“You too, Samuel Greene.”
She stepped out onto May Street, feeling suddenly cheerful. All right, so it hadn’t been quite the encounter she had imagined since the last time she saw Samuel, but it had been pleasant enough. The brisk autumn air needled her skin, and Hettie shivered. She reached into her coat pocket, pulling out the scrap of paper with Liam’s parents’ address scribbled on it: 499 FALLS ROAD. She retrieved her father’s bike and headed west on May Street, past the green-grayish domes of the city hall, the clock at the Great Victoria Street train station, and the pair of gilded minarets of the Grand Opera House. May Street segued into the Grosvenor Road, but the traffic was snarled at the intersection; double-decker buses, lorries, taxis, and other vehicles struggled for any sort of progress. Billows of exhaust rolled into Hettie’s face as she rode on the narrow shoulder before turning onto the Falls Road.
The last time she had traveled to Liam’s parents’ was just a week after Anna’s service, and the visit remained vague in her mind, because it had occurred when the days and hours had a tendency to collapse into each other. For Hettie, it felt as if the war in England, Poland, Germany, and Italy had temporarily disappeared; the sudden tragedy of her sister’s death and the subsequent grief eclipsed the escalating international events. The occupation of France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg, the relentless Luftwaffe bombings of London, and the seizure of the Channel Islands off the coast of Normandy were like the faint rumblings of a distant train—hardly audible and always receding—and therefore didn’t penetrate the fog of her daily grief.
Hettie parked the bike against a lamppost. She glanced up at the numbers of the terraced two-story homes on the left side of the road, relieved to see that she was in the right place. On the far corner, Hettie spotted a Royal Ulster Constabulary armored vehicle with machine guns mounted on its roof. She had read in the paper that most recruits to the newly formed Home Guard, which was being raised to protect Ulster if it was invaded during war, had been members of the B Specials, but she also knew the security forces were still being used in the event of republican riots or other civil disturbances. Hettie tightened her arms across her chest as she made her way down the pavement. Tiny pricks of fear emerged along the nape of her neck. A part of Hettie wished that she didn’t find the sight of the RUC vehicle alarming, but there was no way around the fact that a flare-up of violence in this neighborhood could occur at any moment, and that it was one of the reasons her mother discouraged her from paying visits to the Keegans.
A mangy gray terrier barked behind a weathered picket fence, baring its sharp, tiny teeth and making Hettie jump. She scowled at it. Hettie liked most dogs, but she didn’t like this one. She felt certain he might leap over the fence at any second and lunge right for her. A young man, dressed in an army-green factory uniform, gave a sharp whistle.
“You bloody eejit,” he yelled. “Shut the fuck up.”
Hettie thought for one wild moment that the young man might be yelling at her. That somehow he recognized she was a Protestant—and the younger sister of the girl who had died during childbirth, the short-lived wife of Liam Keegan—and was aware that everyone in their respective neighborhoods knew that the mixed-faith couple was doomed from the moment they exchanged vows in front of the justice of the peace in Edinburgh. Before their elopement, Anna had asked Hettie to not tell their mother about Liam. She knew Rose would have forbidden their relationship and later their marriage. Devoted to her older sister, Hettie had deflected their mother’s questions about Anna’s mysterious new boyfriend with non-answers, insisting she didn’t know much about him or his religious affiliation. Four months later, Anna didn’t return home one evening. Rose had been about to call the police to report her eldest daughter missing when a telegram was delivered announcing the couple’s surprise marriage. Sometimes Hettie speculated on whether their father’s abandonment had contributed to Anna’s impulsive decision to marry Liam Keegan, that perhaps her sister had toyed with the notion of creating a new family, outside their own, one that might provide the corrective measure needed to bring everyone back together. Instead, it did just the opposite.
“Shut your goddamn trap,” the man continued. “Do you hear me!”
Hettie realized with a rush of relief that he had been shouting at the dog, not at her. She fixed her eyes on a distant point on the street, her heart beating in her throat. A pile of broken glass had collected in the gutter. A rat scurried through its dull shimmer. The dog ceased barking. Above, between the narrow houses, a clothesline was strung up; the empty sleeves of shirts and the legs of trousers snapped in the breeze. Slogans were painted across a wall on the other side of the street: ARP STANDS FOR ARRESTS, ROBBERY, AND POLICE. And: REMEMBER 1916; WE SHALL RISE AGAIN; IRELAND SOBER, IRELAND FREE.
