With love, for Michael
&
in loving memory of my parents & my uncle Kirk
And I say, how lucky I was. I was only buried alive a few hours, you know.
—EITHNE O’CONNOR, Belfast Blitz survivor
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgments
One
ON THAT MORNING OF OCTOBER 3, 1940, HETTIE QUIN KNEW she was lucky to be there, at the docks of Belfast, assisting with the elephant’s arrival. One of the other zookeepers had come down with a fever, and Ferris Poole had enlisted her help at the last minute. As she stood next to Ferris at the edge of the crowd, Hettie steadied herself after having sprinted down to the docks from the nearby tram stop; her mother had made her tardy by requesting multiple chores around the house before Hettie finally managed to slip out the door. As she pushed sweaty strands of hair from her eyes, she took in the stunning sight overhead—a young elephant being maneuvered through the air. A crane and a system of chains and pulleys elevated the animal from the deck of the moored steamship. The elephant’s trunk coiled up and then unfurled like an opening fist. There was a hollow trumpet call. The crowd—women, men, children, sailors, dockworkers—let out a collective gasp, their gazes following the orchestrated movements of the hoisting operation. Hettie had never seen so many people at the docks: It was as if British royalty or a famous screen actress were among the steamer’s passengers arriving that morning. The atmosphere felt festive, bright with expectation.
Here was the three-year-old elephant. Here was her potential new charge at the zoo. Here was Violet. A local poacher had killed the animal’s mother with poisoned arrows on a savanna in faraway Ceylon, and Mr. Christie, the owner of the Bellevue Zoo & Gardens, had bought the orphaned elephant for a good price from another animal trader in Ceylon. Standing next to Hettie, Ferris dropped his half-finished cigarette onto the ground and squared his shoulders for Violet’s arrival. Mr. Wright, the head zookeeper, stood at the foot of the gangplank. Two reporters appeared by his side and scribbled in their notepads as Mr. Wright kept his gaze fixed on Violet. The elephant hovered, her feet hanging in midair, her flap-like ears pinned against her head. There was another collective sigh as she lifted her trunk and produced a high-pitched whistle. The elephant’s cry tumbled over the crowd.
With his ramrod-straight posture and a subtle theatrical swing to his gait, Mr. Wright looked like a cross between a military general and a ringmaster. He wore a pair of jodhpurs, a brilliant red jacket, a fedora, and a pair of polished knee-high riding boots. Two rows of shiny brass buttons trailed down the front of his double-breasted coat, and a golden braid was threaded through the epaulets that rested on his shoulders. Several medals decorated the right side of his chest. Hettie had heard from one of the other zookeepers that Mr. Wright had fought at the Battle of Arras during World War I and saved more than a dozen men’s lives. Mr. Wright was always dressed in this outfit, Hettie had noticed, regardless of whether he was training Wallace the lion with a crack of his whip or tossing silver-scaled herrings for the sea lions or greeting visitors at the zoo’s front entrance.
The winch raised Violet higher. The machinery rasped and whined. The crowd grew silent. Gulls wheeled overhead. Violet uncoiled her trunk again and released another cry. A commotion stirred on the deck. Several men yelled at one another. The chain attached to the crane’s neck tightened. Slowly the crane swiveled to one side and then began to rise. The air turned electric.
Mr. Christie stood at the top of the walkway, looking something like a campaigning politician, in a three-piece suit with a brilliant yellow scarf around his neck, its tasseled ends flying up in the breeze. He fervently shook hands with one of the ship’s officers on deck, signed several sheets of paper, and walked down the ramp to greet Mr. Wright and his new elephant. Mr. Wright cleared away the crowd to make more room for Violet’s imminent landing on the dock.
“Ferris,” Mr. Wright yelled. “Miss Quin. Over here!”
“Yes, sir,” she said, walking over to him and positioning herself next to Mr. Wright.
“Where have you been?” he asked curtly.
“My mum—” Hettie started to say, and then stopped.
“Take this,” instructed Mr. Wright, handing her a metal bucket of carrots, the feathery tops brushing her hand. “Here she comes.”
