Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Oh, thank you!” said Natalie, surprised. Christine rarely dropped by and had never before brought her fish. Natalie imagined she was curious about Alex, or maybe just looking for something to keep her occupied while the storm kept her onshore.

  “I think, since you got stuck hosting that Parisian and everything is closed today, you could use this.”

  “That’s so thoughtful,” said Natalie. “Come in, out of the weather.”

  “A little bit of rain doesn’t bother me as long as I’m not out at sea in it,” Christine scoffed.

  “Can we get you a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “Tea would be fine,” Christine said, taking off her slicker while still on the porch. She shook it and hung it over a chair.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Alex. “I was just about to check the attic.”

  “Leaky roof?” Christine asked.

  Natalie, reverting to form, started to say, “No,” but Alex answered too quickly: “Yup.”

  “I’ll go with you, to help,” said Christine.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Natalie said.

  Christine looked amused. “You think you are the only one on the island with a problem roof? I will bet half the villagers are in their attics at this very moment.”

  Each armed with a flashlight, they began to mount the dark stairs.

  “Hey, Christine,” began Alex. “Do you know anything about the women who used to live here at the Bag-Noz?”

  She shrugged, sticking out her chin. “Not really. Two old ladies . . . they were very old by the time I knew them. Died a while ago. Why?”

  “Only one of them is listed as a family member in the livret de famille. I’ve asked about them,” said Natalie, “but as much as the Fémans love to gossip about the living, they’re pretty reticent when it comes to speaking about the dead. I get the sense that something happened during the war, something people don’t want to remember.”

  “I’m sure a lot of things happen during war that no one wants to remember,” said Christine.

  “We found their robes noires and jibilinnen in the attic,” said Alex.

  Christine grinned at the way Alex pronounced the unfamiliar word. “Jibilinnen? Truly?”

  “If they wore them all the time, why do you suppose they weren’t buried in them?” asked Alex.

  “A lot of the old people on the island kept death drawers.”

  “I’m sorry?” asked Natalie.

  “Death drawers . . .” Christine trailed off as though searching for a word. “I don’t know if there’s an equivalent in English, or if you even do this. But here the old people used to keep some clothes, usually their wedding dress or something special like that, and they would write out the instructions for their burial so that when they died everything was ready to go.”

  “I can’t decide whether I find that charming or disturbing,” said Alex.

  Christine chuckled. “A lot of the old ways are both charming and disturbing.”

  “How is it you speak English so well?” asked Alex.

  “Went to university in Bordeaux.”

  “Really?”

  “I studied art history. You are surprised a fisherwoman goes to school?”

  Alex smiled. “I didn’t realize it took a degree in art history. But then, I’ve never set foot in a classroom.”

  “Never?” Christine responded. “I enjoyed school, and after completing my certificate I stayed awhile, working in Bordeaux. But I missed my island and, I suppose, the old ways, as you say: both charming and disturbing.”

  Natalie paused when they reached the doorway to the attic stairs. She peered up, worried. “When we first got the door off, I had hoped to find some great treasure in the attic, something that might shed a little light on who the women were, or tell some great old tale from World War Two.”

  “But all you found was a roof in need of repair?”

  “Something like that,” Natalie said with a grimace, then blew out a breath and started up the stairs. “Here goes nothing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Alex

  Looks okay so far,” said Nat, sounding relieved.

  “The rain only started in earnest a little while ago,” said Alex, straightening one of the tarps and angling a pot directly below what looked to be a trouble spot in the ceiling. “Sometimes it takes a while to build up. You know what they say: Water will find a way.”

  “Yeah, great, thanks,” said Nat. “You’re not helping my anxiety, Al.”

  “Wait—do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Alex held up a hand and listened intently. She heard the wind and the roar of crashing waves in the harbor, but also something else. A steady tapping.

  “That’s a drip,” Christine said.

  Alex nodded and cast the flashlight beam around the attic ceiling, squinting as she peered into the corners formed by the steep angles of the roof. “Where is it coming from, can anybody tell?”

  “It’s not from over here,” Christine said from her position near the stairs.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Nat, flashing her own light this way and that. “I don’t hear it, either.”

  “I do,” said Alex. The beam of her flashlight came to rest on the seam where one wall met the floor, next to the built-in bookcase. She crouched down and touched her fingers to it. “Yep. Wet. It’s coming from behind here. Hold on.”

  With one fist Alex started knocking on the wall surrounding the bookcase. Nat and Christine came over to watch.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Nat.

  “Yes, what are you doing, Alex?” Christine asked. “That is not the way to find a drip.”

  “Already found the drip,” Alex said, feeling around the paneling. “But this looks like . . . Yep, here, see? This old bookcase is covering something up.”

  “Covering something up . . . ? Like what?” Nat asked.

  “Probably just a crawl space, or a void in the eaves,” said Alex, taking the boxes off the bookshelves and setting them to one side on the floor. “I’m worried the water will continue down through the walls to the third-floor bedrooms. You don’t want to get dry rot. If I can just get in there . . .”

