The Elephant of Belfast

by S. Kirk Walsh

  “I’m assuming that’s where you’re spending all of your time these days.”

  Hettie nodded warily.

  “Mr. Wright keeps you busy, does he?” Rose asked.

  “He’s charged me with—” Hettie lifted her eyes from the newspaper’s front page to tell her mother more, but broke off as she realized that Rose was already walking down the hallway.

  The illuminated crease under her bedroom door appeared, and then, within a few minutes, it was gone again. It was as if the two of them existed in separate spheres and somehow they were no longer related by blood. Instead of mother and daughter, they were merely acquaintances with little in common except their street address and surname. An ache lodged just below her collarbone, and Hettie pressed two fingers against the knot of pain and tried to rub it away. She attempted to convince herself that it was better this way, that she was free—untethered—and could come and go as she wished with little question or complaint from her mother. Hettie slipped Liam’s letter from the pocket of her cardigan into her leather satchel and finished her now-cold meal in silence. As she rinsed out her bowl in the kitchen sink, Hettie promised herself she would visit the all-women boardinghouse on the Limestone Road and see if there might be any rooms available in May.

  The following morning, Hettie, Ferris, Bobby Adair, and Daryl Griffiths were sitting in the canteen after a staff meeting, during which Mr. Wright had briefed them on the week’s duties. The rest of the employees were already filtering through the double doors, the collective din of their voices receding from the canteen.

  “We’re going to hear the singer Stella Holliday Saturday night,” Ferris said to Hettie, not quite meeting her eye. “You should join us.”

  “Aye,” Daryl said, playfully slugging Hettie in the arm. “You need to come out. Have fun for once. You work too hard.”

  Hettie glanced at the stares of the young men around the table and then into the bottom of her teacup. The heater in the far corner of the canteen rattled and clacked before discharging a steamy hiss. A sudden itch surfaced on her earlobe. Hettie reached for her ear, pinching the soft pad of flesh. She looked up at the canteen’s pass-through, thinking she might see Eliza Crowley, but she didn’t see her anywhere.

  “Come on,” Ferris said. “You have to say yes this time.”

  Hettie looked up at him, and Ferris finally looked at her, giving her his best smile.

  “All right,” Hettie said reluctantly. “Okay.”

  “See, I knew she’d eventually come around,” Ferris said, winking at Daryl and Bobby. “What did I tell ya?”

  The four of them got up from the table and carried their empty cups to the pass-through. Eliza appeared from the rear of the building, the screen door smacking behind her.

  “It will be a brilliant time,” Ferris said to Hettie. “I promise.”

  “Cheers,” Eliza said, placing their cups in the porcelain basin.

  Ferris and Bobby exchanged glances.

  “Aye,” Bobby said, a blush moving into his round cheeks. “We’re all going to hear Stella Holliday on Saturday night—”

  Eliza glanced over at Hettie. Her chin had healed up, and the spot where she had stitches was no longer immediately noticeable, but if you looked closely, you could see the slightly raised scars on the tip of her chin.

  “I’m supposed to watch my younger sisters, but let me ask my mum.”

  “Terrific,” Bobby said.

  “You going, too?” Eliza asked Hettie.

  “She is,” Ferris answered for her.

  Hettie handed Eliza her teacup. Their fingertips grazed each other’s, and Eliza smiled. Hettie zipped up her work coat and wrapped her father’s scarf around her neck.

  “Off to the camels,” Hettie said.

  “To the penguins,” Ferris said.

  The four zookeepers pushed through the double doors and went their separate ways.

  On Saturday night, Hettie waited in front of the Floral Hall while the buoyant notes of the big band floated through the oversize doors. Though the hall had been opened five years, Hettie had attended only a handful of dances there while Anna had always been a regular at the popular hall. Her sister had been an elegant dancer who attracted the attention of others as she glided across the dance floor with her partners throughout any given evening. This was how she had met Liam Keegan on a crisp summer night, and the two of them became an item on the dance floor, drawing the stares of strangers with their fluid, graceful movements and undeniable chemistry.

