by Hazel Gaynor
“Did you really see little men and fairies?”
“Are you and your cousin playing a prank on us all?”
“Are there fairies in Scarborough?”
I wanted to say it was none of their business what I had or hadn’t seen, but Daddy told me not to be cheeking the reporters or they might write unpleasant things about me. I answered their questions curtly. “Yes, I did see fairies up the beck” and “No, I haven’t seen any fairies in Scarborough.” I found different routes home from school, cutting through back lanes and narrow side streets, avoiding the reporters as best I could. But no number of back lanes and side streets could help me avoid the girls at school. If I didn’t answer the teacher’s questions right away, they’d say, “Thinking about fairies, then?” and giggle behind their slates. The headmaster even asked to talk to me about the “Yorkshire fairies.” I didn’t want to talk to him about fairies. I wanted to be a normal teenage girl, like my friends.
I became sullen and withdrawn.
Daddy tried to cheer me up with walks along the prom. He told me not to take it so seriously. “Nobody’s come to any harm,” he said. “People are fascinated with fairies, that’s all. It’s not such a terrible thing, is it?”
“I wish we’d never taken those photographs, Daddy. We only wanted to show Mummy and Aunt Polly and Uncle Arthur. Not the whole world.”
He wrapped his arms around me and said people would find something else to talk about soon enough.
In a way, he was right. The reporters eventually lost interest in me, finding me a difficult, uncooperative child. Elsie was much more amenable. She quite enjoyed the attention. To my relief, the focus of their questioning shifted from me to her. But alone in my bedroom at night, I worried, and when I worried, I dreamed, and still the images of a little girl with red hair nagged at my conscience.
Through the dreary winter months, the guilty secret of our photographs clung to me like my rain-sodden wool coat that pulled my arms to my sides and made my footsteps uneasy. The newspapers continued to report on our photographs. The Times of London said, “I would suggest to Miss Elsie that she has carried her little joke far enough, and that she should tell the public what the ‘fairies’ really are.” Other reports suggested we had been pulling Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s leg. Mr. Gardner wrote to advise us to keep hidden any copies of the final three photographs we’d taken the previous summer. He said we were not to worry about the speculation in the newspaper, writing, “We will surprise them all with the new fairy photographs. We will win through and Elsie and Frances will be justified everywhere.”
Our joke had already gone too far, and as Mr. Gardner took our photographs around the country on his lecture tour, interest in them and in us spread further and further until eventually Mr. Gardner and our photographs crossed the Atlantic Ocean and we were being talked about in Elsie’s beloved America.
Like the ripples I’d watched on the surface of the beck, I was absolutely helpless to stop it.
Part Three
Fairies Revealed
One mystery remains. It concerns a photograph in which the girls, unusually, are absent, and transparent fairies are depicted apparently in a sunny grass bower. Mrs. Griffiths maintains that she took the photograph and it is the only genuine one. . . .
—THE TIMES, 1983
Fifteen
Ireland. Present day.
The first weeks of summer arrived with a parade of warm days and balmy evenings. Windows were left open at night and bedsheets kicked off as hot limbs searched for cooler air. Olivia was buoyed by the bright days and the support of those around her, especially Henry and Ross, who cheered her on when business was good and cheered her up when things got on top of her. The heavy coils of doubt she’d hefted around for so long gently unfurled as she accepted that whatever happened now, it happened because of her. She was in charge. She made the decisions.
It was her decision to arrange more bookbinding demonstrations and themed evenings: Irish Poetry, Gothic Horror, and British Classics were all a huge hit. It was her decision to repaint the shop door hyacinth blue in honor of Bluebell Cottage. It was her decision to leave a Welcome to Your New Home bottle of wine on the doorstep of the cottage for the new owners. It was her decision to invite Ross to stay on as Writer in Residence when he’d finished his book. She said she’d gotten used to him being around. He said he’d hoped she would say that.
