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The Elephant of Belfast

Page 11

by S. Kirk Walsh


  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, hitting the microphone’s head again. “Your attention, please.”

  The voices of the crowd softened.

  “I’m pleased to introduce Bert Ambrose and his magnificent orchestra, along with Stella Holliday,” he said. “They are on tour—and we’re fortunate to have them in Belfast tonight.”

  Ambrose dramatically raised his hands and launched into the first number. From where she’d been hidden in the wings of the stage, Stella Holliday stepped into the spotlight. She wore a shimmering chartreuse dress, with formal white gloves stretching up her arms. Her wavy sienna hair cascaded onto her shoulders. Her lashes were long, her lips a brilliant red. Hettie was startled and mesmerized by the brightness of Stella Holliday’s physical presence; she had never taken in a woman who was so elegant and arresting at once.

  Hettie glanced over at Eliza. She was already on the dance floor with a boy Hettie didn’t recognize, his arms wrapped around her thin waist, her auburn locks flying from her diminutive shoulders. Other couples moved onto the floor, and Hettie surveyed the crowd again for Samuel. She didn’t see him anywhere. As the music’s tempo picked up, more dancers joined in.

  “Shall we?” Ferris asked.

  “All right,” Hettie said, feeling relieved that she wouldn’t be left alone on the periphery of the dance floor, as she noticed that Samuel Greene had already found himself another partner for the first song of the evening.

  Ferris took her soda and placed it on a table.

  “I haven’t danced in a long time,” she warned.

  Ferris laughed. “Just like riding a bike, you’ll see.”

  He took her hand and led Hettie through the crowd of whirling couples. Hettie closed her eyes and felt the thrumming beats of the bass and the shiny sounds of the trumpets inside her chest. She opened her eyes. Ferris stepped on her toe as he attempted to lead her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a wee bit since I danced, too.”

  He held her hand more tightly and stared down at their feet.

  “Let’s begin again,” he said. “Follow me. Quick, quick. Slow, slow.”

  Ferris took two short steps and then slid his feet together. This time, Hettie stepped on his foot.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m not very good at following.”

  “We can do this,” he said, his wide grin twitching with a hint of panic. “Again.”

  This time, Hettie was able to follow as if there were a magnetic force somehow guiding the movements of their feet. As they made their way around the floor, Ferris smiled at her.

  “See, I told you.”

  Before Hettie knew it, they were a part of the collective movement of the dance floor, like a murmuration of a large flock of swallows circling in one synchronized motion. For a moment, she felt as if she were being carried away by something, something that she couldn’t exactly name. Ferris guided her around the floor until the number came to an end.

  “Another,” Ferris said, extending his hand to Hettie.

  She felt pleased that she had managed to find her own feet on the dance floor, and that she wasn’t as clumsy as she’d thought she would be. Ferris was right: It was like riding a bike, how one’s muscle memory returned with very little thought. Instead of requiring effort, it was fluid and easy, producing an unexpected freedom and happiness. Hettie laughed to herself as she gripped Ferris’s sturdy hand. Together they danced five numbers in a row before taking a break. As she sat down to watch the others and Ferris went to get her a drink, Hettie felt both energized and fatigued. She noticed Eliza dancing with a man on the other side of the floor; he was older and dressed in a pinstriped suit. A shadow of whiskers covered his chin and lower cheeks. Eliza threw back her head and laughed. Hettie recognized the tune: “Anything Goes.”

  Ferris returned with two cups of punch. “Thirsty?” Ferris asked, offering Hettie one of the cups.

  She took it and drank it down greedily. “Thank you,” she said after she had finished.

  Hettie looked around and felt the steady force of her heartbeat as she spotted Samuel walking toward them. A cigarette was tucked behind one of his ears.

  “Looking sharp out there,” Samuel said to Ferris.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” Ferris asked.

  “I was a class ahead of you at the Academy,” he said. “You don’t remember me? Samuel Greene.”