  Flutters of nervousness batted in Hettie’s stomach as she continued to wait for her friends. Clutches of well-dressed individuals—young and old, country people and city people—made their way up the steep slope from the tram stop on the Antrim Road. Even though it was early March, traces of spring pulsed along the outer rim of the evening air. Her nervousness seemed to transform into excitement: She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard a live band and gone out dancing. Months and months ago. Hettie tapped her foot in time with the music. Trumpets, clarinets, and flutes converged into one syncopated sound, its forceful rhythms riding into the night and generating an infectious energy all its own.

  “Hettie,” someone said from behind her. “Is that you?”

  She turned around, and didn’t quite know how to feel when she saw that it was Samuel Greene. He looked different from the last time she had seen him at St. George’s Market in the autumn. Like he was taller, or older, or a combination of the two. He wore a navy suit, a pressed white button-down, and a black tie. Fresh comb marks lined his oiled brown hair. When he smiled, his white, square teeth almost glowed. Instead of stepping out of a butcher shop, he looked as if he had just left a formal wedding party or an important business meeting.

  “Samuel Greene,” Hettie said. “Good to see you.”

  “You too,” he said. “I was hoping we would run into each other again.”

  He reached for her hand, leaning forward and placing a surprising kiss on the top of it. Hettie awkwardly drew her hand back.

  “Are you still working with your father at St. George’s?” she asked.

  “I’m with the police now,” he said, running his fingers through the sleek side of his neatly coiffed hair. “Training at the RUC depot in Enniskillen, but the sergeant says that I’ve been assigned to a special branch due to my mental sharpness and expert marksmanship skills. I’m at the top of my class.”

  “That’s grand,” Hettie said. “Your father must be proud.”

  “It took him a while to get used to the idea of me leaving the shop,” Samuel admitted, “but when he discovered that I scored such high marks on the entrance exam, he became more supportive.”

  Hettie noticed a tiny piece of white tissue, like a rosebud, stuck to the side of Samuel’s neck, just above his shirt collar. For a moment she wanted to reach out and touch it, tell Samuel that it was there, but she didn’t. He patted the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a lighter and a package of cigarettes with the familiar logo of the brawny sailor emblazoned on its side. He offered one to Hettie. She shook her head no.

  “I’m full-time now,” she said after a short pause. “I’m taking care of a young elephant named Violet.”

  “Always knew you’d be up to brilliant things one day, Hettie Quin,” Samuel said, lighting his own cigarette and releasing a trail of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Going to hear Stella tonight, are you?”

  Hettie nodded. “Waiting for a few friends.”

  “Excellent,” Samuel said, following the group of young men he had arrived with. “Promise me that you’ll save me at least one dance, will you?”

  Hettie nodded again.

  “Brilliant,” Samuel said. “Cheers. See you inside.”

  “Cheers.”

  A subtle percolation of elation rose in her chest. Perhaps Samuel Greene was a finer young man than she had originally judged him to be. Hettie smoothed out the front of her double-breasted coat. It was light blue with leather buttons, and had been Ann
a’s. Underneath the coat, she also wore one of Anna’s dresses, a salmon wool frock with an empire line and a grosgrain bow punctuating its high waist. Rose had told Hettie more than once that the dress fit her perfectly and Anna would have loved to know that she was wearing it to a concert at the Floral Hall; until tonight, she had resisted. Hettie plucked pills of wool from the front of the skirt and then smoothed it out with her hand again. For a moment, she felt just as pretty as her sister had been.

  But then, just as quickly, she felt ugly and awkward. The satin slip of the dress stuck to her wool stockings, producing starbursts of static electricity. Hettie had borrowed a tube of her mother’s lipstick without asking, slipping it into her coat pocket before leaving the house, and then applied it in the bathroom of the women’s locker room at the zoo before walking up the hill to the dance hall. Now the lipstick felt like clumsy paint on her lips. Instead of enhancing her appearance, the reddish-brown smear on her mouth only made her feel like a sad version of someone else.

  Hettie stood a little straighter, determined to enjoy herself. Live a little, you know, she heard Anna say in her mind. It’ll do you some good.