The arrangement suited them both, and neither was especially keen to change it, particularly Friday evenings when they wrapped up the week over a bottle of wine. Only occasionally did they stray into the realms of harmless flirtation: a look, a smile, a pause while words left unsaid circled around them, teasing and provoking. Olivia didn’t need another boyfriend. She needed a friend, and in Ross she had found exactly that. They both agreed their one drunken kiss had been a mistake. Still, it was a lovely mistake and one Olivia thought about often, and sometimes when a certain look passed between them, she wondered if Ross thought about it too.
As Olivia and Something Old flourished, so did the garden in the window. Local interest became a national curiosity, and Olivia found herself on the evening news, talking about it. Nobody knew how the garden continued to thrive, even when the window boxes were moved and without ever being given a drop of water. When she was asked what she attributed the phenomenon to, Olivia said that explanations were the thief of wonder, and that she was happy to live without one. She didn’t mention the wish she’d left at the fairy door. Those for whom it was intended had heard.
Soon the “Garden in the Window” became a story in itself. Customers arrived in the dozens to take a look, and when they ventured into the shop, the books flew off the shelves. Something Old was alive again. Each morning, when Olivia went downstairs to open up, she discovered new green shoots, newly unfurled blooms and perfect glossy leaves, gifts that had arrived during the silent hours while she dreamed. And her dreams bloomed too.
As she read more of Frances’s story, Olivia realized that her dreams mirrored Frances’s dreams; the present reflecting the past. Like the tendrils and shoots entwining themselves around the shop window, Frances’s story had wrapped itself around Olivia’s heart, capturing there Frances’s memories of Ellen Hogan and the traumatic loss of her daughter.
Cottingley called to Olivia. She waited, impatiently, for the day of her trip to arrive.
ON SUNDAYS, THE shop closed. Pappy had never agreed with Sunday trading and Olivia honored his tradition, taking the opportunity to hike around the cliff tops. She enjoyed the fresh air and the views, and enjoyed it even more when Ross and Iris started to join her. It was good to have some company. Up on the breezy cliff tops, Olivia and Ross spoke about things in a way they couldn’t in the shop. There was something safe about sharing their thoughts and feelings up there. It was liberating in the same way that London had been restricting, and once she let herself open up, Olivia found she had a lot to say.
Iris loved the view, pondering what might lie beyond the horizon, just as Olivia used to when she was a little girl. As they looked down at the miniature sailing boats in the harbor, Olivia pointed out the ruins of the abbey and Little Lane.
“If you look hard you can see the bookshop, Iris. See? Just there.”
Iris screwed up her eyes, following the direction of Olivia’s finger. “Why do you like the bookshop so much?”
“I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. I always felt there was something magical about it.” They threw pebbles over the edge of the cliff and watched them race down, bumping off each other and landing in some distant place they couldn’t see. “Shall I tell you a secret, Iris?”
“Yes! I love secrets.”
“I think the books come alive at night. When the shop is closed and the lights are turned out, I think they open their covers and fan out their pages like wings and start to fly. Imagine it. Hundreds of books, flapping their pages, soaring and swooping because they’re so alive with stories they can’t possibly sit still on
the shelf.”
Iris giggled. “You’re funny when you talk about books.”
Olivia laughed. “I suppose I am! Do you remember the photograph of the little girl and the fairies?” Iris nodded. “I’m reading a story about her.”
“Are the fairies in it?”
“Yes. I think you might like it. I can give it to your Daddy to read to you if you like.”
Iris grabbed Olivia’s hand. “Would you read it to me? Daddy tries hard, but he doesn’t do the voices properly. Not like Mammy.”
Olivia promised she would do the best voices she could, although she knew they would never be good enough.
They walked on, following the path around the headland.
“We used to walk a lot, before Hannah died,” Ross said as Iris ran ahead, skipping between the gorse bushes and clambering over stones. “Iris loves it up here. Look at her. She’s in her element.”
“Jack and I never went for walks, unless it was to a wine bar or to somewhere. We never walked for the sake of walking. He didn’t see the point.”