  “Samuel, right,” Ferris said absently. “Of course.”

  “You didn’t complete the last form, did you?”

  “No,” said Ferris, somewhat defensively. “I took a job with the zoo instead—”

  “I’m working with a special division of the RUC.”

  “Sounds important.”

  “Sure beats enlistment.”

  For a moment, Hettie wanted to disappear as Samuel and Ferris made small talk: What would they think if they knew that she was attracted to both of them in different ways, but couldn’t make up her mind who she had stronger feelings for? Would the two men think of her differently? Ferris was certainly more kind and thoughtful, but she found Samuel more attractive and charming despite what had taken place between the two of them at the cinema several months ago. Hettie willed herself to stay calm. After all, this was what she imagined Eliza would advise her to do in this type of situation: Never let them know what you’re feeling. The problem was that Hettie didn’t know exactly what she was feeling herself. The band launched into another number, “Put Your Arms Around Me, Honey,” with its slower, swing-set tempo. The couples swayed more closely together on the dance floor.

  “What do you say, Ferris,” Samuel said. “Let me dance one with Hettie.”

  Ferris looked up at her for a second, and furrows deepened along his forehead. “Be my guest.”

  Samuel extended his hand, and Hettie glanced uneasily at Ferris.

  “Go ahead, Hettie,” Ferris said with more conviction.

  Samuel took her hand and led her out to the middle of the crowd. Stella Holliday sang: Put your arms around me, Honey, hold me tight. Her sweet voice reached up to the tiered chandeliers.

  “Who’s the lover boy?” Samuel asked, placing a hand on her hip.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Hettie said quickly, then cursed herself for being so obvious. “We work together at the zoo.”

  “What’s he in charge of?”

  “The hyenas, penguins, and sea lions,” she said, “but we help each other with everything.”

  “I hear Mr. Wright is quite the character,” he said. “That he enjoys a good tussle with the lions.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I have my sources,” Samuel said with a wink.

  “Well, he was a lion tamer with the circus before he came to Bellevue,” Hettie said. “Mr. Christie is lucky to have him. He’s remarkable with the animals.”

  Samuel didn’t reply as he shifted his attention to the subtle movements of their feet. Hettie found it easier to follow his lead than Ferris’s; somehow her feet responded to his agile steps as he guided her around the crowded dance floor. His hand felt like worn velvet in hers. Samuel moved in more closely. His pant leg brushed against the fabric of her sister’s dress. His cologne reminded her of the scents of freshly chopped wood and worn leather. It reminded her of her father. She leaned her cheek against Samuel’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

  At the same time, Stella Holliday’s song transformed the vast room into something warm and intimate. Her voice lit up the air. Hettie imagined walking along a serpentine path of soft cushions, and somewhere, toward the end, she expected that she would find her sister. After the number, the band ceased playing. Bert Ambrose announced that Stella Holliday and the band would be taking a short break between sets. Samuel’s gaze held Hettie’s for a protracted moment. She felt a temporary storm on her senses, with his attention being at the center of it.

  “How about some fresh air?” he asked, his voice intentionally casual.

  A buzz shuddered down her forearm
and into the palm of her hand, exactly where Samuel was holding it. “Lovely,” she had said before she knew it.

  Samuel folded his fingers into Hettie’s and led her outside. Several band members stood on the front steps of the Floral Hall, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Stella Holliday, in her elegant, floor-length dress, its silky fabric hugging the robust curves of her body, also stood outside. She laughed with one of the band members.

  “There she is,” Samuel whispered to Hettie. “Everyone loves her.”

  Stella Holliday laughed again, lifting her pale chin and placing the cigarette between her red lips. Her presence radiated a glow, and the band members were like moths all trying to gather closer to her. Samuel retrieved his package of cigarettes and offered one to Hettie.

  “Thanks,” she said, accepting a cigarette this time.

