by Hazel Gaynor
She turned to Iris. “There’s a shelf full of lovely children’s books over there. Do you want to have a look? I need to have a quick chat with your dad.”
Iris skipped off to the far corner of the shop as Ross looked at Olivia, confused.
“I’m sorry.” She dragged the words—those words—from the depths of her heart. “Grandpa Cormac died. A week ago.”
The color drained from Ross’s face. “No way. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. He’d lived a good life.”
It was a terrible cliché, and Olivia hated herself for saying it. Pappy had lived a quiet, gentle life, the life of a humble, hardworking man who’d given everything to make sure his family was happy—to make sure she was happy. In the days since his death, she’d thought a lot about who he’d been as a boy, as a young man in love, as a father at war. She’d never talked to him and Nana about those parts of their lives. Somehow she’d always sensed the past wasn’t a place they especially cared to revisit. Eventually she’d stopped asking. Now she would never know those parts of their story, and like an old book with missing pages, it troubled her.
Ross said again how sorry he was. “I can’t believe it. Mac was one of those people you imagine will go on forever. He was a good man. A really good man.”
“It was all very sudden . . . his heart . . .” Olivia couldn’t say the word stopped, unable to believe that a heart so big and strong could stop. “I just found out he left me the shop in his will.” She spread her arms in a sweeping arc. “This is all mine now.”
Ross whistled through his teeth. “Wow. That’s quite an inheritance. Are you a bookseller, then?”
She laughed. “No! I don’t know the first thing about selling books. I’m a bookbinder by trade.”
“Cool. So you, like, stick old books back together?”
Ross reminded Olivia of an eager puppy. She couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. “Yeah. Something like that. I restore rare books. I’m contracting at the National Art Library at the V&A in London.”
“Sounds impressive. So, how does owning a bookshop in Ireland fit in with that?”
Olivia rubbed her fingers around the edges of the engagement ring in her pocket. “I’m not sure yet.”
Ross cast his gaze around the shop. “I’ve always thought this place was amazing. It’s like something from another time. You know? Hidden gem.”
“A bit too hidden. Typical Pappy, opening a shop where nobody can find it. He doesn’t even have a website.”
“Pappy?”
She blushed. “Nickname. It’s what I called him when I was younger.”
“Cute. I called mine Gumpa. Although I secretly called him Grumpa. He was a miserable old sod, God rest him.”
Olivia laughed. It was such a spontaneous, bright sound that it took her by surprise. As did Ross. A total stranger to Olivia, and yet not to Pappy, who had always been a good judge of character. Olivia wanted to keep talking to Ross—about Pappy and other things—because something told her he would listen and understand, not judge or condemn.
“So, what’s the plan, then?” he asked, peering over Olivia’s shoulder to check on Iris.
“I don’t have one.” It was the truth. She didn’t. Her plans were shifting by the minute, it seemed. “I haven’t a clue where to start, to be honest. It’s all a bit of a shock.”
“Well, these things usually happen for a reason. I’m sure you’ll work it out. Actually, now that I think of it, Mac was always talking about you—his Olivia. And Martha. How is she?”
Nana Martha. Olivia winced with guilt at the thought of her. “She’s doing okay. Some days are better than others. It’s not easy.”
Olivia hated it: Alzheimer’s. She hated to watch the agonizing demise of the vibrant woman she’d once known. She hated visiting the nursing home, not just because of the smell of the place or the quiet sense of defeat that hung in the air—she hated not knowing how Nana would be when she got there, hated not knowing whether Nana would recognize her. Olivia felt physically sick every time she walked through the nursing home doors, and that was where she was heading this afternoon.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Iris appeared at her side. “Who’s this, Olivia?”
Iris had one of the Conan Doyle magazine articles in her hand. The one with the picture of Alice and the fairies. After not seeing the image for so many years, Olivia found it upsetting and for a moment she couldn’t respond.
Ross took the page from his daughter. “Iris! You shouldn’t be nosing around in other people’s things.” He handed it to Olivia. “Sorry. Iris, say you’re sorry to Olivia.”
