by Hazel Gaynor
Olivia winced at the thought of her engagement ring still in her skirt pocket. She should really put it somewhere safe. She wondered if she would give it back. What did you do with an engagement ring if you called the engagement off? “No, Nana. I’m not married.” Again she felt a rush of childlike rebellion, a truth not fully told.
“Don’t worry, dear. You’ll meet someone. When the time’s right. Or maybe when it’s not.”
Nana’s gaze drifted off into the distance, lost somewhere Olivia couldn’t reach her. It was a look Olivia had seen often, even before the onset of Alzheimer’s, a look she sensed she wasn’t meant to notice.
She picked up her bag from beside her chair and took out the magazine article and Frances’s manuscript. “I found some interesting things at the shop today, Nana.” She explained about the briefcase and the things she’d found and handed Nana the Conan Doyle article. “I thought you might like to see them.”
Nana took the page from Olivia. It shook in her hands as she brought it closer to her face, studying it carefully before resting it on her lap. She ran her fingers across the photograph of Alice and the fairies as if she were reading braille, searching for a memory among the words and the picture. She chuckled lightly, a curious, faraway sound.
“Do you recognize it?” Olivia leaned forward, willing her to remember. There was a softness to Nana’s face that Olivia hadn’t seen for a long time. For the briefest moment, she looked like the old Nana Martha. Alive. Full of questions and stories.
Nana tapped the photograph with her fingernail. “That’s Frances.”
Olivia’s heart sank. She tried to keep her voice calm and patient as she explained. “It’s Alice, Nana. Look. It says underneath.”
Nana fixed her with a determined stare. “I don’t care what it says. That’s Frances.”
Olivia knew when to back down. “Did you know her? Mammy had the same photograph in a silver frame in her jewelry box.” She paused, waiting for any sign of recognition from Nana, anxious not to upset her by stirring distressing memories. “I haven’t seen it for years, but I’ve never forgotten it.”
Nana looked back at the image. “Such a lot of fuss about a few photographs. It was all those men from London. Interfering. They never meant it to go as far as it did.”
She remembered.
There were so many questions Olivia wanted to ask, but she didn’t want to overwhelm Nana. She thought of the hope and wonder in Iris’s eyes that morning when she’d asked if the fairies were real. She thought of the hope and wonder she’d felt in her own heart when she’d asked her mammy the same question. She hardly dared ask it again now.
“Are they real, Nana? The fairies?”
Nana turned her eyes to Olivia, her gaze settling firmly on her as she took hold of her hands. “Which ones, dear? The ones in the photograph, or the ones we can’t see?”
Olivia looked at the photograph again. The girl—Alice or Frances or whoever it was—looked straight ahead into the camera. Why wasn’t she looking at the fairies in front of her? Surely she would have been so captivated by them she wouldn’t have been able to look at anything else. Perhaps there was another story to be told; another story behind the camera.
“There were some other things, too, Nana. Another photograph in an old children’s picture book, and this.” She lifted the heavy manuscript from her bag. “It was written by someone called Frances Griffiths.”
Nana nodded. “The girl with the fairies in the photograph.” She took the thick pile of paper and rested it on her lap, running her fingers over the violet ribbon.
“It’s a sort of memoir,” Olivia explained. “Do you know why Pappy might have had it at the shop?”
Nana shook her head and closed her eyes. Her memories couldn’t keep up.
“I thought I could read the story to you when I visit. It’s set in Cottingley in Yorkshire. Isn’t that where you grew up?”
Olivia hesitated, wondering if she shouldn’t have mentioned any of this at all. Perhaps it was something Nana didn’t want to remember, even if she could.
“That’s right,” Nana said. “Cottingley. Pretty little place. There was a stream.” A slight smile played at her lips as she spoke. She opened one eye and looked at Olivia. “Go on, then. Start reading.”
After the first four chapters, Nana grew tired and asked Olivia to take her back to her room. Olivia sat with her until she slept and the evening nurses came around. Then Olivia kissed Nana’s cheek and told her she loved her, as she always did, although she was never sure if Nana heard. Even if she did, she never said it back.