  Samuel placed the cigarette between her lips, and she leaned into him as he lit it with a sterling silver lighter. Though Hettie rarely smoked, she managed to inhale and exhale with ease, and the harsh taste of nicotine bloomed in her mouth. After lighting his own cigarette, Samuel clicked the hinged cap of his lighter shut with one swift motion of his wrist. He took a deep inhale and smiled at Hettie. Thin threads of smoke lifted up in front of her face.

  “You should know better than saying such off-color comments about my husband,” Stella Holliday was saying, tapping her cigarette ashes onto the pavement. “He works for the government, you know. He could have you arrested.” The evening breeze scattered the powdery residue into the darkness.

  “Her husband is an important Irish diplomat in Rome,” Samuel whispered to Hettie. “They travel all over the world. Or they did, before the war.”

  Hettie stole one more glance at Stella Holliday as she took another draw of the cigarette. The deliberate curves of her body resembled the smooth, perfect lines of a statue sculpted by an Italian artist from another time and place. Her dress gave off an otherworldly shimmer. She glanced down at her own dress; even though it was Anna’s, it still felt childish and drab next to the cosmopolitan sophistication of Stella Holliday. Hettie wondered how old Stella was and what age she had been when she and her husband had married, and if she had given birth to any children.

  “Isn’t she something,” Samuel remarked.

  Hettie nodded. The growl of a bear could be heard in the distance. Hettie knew it was probably Andy, standing up on his hind legs in his enclosure not far from the foot of the hill.

  “The beasts are out tonight,” said one of the band members with a snicker.

  “I prefer the beasts, you know,” Stella said, laughing softly and then tossing her cigarette onto the pavement and grinding out the ambers with the heel of her shoe. “We all know animals are more predictable than men.” She laughed again, and the band members joined in.

  “Five more minutes, Malcolm,” called a man from the dance hall.

  “Be right there,” one of the band members said. “Ready for the next set, Stella?”

  “What an exceptional night,” she said, staring out at the darkened landscape of the city and its port. “Belfast will always be my favorite city.”

  A cool breeze swept across the veranda. Hettie wrapped her hands around herself, chafing her arms to warm them up. Samuel moved suddenly and for a moment she thought he was going to offer her his jacket. But he just rooted through the pockets of his blazer, producing a scrap of paper and a ballpoint pen.

  “Mrs. Holliday,” Samuel said, stepping toward her. “Can I have your autograph?”

  “My autograph?” she scoffed. “What a ridiculous request!”

  “You’re famous,” Samuel said, with a burst of charm. “Everyone knows you.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Stella Holliday took the piece of paper and pen from Samuel, and scribbled her name in two sweeping loops.

  “Here you go, young man,” she said. “Now scram and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Thank you,” Samuel said, taking her hand and kissing it briefly, making her laugh. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Holliday.”

  “Stella!” yelled the man at the door again.

  The singer disappeared into the hall.

  “Look at this,” Samuel said, staring down at the autograph. “I’ll fetch a lot for this, particularly in Dublin.”

  “You’re not going to keep it?”

  “Of course not,” Samuel said. “Why would I want to keep it when I could exchange it for chocolate or coffee on the black market?”

  Notes of music drifted through the doors. Hettie had heard that smuggling between Northern Ireland and Ireland had become epidemic—everything from butter, tea, coffee, and chocolates to engagement rings and nylons. But she’d never known for certain until now.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know about the black market,” Samuel said. “How are we supposed to get anything up here—”

  “But you work for the police,” she said. “Won’t it jeopardize your position?”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “You’d be surprised who’s doing what around here.”

  The band was now performing at full swing again. Stella Holliday’s voice rose above the swelling rhythms.

  “Shall we?” Samuel asked, offering his arm to her.

