The Elephant of Belfast

by S. Kirk Walsh

  “Does it hurt?” Hettie asked, looking more closely at Eliza’s face.

  “My sister said it’ll look all right in no time,” Eliza said, wrapping the scarf around the lower part of her face again. “That no one will notice.”

  “Yeah,” Hettie said, trying to smile. “I think she’s right. You can barely tell.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, not really . . .” Hettie trailed off, unable to tell a full lie.

  “Give me your word you won’t tell anyone?” Eliza pleaded. “I’m not daft—I know what people think about me around here.”

  “Of course,” Hettie said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Eliza gave her a hug, her nose pressing into Hettie’s shoulder. Eliza’s body felt frail and light in her arms. All bones and sharp angles. After a moment, Hettie hugged her back.

  “Thanks,” Eliza said with a sudden grin. “Got to get to work. Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Carson don’t like it when I’m late.”

  “Cheers.”

  She watched Eliza walk away. There was a slight limp to her gait. She disappeared behind the double doors of the canteen. As she observed Eliza, Hettie realized that she had a fair amount to be grateful for: her job, despite not being exactly what she wanted; her education, even though Rose had demanded that she discontinue her sixth-form studies because they could no longer afford the tuition; a pleasant-enough home, even if it meant putting up with her mother’s relentless sorrow and constant suggestions to find more respectable, better-paying employment; and most important, Violet, who was the highlight of her days at the zoo, even though she wasn’t allowed to look after her yet. But Hettie was still determined to change that.

  During her midmorning break, Hettie met Ferris in the canteen for tea. She didn’t see Eliza behind the counter and wondered if Mrs. Flynn or Mrs. Carson had sent her home after seeing the worrisome condition of her face. Hettie cupped her hands around the teacup and blew on its steamy surface.

  “How’s your morning going?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said brightly. “Although there’s no hay—”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Wright is having to ration more than expected,” Ferris said, frowning. “The herring supply is low, too. He asked me to limit the penguins’ diet, and he’s feeding the pelicans pork scraps coated in cod liver oil.”

  “I ran into Edward Baird,” she said. “He’s an odd fellow, don’t you think?”

  “Didn’t you hear the news?”

  “What news?”

  “His father decided it’s time for Edward to enlist. He’s being deployed next week,” he said. “Elias and Johnny are going, too.”

  Hettie thought back to that morning, and Edward touching his pale forehead to Violet’s took on new significance.

  “They leave on Monday morning,” he said. “On the first ferry to Plymouth.”

  Hettie fixed her gaze on the scars and stains on the wooden tabletop. She felt sad, elated, and ashamed. She knew there was a good chance one of her fellow workers would be injured or killed during the coming months. She had already heard countless rumors and stories about soldiers being blown apart on the front lines of combat during the Battle of France—their faces blasted off, their limbs flying through the air, only to be left among the piles of corpses with no proper funeral or burial to mark their passings. On the other hand, Hettie realized this news could give her what she finally wanted.

  “Poor Edward,” she managed.

  “Poor Elias and Johnny, too,” Ferris said.

  Unconsciously, it seemed, Ferris moved a hand over his heart. During his last medical exam, he had been diagnosed with a faulty valve. Even if he wanted to enlist, it wasn’t an option for Ferris. Becoming an air-raid warden in Belfast wasn’t a possibility either. The doctor had discovered that Ferris’s coronary valve resembled Swiss cheese: a passage of minuscule holes, making him more at risk for a stroke or a heart attack, particularly if he was placed in stressful situations. Hettie was secretly relieved he wouldn’t be going off to fight.

  The door to the canteen slammed shut and Ferris glanced over at the entrance. Mr. Clarke strode to the counter and held his green thermos out to Mrs. Flynn, who replenished it with hot tea. He screwed on the lid and tipped his tweed cap toward Hettie and Ferris before leaving the canteen.

  They sat in heavy silence as they sipped their cups of tea. Hettie felt like she should offer further sympathies for the young men and what lay in front of them. Then there was Eliza and the stitches on her chin. Maybe Hettie should say something to Ferris and see if he knew Eliza’s older brother. Instead she said nothing and returned her attention to her hands: Her palms were laced with grime and dirt from her morning chores. A thin scab crawled over one of her knuckles.