  “That bookcase is built in, Alex,” said Nat. “We can’t pull it away from the wall.”

  “I know that. I just want to see . . .” Alex crouched down and shone her beam on the bottom shelf. “Aha!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a keyhole.”

  “A . . . keyhole?” Christine asked.

  “I love these!” Alex said.

  “These what?” demanded Natalie.

  “Hidden stuff. There was a bookcase like this at the ranch—it opened onto a little storage area. A lot of older homes have them. . . . I think there’s something behind this bookcase.” Alex felt like a kid discovering a secret cave. “Nat, do you have that key ring I dug up the other day?”

  “In my room,” she said with a nod, heading toward the stairs. “Be right back.”

  After Nat left, Christine turned to Alex and asked in a soft voice: “Your sister, she is okay? Ça va?”

  Alex nodded. “Of course. Why?”

  “I just wonder. She was here all alone until you come. François-Xavier is taking his time in Paris, it seems.”

  Alex didn’t respond. Nat would tell the islanders what was going on when she was ready. Alex just hoped she’d be ready soon.

  “Anyway, I have offered to help, but she turns me down,” said Christine. “This is a lot, an old house like this. It is a . . . What’s the word? A burden.”

  Alex nodded. “It is a lot, true. I think she—”

  She cut herself off as she heard her sister’s hurried steps on the stairs. Nat appeared, breathing hard, and held up the key ring in triumph.

 
“Did you run?” Alex asked, amused.

  Nat nodded and smiled. “My exercise for the day. I was thinking—this island was occupied by the Germans during the Second World War. . . . Do you suppose someone might have been hidden back there?”

  “What, like someone hiding from the Nazis?” Alex asked.

  “Maybe?”

  “I have not heard any stories of that sort of thing here during the war,” Christine said. “I don’t think there were any Jewish people on the island back then.”

  “Jewish people weren’t the only ones who hid from the Nazis,” said Nat.

  “It’s probably just a crawl space,” said Alex, who was lying on her side to access the awkwardly placed mechanism, trying one old skeleton key after another.

  “Then why would it be covered with a bookcase and locked?” asked Nat.

  “Maybe it was a hiding place for valuables, like a safe?” Alex said. “I think . . . Wait! Got it!”

  Alex turned the key and the bookcase popped open.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Natalie

  The door swung out to reveal a small opening in the attic wall, about three feet high.

  “Ça, alors!” Christine exclaimed.

  “I don’t know what that means, but I think I agree,” Alex said, shining her flashlight beam in the opening.

  “What do you see?” asked Natalie.

  Alex banged her head on the top of the opening and swore under her breath.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It’s probably just a crawl space.”

  “A locked crawl space? Really?” Natalie turned to Christine. “Is that common in French homes?”

  Christine shook her head.

  “I’m going in,” Alex said.

  No surprise there, Natalie thought as her sister disappeared into the black hole, first her head, then her shoulders, then her narrow hips and long legs. Alex always had been the first to explore the unknown, whether it was an unfamiliar trail, a cavern, or a mine shaft. Natalie used to wait behind, ready to run for help, if needed.

  “I think we should call her Alex the Adventurous,” said Christine with a smile.

  “What do you see?” asked Natalie, anxiety warring with the excitement of discovery. Maybe there were skeletons in there, and she’d been living all these months with their restless spirits. Maybe that was why she felt so haunted.

  “Not much” came the muffled voice. “Wait—found something!”

  “Rats?” suggested Christine.

  Alex crawled out, emerging from the access point butt first. She dragged a large wooden crate behind her, caked in grime and furry with spiderwebs.

  “That’s interesting . . . ,” said Christine.

  “Probably something boring,” said Alex. “Building supplies or rusty nails or something.”

  Natalie nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  “No way to know until we open it. Grab that hammer over there and do the honors?”

  Natalie pried open the rusty hasp and lifted the lid.

  At first it looked a like a mass of feathers and shells. But as Natalie reached in, she realized the bits and pieces were sewn onto muslin. She held one up. Pieces of sea glass were attached with wires, and a fringe was made of streams of muslin in subtle shades of pink, green, and yellow. Under the garments were headdresses and masks, equally bedazzled with shells and feathers.

  “Is it a . . . costume?” asked Alex.

  “Looks like it,” said Natalie, pawing through the contents. “There are several in here.”

  “Quel dommage. I was hoping for a bunch of gold coins,” said Christine. “Like in the Pirates des Caraïbes. How do you say that in English?”

  “Pirates of the Caribbean,” said Natalie with a nod. “Hands down the best ride at Disneyland.”

  “Also at Disneyland Paris. My favorite, too.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Alex, staring at the garments. “Was someone who lived here an actor or a singer, maybe?”

  “Remember when we were in the cemetery Agnès mentioned that one of the women who lived here was buried in shells. Could this have been her death drawer?”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. If it was her death costume, she would be wearing it, right?” said Alex.