  More stars appeared above the Belfast Lough. A ship bellowed its horn. Despite the blackout regulations, the lighthouse on the Lough still swiveled its beacon of illumination so incoming cargo ships and freighters could make a safe passage through the shallow waters and rocky coastlines of the harbor. From where she stood at the Floral Hall, Hettie could see the lighthouse on the distant point, its predictable revolutions of light circling across the expansive sky. She reached into her small handbag and retrieved a tissue, dabbing the corners of her mouth before crumpling it up and tucking it inside her purse again. Finally, she spotted Ferris walking up the steady rise with Jack Fleming, Bobby Adair, and Daryl Griffiths behind him. Hettie wondered where Eliza Crowley was.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Ferris said, his breath ragged.

  Each of the young men wore a pair of woolen trousers and a blazer over a button-down shirt. A wrinkled red bandanna peeked out from the breast pocket of Bobby’s coat. Ferris wore an old navy-and-maroon-striped tie from his former school. Daryl’s shirt was rumpled and untucked. The small band of them looked more like lonely boys on leave from boarding school than fellow zookeepers who worked with her on a daily basis. Ferris gave Hettie a hug and then a peck on her cheek. The side of his neck smelled of cologne—a pungent cross between anise and pine trees. It was a heady aroma, but he had used so much it made her gag slightly.

  “Has the show started yet?” Bobby said, glancing toward the entrance.

  They stepped inside. The warm air of the hall’s interior pushed at Hettie’s face as the brisk breeze from outside fingered her shoulders. The front foyer was painted a tangerine orange, as if the walls held their own particular brand of sunshine. As Hettie remembered, the dance hall was vibrant with its cerulean-blue walls. Gold-leaf trim trailed along the top edge of the immense room. Three elaborate chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Since her last visit over a year ago, blackout blinds had been fitted onto all the plate-glass windows that lined the art deco building, with patches of brown paper and crisscrosses of industrial tape concealing any potential leaks of artificial light.

  They paid the admission to an elderly couple behind a card table with a roll of blue tickets and a tin box. Along one side of the hall, white cloths were draped over a series of circular tables. Simple arrangements of red and white carnations sat at the center of each one. Schoolgirls stood behind one of the tables, selling glasses of punch and bottles of Club Orange and lemonade and packets of biscuits and crisps. Already the ballroom was halfway full. Hettie scanned the room for familiar faces, but didn’t see anyone she knew. A prickle of anxiety traveled up her throat. She coughed into her fist, praying the discomfort wouldn’t mount into an extended coughing fit. Hettie glanced around the dance hall again. There, standing next to one of the tables, she spotted Samuel amid his circle of friends. They smoked cigarettes, chuckled, and whispered to each other. She noticed that Samuel was staring at her. As their eyes locked, he lifted his glass in her direction with a cheeky grin. Hettie turned away, somewhat flustered.

  “Let me take your coat,” Ferris offered.

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll keep it,” Hettie said, draping it on the back of a chair.

  “Pretty frock, Hettie,” Ferris said with a grin.

  “My—” She stopped herself. “It’s a hand-me-down.”

  “Looks like it was made for you,” he said appreciatively. “Something to drink?”

  “A Club Orange would be lovely, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ferris made his way across the dance floor. As she waited for him, Hettie found herself hoping that Samuel would notice her standing alone and come over so they could resume their conversation. She could tell him how well she was doing in her job. Despite the rationing, Violet had gained about eighty pounds—and Samuel would be impressed by her husbandry skills, particularly during such challenging times. She was more than the first female zookeeper at the Bellevue Zoo; she was a natural when it came to animals—and she was being paid a reasonable salary, not quite equal to the other zookeepers’, but a good salary nonetheless. Compared to the other girls from her school who were already married and having their first or second children, she was making something of herself. And Hettie wanted to ask Samuel about his older brother, Daniel. She had remembered that he played sports, too—football—and had traveled overseas to Europe before the war started. She had heard that he had enlisted with the Royal Air Force over a year ago and was now flying fighter planes somewhere in northern Africa.

  “Hey, Hettie.”

  She turned around to find Eliza Crowley standing next to her.