  “You should talk to Mr. Wright this afternoon,” Ferris finally said. “He’s gonna need more people. He can’t be picky, given the circumstances.”

  “Thanks,” she said, looking up at Ferris, grateful that he was still considering her prospects. “I will.”

  Ferris swallowed what was left of his tea and stood up from the table. “Let me know how it goes,” he said, reaching for his coat and making his way toward the exit.

  Hettie took a final sip of tea. It had already cooled down, and the lukewarm bitterness hit the back of her throat, making her grimace. She stirred the dregs at the cup’s bottom. Hettie thought of her father again. In this situation, she knew that her father would advise her to not worry about the boys, that the army would take care of its men. She decided that she would heed his advice, even if he wasn’t there to give it himself. Hettie carried their teacups to the far window of the canteen but stopped as she saw Eliza standing in front of one of the deep basins. Her scarf was no longer tied around her face, and Hettie was horrified to see that the bruise traveled all the way down to her chin. She looked up as Hettie finally placed the teacups on the counter.

  “How are you feeling?” Hettie asked.

  “Better.”

  “Did you hear? A few of the boys are enlisting,” Hettie said. “Ferris said it would be a good time to talk to Mr. Wright.”

  “See, what did I tell you? Getting in with Ferris was the right thing.”

  Hettie smiled even though she felt the impulse to correct Eliza.

  “I bet he says yes,” Eliza said wistfully, glancing down at her sudsy hands in the basin. “You’re going to be famous. Everyone will know about you. Bellevue’s first full-time female zookeeper. I can see it now.”

  “Thanks,” Hettie said. “And thank you.”

  Eliza stared at her. “For what?”

  “You’ve helped me, too.”

  Eliza took her cup and rinsed it out. “I didn’t do anything,” she said, winking at Hettie. “Go ahead now. Get what you deserve.”

  Hettie used the walk down to Mr. Wright’s office to gather her courage. From the other side of his door, Hettie could hear his phonograph playing the forlorn, warbling voice of a French singer with the march of brass and strings in the background. She knocked on the door and then opened it.

  “Ah, Miss Quin,” Mr. Wright said, lifting the needle from the spinning record on the gramophone. “Come in.” He waved Hettie to the empty chair in front of his desk.

  The blond wood surface was much messier than last time she had been in there, cluttered with invoices, letters, and feeding schedules. Despite the fact that it was now December, the wall calendar still displayed the galloping cheetah from October. On his bookcase, she saw a framed black-and-white photograph she had not noticed before. It was of Mr. Wright dressed in tails and a top hat with an extended whip forming an enormous S, looking as if the leather cord was a natural extension of his arm. In his other hand, he held a large hoop festooned with garlands. Across from him, a sphinxlike lion was perched on a barrel. Though Ferris had mentioned Mr. Wright’s past life as a lion tamer, she had never seen any evidence of it before. All at once it dawned on her: Mr. Wright was the ringmaster she had seen with her father and Anna over ten years ago. />
  “His name was Augustus,” Mr. Wright said, and Hettie turned to see him gazing at the photograph, too. “I was with one of Mr. Christie’s circuses before he moved me to Bellevue. It was our European tour: 1929. He was one of our star attractions.”

  “I saw the show here in Belfast,” Hettie said. “With my father and sister.”

  He stared at her. “You were there?”

  “I remember the elephant,” she said, nodding. “She played the harmonica.”

  “The crowds loved Marla’s harmonica playing,” he said, looking again at the photograph. He sighed. “Everyone loved Marla.”

  “Is she still with the circus?”

  “Mr. Christie put her down after she attacked a circus hand,” he said sorrowfully. “Of course, it wasn’t her fault. I had told Aikens more than once not to use an iron prod when trying to guide Marla into her stock car. He didn’t listen, and she ended up trampling him and smashing his skull. Mr. Christie shot Marla himself. It was a sad day. I’ll never forget it.”