Iris blushed and stared hard at her feet. “Sorry, Olivia. I liked the picture.”
Olivia heard herself saying that it was all right. Not a problem. That it was just an old newspaper cutting. But it wasn’t. It was so much more than that.
Ross apologized again. “Too curious for her own good, this one.”
“Aren’t all children?”
Iris tugged at Olivia’s skirt, beckoning her to bend down and cupping her hand over Olivia’s ear. “Are the fairies real?” she whispered.
Olivia looked into Iris’s eyes, so full of hope and wonder. And there it was. The memory of a time when she’d felt the same hope and wonder, when she’d believed in fairies and happy endings. It was like looking in a mirror and she was a little girl again, asking her mammy the same question.
She held out the page so they could look at the photograph together. “That’s a good question, Iris. This photograph was taken a long time ago. As far as I know, some people thought the fairies were real, and some didn’t.”
“Who’s that? Is that you? Is it your mammy?”
“She’s called Alice.” The enigmatic smile. The knowing look in her eyes. “See? It says her name underneath.”
“Who is she?”
“That I don’t know.” Olivia thought about Frances’s manuscript, of the photograph signed to Ellen, of the file full of newspaper clippings, a trail of bread crumbs tempting her to follow them. “But I’d like to find out.”
Ross bundled Iris away before she could interrogate Olivia any more. “That’s enough of your questions, madam. Come on. We’ve things to be doing.”
“Like what?”
“Homework and hot chocolate, for starters.”
Ross thanked Olivia again for looking after Iris. He pulled a business card from his jeans pocket as he stepped outside into the lane. “Listen, I only live down the hill, so if you need a hand with anything, give me a shout. Mac helped me out plenty of times. I’d like to return the favor.”
Taking the card, Olivia mumbled a “Thanks, but I’ll be grand” and closed the door behind them.
She turned the business card over—“Ross Bailey, Writer”—and stood for a moment, forehead pressed against the cool glass in the door, as the wind blew Ross Bailey, Writer, and his daughter back to wherever they’d come from. She watched until they faded into the distance, and then she turned to walk back to the desk. As she did, she noticed a white flower on the doormat: a slender green stem, one leaf, five perfect bell-shaped blooms. Assuming Iris had dropped it, she picked it up, rinsed out her coffee cup, filled it with water, and placed the flower inside. The inscription Live seemed more appropriate than ever.
Settling herself back at the desk, she picked up her phone to check for any missed calls or messages. There were five e-mails from the wedding planner, two missed calls from the bridal shop, and three text messages from her two bridesmaids. She didn’t have the energy to respond to any of them. She thought about calling Jack to check her reaction to hearing his voice, but he was in China on a business trip and she had no idea what time it was there. She tossed the phone into the bottom of her bag and picked up the Conan Doyle article again.
The photograph of Alice and the fairies stirred so many memories of that awful day of the accident. Olivia remembered how Pappy had gathered her into his arms in the pale light of early morn
ing and wept quietly against her shoulder. She didn’t remember how he told her, didn’t recall his exact words. She remembered only the photograph in the silver frame lying on the bed beside her and how, as she’d looked into that little girl’s eyes, she’d seen a lifetime of questions her mammy would never be able to answer.
The wind rattled the glass in the window frame. A reminder that there were things to do.
As a violin concerto danced among the bookshelves, Olivia made herself focus, working steadily through the official-looking correspondence. She was shocked to see how much it was costing to keep Nana in the nursing home every month, but at least all the bills were paid and everything appeared to be in order. It wasn’t until she opened a letter from a solicitor that she realized everything was far from in order.
30th April 2017
Dear Mr. Kavanagh,
We refer to previous correspondence in this matter, and regret to inform you that our Client can no longer support the sizeable debt owing and our Client’s patience is at an end.
Please regard this letter as our final warning.
All outstanding debts and arrears must be settled by three calendar months from the date hereof. Failure to do so will result in the issue of proceedings, without further notice, to recover the sums due . . .
