Fountaineville

By C.A. Simonsen

A frail old man who ritually mutilates himself. A hermit hag who finally emerges from her den. The opportunity to escape an unhappy home life and delve into a small town mystery: how could Davis Halden resist?

It is 1957 when young Davis sees something he wasn’t meant to see. The vision is disturbing. He cannot shake it from his thoughts. As Davis is pulled into a web of long-held secrets, he enlists the help of his older sister to unravel the clues. What they discover will have life-changing consequences for those whom Davis holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228607410

C.A. Simonsen

Craig is a history and literature teacher in small town Saskatchewan. He and his wife enjoy solving world problems over a glass of wine with friends. They spend considerable time in the whirlwind of their children’s activities. Craig likes a good book when time permits, and he will pick at his guitar when no one is around to hear.

Book preview

Fountaineville

A Mystery

C. A. Simonsen

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0741-0

Kindle 978-0-2286-0742-7

Web 978-0-2286-0743-4

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 978-0-2286-0744-1

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0745-8

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

For Samuel, Sophie, Madeleine

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to the pens of Robertson Davies,

Henry David Thoreau, Sun Tzu, and William Shakespeare.

I am grateful to my editor, Renee Duke, for her expertise.

Chapter One

Most mornings, Ames and Stanley were far ahead of me by the time I reached Mr. Foster’s lot. Carrying my school bag and wearing oversized galoshes, I couldn’t keep up with the older boys’ strides, surprisingly long for twins who’d begun life in bodies so small. Plus, I was often slowed by the habit of having my head bowed in a book.

Had I been able to keep pace, the boys wouldn’t have wanted me to. Ames and Stanley had reached the age at which it isn’t appropriate to be seen walking to school with little brother in tow. In truth, I didn’t mind the solitude. I came to look forward to the respite from the buzz and hustle of school. The hostilities of home. My walks through Mr. Foster’s lot were an opportunity to think. To read. To observe the old man’s garden. I realize now that I needed to be alone when I passed through the yard in order for things to turn out as they did.

Mr. Foster’s garden was a wonder to me. His strawberries alone were the envy of all Fountaineville. He kept the berries beneath boxes topped with chicken wire, crafted by his own shaky hands to fend off predatory beaks. The soil below he kept damp and dark, rich with all necessary nutrients. The vines were watered faithfully at dawn and dusk. You’d be hard pressed to find a weed in the entire space, and there never seemed to be any trace of the mildew or leaf blight that troubled Fountaineville’s lesser gardeners. There was a peace and beauty to the yard.

Mr. Foster even spoke to his plants.

On more than one occasion, I saw him bent low on bony hands and knees, whispering encouragement to the strawberries, as though coaxing babies to roll over. He would murmur and crawl, unaware I was passing behind him, his full attention given to the fruit, flower, vegetable before him. Somehow, I think if Mr. Foster had turned around one of those tranquil mornings and discovered he’d had an audience, it wouldn’t have mattered to him at all.

The care taken could be seen in the results. Mr. Foster’s property was a virtual botanical garden, by Fountaineville standards. There was rhubarb, asparagus, beans. Brussels sprouts and squash. Pumpkins stretched out from one corner. Raspberry bushes rose up in another, hiding what appeared to be an alabaster birdbath or sculpture. Cana lilies, hostas and a variety of rose bushes contributed to the Eden of life. Each day brought some new growth. New shape or colour. The strawberries, as I remember, began as white as popped corn. From white, they would enlarge to a pale green, go from green to pink and, finally, burst into an irresistible red more bright and alive than blood. Those firm, speckled hearts tempted all who looked upon them.

But the cooler evenings of September had arrived and much of the garden was now gone. It wasn’t the garden that would set the wheels of my story into motion, anyway. It was the gardener.

Davis! Hurry up! Ames hollered, cradling a curious-looking carton. I ran through the opening of Mr. Foster’s hedge to my brothers’ sides. Remember: not a word to anyone or we’ll stuff you down the chute. This time, we’ll leave you there. I didn’t bother telling them they’d nothing to fear—neither of them had told me a thing about their newest scheme.

As the twins turned onto the school yard, the tiniest high-pitched whistle escaped the inside of the carton. Ames paused to give me a final threatening glance and the two of them went on their way.

I followed, but not before I thought I saw the flick of Mr. Foster’s blinds closing out the corner of my eye.

School, for me, was not the Promethean torture it seems to be for many young people. I don’t recall ever being thrown into a row of lockers or whipped by wet towels in a steamy change room. These things, and far worse, did happen on a daily basis, but I was one of the lucky ones. Nor do I recall school being as supremely inspirational as it should be—as we hope it to be for our children. I was a small boy who spoke little and I suppose I went largely unnoticed by teachers and students alike.

