and I still try to get to mass every Sunday myself, would you believe that? I'll miss out today, though, on account of you.
	Lily was the oldest of us, and then there was Garnet, or Junior as we used to call him, and then myself. Then came Kev, Kevin - he was called after Father Kevin Kenny, would you believe, my Mum's favourite priest he was - and there was six years between him and me, and then, last of all, was little Veronica. Lily was going on about ten or eleven by the time Kev came along and then, finally, Veronica, or Ronnie as we calls her, my kid sister. There's quite a gap in there but don't forget my dad was in the Merchant Marine for a few years in the war and was away for long spells, for six or seven months just about every year.
	Lily is married over to Arnold's Cove, and she got four of her own already. Hooked up to a poor feller named Bart Griffin who's on the mend from the TB and not able to do much, too sick for the fishing and having to make do with a little cleaning work and what-not for the parish. Barely turned thirty and she looked so worn out the last time I seen her. Haven't laid eye on her for over a year now and I hear she might be having another one pretty soon. I should give her a call, I suppose, I got her number in my book and all, but somehow I don't feel comfortable talking to her. Always feel she's going to ask me to do her a favour or the like, something I don't want to hear, you know what I mean, like something I couldn't bring myself to do?
	Ronnie is the youngest of us all, like I said, and she's the smart one, Ronnie is, and you won't catch her hooking up with the likes of Lil's Bart, you can bet on that. She's right here in the city, working full time down at Ayre's and going to Memorial part time in the nights. Really ambitious she is and she won't end up with a dozen kiddies living in a shack up the coast somewhere. She's left the church too, not that she's turned protestant or anything, more like she's independent, you might say, just not joined up to anything any more. I feel real proud of her sometimes, but I suppose poor old mum wouldn't be too happy if she was still here, one of her daughters gone AWOL like that. And maybe she is unhappy, do you think? Up there, like the priests say, interceding for all us sinners and all that?
	Junior, my older brother, is long gone up to Ontario somewhere and we don't hear from him anymore. He come back home once, flashing twenty dollar bills around, smoking that funny stuff and treating his old pals to free beer, just like he had all the money in the world. But I know he had to get a loan off mum to get back to Toronto or somewhere and I don't suppose she ever saw any of that again. Can't read nor write. Junior, not much anyway, at least not when he left Pushby Cove, so it' s hard to keep in touch and there was nobody named Drodge at the phone number he left behind.
	Now Kevin, Kev, he's a smart one too, just like Ronnie. He went and joined up with the Canadian Navy and he's out on the west coast now, in British Columbia, at Nanaimo I think. Imagine, here we are on the Atlantic and there's Kev sitting out there alongside the Pacific Ocean, on the other side of the world almost. Gives me a funny feeling thinking about that, the way the bunch of us have drifted off from each other.
	So Kev and Ronnie, the two youngest, got a good decent education, not like me and Lil and Junior, and they can read and write and talk as good as the best of them, the both of them.
	Maybe I should say something about that, about the schooling I mean. You might be wondering why Kev and Ronnie got so smart while the rest of us, especially Junior and Lil, ended up a bit short in the brains department you might say. I suppose we're not really, just that we didn't get near the degree of teaching like they did. That's because there was this gap, as you might call it, that happened in Pushby Cove. and in lots of other outports in Newfoundland before the war came. Like I said, my dad went off to the Merchant Marine for nearly four years and it was only after he got back that Kev and Ronnie were born and by then things were looking up all over the place. For one thing, the Yanks were down in Argentia paying out good money, and the fishing was good too, so all hands never had it better, that's for sure, and especially after Confederation was done. There was this brand new school put up down in Placentia, the Regional Amalgamated it was called, and they even put on some yellow coloured busses that came along and picked you up just about right on your doorstep in the mornings and then delivered you right back home after the school closed. Lil was just having her first by then though, and as for me and Junior, well, too set in our ways by then I guess, and with dad away there was always something we had to do to keep things going. Junior and Lil never got to Grade Six and I never got out of Grade Ten myself. Born too soon, you might say, me and Junior and Lily, before the good times started in the war, and then kept on getting better even when it was all over.
	Oh, enough of this guff you must be thinking, but you asked for it so it serves you right if it's all so boring, which I'm sure it is. I am what I am and there's no good wasting time over spilt milk, is there? I feels sorry for Lil and Junior, though god knows he might be king-of-the-hill somewhere up along there, but I don't think so else we'd have heard from him by now. But 'specially for Lil I do. At the same time, I got a lot to be grateful for the way things turned out for myself. I mean, I'm healthy enough and I got beautiful skin, like you said yourself, perfectly lovely you said, and I got a good job that's fun to do and pays pretty good to-boot. I've learned a thing or two about booze and beers and all the different kinds of wine and all, and that's always something that's in demand around here, you can bet on that. And who knows, one of these days I might just run into Mr. Right too. Know what I mean, Napper me love?
	Now what else was it you wanted to know about? Oh yes, about the convent.