Ross stopped to admire the view. “This might be a stupid question, but why did you agree to marry him?”
It was a question Olivia had asked herself many times. She stared out over the sea, too ashamed to look Ross in the eye. “Because he asked me. I was afraid of being alone. Afraid of being left on the shelf. It felt kind of inevitable that I would settle down one day, and when he asked, I said yes.”
“Did you love him?”
“I did. For a while. Or at least, I thought I did. Now I’m not sure.” She turned to face Ross. “How do you know? How does anyone know what proper love feels like?”
Ross glanced at the wedding band on his finger and let out a long, heartfelt sigh. “Oh, you know, Olivia. You definitely know.”
They walked on, the sun at their backs, the sweet gorse scenting the air around them.
“You had a lucky escape, then,” Ross said.
Olivia smiled. “Actually, I prefer to think of it as setting out on an adventure. Illusionists escape. Adventurers go exploring.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Pretty good so far.”
They looked out across the harbor, unspoken words and thoughts shifting between them like the waves that lapped at the hulls of the boats. In those quiet moments, Olivia realized how lovely it was to have someone to do nothing with, to just stand with, and watch and think with.
“Did you ever read Ulysses?” she asked.
“Did anyone?”
“You should give it a go. There’s a lovely scene written here.”
“On Howth Head?”
“Yep. Molly Bloom’s soliloquy. ‘The sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat . . .’” She stopped short of completing the passage.
“I never knew that.”
“There you go, then. You should read it. You might learn all sorts of things.”
He promised he would.
Ross was fidgety for the rest of the afternoon. He kept looking at Olivia as if he wanted to say something but kept changing his mind. She knew him well enough by now to pick up on his moods.
“Ross, is everything all right? You seem a bit distracted.”
He took a deep breath. “Did I ever tell you my family are originally from Kerry?” he asked.
“No. You didn’t.” Olivia sensed he was going to tell her something she wasn’t going to like.
“We’re going back. Iris and me. We’re moving back to Kerry.”
Olivia’s heart raced. “When?”
“Two weeks. At the end of the school year. I’ve been trying to find a place since Hannah died. Iris has no family here. She has cousins and aunts and uncles there. A Nana and a Grandad. I can’t deprive her of that. I’ve been looking for so long, I thought it would never happen, but I just had an offer accepted on my house, and I’ve had an offer accepted on a house in Kerry. The owners moved out months ago so it’s vacant possession. Everything’s happened really quickly.”
Olivia didn’t know what to say. She kept walking, one foot in front of the other, as Iris skipped ahead in her red wellies, oblivious to the drama playing out behind her.
“And do you know what’s mad?” Ross continued.
“What?”
“When I told Iris we were moving, she asked if you could come with us.”
Olivia stopped walking. “Did she?”
“Yep. She’s taken quite a shine to you. I told her she’ll still be able to write to you. I hope that’s okay?”
“Of course it is.” It would have to be okay. It would all have to be okay.
“Anyway, I wanted you to know. At least you’ll get your flat back. You can hang your knickers everywhere and run around naked!”
Olivia punched him playfully on the arm. “Bugger off to Kerry, then. See if I care.”
“Will you miss me?”
“I’ll miss your guitar.”
Ross laughed. “Is that all?”
There was so much she would miss. His smile. His silly coffee cup names. His company. His kindness. His belief in her.
“Of course I’ll miss you. Who am I going to moan to about everything now? Seriously though. You’ve been great. Especially the past few weeks.”
Ross shrugged his shoulders. “What are friends for?”
He held out the crook of his elbow, and Olivia linked her arm through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it was the wildness of the scenery, or perhaps it was the way the sun wrapped itself around Olivia so that her entire body felt as if it were made of sunlight, but whatever it was, it felt right to be walking arm in arm with Ross Bailey, Writer.
When Iris and Ross started a game of hide-and-seek, Olivia let them run on ahead, but as she picked her way through the rhododendron tunnels, she could feel the weight of Ross’s arm in hers.
