At the northern end of Oxford Street, they walked diagonally across the bustling square that fronted the Customs House. Near the stairs of the imposing Victorian building, two men, dressed in dark suits and wool scarves, stood on short wooden boxes and debated the prospects of a German invasion: One fervently supported the war against the Fascists and proclaimed Churchill as “our great leader”; the other man, who had an unruly beard, declared that he would welcome the Nazi troops with open arms, that they would drive the British out of Ireland for good and dump the Unionist junta out of Stormont. During the last few years, Hettie had heard many versions of this argument from her father and others. It was challenging to follow all the different opinions except that it was clear no one could agree about what might happen.
“The working-class people of Belfast would be better off if the Germans came. We have nothing to lose,” the man with the beard yelled. “The Germans would end discrimination, give us justice. Get rid of the Brits and unite Ireland.”
The speaker’s cheeks turned roseate. His forehead glistened.
“This war is against the Germans and no one else,” the other man yelled, shaking his fist in the air. “They’ll enslave us all. Will you please listen to me! We are ill-prepared.”
Strangers booed, hissed, and cheered. As soon as the men noticed Violet, though, they suspended their arguments, united for once in their astonishment at the unusual spectacle of an elephant lumbering across the square. Ahead, on the other side, a band of musicians was performing a folk tune at the foot of the Albert Clock on Victoria Street, the crowned tower leaning vaguely to the left on its sandstone foundation. The whimsical notes of a melodeon, an upright piano, a fiddle, and a double bass stitched the air. A young couple swirled in circles among the parting strangers, their feet moving in synchronized motion on the cobblestoned walkway. Pedestrians clapped along with the music. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance. The smells of tobacco, leather, and petrol drifted through the air, scents that reminded Hettie of home and her father.
“Follow me,” Mr. Wright repeated to Violet. “Follow me.”
Near the end of Victoria Street, Hettie caught sight of the manicured greens and familiar domes of city hall pressed against the dull pewter sky. Usually when she traveled through this neighborhood Hettie was on her father’s bike and rarely took in the sights and sounds of street life, but walking along with Violet meant noticing details that often rushed past her in a blur. As they moved farther up the avenue, they passed a congregation of silver-haired men throwing horseshoes on a parcel of dead grass next to a pub. Next, they traversed North Street, which gave way to the Shankill Road, which was bordered with the linen mills that, along with the shipyards across the river, employed many of the men of the predominantly working-class Loyalist neighborhood.
“Steady,” Mr. Wright said to Violet as they started up the gradual incline of the Antrim Road. “Steady there, me girl.”
Strangers opened the doors and windows of their houses and flats, and gazed down at Violet’s slow locomotion. Random sticks and branches snapped under her weight. Some people waved; others stared on in silent awe.
“Miss Quin, the carrots,” Mr. Wright said.
Her palms grew clammy.
“They fell into the river, sir,” Hettie said.
“Here, Mr. Wright,” Ferris said, handing him two carrots. “I have a few.”
Hettie glanced over at Ferris, who tipped his cap in her direction.
“Thank you, Ferris,” Mr. Wright said, not looking at Hettie.
She forced a smile. As she often did, Hettie felt a complicated mix of gratitude, betrayal, and jealousy toward Ferris. He was always prepared for Mr. Wright’s every demand or request, but his diligence and readiness often left Hettie feeling flat-footed and ineffectual—and that Mr. Wright would never see her for who she truly was. She pushed these thoughts away, though; she couldn’t afford these distractions this morning.
“Come on, Violet,” Mr. Wright said in a gentle voice again.
As they traveled farther up the Antrim Road, Hettie relaxed into her stride. The buildings became less dense, with many of the homes hidden behind walls or wrought-iron fences. A mother shelled peas into a bucket on a stoop. She looked up from the repetitive movement of her hands and smiled at the unexpected marvel of Violet. Schoolgirls played a game of hopscotch on the white-chalk squares drawn on the pavement and sang rounds of “Three Blind Mice”: See how they run. See how they run. The refrains overlapped one other until the girls saw Violet and paused their song, openmouthed with amazement and glee. Up ahead, a police officer stood at the next intersection. As soon as he spotted Violet, he blew into his whistle—and the elephant started to run.