  “True.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like these clothes,” said Christine. “Only the jibilinnen. It’s true there are always rumors on such an island, but nothing that would explain this.”

  “They remind me of that piece of shell art in the parlor,” said Alex. “You know the one I mean, Nat?”

  “That’s called a ‘sailor’s valentine,’” said Natalie. “It was here when we moved in. But these are something else entirely.”

  “C’est fantastique,” said Christine, running her hands over the beading. “They are so complex, very detailed.”

  Natalie picked up a feathered headdress and examined it. “This reminds me of an old-fashioned Vegas showgirl outfit, except made with locally sourced items. Hardly a traditional Breton coiffe.”

  “Obviously it was for a special occasion,” said Alex. “These don’t seem like they would have given the jibilinnen a run for its money.”

  “What else is in there?” Natalie asked.

  Beneath the costumes they found a stack of embroidered household linens. The fabric smelled of must from being closed up so long, but was in decent shape.

  “This is quite a treasure trove,” said Alex. “I mean, if you like sheets. Look, they’re embroidered with little mermaids and fishes.”

  Natalie nodded, thinking how excited she might have been to discover these lovely old-fashioned linens just a few short weeks ago. She would have pounced on the sweet tea towels and cozies and pillowcases, imagining using them for guests visiting the Bag-Noz here on her beautiful adopted Île de Feme.

  “Wait. There’s something else. An old book. Now, that’s more my style.” Natalie picked it up and turned it over. There was no title on the cover or the spine, so she opened it.

  “What is it?” asked Alex.

  “It looks like a family cookbook, maybe? Some kind of a journal, with handwritten recipes, some old envelopes, a few printed recipes and pictures cut from magazines . . . and even some drawings and doodles in the margins. How cute.”

  “There are a few different styles of handwriting,” said Alex, looking over her sister’s shoulder. “Like different people contributed. It reminds me of Mom’s old recipe box.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Natalie passed her flashlight beam over a few more entries, lifting the fragile old pages carefully by one corner, trying to make out the different handwriting. The ink faded in and out a little, but by and large was legible. “This is great.”

  Outside, the storm had become ferocious, the wind doing its best to knock down the thick stone walls of the house. They heard a ripping and a banging as though a slate tile had been wrenched off the roof and flung who knew where.

  Christine peered over Natalie’s shoulder at the recipes and made a dismissive tsking sound. “I have no need for more fish pies in my life. The storm, she is getting worse. I should go to my boat to be sure the nets are secured against the wind. Do you need me to help you place the pots to catch drips before I go?”

  “No, thank you, Christine,” said Natalie. “Alex and I can manage. And thank you so much for bringing the fish! Would you like to come back and join us for dinner?”

  “I thank you, but no,” Christine said, heading toward the stairs. “After I check my nets I must inspect my own mother’s attic for water. À bientôt.”

  “And we’ve got work to do, Nat,” Alex said after bidding Christine farewell. “Hear that? More drips.”

  As Natalie was closing the recipe book, a photo slid out from between the pages and wa
fted to the floor. She crouched to pick it up.

  It was a group of German officers surrounded by women in ornate feathered masks and beaded costumes like the ones they had found in the crate.

  “Hey, Alex, check this out,” Natalie said to her sister, who was already crawling back into the access to the eaves to place a pot under the drip she had found.

  “A little busy” came the muffled reply.

  Natalie put the photograph back in the book, then placed the rest of the items in the crate.

  Alex emerged from the eaves and dusted herself off, and together they positioned the rest of the buckets and spread out more tarps.

  “Well,” said Alex, casting her flashlight beam up and down to inspect the ceiling and the floor. “It’s not great but it’ll have to do for the moment. Hopefully this will catch the worst of it.”

  Natalie nodded. “Let’s get that crate downstairs where it’s warmer and the light’s better.”

  Just then Jean-Luc called up from the third-floor landing.

  “Alex? Natalie? Tout va bien? Is everything okay up in the attic?”

  “We’re fine,” said Alex.

  “We could use a hand, though,” said Natalie.

  He hurried up the steps.

  “What is all this, then?” he asked, staring at the crate.

  “Believe it or not, some vintage goodies from the folks who used to live here. Could you help us carry it down to the parlor?” Natalie said, shivering.

  “I would be happy to,” said Jean-Luc.

  Alex grabbed one end, and Jean-Luc the other, while Natalie held the flashlights. At the top of the steps Alex stumbled slightly, then caught herself.

  “You know, it is not all that heavy,” Jean-Luc said. “It would probably be better for me to carry it myself. Much easier on the stairs.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Alex.

  He nodded and smiled. “This way I can work up an appetite, since I have done so little all day.”

  “Okay, but don’t trip.”

  Natalie picked up the winged headdresses and boots and followed Alex, both using their flashlights to show the way. Jean-Luc came last, lugging the crate down to the parlor. Despite his protestations that the box wasn’t that heavy, he was breathing hard by the time he eased it down to the floor in front of the fire.