  “And the circus hand?” Hettie asked.

  “He was buried in the town where we were performing,” Mr. Wright explained. “Salisbury. Aikens didn’t have any family, so there was nowhere to ship the body.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Mr. Wright, then seemed to break out of a trance. “Anyway, sit, sit. I think I know why you’re here.”

  Surprised, Hettie sat down in the empty chair. The wet smell of hay and manure rose up from the fabric of her work coat. Mr. Wright placed his fedora on the chaotic tabletop.

  “I’m assuming you’ve heard about Elias, Johnny, and Edward?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hettie said. “Ferris told me.”

  “Unfortunate fellows,” he said. “Hopefully their assignments won’t take them to the front lines. The Germans are advancing rapidly in the Ardennes, and they are brutal.”

  Mr. Wright paused for a minute. He reached for a pencil and a piece of paper, and poised the pencil’s tip over the blank surface, but didn’t write anything. It looked as if his next thought had vanished and he had entirely forgotten that Hettie was sitting across from him.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Hettie asked eventually.

  Mr. Wright blinked and then returned his pencil to the desk. “Where was I?” he asked, glancing up at Hettie.

  “The boys,” she reminded him. “Their enlistment.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Wright, clearing his throat. “After some consideration, I’ve decided to bring you on full-time. That said, I’ll be keeping my eye on you, a sort of probationary period of at least six months, until you’ve proven that you can manage. Understand?”

  “Yes, of course,” Hettie said, her words rushing together. She couldn’t believe it—what she truly wanted was going to happen.

  “Will your mum be able to get along without you? I know it’s been a difficult year for your family.”

  Hettie assumed that Mr. Wright was referring to the loss of her sister, but also wondered if the stories of her father’s abandonment had made it up to the zoo, and she worked hard to maintain a smile on her face. “My mum is keen for me to be working,” Hettie said, her palms becoming moist. “She doesn’t need me anymore.”

  Rose hadn’t said this exactly. Rather, she had mentioned in passing how she was growing weary of the McMullen sisters and their regular visits, and wondered aloud if maybe it was time that they all moved on. The elderly sisters were longtime members of their congregation, and had been assigned to the Quin household by Reverend Mills. The sisters dressed in slate-gray wool coats and dull white blouses with white pearl buttons, and gray skirts that hung down to their thick ankles. Their pale faces, moonlike foreheads, and flat, gray eyes looked vaguely familiar to Hettie, like the faces of strangers she might accidentally bump into on the busy pavement or in one of the crowded aisles of St. George’s Market.

  “Don’t you want to speak to her first?”

  “She’ll be pleased with the news, I know it,” Hettie said firmly. She folded her hands into her lap and sat up straighter. She almost felt as if she might dissolve into laughter and tears; she hadn’t been this elated in years. Now she might be able to save enough money and begin looking for a room at a women-only boardinghouse downtown. Finally, she could strike out on her own. Underneath all of this, Hettie felt a scintilla of guilt for her strong desire to leave her mother, but she swiftly pushed it away. After all, Rose didn’t need her anymore.

  “What areas will you be charging me with?” Hettie asked.

  “The camels, flamingos, the aviary.”

  Mr. Wright paused for a moment, and Hettie felt crestfallen that he hadn’t mentioned the young elephant as one of her assigned charges.

  “And Violet,” he finally added.

  “Grand,” she responded, feeling a rupture of joy bursting throughout her.

  “Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Hettie said, standing up. “Thank you. I appreciate it, sir. When do I start, sir?”

  “Next week,” he said, and then paused. “When the boys are gone. And remember, I’ll be keeping tabs on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hettie reached for the glass knob of the door. Mr. Wright returned the needle of the gramophone to the record that spun on the turntable. Hettie stepped outside, and the melancholy music filled the office again. Before she closed the door behind her, she heard Mr. Wright singing along with the French lyrics, his sonorous voice harmonizing with the recorded voice of the female singer. Hettie was both surprised and impressed by the mellifluous quality of Mr. Wright’s song. She never would have guessed that he had such a beautiful voice.