“Violet,” Mr. Wright yelled. “Violet!”
The elephant ran up the Cliftonville Road and then toward the storefront of a greengrocer, and Mr. Wright, Ferris, and Hettie dashed after her. Modest pyramid-shaped piles of cabbages, potatoes, and turnips were arranged on either side of the doorway. Violet trotted up to the vegetables, looped her trunk around one of the turnips, and lifted it into her mouth. Then another. The rest of the vegetables tumbled onto the street, like a stampede of lawn bowls. The police officer blew his whistle again, and the grocer stepped outside his store. His complexion paled.
“What on—” he exclaimed.
Hettie tried to shove Violet away from the produce, but the animal merely swatted her tail into Hettie’s face. Then Violet dropped several piles of manure onto the cobblestones. The pungent aroma made Hettie feel queasy. She took a deep breath and tried again, and Violet reared into her, kicking her squarely in the thigh. The elephant’s sheer strength pushed her backward into the street as if she weighed absolutely nothing. Pebbles and dirt pressed into her palms. A cold shudder moved through her system. Heat seared her thigh.
Hettie closed her eyes for a second. Starbursts erupted against the dark theater of her eyelids. Violet reared her hind leg again and Hettie rolled out of the way. If she hadn’t, the elephant would have stepped on her. The grocer yelled at Mr. Wright, who was on his hands and knees, picking up an armful of potatoes. Hettie held on to her thigh with both hands. The ache in her leg radiated like a beam of a light. Ferris picked up the curled stick and attempted to distract Violet from the bundle of carrots that she now snapped into her soft pink mouth.
“Come on, Violet,” Ferris said. “Let’s go home.”
The elephant’s gaze softened and she stepped away from the storefront. Her feet crushed several beets, carrots, and turnips that had tumbled onto the street, the smashed vegetables looking something like a child’s finger painting. Hettie stood up gingerly, relieved to find that she still could.
“Brilliant job, Ferris. Take Violet to Bellevue,” Mr. Wright said. “Hettie, find a shovel. Clean this mess up!”
Hettie felt her cheeks redden. She shook out her hands as the putrid smell of manure filled her nostrils. Mr. Wright disappeared inside the store and returned with a shovel. He handed it to her without saying a word. Resigned, Hettie scooped up the elephant’s manure and deposited it into a trash bin. In vain, she attempted to spit out the foul taste that was forming in her mouth from the persistent smell. Inside the store, she noticed Mr. Wright trying to calm the owner down. The man gesticulated wildly toward the door.
“That elephant,” he yelled. “He destroyed my precious produce.”
Mr. Wright took out his spiral notebook and began to take notes. He glanced up at Hettie and then nodded, indicating that she should go ahead. She ran to catch up with Ferris and Violet as the pair continued north on the Antrim Road in the direction of the zoo. Her thigh ached and throbbed, but she knew that she needed to keep up with Ferris and Violet, or Mr. Wright might use this as a reason to fire her. After all, if she couldn’t do more than shovel shit, what good was she?
“Hettie,” Ferris said with a smile. “I thought I lost you. Where’s Mr. Wright?”
“Still talking to the owner of the shop,” Hettie said
, struggling for breath. “That man is not pleased.”
“He should be honored that Violet made an appearance at his store during her very first day in Belfast.”