	Well, I know you knows I was only joking about being a nun. 'Course I never was a real one, but all the same, though, I really was in the convent right enough. I mean, in a way, I was. Ah, better let me tell you what is was all about from the beginning then.
	What really happened was that my Mum got me into the convent to save me from the 'mericans. Yes, I can just see you scratching your head over that one, but all the same that's the real truth of it. She was just that scared me immortal soul was in danger, in jeopardy as she kept saying, and I don't know why, to be honest, except that somehow she was convinced the Yanks was evil to a man and had only the one thing on their minds all the time and that was the ruination of every young girl in Newfoundland, especially the young virgins, something she hoped I still was and which I was, too, at the time. According to her you'd almost think the war had nothing to do with why they were here at all, no, no, they were only here to corrupt the young females. As if we needed someone from away to do that for us, eh?
	Anyways, things were really going great guns over to Argentia, especially after the war was finished, and I'm sure you probably know all about that as I expect you've been down there once or twice yourself. Making it into the biggest navy base on the Atlantic they were supposed to, or that was what we were told, building like crazy, hotels and apartments, their own hospital, bigger than the General here it was, so they said, and churches and everything. You'd never have thought there was so much money in the world and them throwing it about like it was confetti. Best of all, there was plenty of good work going round on the base, real permanent-type jobs too, and they were taking on the locals left, right and centre. When the girl living next door, Agnes Moulton she was, got hired on over there, me mum got real nervous about it all. Agnes was my best friend back then and she kept saying to me: Vi, me dear, you could get on real easy if you want to, they's always looking for more hands over there. She was working in a kitchen somewhere, in the hospital I think it was, and her wages was even more than her own dad was making. 
	Mum, I said to her, what would you think if I went looking for a job over at the base? No way, my dear, sure you've just turned sixteen, she says, and maybe you should think about getting a bit more schooling before you thinks of getting a job somewhere. That's what she always said but all the time she'd be thinking how she didn't want me ending up like poor old Lil and married to the likes of Bart Griffin, not that he was so bad or anything, but down and out of it, you might say, especially with no real schooling. And thinking of taking a job at the base, well, that was all too much for her to take.
	I told you my mum was a devout catlic, and there was them that said she was that all right and to a fault. Not only around the house with the rosaries and novenas and special intentions and offering up the head colds and back aches for the poor souls in Purgatory and all that, but up at the church, too, up on the shore road at St. Bridget's. She'd be up there just about every day, twice a day if she could manage, polishing up this and that, sweeping and dusting things off. She kept the floor so clean that Father Kenny said he could drop a host on it and still pick it up and pop it into someone's mouth.
	Her special pride was the Blessed Virgin, and a nice little statue there was of her, alongside the altar, all pink and blue, with lovely little pale red roses running around the gold crown on the top of her head. She kept that figure as clean as a whistle and just sparkling so it looked almost too good for the general run of the place, which was a bit rundown overall, to tell the truth. And fresh flowers, too, she put in the front of it when she get them, out of her own back yard if there was any, wild ones sometimes, and she even got some tiny red plastic roses from Eatons to match the ones around the crown and she'd drape them over the little pink toes in the fall and winter. 
	Now the priest at that time, Father Kenny as I mentioned, used to come down from St. John's twice a month for a Sunday mass and sometimes he'd come early, on Saturday nights like, to hear confessions in case someone wanted to go. Naturally him and mum was the greatest friends because he leaned on her, of course, to keep the place in fair shape between his comings and goings. I remember once when it was the Archbishop hisself who came down to give Confirmation and naturally it was mum who got the message to get the flowers and stuff ready and line up some altar boys and everything. It was the first time and probably the last time, too, that they ever had anything like that at St. Bridget's, which was pretty small for that kind of event, especially for the Archbishop to come down for. Usually you had to drive to Placentia and I think Lil and Junior and myself were all done there.
	You can just imagine the fuss and bother to it, but all the same the Archbishop said it was the best-run one he'd ever seen in the whole parish, and I think he meant it too. And Father Kenny, well I'm telling you, he was very impressed indeed, especially because I think he was the one who had suggested the whole affair to the Archbishop in the first place. And so, a bit later on, when me mum asked him for a bit of help in getting me out of out of the way of temptation, he nodded his grey old noggin and told her to leave it up to him, he knew just what to do. And the very next Sunday, when he turns up to say mass, he tells mum that the Sisters up in Harbour Grace was looking for some help, would you believe the luck, and while they usually looked for it locally, well, Mother Faustina owed him a favour or two and so I could start there at the Mercy Convent as soon as I could get ready, and the sooner the better too.
	"You wants me to leave me own home", I remember shouting at her, crying to beat the band, "and leave all me friends, and sure I wouldn't even know a single soul up there in Conception Bay at all". But her mind was set on it, because when it came to things like that, when there was hint of religion mixed up into it, then there just was no use talking to her at all. "Way past St. John's it is", I argued, "like it might be on the other side of the world, like out on the Pacific were Kev was, or on the other side of the moon", but it didn't do any good, her mind was made up. You ain't going to end up like poor Lilly did, she kept saying, not if I can help it you ain't, and you might even get a bit more schooling up there, my girl, and the would be the best thing could happen to you, best thing.