Without it, everything felt a little off balance.
AS THE SHOP became busier, Olivia struggled to find as much time as she’d like to visit Nana. Ross helped out by minding the shop as often as he could, and Henry was only too happy to visit Nana on the days when Olivia couldn’t. Old friendships had been easily rekindled at the fairy evening; Olivia had secretly watched Nana and Henry stroll together in the gardens, arm in arm. It was the first time she’d seen Henry walk without his stick.
St. Bridget’s no longer held the same sense of dread for Olivia that it once had. She’d stopped fighting her anger and frustration about Nana’s illness and focused on what she could do to love and care for her for as long as she could, and to make her remaining days comfortable and pleasant. As Henry said in one of his Henryisms, “We can’t always change the situations life puts us in, but we can change the way we respond.”
Olivia continued to read to Nana from Frances’s book, and listened with renewed patience to Nana’s invented stories. Sometimes she took red lemonade and they sat beneath the shade of a rowan tree, sipping the lemonade through straws and giggling as the bubbles went up their noses.
Olivia told Nana she would be traveling to England for a few days and that Henry would look in on her while she was away.
“I’m going to Cottingley, Nana. To see where you used to live.”
There was a flicker of recognition. “That’s nice, dear. If you see Aisling, tell her it’s time to come home now. Mammy is terribly worried.”
Olivia couldn’t hide her tears. Nana looked increasingly frail in recent days so that Olivia hardly dared hug her as she kissed her good-bye. “I’ll be back in a few days. I love you, Nana.”
She thought she saw the edge of a smile at Nana’s lips but couldn’t be sure.
That night, as she lay in bed thinking about her trip to England, Hemingway curled up on the pillow beside her, purring as Olivia rubbed behind his ears. Despite his initial haughty indifference, he’d realized she wasn’t going
anywhere and had finally accepted her as his flatmate and, possibly, his friend.
Olivia picked up the final pages of Frances’s story, losing herself in the events that had happened in Cottingley so long ago, and in the people who had lived through them. Events and people that felt closer with every turn of the page . . .
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Scarborough, Yorkshire. March 1921.
Mummy always said, “Beware the Ides of March.” I’d never paid much heed until that March day in 1921 when the second Strand Magazine article came out, blazing the sensational headline:
THE EVIDENCE FOR FAIRIES
BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
WITH NEW FAIRY PHOTOGRAPHS
Trouble was coming. I could feel it in my bones.
The day the article was published, I climbed to my favorite spot on the cliff tops above the bend in Marine Drive and watched spring rush in across the North Sea. The winds were wild and sent the waves crashing against the rocks below. I loved this time of year, before the tourists arrived from the West. Summer brought the thrill of Catlin’s Pierrot shows in the Arcadia, the Punch and Judy shows on the pier, and Cricket Week, but spring gave me dunes to play in and empty beaches and the castle all to myself. I loved the rush and boom of the water in the caves. I loved to walk along the prom as waves raced across the road, sloshing around the omnibus wheels and soaking anyone who got in the way. But no matter how long I lingered by the sea, no matter how much I dawdled on my way home, I couldn’t avoid Conan Doyle’s article. It was waiting on the kitchen table when I got home.
The new photographs that Elsie and I had taken the previous summer were included, the names Iris and Alice still used in the descriptions. I could hardly bear to look, wincing at the photographs of Elsie (Iris) and the fairy with the harebells and of myself and the leaping fairy. And yet despite the guilty conscience that nagged as I read the article, I again found myself interested in Conan Doyle’s thoughts on fairy life and especially in his detailed accounts of fairy sightings from all over England and Ireland, the descriptions matching that of my beck fairies. “Taking a large number of cases which lie before me, there are two points which are common to nearly all of them. One is that children claim to see these creatures far more frequently than adults. . . . The other is, that more cases are recorded in which they have been seen in the still, shimmering hours of a very hot day than at any other time.” It gave me great confidence to know that others had seen what I had.