Hettie studied Liam’s address on the piece of paper again even though she had just glanced at it. She made her way to the Keegans’ front door and rang the buzzer. A gust picked up the hem of her skirt, pushing the pleated edges against her stockings. Hettie held a hand between her thighs, trying to keep the hem from lifting up again. She felt the quiet tinge of pain from the bruise on her thigh from the other morning of walking Violet along the Antrim Road. Hettie rang a second time. The last thing she needed was for the shouting stranger to turn his attention to her. Mrs. Keegan opened the door.
“Hettie Quin,” she exclaimed, taking her arm and guiding her into the flat. “It’s gusty out there! Come right in!” Mrs. Keegan wore a faded, rose-patterned apron. The sleeves of her white blouse gathered around her pudgy elbows. Her metallic-gray hair was held in a bun, fallen strands framing her bright, round face. “Liam, my boy,” Mrs. Keegan yelled down the darkened hallway. “Liam! Where are you?”
Hettie kept her coat on and stood in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot.
“A spot of tea, love?” Mrs. Keegan asked Hettie.
“Please.”
“The baby is sleeping, but she’ll be awake soon. Maeve will be so happy to see you.”
Hettie smiled politely, but she knew Maeve was too young to remember her. After all, she was only three months old, and it had been more than two months since the last time Hettie had paid a visit. Together, Mrs. Keegan and Hettie walked down the hallway into the unadorned kitchen with its two-burner stovetop, small oven, narrow sink, and nondescript table with a set of four folding chairs. A linen tea towel embroidered with pale lavender lilacs and winding green stems was draped over the curved neck of the faucet. The towel reminded Hettie of her mother, as lilacs were her favorite flower and scent. Fleetingly, she wished Rose could be with her and have a chance to visit with her only grandchild, but she knew this would likely never happen.
“Let me put on the kettle,” Mrs. Keegan said. “I’ve got a few biscuits somewhere.”
“I brought you a loaf of soda bread from St. George’s.” Hettie rooted through her satchel and gave the brown-paper-wrapped package to Mrs. Keegan.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, taking the package from Hettie and placing it on the counter. “How lovely.” Mrs. Keegan ran the faucet, filling up the kettle. She lit a wooden match and ignited a crown of blue-orange flames on the stovetop. “Liam,” she yelled again, before turning back to Hettie. “Mr. Keegan is working the morning shift at the mill. He’s sorry to miss you.”
“I’m sorry to miss him, too,” Hettie said even though she barely knew the man.
She had met Mr. Keegan on only two other occasions: He was a quiet, heavyset man who moved around the room in a deliberate kind of way. He was about six foot five inches with broad shoulders and a wide face with pockmarked skin, pitted and roseate, and uttered few words in the company of others. She had read about Mr. Keegan once in the newspaper because his older brother had been killed twenty years earlier during the Troubles in 1920. The brother had been a member of the IRA and had been shot by a member of the Black and Tans in County Kerry. Mr. Keegan was interviewed for the twentieth anniversary, and made a few remarks about his brother, th
e heroics, and the tragedy of it all.
Hettie sat down at the kitchen table as Liam appeared in the doorway. He was tall, like his father, and was dressed in a navy blue work uniform with his name sewn in red thread on the oval patch on the right side of the shirt. His complexion was light olive and flecked with a constellation of dark freckles. His hair was a sturdy shock of dark brown. Having not seen Liam in a few months, she was struck anew by how handsome he was.
“Hettie,” Liam said with a grin. “So good to see you again.”
Hettie smiled, stood up, and greeted him with a brief hug. He smelled of petrol, cigarette smoke, and damp leaves. It was a pleasant and familiar odor, and reminded Hettie of her father when he came home from a long day at his former job down at the shipyards. She returned to her chair, and Liam gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.