Hettie gave a laugh, and Ferris smiled. Hettie quickly realized that it had been a long time since she’d laughed. The past three months had been dulled by the regular visits from extended family, friends, neighbors, and church members. The days and weeks had blurred into each other, and a silent grief seemed to shape most of Hettie’s waking hours. With each condolence visit, Hettie sat quietly with her hands folded in the pleats of her woolen skirt, listening to her mother and the other women as their conversation migrated from recipes for fish pie to how challenging it was to manage with the rationing to Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s daughter and how she had recently given birth to twins before circling back to the sudden loss of Anna. How much she had accomplished during her brief life—a brilliant student of modern and classical languages, a talented tennis player and a winner of many local tournaments, and later a wife and a mother. Even a few months after her sister’s death, it still felt baffling and tragic to Hettie that Anna wasn’t any of these things now; she was merely a memory, an ephemeral apparition that came and went at unexpected moments, both when Hettie was awake and asleep. That morning, Hettie kept expecting to spot Anna in the crowd, calling out her name and releasing a sharp whistle with two fingers pressed against her bottom lip, just how Thomas had taught them when they were children.
“Look, Mama,” a young boy said, pointing toward Violet and pulling Hettie out of her reverie.
Mr. Wright appeared at their side, sweat streaking his rosy cheeks.
“I convinced the man not to press charges,” explained Mr. Wright, wiping his white linen handkerchief against his forehead. “I’ll find a way to cover the damages. I’ll bet you that he forgets the whole thing by the end of the day. Once he gets a few pints in him, it will be a good story that he’ll be telling his chums at the pub.”
“He didn’t seem like a laughing sort of fella,” Hettie said.
“We don’t want Mr. Christie to find out about this,” Mr. Wright said, glancing over at Ferris and ignoring Hettie entirely. “He wouldn’t like to hear that one of his animals is running wild on the streets of Belfast.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferris said as he guided Violet up the winding street.
Within thirty minutes, they were more than halfway up the Antrim Road. The broken views of the River Lagan and the docks were visible through the overlapping rooftops of the rows of houses. Around the bend, there was the silhouette of the Cavehill with its familiar hump along its forested ridge, looking like the crooked nose of a sleeping man.
Hettie was relieved when the raised letters of BELLEVUE appeared around a corner, stretched across the face of the low concrete wall. They had finally arrived at the zoo. A dozen employees—young and middle-aged men dressed in dull green coveralls and caps—were assembled there. Still wearing his dapper top hat, white gloves, and yellow scarf, Mr. Christie stood at the foot of the grand staircase, a series of fifty steps that led into the heart of the zoo.
“Welcome, Violet,” Mr. Christie said, removing his hat and tipping it in the elephant’s direction. The small crowd of onlookers snickered.
“I’ll take her through the rear entrance,” said Mr. Wright.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Christie said, replacing his hat. “Of course.”
Violet released another nasally trumpet call. A large flock of songbirds lifted up from the autumnal treetops, the fast beats of their wings sounding like a collective whisper in the morning breeze.
“I hope you enjoy your new home at Bellevue,” Mr. Christie said to Violet as he rubbed her speckled forehead. “We are happy to have you here.”
The zoo staff gave a polite round of applause as Mr. Wright guided Violet onto the narrow dirt path that traversed the hillside to the zoo’s rear entrance. Ferris and Hettie followed. Mr. Wright unlatched the rear gate and together they walked in the direction of the Elephant House. Bellevue had already been open for a few hours, and a handful of visitors—mostly mothers with young children—lingered on the pavements. A volley of shrieks rose up from the monkey enclosure. A dense cluster of pale pink flamingos stood along the border of the lily pond. Up ahead, Hettie saw Wallace the lion stretching his forelegs out and arching his back. Wallace yawned, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a soft pink ribbon. His majestic head swayed with each step he took across the sandy ground. On the far side of the enclosure, Victoria, the lioness, slept along with her two cubs in the shifting shadows.
Farther down the path, Rajan, the elderly bull elephant, and Maggie, a ten-year-old elephant, stood like watchful guards near the edge of the giraffe exhibition, where the pair had been moved a few days ago. Rajan swung his long trunk high in the air and released a rolling roar. Two of the giraffes poked up their necks, stiff as pipe cleaners, above the trimmed hedges. Since Hettie had started working at the zoo six months ago, Rajan had always been her favorite: He maintained a formidable presence as the largest mammal of the zoo. A sort of king of Bellevue, with all the other animals bowing to him. Rajan trumpeted another cry and this time Maggie joined in his bellowing refrain. Violet flicked her ears up like a pair of small sails.