“Look,” Ferris said, glancing over at Hettie. There was that familiar clear blue flash of Ferris’s eyes, the dimple in the center of his left cheek. Hettie’s hands pricked with perspiration. Ferris turned his attention to Violet. The crane groaned and wheezed as it continued lowering Violet to the ground. Hettie stood mesmerized by the strange sight of the elephant suspended, like an enormous anvil, in midair. The cranking of the winch was paused while the sailors on deck adjusted the controls and yelled at one another.
For a moment, Hettie was afraid the mechanism would fail and the elephant would come crashing onto the dock. Violet would break through the weathered planks, and multiple civilians would be injured, some might even drown. TRAGEDY STRIKES BELFAST DOCKS, the Telegraph’s headlines would read the following day. COUNTLESS INNOCENT CIVILIANS AND CHILDREN KILLED. The chains tightened and creaked. Two men cranked the winch on the ship’s deck—and finally the animal’s feet touched down onto the dock to a thunderous cheer. Violet shook her torso, sending a nimbus of dust and dirt from her skin. Mr. Christie walked over to Mr. Wright, his scarf fluttering as he took in the eager crowd.
A girl stood at her mother’s knee, gaping up at the elephant, her small face open with wonder. A young couple in matching school uniforms tittered, the boy’s lanky arm draped around the girl’s shoulder. The crew on the neighboring oil tanker paused to take in the unusual sight. On the other adjacent vessel, a Royal Navy ship, the captain prematurely ended his drill instructions and allowed the men to peer over the ship’s railing at the spectacle of Violet and the rest of the city below.
Belfast was alive with activity that morning. The hum of life and industry was everywhere. The docks, the streets, the factories. Lorries, cars, and buses streamed through major arteries of the city. Pedestrians hurried along the pavements to their jobs. At the York Street Flax Spinning Company, pairs of rubber-aproned women oversaw the electricity generators in the enginehouse, which drove the shafts of the machines that powered the spindles and looms that spun and wove the threads into cheap utility clothing and fabric for airplanes and other myriad purposes. Armies of men sat at their drafting desks at Short & Harland, sketching designs of Sunderland flying boats and Stirling bombers. The Linfield Football Club had begun its morning practice on its pitted playing field at Windsor Park, not far from the Lisburn Road. Dozens of Poor Clare nuns sang “How Great Is Our God” at their convent’s chapel on the Cliftonville Road, their voices coalescing into one celestial sound that drifted beyond the chapel’s stained-glass windows. To Hettie, it felt as if the entire city were awake and ready for Violet—and her auspicious arrival in Belfast. There was a freshness. An opportunity. Something was about to happen.
The crowd clapped and cheered for Violet as passengers filed down the ship’s ramp. Hettie noticed the rolling dollies of luggage, steamer trunks, and bags being ferried down another plank that extended from the ship’s belly. One man carried a terrarium with a hooded cobra pressed against t
he box’s translucent sides, its thin tongue flicking against the glass. An elderly woman held a wired cage with a pair of chickens; a few loose feathers floated up like rings of smoke.
“Carrots, Miss Quin,” Mr. Wright ordered. “Now.”
Hettie handed him a pair of carrots, and he held them out for the elephant. Violet grabbed the carrots with the fingerlike end of her trunk and swung them into her mouth. Bits and pieces fell to the ground. Violet suctioned them up, thrusting the tip of her trunk against the uneven boards of the dock.
Mr. Christie held a stick with a long handle, like a bullwhip, with a note tied to one end. He inspected the handwritten message more closely. “‘Lead me with this,’” he read aloud to the crowd. “Did you hear that, everyone? ‘Lead me with this.’”
Cameras flashed. Mr. Christie handed the stick to Mr. Wright, who offered another carrot to Violet in the palm of his hand. The elephant deftly picked it up. Behind her, Hettie felt the heat and crush of the swelling crowd. She looked around for Ferris. He stood on the other side of Violet, awaiting further instructions.
“Let’s see her do a trick,” called a boy from somewhere.
“Don’t be an eejit,” Ferris yelled. “Poor animal has been on a ship for almost a month.”
“Where did she come from?” asked another young boy.
“From the wilds of Ceylon,” Mr. Christie said proudly. “I’m lucky I got her.”
“How much does she weigh?” an older man asked. “Looks like she could crush someone to death.”