OLIVIA SLEPT FITFULLY that night, back in the bedroom of her childhood at Bluebell Cottage, Nana and Pappy’s home in Howth. Despite the soothing hush of the sea that tiptoed through the open window, the emotional turmoil of the day cartwheeled through her mind, and her thoughts refused to settle. They jumped from Pappy and Nana to Frances and Elsie. They even settled—fleetingly—on Ross and Iris. But no matter who else resided there for a moment or two, it was to Jack and the wedding that her thoughts ultimately returned. Jack, and the future they’d planned over Michelin-starred dinners and expensive wine. A future that felt increasingly distant with each day that she moved hesitantly closer toward it.
It wasn’t until the thick blackness of night made way for the navy hue of dawn that she eventually fell asleep, but even then she couldn’t properly rest. Her dreams were occupied by visions of a little girl, hair streaming like flames as she placed a posy of white flowers on the doorstep of a woodland cottage before settling on the bough of a willow tree above a narrow stream. There she sang of fairies at the bottom of the garden and watched the flowers slowly unfurl their petals beneath the warmth of a gentle morning sun. Even from behind the veil of sleep, Olivia sensed that something about this dream was different, that although she inhabited it, it wasn’t her dream at all.
Like the prospect of married life with Jack waiting for her in London, somehow she sensed it belonged to someone else.
Five
Ireland. Present day.
She woke to the sound of the sea, the sound of home. A cool breeze floated through the open window, carrying a dandelion seed inside with it. Jinny-Joes as she called them, although Nana Martha insisted they were called fairies in Yorkshire, and if you caught one you had to make a wish. Olivia watched it dance in a shaft of sunlight before it settled onto the pillow beside her. She picked it up and twirled it around between her thumb and finger. Something about its fragility spoke to her of letting go, of being blown on the wind to some unknown place. She closed her eyes and made a wish.
Propping herself up against her pillow, she watched the hypnotic ribbons of sunlight that streamed through the window and cast a sheen against the peach silk curtains. Her mind flipped from London to Ireland and back again, her thoughts racing over the lists she had made and remade in recent months: flowers, wine, favors, gifts for the bridesmaids, band, DJ . . . She’d only wanted a small wedding. Close family and friends. How had it become so big and time-consuming? The Wedding and The Dress were all anyone ever talked about so that she—Olivia—was a mere afterthought, an accessory. As she stared up at the purple lampshade that had accompanied so many of her dilemmas over the years, she felt nauseated at the thought of returning to that life, and exhilarated by the prospect of not.
There was nothing especially wrong with Jack, other than the fact that there was nothing especially right about him. An unlikely partner whom she’d met after being stood up on a date, he had completely surprised her with a proposal the following Christmas Eve. Most surprising of all was the yes Olivia had heard herself saying. A yes formed from shock and other people’s expectations and the unavoidable sound of her biological clock ticking. Marriage, family, a mortgage—it was time she settled down, wasn’t it? Yet that was the part troubling her the most. The settling down. Making the best of it. Being content. Content? The word alone filled her with a deep malaise. Contentment was a poor substitute for the fulfilling,
enriching life she’d imagined, but how could she get back to that? Pappy used to say that an explorer without a map must become a mapmaker. It sounded so romantic: plotting a different course, charting new waters. That was the life she wanted. Not the paint-by-numbers predictability she found herself in the middle of now.
Stepping out of bed, she opened the curtains, blinking against the glare of the sun as it bounced off the sea. She grabbed her sunglasses and pushed up the casement window, savoring the purity of the air, the briny tang, the sense of well-being that flooded her body with every breath. In the harbor the boats bobbed gently in the swell, while above, wispy clouds raced the seagulls and chased shadows across the water. The clang of mast bells and the snap of rigging drifted back on the breeze. Olivia’s senses were attuned to the environment here, where they always felt numbed in London, smothered by the unrelenting pressure to live the perfect life.