She couldn’t bear to read on, guessing what must have happened. Pappy had poured all his money into keeping Nana in the nursing home and, as a result, the bookshop was in debt. It was now the middle of May. She’d already lost two weeks.
Olivia buried the letter in the bottom of her bag and switched off the shop lights. As an afterthought, she grabbed Frances’s manuscript and the Conan Doyle magazine article. Maybe Nana Martha would remember something about Frances, or the fairy photographs, although Olivia doubted it.
Poor Nana didn’t remember much about anything anymore.
Four
Ireland. Present day.
St. Bridget’s nursing home smelled of old chrysanthemums and loss. The cloying scent settled on Olivia’s skin, working its way into her pores until she felt she would suffocate if she didn’t go back outside for some fresh air. But she couldn’t. She had to endure it. Like everyone else there, she had little choice in the matter of staying or going.
The nurses at reception directed her to the dayroom before returning to their endless form-filling and chipped mugs of milky tea. Carrying a packet of jelly babies, and with the bulky manuscript in her bag weighing heavy on her shoulder, Olivia walked along the corridor, passing the framed prints of floral paintings that she found so hopelessly depressing. Her footsteps were muted by the soft linoleum flooring. Even her breathing quieted. Everything was done with a hush at St. Bridget’s, as if the people there had a mute button permanently switched on. The silence provoked a nervous energy in Olivia, making her want to laugh when there was absolutely nothing amusing about the place at all.
At the dayroom door, she hesitated. Nana was in her favorite chair by the window, her eyes closed as one of the nurses read to her. Olivia leaned around the door frame to listen.
“‘Up the airy mountain, / Down the rushy glen, / We daren’t go a-hunting / For fear of little men.’”
Olivia whispered along with the words, recognizing the William Allingham poem “The Faeries,” which Nana used to recite to her as a child. Nana had loved to tell her the tales of the Little People, reading from a favorite collection of Irish fairy stories. Olivia had vague memories of her mother scolding Nana, saying, “You’ll have the child ruined with a head full of fairies.” But Olivia had loved the old tales as much as Nana did, The Stolen Child and The Fairy Hill becoming firm favorites. She asked for them night after night, enchanted by Nana’s storytelling, by the old-fashioned language and forgotten names and places. Nana brought the stories alive, until the púca and the sídhe became real to Olivia and she insisted on leaving out a saucer of milk and other little treats so they would keep her in their favor.
The nurse read on. “‘Wee folk, good folk, / Trooping all together; / Green jacket, red cap, / And white owl’s feather!’”
A slight smile played at the edge of Nana’s lips. When Olivia saw her like this, so peaceful, it was hard to believe there was anything wrong with her at all. She looked for all the world like a happy, healthy ninety-seven-year-old. Her hair was neatly styled, her clothes smart and freshly laundered. Today’s ensemble was a pair of black trousers and a bright yellow cardigan that brought out the color in her cheeks. Her penciled-in eyebrows were as much an accessory as the string of pearls that skirted the collar of her cardigan.
When the poem ended, the nurse made sure Nana was comfortable and smiled at Olivia, indicating that she should come over. Olivia stepped into the room.
“Hi, Nana. How are you?” She kept her voice bright and breezy, bending down to kiss Nana’s cheek and squeezing her frail hands as tight as she dared. Nana seemed to shrink a little every time Olivia saw her. It was like watching melting ice—soon there would be nothing left of her, only memories frozen in time. She so desperately wanted the old Nana back. The Nana she knew and loved. The Nana who knew and loved her. “I remember that poem, Nana. It was one of my favorites.” She pulled over a chair and straightened the blanket on Nana’s knees.
Rheumy gray eyes studied Olivia in reply, not looking at her but past her, as if searching for something far away.
Nana pushed the blanket to one side, muttering to herself. “What is it this time? Temperature check?” She often thought Olivia was the nurse. Sometimes she was the minibus driver. Once she was a famous actress from the Gaiety. Rarely was she Olivia.
