That Forgetful Shore by Trudy Morgan-Cole

Porter, outside of books? He might as well be Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley for all the experience she has of a flesh-and-blood man, tall and handsome, a fisherman’s son gone away to university. All Kit knows of men is – well, there’s Joe Bishop. Infatuation , she calls that now – infatuation on her part; something else on his. Something she has no name for. Then there was Jacob John Russell: her word for that is dalliance . A brief dalliance, quickly ended. Now she needs a new word: romance , perhaps?
    Even her words come from novels; that’s all she knows. She went from an outport schoolroom to an all-girls college and now to another outport schoolroom where she plays a different role: different, but equally chaste.
    The next three mornings he’s there before she is, each time with a load of wood, waiting for her to open the door. His parents’ house is on the opposite end of the road from her boarding house, so there’s no passing each other on the way. He gets to the school, builds up the fire, and leaves before the first children arrive. She doesn’t even see him in full daylight till church on Sunday.
    After church, he lingers to ask if he can walk her home. She asks about university, about the things he studies – he is getting a degree in History with the intention of going on to law school – and the people in his classes. She asks where the other young men come from, what kind of people they are.
    â€œIt’s not all men, you know. There’s a good few girls there, getting their B.A. degrees. A couple of years ago there was even a woman from Newfoundland.”
    â€œFrom St. John’s, no doubt,” she says. Who but a wealthy St. John’s merchant would send a daughter to university?
    â€œYou should go,” he says. “I know what you’re like, you’ve got a good mind. You’d fit right in up there.”
    â€œYou know what I’m like? And how do you know that? You’ve only met me three times, and every time to build up the fire in my woodstove.” The words, spoken in as light and flirtatious a tone as she possesses, suddenly sound suggestive, as if she were hinting at something improper. Or perhaps it’s just his answering smile, the dimple in his right cheek, that makes her think so.
    â€œI hear things,” he says. “I hear talk about the new schoolteacher, how smart she is, the grand fine books she reads to the youngsters.” Kit imagines the younger children, Sam, Tillie and Rachel prattling about school, telling tales about Teacher. She imagines Ben drawing the children out with questions, glancing away as he does so, trying not to seem too interested. Kit feels a blush creeping from her collar up to the brim of her hat, which she dips to hide her face.
    Apart from filling the woodstove and walking home from church, the social life of Elliston offers few opportunities for courting. Young couples walk back and forth on the road on warmer evenings, but with winter closed in there’s little of that, and Kit wonders if it’s considered proper for the schoolteacher to engage in such mating rituals, anyway. In lieu of more romantic activities, Ben volunteers to help with the Christmas concert. He comes to the school in the afternoon as Kit rehearses with the students and helps keep them in line while they wait to go on with their songs and recitations. He hangs a piece of canvas and paints a backdrop, and builds a passable manger.
    After the triumph of the concert, Kit packs her bags for home. Two weeks ago she could not have imagined being reluctant to leave Elliston for the holidays. Whatever mixed feelings she has about people back in Missing Point – her parents, Jacob John, Joe Bishop, even Triffie in a way – it is her home, the place her roots are planted. She will never live there again, but she’ll always go back there – and Triffie, whatever strange new religion she’s