The Fundy Vault

by Linda Moore

  “Hey, McBride!” I yelled. “Grab that cat and put her in the house!”

  “I’ve done a lot of dangerous things, Roz, but I’m not doing that!”

  I introduced the company to McBride. “This crowd all know Sophie,” I said.

  “Sophie and I have worked together a couple of times,” Mark said. “She’s up in Toronto, isn’t she?”

  “Auditioning right?” Cym said, checking her phone.

  “That’s right,” McBride said.

  “How’s it going for her?” Regan asked.

  “Not exactly sure. Haven’t really uh…heard anything for a few days.”

  “Well, with auditions you never know—I mean, you never know until you know, and even then you don’t really know, right? It’s a crazy business,” Ellie said.

  “How about some tea?” I said, worrying that I’d put McBride on the spot by bringing up Sophie.

  I managed to grab hold of the cat, and we all went inside. I put the kettle on. McBride called Molly into the porch and set down a bowl of water, which she slurped noisily. The cat scowled at this, quit the scene, and climbed up the built-in wooden ladder to the loft that extended over part of the living room.

  “Perfect place for her,” I said, watching her disappear.

  “I’m going to take off, Roz,” McBride said.

  “You’re going back to Halifax already?”

  “Eventually. I should be there by sundown. Great meeting you all. Come on, Molly.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said, following him from the porch.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him as we rounded the cottage.

  “Never better. Are you?”

  “Frankly, McBride, this all feels pretty bizarre. Did Corporal Monaghan tell you to forget about everything and back off the case?”

  “In no uncertain terms.”

  “Well, I mean—what the hell? Something’s up. Feels like some kind of outrageous cover-up is in the works.”

  “Well, that little warning she gave me was water off a duck’s back.”

  I stopped walking. “You’re heading back up North Mountain right now, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little exploring before I go back to the city. It’s only early, and the days are long. I might find something…but I just want to get some exercise and clear my head.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always. Oh and Roz, you can chill about the truck. I met the farmer—Jeffrey—very reasonable guy, didn’t seem worried about it. In fact he thanked me for the gas, says he’s run out a few times himself. I mentioned to him that you’d had some unpleasant visitors this morning and he wasn’t happy to hear that, said he’d keep an eye out.”

  “That’s good.” I looked at him. “I should be coming with you.”

  “Take a break. It’s your vacation. Enjoy your company.”

  “Let me know if you find anything,” I said as he and Molly got in the car.

  I watched Ruby Sube disappear down the road.

  Just then, Cym came out of the cottage and headed towards the van.

  “Did we mention we brought lunch?” she said, grinning. “We’ve decided to skip the tea and have the rosé we picked up at that winery down the road—it’s awfully handy, isn’t it? Have a glass with us, Roz.”

  “You bet I will,” I said, trying to take McBride’s advice and savour the fine company. “Let me help you carry in the lunch.”

  “The weather’s so gorgeous—why don’t we eat outside?” she said, lifting a hefty cooler out of the van.

  “Of course that’s what we should do.” I grabbed the other end of it.

  “And what a view. Look at that enormous beach—that tide must be all the way out now, is it?” she said as we set the cooler down on the cliff-side picnic table.

  I looked out across the mud flats. There was the tree trunk, marooned on the distant sandbar, and I could so clearly envision the girl, tangled into the roots. “In fact, it’s already turned,” I said. “It will be high tide again just after seven tonight. Six hours and thirteen minutes each way.”

  “Wow, what an amazing place this is. Lucky you, Roz!” Cym said as she started to unpack the food.

  “I’ll go in and find some dishes for us,” I said. I went into the porch and was about to announce that lunch was on, when my eye was drawn to something going on in the living room.

  Mark, in the centre of the room, was standing on the square wooden chopping block that normally sat by the wood stove. His head was bowed, his arms at his sides, and he appeared to be trembling.

  All at once I realized what was happening: they were re-creating the central image from Catastrophe, Mark playing The Protagonist; Regan, The Director; Ellie, The Assistant. I stopped still.

  The Assistant, looking up at The Protagonist, standing head bowed on the plinth, says to the seated Director, “He’s shivering.”

  The Director, smoking a fat cigar replies, “Bless his heart.”

  The actors stopped at this point and looked at me. Even without costumes or props, it was unsettling. The victim standing shivering on the plinth brought back the Abu Ghraib torture images I had seen on TV.

  “That Beckett, just a tad ahead of his time, eh?” Ellie said.

  “It’s so simple, yet it speaks volumes,” I said. “I was just starting to read Catastrophe this morning. We should seriously think about including this piece.”

  “Do you think Beckett wrote this because of the Second World War—wasn’t he in the French Resistance?” Ellie asked.

  “I know he worked for the Irish Red Cross,” I said. “I plan to read about that while I’m here.”

  “I know something about Castastrophe,” Mark said.

  “Smarty-pants,” said Regan.

  “So what is it?” Ellie asked.

  “Beckett dedicated it to Václav Havel,” Mark said.

  “A playwright—right? Czechoslovakia?” said Regan.