“No temperature checks today,” Olivia said. “Just visiting.” She passed Nana the jelly babies. “I brought you these.”
Nana eyed them suspiciously, crinkling the plastic wrapper as she turned the bag over in her hands before placing it on the table beside her. “Do I like them?”
“They’re your favorites. Especially the red ones. We used to bite the heads off them and laugh.”
Olivia told Nana about the walk she’d enjoyed up Howth Head that morning and showed her some pictures of the rhododendrons on her phone. Nana remarked on them, trying to remember if it was rhododendrons or hydrangeas she grew in her garden.
“Hydrangeas, Nana. White and pink. They’re always admired by people who pass the cottage.”
“Which cottage?”
“Your cottage. Bluebell Cottage? At the top of the hill?” Everything was a question now. Everything punctuated with doubt and uncertainty.
Nana closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort of conversation, of remembering.
The room was stuffy and airless. It made Olivia claustrophobic.
They sat quietly for a while, the occasional rattle of the approaching tea trolley and the distant tinny voices from the television doing their best to cover up the gaps in their conversation. It was these silent minutes Olivia especially hated. She filled them with inconsequential fussing: straightening piles of months-old magazines, picking browned petals from wilted carnations in a vase at the window, organizing a deck of cards into suits. None of it mattered, but anything was better than the gaping silence.
She was relieved when the tea trolley arrived and Nana perked up a little. There was something reassuring about watching Barbara pour hot tea from the large stainless steel pot while she chattered on about the wind blowing the wheelie bins over in the night and how you wouldn’t believe the mess she’d woken up to on her street that morning. Nana dunked a digestive biscuit and said what did people expect if they were silly enough to put bins on wheels? Olivia smiled. In brief lucid moments like this, she could hardly believe that life had brought them to St. Bridget’s at all.
Pappy had never admitted it, but Olivia knew he found words like dementia and Alzheimer’s frightening. “Away with the fairies. That’s all. She’ll be grand.” He’d said he didn’t want Nana to be labeled, insisting she was still the same Martha, deep down. He’d looked after her at home as long as he could
, patiently making small adjustments to their routine, constantly trying to find a way to make the new Martha fit with the old Cormac as things became awkward, then difficult, and eventually impossible. He said it was like doing a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces kept changing shape. “You have to keep trying every piece until you find one that fits.” It was the closest he’d ever come to complaining.
The fire finally brought things to a head. Nana was making chips, double fried, the way Pappy liked them, but she forgot about them during the second fry and popped out to the shops to get him a bottle of stout while he was at a friend’s garden picking broad beans. He didn’t even like stout. The kitchen was a charred shell by the time a neighbor raised the alarm.
Pappy found Nana at the bookshop. She couldn’t remember how she got there or why she had a bottle of stout in her bag. Something Old was the place she’d instinctively gone to, knowing she would be safe there. Olivia thought it rather lovely that when real life was deserting Nana, it was the bookshop and the fictional lives she’d loved and lived through that stuck by her, like loyal friends. Arrangements to move her into the nursing home began the next day, and St. Bridget’s became part of their lives—a comma separating everything life was before, and everything it had become since.
Olivia sipped her tea and took a deep breath before telling Nana she would be looking after the bookshop now.
“Which bookshop?”
“Something Old?” Olivia waited, hoping for the fog to lift, for Nana to remember.
“Has he straightened that sign yet? It’s all off to one side. I suppose he’ll be wanting his tea soon. Never stops eating, that man. Hollow legs. Or worms.” Nana’s eyes fluttered as she chased a memory back over the years. She leaned forward, studying Olivia’s face. “You remind me of someone.” Olivia’s heart thumped. Please remember. Please say my name. “Hepburn. Is that it? Audrey Hepburn?” Nana looked pleased with herself and then frowned, confusion clouding her face. “What’s your name?”
“Olivia.”
“Pretty name.” She took Olivia’s left hand in hers. “Not married?”