  Before returning to her late-morning assignments, Hettie stopped by the Elephant House, where she spotted Violet outside, wandering along the perimeter of the moat as young children stretched their arms in her direction. Hettie made her way through the Elephant House and into the enclosure. The elephant moved closer to the multitude of hands. The children released a collective ooh. As Hettie took a few steps closer, Violet’s attention remained fixed on the gaggle of children—the girls dressed in white socks and black shoes, and double-breasted coats over their flannel dresses, and the boys clad in woolen trousers, navy blazers, and snug caps. With bright eyes, the children awaited the young elephant’s next move.

  Hettie reached for a turnip in her pocket. “Violet,” Hettie called, clucking her tongue. “Treat.”

  The elephant immediately turned to look at her. She remembered Mr. Wright’s cautionary tale about the elephant attacking the circus hand, but despite Violet weighing more than three thousand pounds, Hettie didn’t think there was much chance that the elephant would ever try to hurt her. The closest act of aggression she had witnessed was on the morning of Violet’s arrival in Belfast, when she had scared the greengrocer. Violet trotted toward her. The cold, hard ground crunched beneath her feet. She opened her mouth and her tongue lolled like a drifting slip of paper. Hettie laughed and tossed the turnip underhand and the elephant caught it squarely in her mouth. The schoolchildren cheered.

  “Bravo, bravo,” someone said from the other side of the enclosure.

  Hettie looked up, astonished to see Liam Keegan standing a short distance from the loose assemblage of children. Instead of wearing his usual work clothes for the garage, he was dressed in his Sunday best: a two-piece charcoal suit with a flat cap. Maeve was in his arms. It was the first time he had paid a visit to the zoo since she started working there, and Hettie was surprised how pleased she was that he had made the trip up the Antrim Road. He motioned for her to join them on the other side of the enclosure and Hettie threaded her way through the Elephant House.

  “Brilliant to see you,” she said. “I got some good news today. I’ve been offered a full-time position. I start next week.”

  “Congratulations,” Liam said. “I knew it would work out. Everything always takes a little extra fight.”

  Hettie nodded, her face breaking into a wid
er grin. “If all goes well, I should be able to save enough money to move into my own place by summer.”

  “She’s a beauty, Hettie,” Liam said, glancing up at Violet.

  “Not as much as this little one,” Hettie said, leaning toward her niece in his arms. “Hello, Maeve.”

  Maeve smiled, the soft corners of her mouth curling up.

  “You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you,” Hettie said, looking up to catch Liam’s eye, but he was still staring over her shoulder at the elephant.

  “What brings you to the zoo?” Hettie asked.

  “Do you want to hold Maeve?”

  “Let me wash up,” she said, glancing down at her dirty hands.

  Hettie walked into the Elephant House and scrubbed her hands under the cold tap water in the grimy porcelain sink next to the supply closet. When she returned to Liam, he moved Maeve into her arms. From between the folds of the cotton blanket, the baby stared up at Hettie. Maeve’s cheeks were rosy and her long black lashes fluttered. “It’s your first trip to the zoo, isn’t it, sweet girl?” Hettie said.

  Maeve babbled, raised a fist, and tapped Hettie on the nose. Hettie laughed and held Maeve more closely, relishing her warm weight in her arms. It felt like their bodies were meant for each other, with Maeve’s head nestling in the shallow crook of her forearm. Maeve’s heartbeat was her heartbeat, her breath Hettie’s breath.

  Here was infinite love, here was infinite joy, here was infinite kindness, all within this small bundle of flesh that was also her own blood. At the same time, a sorrow overlapped with this love, the loss of her sister forever imprinted onto Maeve’s features.

  “We have some news,” Liam said, looking up at Hettie. “Later next week we will be moving to a relative’s farm. As a part of the evacuations.”

  Hettie was stunned by what Liam had just said and felt the weight of Maeve more viscerally in her arms.

  “Where?” she finally managed.

  “Just north of Newcastle,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “Don’t know, really,” he said, shrugging. “Ma asked that we stay for a wee bit.”

  “Do you think the Germans are going to bomb Belfast?” Hettie asked, worry seeping into her voice.