  “Right. Havel founded the Committee for the Unjustly Persecuted. So, I think that’s who this character is,” Mark continued. “This abused and dehumanized man on the plinth is one of the unjustly persecuted.”

  Cym suddenly appeared in the porch. “How’s it going with those dishes, Roz?”

  “Oops,” I said. “Fell down a well! Can you guys help carry out some glasses and forks and dishes? Lunch is out on the picnic table.”

  I didn’t need to say more. Within five minutes we were set up outside in the early afternoon sun, diving into the feast they had brought with them.

  “This is scrumptious,” I said, chomping into yet another breaded artichoke heart. “You guys know how to do it up. Who made these?”

  “Ellie did—fantastic cook!” Mark said. “On tour, she turns a tawdry motel room into a gourmet kitchen.”

  “How much time do you guys spend on the road?” I asked, spooning a large serving of curried shrimp salad onto my plate.

  “Half our company’s income is in touring,” Regan said.

  “And you’re becoming so well known—didn’t you recently perform for the Queen?”

  “Today the Queen,” said Mark, “and tomorrow a freezing band hall in East Bumblestick.”

  “Where the lights don’t work,” Regan added.

  “And they forgot we were coming,” Ellie chimed in.

  “Touring is fabulous! Here’s to touring!” Cym said, raising her glass.

  “But at least now we have Beckett. And Roz, we love working on Beckett,” Ellie said. “Because it’s not just words—it’s really physically demanding and disciplined. Right up our alley!”

  After the meal we spent the next hour or so talking in earnest about building the show, where we’d like to tour it, and what festivals and other possibilities there might be in the offing.

  I told them about the arts centre on North M
ountain. “They have a couple of performance studios. Next week maybe we could spend two or three days working up there—and maybe even do an invited reading. Why don’t I check it out for availability and costs and whatnot…what do you think?” I ventured.

  “It’s a great idea,” Mark said.

  “I think so too,” Cym said. “I’d love to get away from the city!”

  “Let’s say, if you can get the studio for a reasonable rate, we’ll do it,” Regan said.

  “And I still have this cottage next week. So, you could all stay here,” I said. “There’s plenty of space, and even the loft over the living room has a bed.”

  “Up where the cat went?” Ellie asked.

  “That’s right. In fact, I should go find the poor scruff and give her some lunch.”

  “She must be famished after that high-wire act,” Regan said.

  “Not to mention her Mad in Pursuit number,” Cym added. “I thought she was going to knock me right out of the tree when she went after that dog.”

  I left them at the picnic table and went in through the porch to look for her. She wasn’t in evidence on the main level so I climbed the wooden ladder up to the loft. It was possible to stand upright in the centre of the space, but the ceiling sloped steeply on either side. There was a made-up double mattress on the floor to my left and a small low window in front of me, which faced out to the road. I walked over, crouched down, and looked out. The front yard and driveway appeared calm and idyllic—no creepy SUV in sight. I sat back on my heels and looked around. Over to my left I spotted her. Just beyond the mattress she had compressed herself into a tiny notch of space where the floor didn’t quite meet the wall. She was tucked down on the crossbeam that was lower than the floorboards. “Well, you’re in a serious hiding-out mode,” I said. “You look like a box of fluff.”

  I crawled onto the mattress and reached towards her. “Molly’s gone now,” I said, scratching her ears. “Why don’t you come on out and act normal?” After a few moments of deliberation she got to her feet and stretched casually, stepped up onto the mattress, and immediately began washing her face and ignoring me.

  From down below I heard Ellie calling me.

  “Up here,” I said. “Just found the cat—I’ll be right down.”

  “We’re going to pack up and head back to the city,” she said. “Mark and Cym are washing up and Regan’s outside smoking, but we’re off in a few minutes. We’ve got a board meeting tonight, and by the time we get into town….” She was climbing up the ladder and her head now appeared over the edge of the loft floor. “Hey—this is cool,” she said, taking in the space.

  “So you guys arrive with a gourmet lunch complete with wine, and then you do the dishes too?” I said. “You’re hired!”

  “And don’t forget we rescue cats!” She smiled, climbing up into the loft and sitting on the matress. “Hello, Pussycat, were you hiding?”

  “She really was,” I said. “See that tiny notch there between the floor and the wall—she was tucked in there.”

  “Good grief! How did you even manage to fold yourself in there?” Ellie said, peering at the tiny space. “Wait now, there’s something else in there, Roz.” She reached in and lifted out a little red book. “Could Pussycat be secretly writing her memoirs?” she said. “Are you?” she asked the cat.

  “Maybe forgotten by a previous renter?” I said. “I’ll take it up to the farm.”

  “Oh look, there’s a name written here. Just inside the back cover.” She handed the book to me.

  “This book belongs to: Aurelia,” I said, reading the sticker.

  “Aurelia. As in phosphorescent sea animals, like moon jellyfish,” Ellie said.

  “Seriously, Ellie?” I asked. “Do you have a clandestine career as a marine biologist?”

  “I wish,” she said. “Gotta go!” She climbed down to the living room.