I understood the lessons readily, particularly in English literature and in history, and I could quickly discern which instructors were at Fountaineville Composite because they truly wished to cultivate knowledge versus those who were in it for the paycheck. Or was it the holidays? In sports, I was sufficiently nimble to avoid being chosen last, and in mathematics classes I too often daydreamed.

What I enjoyed most about school was the stories. The best of those volumes studied in my formative years may be found in more current printings today on the bookshelves of our family room. I was the child who would get lost in a good novel and, so long as my chores were seen to, I would read deep into the night, finishing assigned tales days and weeks before my classmates. The ridiculousness and charm of a politician holding séances to speak to Da Vinci’s ghost interested me. With vividness could I picture the soldier assigned to a new troop just in time to end up one of the first casualties of skin-bubbling mustard gases. You could say that I learned easiest and best through storytelling.

The book I was reading for leisure at the time was a collection of engrossing cases involving a clever detective. Gracie had given me the copy, worn and faded, and I couldn’t get enough of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I thought it brilliant of young Holmes to use a false alarm of fire to trick Irene Adler into revealing her wall panel hiding place. I liked the case even better when, in the end, Irene got the better of the detective, realizing how she’d been duped and stealing away from Holmes and London town still in possession of her valuable photograph. When I finished The Red-Headed League, I marvelled at the ruse John Clay had created to remove a fellow from his house so that Clay’s accomplices could dig a tunnel under the fellow’s shop, and thereby have access to the treasure of valuable coins.

Everyone in the world, I thought, should be reading the beautifully-worded, consuming Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

The construction of Fountaineville Composite School was not yet complete as my brothers and I approached it that autumnal equinox. Scaffolds and buckets decorated its exterior and, indoors, a skeleton of pipes, wires and rafters were exposed. The girls loved craning about each morning, locating various improvements over the old building.

Not a single broken window pane—wonder how long that’ll last.

Oh my God, there’s hot and cold running water in every bathroom! Serious! I checked!

Don’t you just love the smell of the wax on the floors? You could eat your lunch off of those floors.

Gone were the prehistoric fire escape slide we were never allowed to play on and the cold musty air we couldn’t avoid. Yes, we boys joined in the rush of excitement. We just weren’t as quick to voice ours, enthusiasm about the building too much resembling an enthusiasm for school.

The farm parents were decidedly unexcited about the changes. Demolition of the town’s old school and the rise of the larger new model spelled the demise of the area’s last surviving one-room school houses, or country schools. Fountaineville’s farmers complained that their children would be forced to ride a bus to and from town. The idea of six-year-olds riding eight, twelve, fifteen miles in temperatures thirty below zero created an uproar.

What’s wrong with country schools? They were built solid. Got wood-burnin’ heaters—what more do kids need?

Some of the townspeople agreed. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? Others, like my father, didn’t.

Harold Weening’s complaining he’s got five kids in the system and they’re needed on the farm. He lives four miles from town and three-quarters of a mile from Willows Schoolhouse. Can’t that fool figure out that eight miles on a bus’ll be quicker than a mile and a half on foot, especially when his kids are walking through snow? Nothing but a slave-driver!

The new school was here to stay.

I never saw Ames or Stanley (or my sister, Grace, for that matter) during school hours. The twins were in grade nine and Gracie was a senior, all three segregated from us elementary students by two heavy grey doors. The only occasions on which we were allowed in the big end were to have physical education classes in the gym or to rehearse the annual Christmas pageant.

I rarely saw much of Gracie at home, either. Gracie was beautiful, like Mother, and went with Parker Loughtry, who’d graduated three years prior. Gracie and Parker spent their hours together, driving about in Parker’s car.

At Fountaineville Composite, the stream of gossip about the goings-on in the big end always trickled its way down to us little people. Today was no exception.

Willie says Mrs. Reesenor ran screamin’ outta the room so fast that the rolls o’ fat on ’er sides wiggled like jelly on a biscuit!

Effie Pycroft’s brother, Willie, was a constant source of high school news for us. Sometimes Willie’s information was even accurate. Effie was the prettiest girl in the world (next to Gracie, of course) so, accurate or not, we listened.

What happened? What happened? chirped Beth Peterson, spooning peanut butter into her mouth.

The Halden twins put a live gopher ’n Mrs. Reesenor’s desk drawer before school this mornin’. When she opened the drawer ’n the middle o’ class, it leapt up on t’ her massive jugs, then on t’ the floor and out the open door. Mrs. Reesenor screamed and left the class all by ’emselves. She ran straight t’ Principal Wesley’s office, bawlin’ and tossin’ her hands up in the air!

Principal Wesley, who had a penchant for pastel shirts and plaid pants, was viewed as a teddy bear figure by the student body. He seemed to spend more time consoling Mrs. Reesenor than he did reprimanding miscreants.

Oh my God! Davis, your brothers are totally boss. Totally, gushed Beth.