“Three thousand pounds,” Mr. Christie responded, “and she isn’t going to hurt anyone. Remember, our animals are about entertainment, not stirring up fear.”
“According to the paperwork, she weighs three thousand four hundred and eleven pounds,” Mr. Wright added. “A little below average.”
Hettie took a few steps closer and stared at Violet. Her circular feet were bordered with half-moon nails. The elephant’s tail, with a paintbrush-like tuft of hair, swished from side to side, and her large-lidded sepia eyes popped a bit wider. Mr. Wright lifted the stick in front of Violet, and Hettie noticed the elephant’s eyes following the end of it. Hettie imagined her older sister, Anna, standing beside her, whispering into her ear, She’s your elephant. She’s the one for you. Violet was about five feet tall, smaller than the Clydesdale horses Hettie used to ride with her father along the rolling knolls of the Cavehill in north Belfast.
“Steady feet,” Mr. Wright said in a neutral voice. “Steady.”
He raised the stick higher, and Violet slowly started to lift her front feet from the ground. Soon, she stood only on her hind legs, strong and unmoving like the columns of an ancient building. Her broad torso cast a shadow. The faction of reporters positioned themselves in front of the crowd and aimed their lenses up at Violet. Light bulbs went off again.
“That’s my girl,” Mr. Christie said, revealing a wide smile. “My number one girl.”
He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
“You can visit Violet at the Bellevue Zoo on the Antrim Road,” Mr. Christie declared. “We’re open every day. Rain or shine.”
“There, there, Violet,” Mr. Wright said as the elephant shifted on her hind legs.
He lowered the stick, and Violet returned to all four feet. The crowd whistled and clapped.
“Show us the way, Wright,” Mr. Christie said, tipping his hat.
“Up the Antrim Road?” Mr. Wright asked, patting Violet on her side.
A cloud of dust rose from the deep folds of her skin. With the end of her tail the elephant swatted the spot that Mr. Wright had just touched.
“Up the Antrim Road,” Mr. Christie repeated with zeal.
He shook hands with Mr. Wright and the ship’s officer. Then Mr. Christie gave a wave to the layers of enthusiastic spectators before making his way around to the rear door of the polished Ford Prefect Saloon that Hettie now noticed had been waiting for him all along. The driver closed Mr. Christie’s door and seated himself behind the large steering wheel. With a mechanical sputter, the car disappeared into the thrum of the dockyards. Violet raised her ears and unfolded them like two large fans. She released another trumpet call and nudged her forehead into Mr. Wright’s chest.
“Easy, lovely,” he said softly, patting her side again. During her time at the zoo, Hettie had noted this about Mr. Wright: He often spoke with more kindness to the animals than he did to people. “We’re gonna take you home.”
Mr. Wright lifted the stick in front of Violet’s trunk and guided it forward. Violet stomped her feet against the dock, flurries of dust flying up around her legs. Then she lowered her head and proceeded to follow the curled end of the stick. Her movements were slow and gentle. Hettie walked to the right of Violet while Mr. Wright and Ferris stayed on the left side of the elephant.
“Everyone, give Violet some room,” said Mr. Wright.
The crowd parted as Mr. Wright led Violet away from the steamship. Ahead, the cranes of Harland & Wolff were visible amid the sprawl of warehouse hangars and buildings now devoted to producing military vessels, aircraft, and tanks at an ever-increasing rate. Before Hettie’s father, Thomas, enlisted in the Merchant Navy, he had worked in the assembly shops of Harland & Wolff for more than a decade. One afternoon, seven years ago, when Hettie was thirteen, Thomas had brought her to the shop where he had worked as a joiner. He gave her a tour of a gantry, where one of the larger ships was under construction. What she remembered most vividly of that afternoon was the deafening sound of the countless machines in persistent motion and how the vibrations shook the concrete floor, traveling up into her legs. It felt as if her entire body were rattling along at the same clip as the propulsive machines. Then her father led her into one of the gantries where the colossal skeleton of a hull in progress was obscured by a high tower of scaffolding; a dozen men stood at varying heights, welding, which sent up sprays of sparks into their faces.