  Chapter 6

  I waved as the actors’ van pulled out of the driveway and the company began their journey back to the city. They gave a last holler and a little beep on the horn and I watched until they disappeared at the bend. The silence descended, and in the sudden quiet I felt apprehensive. Maybe I’ll take my friend Samuel Beckett and go down to the beach for an hour or so, I thought. Back to where my day had begun. “I could use your company, Sam,” I said aloud.

  Intrigued by the earlier mention of Beckett’s involvement in the Second World War, I decided to bring one of the biographies along and do a little research.

  The newly found notebook was on the porch table and I tossed it into my bag along with the biography, my phone, and a large towel. The tide was now well on its way in, leaving only an hour or two of good beach time before it got too high.

  I chose not to climb down to the shore via the apple ladders, and instead walked along to the end of the cottage road. From there, I could maneuver my way down through the rugged creek bed known locally as Ghoul’s Hollow. There were some makeshift steps there and a handrail made of rope. Before I started down, I gazed across to the top of the next bluff over. There were several tall evergreens along the edge, some of which had their roots exposed through erosion and were hanging precariously over the beach. But the bluff was mostly pasture and the farmer’s cows were peacefully grazing. One by one, they looked up, stopped chewing, and stared across at me. I found myself smiling at them. Cows are a comfort, I thought as I climbed down through the hollow to the beach.

  I walked along the mud flats back towards Longspell Point. I puzzled over how far this morning’s fallen tree had travelled. Had it dropped from one of the bluffs nearby or had it journeyed all the way in from the Bay of Fundy through the Minas Channel and around Cape Blomidon? How long had that girl been out there, tangled in those roots? Again I felt vexed about not being involved in the rescue, not getting a real shot at finding out what had happened to her. And now, I’d had my knuckles rapped and been instructed to keep my nose out of the case altogether. I took strength from McBride’s fearless response—“Water off a duck’s back.” He was incorrigible, and always an inspiration.

  I found a smooth sandy spot, spread out the big towel, and settled in. I was on the other side of the point from where I had been that morning, and looking to my left I had a clear view of Cape Blomidon, luminous in the afternoon sun.

  I took out the Beckett biography, used my rucksack and my sweater as a kind of headrest, and lay back on the warm sand. I consulted the index and opened to the account of the Normandy town of St. Lô, where two thousand of the twenty-six hundred buildings had been blown to bits during the Allied Invasions. It was a rubble heap when Beckett arrived as part of the advance team, and they were confronted with humanity struggling in the most basic survival conditions. The writer speculated that Beckett had signed on with the Irish Red Cross as his only means of getting back to France from Ireland, but Beckett proved a patient and conscientious asset to the unit. His fluent French was invaluable. He was appointed driver, quartermaster, and interpreter for the makeshift hospital. He secured the supplies and did whatever was required to help transform the rat-infested mud heap into a hospital.

  To those who made it through, the horrific circumstances deepened their shared experience. For Beckett, it laid the creative ground for many of his dramatic and prose writings following the war, including the bereft characters in his play Waiting for Godot. His postwar writing ultimately won him the Nobel Prize in literature.

  I closed my eyes, envisioning the shattered world Beckett had found himself in—so many clinging desperately to life, their anguished cries echoing through the night. I sighed, letting the book fall forward onto my chest. As I drifted, imagining the makeshift field hospital, I began to hear water rushing too, the sound drowning out their voices. I looked around for the source and in front of me, caught on a rocky ledge under a torrential waterfall, was McBride. I watched as he grabbed onto the branch of a tree that was protrud
ing out of the cascade. He looked down to where a girl was tangled in the roots. He called out to her: “Hang on! I’ll help—”

  “It’s too late,” she cried, looking up at McBride as the branch was wrenched from his grasp and the broken tree slid down into the torrent, carrying the girl out into the waves, her red hair trailing in the sea foam. Then Molly began barking loudly, startling me. I gasped and looked around. But it wasn’t Molly.

  Standing there, staring down at me, was the woman I had met that morning—Grace. She had her two dogs with her and the large one was barking.

  “Hey! Rosalind!” Grace was shouting. “Wake up!”

  I looked at her in confusion.

  “You better grab your stuff before it gets wet.”

  I lurched up to a sitting position, gaping around as the book slid from my chest onto the sand. The tide had lapped under my ankles and was moving fast. Grace bent over and quickly snatched up the book. I found my feet, rescued my towel, and pulled up my rucksack just as it was about to be submerged.

  “We were on our walk along the cliff top. I could see you dozing down here with the tide moving in. I thought we better come down and warn you.”

  “Thank you, Grace,” I said, looking at her in some amazement. “God, I fell sound asleep, that was stupid!”

  “You’re not the first. Are you all right?” she asked as we began making our way back towards Ghoul’s Hollow. “I startled you.”

  “I was dreaming. So crazy how everything gets all mixed up together.”

  We clambered over the rocks and fallen branches and up the steps to the top of the bluff. Her dogs ran ahead. As we walked along and my head began to clear, I thought about bringing up the morning’s events, to let Grace know that I’d been right, that what I’d seen hadn’t been far-fetched after all. But something was holding me back from drawing her into it, an overall sense of peril—not to mention the warning I’d received from the RCMP.