Willie says Principal Wesley was so mad his face started t’ turn red. Told the class it was a mighty low day when the students o’ Fountaineville Composite could bring a sweet lady like Mrs. Reesenor, who’s known t’ have a heart arrhythmia, t’ tears. Said the culprit or culprits best confess before he finds out from some’un else who done it. Effie smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. But the best part is, once he left ‘n’ shut the door behind him, the whole class burst out laughin’ agin ’cause Wesley had a big ol’ schnot stain from Mrs. Reesenor’s runny nose goin’ all the way down the front o’ his girly pink shirt!

Effie’s beauty was equalled only by her exquisite turn of phrase.

That’s better’n last month’s drawers up the flagpole, judged Kenny Thebes as he popped a handful of grain into his mouth, and my peers dispersed, patting me on the back as though I’d been responsible.

I never understood how my brothers’ pranks failed to reach the ears of Mother and Father. Apparently, the range of Willie Pycroft’s news network was limited to the boundaries of the school yard. Perhaps my parents did know everything and I was kept unawares. Somehow, I didn’t think so. Ames and Stanley rarely seemed to be punished and their devotion to mischief never waned.

As per usual, Ames and Stanley abandoned me for a friend’s house come 3:30, no doubt to celebrate their success with Mrs. Reesenor. Walking home, I hoped I might find Mr. Foster in his yard. There was something interesting about the quiet way he nodded his approval to me whenever he saw me look up from my book and hesitate at the threshold of his hedge. After nodding, he’d immediately return to his work, mending a tree branch or hoeing his dirt, and I would pass through, invisible once more. Mr. Foster was a person who kept busy and minded his own business. If a swarm of boisterous kids passed the front of his house, cussing or pushing, the old man never said a word. Never seemed to notice. One morning, I saw him calmly removing potato chip bags and strings of chewed bubble gum from his cotoneasters, the same as if they’d been dead leaves.

Mr. Foster’s house was modest for the time. Old would probably be a more accurate descriptor. Built at the turn of the century, it was a near perfect square of two stories. The siding may have been yellow once but had since faded to a dreary egg shell dun. The house was weathered—in places, flat out eroding—and you could see spots where Mr. Foster had attempted to straighten a section of crumpled eavestrough or reinforce a crack in the foundation. He had no running water but rather a cistern. An outhouse appendage stood at the southwest corner. A wood-burning stove heated the house and, in the center of the kitchen stood a thick, heavy-looking butcher block table. I’d seen the block table one sultry day, when he had his back door open.

It was as though Mr. Foster was a man living out of his time. By 1957, even the most destitute of Fountaineville townspeople had some form of heating system in their homes. The majority had indoor plumbing (Father had ours installed when Edwin had decided to enlist and Mother first needed cheering up. I had only vague recollections of using the bucket, or chamber pot, as others called it, on the coldest of nights). Televisions were becoming common as more and more families tuned in to hear a program called Country Hoedown on the CBC, featuring a young man named Tommy Hunter. Mother once commented that, in the more affluent south end of town, ten houses at the least had wringer washing machines. Not those labour-intensive 1940’s models, but the newer Maytag washers.

I never saw a washing machine or a TV in Mr. Foster’s home. I don’t believe the house was wired for electricity. The only personal effects I could see (during quick peeks through windows whenever I knew Mr. Foster to be out of doors) were books. The walls were lined with hundreds of books. They were stacked on shelves, on end tables, on the floor. Like the yard, the house was kept neat and orderly. The man may not have had much of monetary value, but what he had he looked after.

Mr. Foster wasn’t out that day. As I passed beside his house, stepping over the colourful leaves that had fallen to the ground, I heard a sound. A sort of whimper like you might get from a puppy. I hesitated, knowing I should carry on homeward but, nevertheless, not moving my feet. Swivelling my head to see if anyone else had heard the noise, I saw that the last of the school children had vanished and no neighbours were about. I cocked an ear, and after perhaps a half minute of silence, the sound came again.

Crying.

I heard a shuffling of feet within the house and the tinkle of metal upon metal. The curiosity of my age turned my feet for me and led me back to the only ground-level window on that side of the house.

I knew what I was about to do was wrong. In fact, my instincts hinted that I would come to regret seeing whatever I was about to see. But who among us heeds our inner voice at such times? Up on my tiptoes I went and I peered through the pane, which was divided into quarters by a cross of wood. I saw only dirty laundry and some shelving. Some books. To be able to see into a different room, I’d have to return to the front of the house, where I might be exposed to passers-by on the street.

I inched my way back and found there was no one in view. Mrs. Reesenor was Mr. Foster’s neighbour, and I knew she would still be at the school. I slowly approached the window beside the front door. Bringing with me my sense of foreboding, I rose up as best I could, standing inconsiderately in a flower bed. Grasping at the bottom of the window frame, I looked in where a fraction of blinds had broken off.

What