She washed and dressed and made her way downstairs.
The house was hesitant and cold. It, too, was grieving.
She pulled up the kitchen blind, glad of the sunlight that streamed through the slats and pooled on the table like melted butter. She filled the kettle, switched on the heater, flicked on the radio. A lively piano concerto filled the silence with purpose and energy. She walked through to the sitting room, where an army of condolence and mass cards marched across the mantelpiece. “We are sorry for your loss.” “In deepest sympathy.” Several had toppled from their perch, forming a puddle of grief on the hearth rug below. Olivia gathered them up until the mantelpiece was cleared and the cherished family photographs that had sat there for decades were revealed once again. Among them was her favorite photograph of herself as a baby with her mother, the tips of their noses just touching, a look of absolute adoration in her mother’s eyes. So much love, captured by the click of a button.
A knock at the back door disturbed her thoughts.
Dropping the collection of sympathy cards into the kitchen bin, she opened the door, delighted to see Mrs. Joyce, the neighbor who never seemed to age and had always reminded Olivia of a Russian doll with her headscarf and rouged cheeks.
Olivia threw her arms around her. “Mrs. Joyce! It’s so lovely to see you.”
“I’m not disturbing you, am I? I won’t stop. I saw the curtains open and said to Joe I’d look in on you. ‘I hate to think of that young girl all alone in there,’ I says.” She handed Olivia a Tupperware container. “Brownies. Fresh out of the oven.”
“You’re very good. Come in. The kettle’s just boiled.”
“Grand so, but I’ll not stop. Just one cup.” Mrs. Joyce stepped inside, rubbing her hands briskly together against the morning chill. “I like your hair, love. It suits you. Brings out your eyes.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “You look just like your mam. The spit of her.”
They sat together at the kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and eating brownies as the notes from a violin solo mingled with the steam that drifted in spirals from their mugs. Olivia was in no hurry—happy to find an excuse to put off the things she had to face up to—and neither, it seemed, was Mrs. Joyce. Her “just one cup” became a second pot as Olivia told her about Pappy’s letter and the fact that he had left her the shop.
Mrs. Joyce wasn’t surprised. “You always loved that shop. Martha used to say you would live there if you could! You’ll do a grand job, love. I know you will.”
Olivia didn’t mention Jack or the threatening letter from the solicitor. She didn’t admit that apart from her passion for books and her skill in restoring them, she felt totally unqualified for the task.
“Have you started clearing things out yet?” Mrs. Joyce asked. “Never a nice job, sure it isn’t, but best to get it done rather than letting it hang over you.”
“I promised myself I’d start today. I’m dreading it, to be honest.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of rummaging through drawers and cupboards, disturbing the private places where Nana and Pappy kept their secrets. She’d done it before when she’d helped Pappy sort through Nana’s things, sifting through her life like museum curators, choosing the best pieces to display in her new room at St. Bridget’s. Pappy had insisted on at least one of her china dogs going with her. The doctors said familiar things would create a sense of home for Nana and make the transition easier. Olivia wasn’t convinced it had done either.
Mrs. Joyce’s eyes glistened with tears. “No wonder you’re dreading it. God love you. He was a good man, Cormac. I always said it to Martha. ‘He’s a good man, that Cormac Kavanagh.’”
They sat in thoughtful silence, just as they had after her mother’s accident. Olivia remembered how she’d pushed a spoon around a bowl of lime jelly that she couldn’t eat and how, as she’d watched Mrs. Joyce sob into her handkerchief, she’d realized that the sadness wasn’t all hers to bear alone. She felt it again now, as Mrs. Joyce patted her arm.
“Will you let me help? I’ve nothing much on this morning and we’d get through it much faster with two.”
Olivia was so grateful. “Would you mind?”
Mrs. Joyce smiled. “What are neighbors for, eh?”