Violet whistled, the high-pitched sound returning Hettie to the important task in front of her. She positioned herself behind Ferris, to the left of the elephant, with the buckets clutched in both hands. Violet’s forehead was flecked with pale spots, like a scattering of petals. A fine coat of dust veiled the bony curve of her broad back. Whiskers peppered her chin. She swung her trunk like the needle of a metronome.
“People, let this girl through,” Mr. Wright said in a booming voice.
The crowd stepped aside, creating a wider path for Violet as she walked by. Mr. Wright directed her along the Sydenham Road, which intersected the dockyards and munitions and shipbuilding factories. Clouds of smoke spilled from the redbrick chimney stacks. A young boy pushed a wooden handcart piled with onions, eggs, vegetables, and burlap bags of rice and flour, and three dockworkers hauled oversize pieces of lumber. A half dozen Royal Navy officers, clad in their distinctive mess dress uniforms and dazzlingly white waistcoats, paused to take in the curiosity of Violet and the small parade that followed her. Hettie felt the cold, briny air flush her cheeks.
Together they crossed over the Queen’s Bridge. The morning sun brightened, creating a carpet of reflections on the river’s uneven waters. As the procession neared the middle of the bridge, Violet veered toward the right; then the elephant lowered her head and trotted into a knot of pedestrians heading in the opposite direction.
“Oh, Mummy,” cried a young girl.
The mother whisked the child up into her arms and stepped out of Violet’s path.
“Don’t let him bite me,” said the girl, tears trailing down her cheeks.
The mother glared at Mr. Wright who blew into the brass whistle that hung around his neck.
“Ferris! Hettie!” he yelled. “Where are you?”
Hettie dropped the buckets onto the bridge, ran to Violet’s side, and pushed her foreleg with both hands. Her skin was rubbery and rough to the touch, and she smelled of manure and rotten eggs. Hettie shoved the elephant with all the weight and strength that she could summon. Ferris positioned h
imself near the elephant’s rear, pressing against her hind leg. Hettie could see the sinewy bulge in Ferris’s forearms as he attempted to guide Violet toward the middle of the bridge.
“Come on, Hettie,” he said, his breath ragged. “Help me.”
Violet trumpeted, and Hettie felt the vibrations of her call through her fingertips, up the length of her arms, and into the center of her chest. Hettie pushed harder against Violet. The elephant’s acrid smell made her feel momentarily nauseated and weak. Hettie gathered herself—and pushed again.
“Violet,” Mr. Wright said in a calm voice. “We’re crossing the bridge, not jumping off of it.”
The elephant stretched her trunk over the bridge’s railing, and for a moment Hettie was nervous that Violet would somehow step over it and plunge into the strong currents below. She leaned farther into the elephant. The flash of a photographer’s camera blinded Hettie. Sweat collected along her hairline.
“Will you bloody stop it,” she whispered.
“Come on, Hettie,” Ferris yelled again. “One, two, three.”
Hettie closed her eyes tight and heaved the entire mass of her body against Violet’s. She was tall for a young woman, five foot seven, and slender and long-legged, like her sister. Hettie was even a little taller than Ferris, but she wasn’t muscular and compact like him. Hettie pushed with more force, and Violet trumpeted loudly again, but she didn’t budge. The salty air stung Hettie’s eyes. She thought of her father and what he’d say: You hear me. Give it all ya got, girl. Suddenly the elephant turned away from the railing and trotted toward the center of the bridge.
“Excellent, Miss Quin and Mr. Poole,” Mr. Wright said. “Brilliant, my friends.”
He waved the stick in front of Violet’s eyes and she followed him across the bridge, her trunk swinging like a velvet rope.
“Miss Quin, the buckets,” Mr. Wright barked. “Don’t forget the buckets.”
Hettie turned to see that the buckets had rolled across the wide expanse of the bridge, carrots spilling over the rims. Pedestrians kicked them farther to the side, sending the bundles into the river. Hettie ran to the railing and spotted several carrots floating, like miniature buoys, on the metallic-gray surface. Anxiety pinched her chest. She grabbed the buckets and caught up with Mr. Wright, Ferris, and Violet, who were now walking along Oxford Street, passing the familiar pumping station that sat on the banks of the River Lagan. Hettie marched right behind them, keeping her attention on Violet and her swaying tail.
The Elephant of Belfast Page 1