The morning sun sent quivering patterns of light through the window over the sink. As Liam and his mother chatted, Hettie recalled the last time she had visited Anna in this flat, a few days before she passed away. They had sat at this very same kitchen table. Mrs. Keegan had been out running errands, and Liam had just left for his new job at the mechanics’ garage on the west side of Belfast. After the front door had slammed shut and the dead bolt slid into position, Anna had stared into the empty hallway that led to the front door. Hettie remembered the relaxed, joyful expression on her older sister’s face: The corners of her rose-colored lips were turned upward and her eyes glistened like the moisture of early morning. It was during that moment Hettie had recognized that her sister was in love with Liam Keegan, a fact that she hadn’t fully grasped until then. Here was her older sister seemingly caught in a strong undertow of affection and admiration.
“We’re glad you made it today,” Liam said, bringing Hettie back to the moment. “It’s been too long.”
Mrs. Keegan placed a blue-and-white porcelain teapot and a plate of biscuits on the table. A funnel of steam escaped from the teapot’s spout. As Mrs. Keegan wiped her age-spotted hands on the dish towel, a slight tremor traveled through her stubby fingers. Hettie looked up at her. A sheen of wetness moistened Mrs. Keegan’s eyes and she surreptitiously wiped away a tear. Sitting there in the Keegans’ stuffy kitchen, Hettie realized that she reminded them of Anna, too. After all, they shared a handful of familial features—green-brown eyes, high foreheads, and slender, lanky frames; this meant that strangers had often confused them for twins even though the sisters were eighteen months apart.
“Have one,” Mrs. Keegan said, pushing the plate of biscuits toward Hettie.
The baby began to cry from another room, her gentle wail quickly escalating into a scream.
Mrs. Keegan tutted. “Liam, be polite and serve your sister-in-law some tea,” she said. “I’ll take care of the baby.”
Mrs. Keegan hurried down the hallway. Liam took a biscuit for himself.
“You’re famous, you know,” Liam said. “Look here.”
He slid the folded Belfast Telegraph toward Hettie. The headline read ELEPHANT STAMPEDES THE ANTRIM ROAD. There was a black-and-white photograph of Violet and Mr. Wright on the Queen’s Bridge, with Hettie and Ferris following closely behind. She smiled, remembering the dramatic morning. The photographer had captured the moment right before Violet had charged to one side of the bridge. In the caption, only Mr. Wright was identified, as the head zookeeper of the Bellevue Zoo. Hettie scanned the rest of the article. The reporter wrote about Violet’s arrival on the RMS Majestic from Ceylon, the thirty-one-day voyage, how the ship’s captain had caught sight of German U-boats off the northwest coast of France and ordered the navigator to change their course, followed by Violet’s disruptive encounters on the Antrim Road and how the constable almost arrested the young elephant during her first day in Belfast. Hettie gave out a soft laugh.
“Nicely done, Hettie Quin,” Liam said, breaking a biscuit in two.
“You need to come up to the zoo and meet her, she—”
“Eat one,” Liam interrupted, edging the plate toward her.
He reached for the pot and filled both of their cups. Tiny dried leaves collected along the porcelain sides as thin veils of steam lifted from the flat surfaces. Outside on the street, a car’s engine backfired with an explosive boom. Hettie jumped in her chair, but Liam didn’t even flinch at the sound. A breeze rattled the windowpane. A whirling siren could be heard from the street.
“What’s her name again?”
“Violet,” Hettie said.
“I can’t wait for Maeve to meet her,” Liam said. “Maybe when she’s a bit older you could give her a ride on Violet. Don’t you think Maeve would like that?”
Hettie imagined a girl, a smaller version of Anna, riding astride Violet’s broad back, rocking from side to side, with Hettie confidently leading the young elephant down the middle of the street. Pedestrians would gather on the road’s graveled shoulders and offer up enthusiastic applause and admiration for the majestic animal and the childlike queen making their way down the road.
“I asked Mr. Wright if I could take care of her,” Hettie said, her smile fading as she glanced down at the grainy image of Mr. Wright guiding Violet across the bridge. “He said no.”
“Ask again,” Liam said, his chestnut eyes flickering. “You need to be more persistent.”
“I know,” Hettie responded, knowing that her sister would have said the same thing. For an instant, she felt the impulse to slug Liam and then ask for a hug. He always reminded her so much of her sister—and it lifted Hettie with joy and crushed her with grief at the same time.
“There, there, Maeve,” Mrs. Keegan said from down the hallway.