While Mrs. Joyce tackled the back room, Olivia made a start on the front. Old magazines and TV guides were thrown into a bag for recycling. Half-empty bottles of Christmas sherry and rum were dragged from the back of the drinks cabinet and poured down the sink. Photograph albums were put in a box to look through later. Shelves and sideboards were cleared of china dogs and the lace doilies they’d sat on for decades, all of them going into the box for the charity shop with surprising emotional detachment. It was the smaller, unexpected things that broke Olivia’s heart: an incomplete game of solitaire, Pappy’s pipe resting on the edge of the ashtray, a half-finished jigsaw of the Titanic. A quiet, simple life on pause. In Pappy’s honor, she cleaned the pipe and ashtray and completed the game of solitaire before finishing the jigsaw and returning it to its box. She stood back then, acknowledging how empty the room had become without its little trinkets and mementos, just the sofa and chairs left with nobody to sit on them. How quickly a lifetime could be cleared away. Too quickly. She wished she could put everything back as Mrs. Joyce appeared at her shoulder.
“All done, love?”
“It’s as if they were never here, Mrs. Joyce. As if they never existed.”
“I know, love. But you’ve your memories, and they’re more important than ornaments of china dogs.” She linked her arm through Olivia’s. “God forgive me, but I never liked them dogs. Awful ugly things.”
They both laughed until their laughter turned to tears, and Olivia felt much better for letting it all out.
“Here. You might want to look at this.” Mrs. Joyce held a book and a folded piece of paper. “I always give books a good shake before I send them to charity. I used to work in the donation center at the St. Vincent de Paul. You’d be amazed what we found in coat pockets and books. The letter was inside this book.”
Olivia took them from her. The book was a slim volume called The Coming of the Fairies by Arthur Conan Doyle. On the title page were two inscriptions. One “To Frances,” signed by Conan Doyle, dated 1921. The other “To Martha,” signed by Frances, dated 1978. It was in exceptionally good condition. It hardly looked as though the pages had been turned at all, and with the signatures, Olivia knew it could sell for a decent amount to the right collector. She turned the first page and read the opening paragraph:
Chapter one. How The Matter Arose. The series of incidents set forth in this little volume represent either the most elaborate and ingenious hoax ever played upon the public, or else they constitute an event in human history which may, in the future, appear to have been epoch-making in its character.
Intrigued, but anxious to read the letter, she closed the book for now, perched on the arm of Pappy’s favorite chair, and unfolded the sheet of writing paper.
16th October 1978
Dear Martha,
Thank you for the very kind words in your recent
letter, which I was delighted to receive after all these years. It is always a pleasure to hear from someone who believes my story. The recent BBC television play has stirred up a lot of memories and fuss. I’m still not sure it was a good idea to rake over the past—it usually isn’t—but what’s done is done. Elsie, at least, seems to be enjoying the attention. She was always more comfortable with the reporters.
Cottingley seems like a distant dream now, like something that happened to somebody else, yet whenever the press get involved (as they do from time to time), it all becomes very real again. Real, and not altogether pleasant. They forget that I was a child when it happened—a naive young girl, not the woman they see when they ask me their questions and raise their eyebrows at my replies. I know what they are thinking, but I also know what I saw all those years ago, and what I have seen time and again in the years since.
I’m often asked why I think our photographs caused such a sensation when they first became public all those years ago. Conan Doyle’s articles appeared during a time of great despair in England. When you’ve lived through such a terrible war as we all had, lost friends and loved ones, you cling to anything that offers a sense of hope and comfort. People wanted so desperately to believe in fairies and the spirit world because if fairies could visit us from another realm, then perhaps our loved ones could too. I’m not surprised our fairies charmed so many people. Nothing much surprises me anymore.
I’ve enclosed a copy of Conan Doyle’s book about the events of those summers, which I hope will be of interest to you (I somehow ended up with two copies). His account makes for interesting reading—if a little too scientific at times for my liking. I’ve recently started writing about the Cottingley events, to tell the story in my own words, as it were. I will send you a copy—if I ever finish it.
I wonder—do you still have the Princess Mary picture book? You admired it so much when you were a little girl. I was pleased to give it to you.