  “Eliza,” Hettie said, smiling. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

  Eliza wore a black-and-white-polka-dot dress with a bow tied at her narrow waist. The tightness of the satiny fabric accentuated her large breasts. A soft pink rouge colored her cheeks and a light blue eyeshadow fanned out from the corners of her eyes. Her flame-like curls tumbled down onto her shoulders. In the dim light of the dance hall, Hettie couldn’t see the scar on her chin.

  Eliza tapped a cigarette out of a package and lit it in the corner of her mouth before releasing a long exhale, like the extended note of a song. It was the first time Hettie had ever seen Eliza smoke.

  “Convinced my older brother to babysit,” she said. “He owes me, you know.”

  “You look beautiful,” Hettie said.

  “I like your frock, too,” Eliza said, her eyes traveling from Hettie’s feet to the top of her head, “but that lipstick looks wretched. Come with me.”

  Eliza took her hand and led Hettie toward the cloakroom crowded with young women. Eliza’s thin fingers felt cold between Hettie’s. The narrow room was stuffy and smelled of floral perfume and cigarette smoke. Several girls jockeyed for space in front of the rectangular mirror on the far wall. An elbow nudged into Hettie’s side. There was warm breath against her neck. She took a step closer to Eliza.

  “Here,” Eliza said, “give me your mouth.”

  Hettie turned toward Eliza, squaring her shoulders and doing her best to stand up straight and still. Eliza moistened a tissue with her own spit and then wiped it against Hettie’s lips. Her breath smelled of garlic and cigarettes, and Hettie had to fight against the instinct to wrinkle her nose.

  “Where did you find this unfortunate color?” Eliza said.

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  “Rule number one,” Eliza said, winking at Hettie. “Never wear your mother’s lipstick.”

  She wiped Hettie’s lips once more before fishing out a couple of tubes of lipstick from her purse.

  “Rule number two: Say yes to every dance,” Eliza said, reaching for Hettie’s hand. “Here.”

  Hettie spread out her hand, like a starfish. Women crowded around them. A mist of perfume grazed Hettie’s cheek. The high-pitched la
ughter of young women felt like it held sharp edges. Eliza drew three marks of lipstick on Hettie’s hand: a fuchsia pink, a vibrant red, and a deeper shade of red.

  “Number three: Whenever a young man tells you a joke, laugh, even if it’s daft,” Eliza said, pointing to the vibrant red. “This one. It will make you look sophisticated, more mature.”

  An unfamiliar joy stirred in Hettie as Eliza gently pinched the rounded point of her chin, stared intently into her eyes, and carefully shaded in Hettie’s lips.

  “Press your lips together like this.”

  Eliza slowly rubbed her lips together and plucked them apart. Hettie mimicked the movement of her mouth.

  “Beautiful,” Eliza said, with a smile of victory. “Look for yourself.”

  Hettie weaved her way through the throng of girls and studied her own reflection in a corner of the mirror. Eliza was right: She looked much better with this shade of lipstick. Her eyes looked a little brighter and her freckled complexion glowed. It was as if she had changed her entire outfit. Instead of feeling frumpy and spinster-like, she felt beautiful and tall and assured, as if she had grown at least two inches in the last few minutes.

  When Hettie returned to Eliza, effusive with gratitude, she was applying her own lipstick, a soft pink, and waved away Hettie’s attention.

  “What are friends for?” Eliza said, beaming. “Ready?”

  Hettie nodded, and Eliza threaded her arm through Hettie’s and together they returned to Ferris. He handed two bottles of Club Orange to Hettie and Eliza, paper straws bobbing in their narrow glass necks. The soda’s sweetness made Hettie’s cheeks smart and picked up the corners of her mouth.

  “Eliza,” Ferris said. “Look at you.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Poole,” she said.

  “You dress up nice.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Suddenly, a wave of jealousy and shame rolled through Hettie. She wondered if Ferris found Eliza more beautiful than her. Hettie pressed her lips together and gently smacked them apart again. Eliza winked at her. The bandleader, clad in a black-and-white tuxedo, took his position in front of the big band, tapping his baton against a music stand. The chandelier lights were dimmed further, and a spotlight was thrown on the bandleader. Another man, also dressed in a tuxedo, approached the microphone that stood to the left side of the elevated stage. He tapped the head of the microphone, his touch amplifying throughout the hall.