“What a darling,” said Helen McAlister, one of the women who worked at the ticket kiosk. “She’s a beauty.”
Eliza Crowley, a young woman about Hettie’s age who worked in the canteen, stood next to Helen. Eliza wore a soiled apron and her shirtsleeves were pushed up to her bony elbows. Her auburn hair was tied back with a red paisley bandanna, looking like a wild spray of flames. She had a narrow nose and a pointy chin.
“Where’s she going to sleep?” Eliza asked.
“Violet is going to live alone for now,” Mr. Wright said, lifting the stick a little higher, “until she gets used to her new life here at Bellevue.”
Ferris had already explained to Hettie this temporary arrangement: Violet’s home was going to be in the Elephant House, a simple twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot structure, with a fenced-in yard and a three-foot empty moat surrounding its enclosure. Rajan and Maggie would reside with the giraffes until Mr. Wright thought it was prudent to bring the animals together. He said it could take up to a year before this might happen, that one had to be careful about timing, or the elephants might not get along and end up attacking each other.
“Won’t she get lonely?” Eliza asked.
“Violet will have lots of visitors,” Mr. Wright said. “I assure you, Miss Crowley, she’ll never be lonely at Bellevue.” He unlatched the gate to the Elephant House. “Here you go, Violet.”
Violet lumbered through and Mr. Wright followed her, securing the gate behind him. Ferris and Hettie looked on, completely absorbed in Violet until a sound at Hettie’s elbow startled her. Hettie spun round and saw that Eliza was still standing next to her, also gazing at the elephant.
During her time at the zoo, Hettie had exchanged a few monosyllabic greetings with Eliza—and not much else. She had heard from one of the other zookeepers that Eliza had left school at age fourteen because her family needed her to work to keep her younger sisters and brothers fed. Hettie glanced at Eliza for a second and noticed that dirt smudged her pale forehead. Freckles dotted the thin bridge of her nose. Eliza popped a pear drop into her mouth.
“Bloody hell,” Ferris said, his eyes widening. “Where’d you get that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Ferris Poole,” Eliza said. “Want one?”
“Of course, I want one.”
Eliza reached into her pocket and tossed a boiled sweet to Ferris and then another one to Hettie. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten a pear drop. The fruity flavor burst in her mouth. It tasted like the sun and the ocean at once. With the tip of her tongue, Hettie tucked the sweet into the warm pocket of her cheek.
“Thanks, Eliza,” Ferris said.
“My brother—”
“That’s all right,” Ferris said, winking at Eliza. “
I’d rather not know.”
Eliza smiled a sly smile. The pale yellow of the boiled sweet stained the tight corners of her mouth.
“Back to work, everyone,” Mr. Wright said. “We have a zoo to run here.”
“See you, girls,” Ferris said, tipping his cap. “Thanks again, Eliza.”
“He’s a handsome fella, don’t you think,” Eliza said to Hettie as they watched him walk away.
It was the first time Eliza had ever spoken directly to her.
“He’s all right, I guess,” Hettie said, sucking on the pear drop.
“He likes you, you know.”
Hettie defiantly crossed her arms over her chest.
“Why do you think Mr. Wright hired you,” Eliza said sharply. “Ferris wouldn’t quit asking him. He wouldn’t give up.”
Despite the delightful taste of the sweet, Hettie wanted to spit it out onto the dusty ground before Eliza’s feet. She felt flattered by the notion of Ferris’s potential affections, but wanted to believe that Mr. Wright had hired her based on her own merits and promise. Despite not having a significant amount of experience with large animals, she had groomed and fed her uncle’s farm animals—the goats, pigs, chickens, and horses. Ever since she could remember, Hettie had preferred animals to people. They were always happy to see her, grateful to be fed and given some attention, whenever Hettie made her weekly visits. The life at her uncle’s farm provided a reprieve from her own household, which had revolved around her sister, all her success and brightness. Violet whinnied and lifted her trunk into the air.
The Elephant of Belfast Page 2