	Heartbroken, I was, because I really had me heart set on going to Argentia. I mean, all the girls were going it seemed to me, Amy Moore, and Agnes Moulton like I said, and others I knew too. It was like they were going into the light, if you know what I mean, but like I was going to be all shut up in some dark place, away from everything I knew and everything I wanted, from the parties and the dances and all the good times and all the smart new things you could have got there, smart stuff right from the USA and all.
	But anyway, Napper me love, that's how I got finally to Harbour Grace. And now I got a real surprise for you, because I'm telling you that that's where we first met up, Napper O'Donal. But, of course, you don't recall that at all, now do you? I know you don't, except when you came into the lounge last night you knew there was something about me that must have looked a bit familiar. Oh well, it's been near nine years and I suppose it was more important to me than it ever was to you and I dare say I've changed for the worse in the meantime. Still, not too much the worse, I'd say, according to the way you carried on last night.
	Maybe I could get you to recall. Walking that night along Water Street, down by the cathedral, and you asking me if I'd like to go for a coke and some fries down on the Main? That's how we first met up, Napper, even if you don't remember a thing about it, and I know you don't, not that I blame you or anything. I mean, well, I wasn't all that made up, being under the nuns and all, no makeup or the like, or the hair all done up like I have it nowadays. But all the same, I knew you the second you walked into the lounge with that one, Meg Musbury was it? Even after - how long? - almost ten years ago I guess, but I remembered your face right off. Like somebody had punched me in the heart it seemed, even after so long. 
	Maybe it will come back to you now, what a bold one you were, Napper me love. Getting me up against the cathedral wall, shoving your hand inside me blouse and kissing me with your tongue, the salt and vinegar taste still on it. I had to laugh, you must have wondered why, my dear, but it wasn't you, rubbing me up down there and then making me rub your own thing too at the same time, no, no, it wasn't you I was laughing at, my sweet. It was me mum I was laughing at, yes, and Father Kenny, saving me from the Yanks and here I was being felt up by a good catlic boy like yourself, with me bum pushed up against the holy church and the tabernacle lamp turning the window all flaky red right over our heads.
	When I sneaked into the convent basement that night I was as red as a beet and I was scared it might even show up on my face the next morning, what I'd been up to, like a rash or something. And if they wanted to know where I was at, coming in after ten o'clock like that, whatever would I be saying. I felt so guilty, because it was a mortal sin, after all, what we got up to. But at the same time, I didn't care really, if you know what I mean. I mean, there it was, it had finally happened to me, something I was always wondering about, wondering where and when and all. And there it was, you, Napper O'Donal, the first time a feller had, you know, not all the way or anything, but had done that sort of thing with me. My first love, that's how I always cone to think of you, maybe my only love come to that.
	Ah well. 
	All the same, y' know, I really did love it after all, living in the convent, I mean. So clean it was, so cool and quiet all the time. There were times I prayed to get a vocation to be a sister meself even, and they was all so good to me, only sixteen and away from home and feeling pretty lonely most of the time. The kitchen work wasn't hard at all and Mother Faustina, sweet she was like a real angel, and Sister Bernice too, and all the rest of them, except for one or two maybe. I had such a nice voice she told me, Sister Bernice, and she was the one who taught me to sing some of the Latin hymns and she even let me sing in the vespers and the mass whenever there was a choir on the go. I asked her once: - Do you think I might get the call too, Sister? and she just squeezed my hand and said:- Let's pray for it, my dear, and God willing, so you will, if He wants it. 
	Of course I waited and waited for a spell but I'm pretty sure no call came for me, or, if it did, I guess I didn't hear it. Especially after that time with you, you Irish devil. Even forget the words sometimes, tantum ergo and all, with remembering the feel of your fingers over me nipples and your knee shoved up there between me legs. It kept coming back to me, just the thought of it, and I'd lose me breath and just shake all over with the memory of it. You were the wicked lad, Napper, so you were, and maybe it was you did the devil's work to keep me out of the convent after all.
	Ah, but I'm not blaming you sure, of course I'm not. You couldn't have done what you did only I was willing enough for it, wasn't I. And do you know something, believe it or not? There wasn't another soul touched me in Harbour Grace, not even you again, though I used to go walking right in front of the Old House, hoping you might catch sight of me. Never saw you again though, and I think you went off to school somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind, eh?
	But I'm tired of all this talking now, and it's making me feel sad too, like I'm lonely for the sisters, perhaps, homesick almost for the cool and quiet inside the convent. And thinking of that first time again, if only it could ever be, when it felt so right I'm sure even the Blessed Virgin herself would understand it. 
	Well, the past is over, as me dad keeps saying to me, but I'm pretty sure you'll be back this time, even it's just to pick up this machine here. But you know I'm all yours, Napper, my first sweet lover from Harbour Grace, my first love, body and soul.
	Enough now. 
	I'll lie me down, I think, and have a good cry. 
	Enough.
	click.

- END -

IWEMEUS extract, (c) Tom Finn, January, 2012