  Hettie intertwined her arm with his, and together they walked up the steps of the Floral Hall. The dance floor was already crowded again, and she couldn’t see Ferris or Eliza anywhere. But a moment later, as Samuel leaned into her and pulled her body into his, she no longer cared where her friends were. He softly hummed along with the music. For a second, she was reminded of Thomas and his whistling around the house, how his high-pitched notes used to stitch the day-to-day atmosphere of their home. Hettie let herself sink farther into Samuel’s arms.

  “May I?” Ferris interrupted, startling her and making her blush that he had seen her with Samuel.

  “Just one dance,” Samuel said, stepping away from Hettie. “Then she’s mine again,” he added with a wink.

  Stella Holliday and the band seamlessly moved into the next number. Ferris guided Hettie away from Samuel in one swift motion. When they started dancing, his tight grip pinched her fingers.

  “Ouch, Ferris,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Where did you go? I couldn’t find you.” He looked mutinous, and a bolt of defiance made Hettie lift her chin and meet his eye.

  “We met Stella Holliday.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Samuel introduced himself and asked for her autograph.”

  “He’s always in the right place at the right time, that Samuel Greene.”

  Hettie didn’t mention anything about how Samuel had said he was planning to sell Stella Holliday’s signature on the black market. She didn’t think Ferris would approve. The tempo of the next song was slower, and the couples on the floor whirled in measured circles as Stella crooned. Near the front of the stage, Hettie spotted Samuel with a tall, fair-skinned woman clad in a form-fitting lavender dress. Her wavy blond hair flowed down between her narrow shoulders. Samuel held her close and whispered into her hair. The young woman’s cheek rested against the side of his face. Envy sliced through Hettie.

  At first, she didn’t recognize the young woman and wondered if she was from Belfast or if she had traveled from outside the city, perhaps from one of the smaller towns farther north or west. This particular show with Stella Holliday was an event, after all, and people traveled far distances for such a performance. Then, as Hettie took a longer look, she realized that the young woman dancing with Samuel Greene was Colleen White from school. They had been in the same class together for a year when they read the great novels by Dickens, Hardy, the Brontë sisters, and Jane Austen. Throughout the class, Colleen had always provided the right answers for their teacher, Mr. Swann, when he asked questions about specific characters’ conflicts and motivations, about plot, and about overarching themes related to gender, class, and religion. Colleen never had a shortage of insightful commenta
ry about the classic novels and their famous characters and their memorable motivations, whereas Hettie’s thoughts and words often got caught somewhere up in her brain, where they remained until she took the time to set a pen to paper and arrange her ideas in some sort of coherent and understandable manner. Now Samuel stared up at Stella Holliday onstage before returning his gaze to Colleen White.

  Hettie shifted her attention to the overhead chandelier, with its four tiers of crystals, looking like a cloud of tears. She tried to locate the buoyancy of Stella Holliday’s voice again, but it was as if her voice were no longer there—that it had somehow dissolved—even though Hettie could, of course, hear her as she sang the final refrain of the song. As the band concluded the number, the audience clapped and whistled and demanded another. Despite the fact that Hettie had just been standing outside, she felt hot and uncomfortable.

  “One more?” Ferris asked.

  Before she could answer, the band commenced the high-spirited “Exactly Like You.”

  “I need to use the loo,” Hettie muttered, and dashed off before Ferris could respond.

  As she arrived at the entrance of the cloakroom, Hettie’s eyes were drawn to Samuel and Colleen again. The couple danced with grace and self-possession, as if they had danced to this exact number many times before. On the illuminated stage, Stella Holliday stood in her glittery yellow-green gown, her full-length-gloved arms and hands extended out on either side of her body like a pair of wings, as if she might take flight at any second and soar amid the trio of chandeliers and out the double doors of the Floral Hall, down the steep, wooded slope of the Cavehill, above the slumbering animals of the zoo, and over the darkened buildings of the city and the industrial docks before gliding over the Belfast Lough and into the blackness of the Irish Sea. Hettie believed that Stella Holliday could go anywhere she wanted to, even though she still stood onstage with her outstretched arms in front of the stand-up microphone.

 

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