“Any word from your pa?” Liam asked.
Hettie shook her head and stared into her teacup again. She pressed the rim of the cup against her lips. The tea had already turned lukewarm.
“Let’s go and see Maeve,” Liam said. “It sounds like Ma quieted her down.”
At the end of the hallway, to the left, the door was halfway open. Hettie could hear Mrs. Keegan cooing, and Maeve was no longer crying. Liam and Hettie stepped into the spartan room. Patches of sunlight fell through the single window and the floorboards creaked underneath their feet. Angled shadows of a bare-limbed tree danced against the far wall. A wooden crucifix hung over Maeve’s cot, and a strand of amber rosary beads was draped over a corner of a mirror that was positioned above the bureau. A framed black-and-white photograph of Liam and Anna from the morning of their elopement in Scotland stood on the bureau.
“Maeve was a wee bit hungry,” Mrs. Keegan said, her eyes brightening. She gently patted the baby’s back, and Maeve released a soft burp and gurgle, then grasped for the wrinkled lobe of Mrs. Keegan’s ear. She gently removed the baby’s fingers. “Your pretty aunt is here to see you.”
Mrs. Keegan lifted the swaddled baby toward Hettie, who awkwardly adjusted her arms as she cradled Maeve. “Here, place one hand behind her neck,” Mrs. Keegan said. “That way she can see you.”
Hettie slid her hand to the warm spot where Mrs. Keegan’s palm had been propping up Maeve’s head. The muscles and bones of the infant’s neck felt fragile like a baby bird’s. She fluttered her eyes closed, and Hettie noticed the network of tiny blue veins mapped underneath the baby’s flawless skin, a kind of topography of new life.
“This is your aunt Hettie,” Mrs. Keegan said softly. “Your ma’s sister.”
Hettie stared into Maeve’s serene face. Her hazel eyes flicked open, and she pursed her lips, suckling the air.
“She remembers you,” Liam said, beaming.
Hettie moved her index finger into Maeve’s plump fist, and the baby curled her hand around her finger. Her grip was tight and strong.
“See, she misses you,” Mrs. Keegan whispered.
The room tilted. Hettie’s legs felt like liquid. The morning light illuminated the floor, shimmering here and there, like tiny mirages. Hettie felt the touch of her sister’s hand on her shoulder, but then her phantom weight disappeared. Hettie’s
eyes became glassy again. An itch tickled the tip of her nose. She wanted to reach up and scratch the spot, but didn’t want to disturb the baby. A dribble of saliva spilled over the curve of Maeve’s rosy cheek, and Hettie felt the baby’s heartbeat against her own.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Keegan said, wiping away the drool with her handkerchief.
“She looks like Anna, doesn’t she?” Liam said.
Hettie recalled standing in this room with Anna when it was still unoccupied and looked more like an oversize closet. It was only six months ago, but already it felt as if a full revolution of seasons had passed. Anna had been staring at the empty walls, trying to decide if she should paint them a new color before Maeve’s arrival. Hettie remembered how beautiful Anna had looked, standing there in the bare room, her hand perched on the shelf of her pregnant belly. Despite looking alike, Hettie had always considered Anna to be more beautiful. When they went on an excursion together—whether it was to a fish-and-chip shop downtown or the local swimming pool—the eyes of strangers frequently followed Anna. Over the years, Hettie had grown accustomed to this unsolicited attention and felt a small measure of pride when she was in the company of her older sister; it was as if she existed within the orbit of Anna’s natural beauty and this somehow advanced Hettie’s social station, too. As if, by mere association, Hettie was beautiful as well. She was no longer an ordinary young woman with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose and a head of mousy brown hair. She was Anna Quin’s younger sister. Even though Anna had traded in her respectable employment, education, and athletic aspirations to marry Liam, during that moment in the baby’s room, Hettie had understood that Anna likely held all of this brightness, ambition, and tenacity inside of her, that by marrying she hadn’t changed that much. Anna was still Anna.
“Yes,” Hettie said. “She looks just like her.”
A gurgle of gas was followed by an overwhelming stench.
“Oh, there she goes again,” Mrs. Keegan said, carefully removing the baby from Hettie’s arms. “Let me clean her up.”
The Elephant of Belfast Page 6