“I don’t understand,” she said, breathless. “Mr. Clarke said that the constable wouldn’t be returning until half past the hour.”
Ferris and Mr. Wright stood there, staring at the immense body of the elephant, a motionless field of gray. Rajan’s eyes remained open and still, and his ears flapped gently in the afternoon breeze. A few crows pecked near his dusty feet, one hopping along the boulder-like ridge of his massive body.
“He died of a heart attack or shock,” Mr. Wright said. His shoulders trembled, and sobs rolled up from the center of his body.
Hettie looked over at Rajan again. It didn’t seem possible that the bull elephant could be dead, but there he was lying on the concrete area of the enclosure. Strands of hay were strewn on the ground around him, like a subdued nimbus of light. Ferris placed a hand on Mr. Wright’s shoulder. It sounded as if Mr. Wright was choking on his own sobs. Tears streamed down Hettie’s and Ferris’s cheeks as they stood there, silently, taking in the tragic sight of the dead creature.
“We’ll bury Rajan’s remains over there, next to Maggie,” Mr. Wright finally said, looking beyond the far edge of the enclosure. There, up on the hill, was a clearing surrounded by stands of Scots pines. “It will be too difficult to move him over to the Crazy Path with the other animals.”
Mr. Wright gave another shudder.
“There’s no need to butcher Rajan?” Ferris asked.
“Yes, take what you can,” Mr. Wright said with little emotion left in his voice, “and then bury him next to Maggie.”
“What are you talking about?” Hettie asked, horrified. Her mind flashed to Samuel Greene’s father’s butcher stand at St. George’s Market—the swine suspended from the iron hook as Samuel’s father sharpened his knife, the shiny arrangements of pig intestines behind the glass, the blood dripping along the sides of Samuel’s freckled arms.
“We have no choice, Hettie,” Ferris said flatly. “If we don’t butcher some of the executed animals, the others will starve.”
“But—”
Mr. Wright took Hettie’s hand in his for a moment and looked at her. Hettie had never witnessed so much sadness in one person’s face—the downward tugging at the far corners of his mouth and eyelids, the seemingly permanent trails of tears traveling down his cheeks, the quiet anguish reflected in his dark irises. She thought about Mr. Wright’s story about how the animals had saved him after losing his twin brother during the war. She recognized the depth of his pain in accepting that he could no longer save the animals that had been saving him all along. Mr. Wright squeezed Hettie’s hand and released it. Then he turned away and walked toward his office.
“Where have you been, Hettie?” Ferris asked when Mr. Wright was out of earshot. “Where’s Violet?”
“It’s a long story,” she said. “I had to find another place to hide her because the constable and his men were on the way to my house—”
“Where is she?”
“She’s at the Catholic convent on the Shore Road—”
“You left Violet at a convent?” he asked. “Do you really think that’s the best place for her?”
“The nuns are taking good care of her,” Hettie said, her voice wavering.
At that moment, a large lorry arrived at the side of Rajan’s enclosure. An oversize metal crane and several shovels sat in the rear bed. Ferris nodded toward Rajan and then pointed to the hill behind the enclosure. Bobby Adair and Hugh Mallon stepped out of the lorry and unfurled the chain attached to the crane until it reached Rajan. A pair of pink-hued jays settled on the gray landscape of the elephant’s side, pecking at the insects that already hovered over his corpse.
Jack Fleming and Daryl Griffiths also arrived at the enclosure. Two of the men positioned the sturdy belt of the crane across Rajan’s broad torso and then his enormous body was slowly lifted up in the air. Suddenly, the crane’s engine sputtered, stalled, and then reignited, groaning as it lifted the elephant. Rajan’s trunk and feet hung in midair. After several minutes, the bull elephant was maneuvered higher in the air and then was guided toward the clearing. Everyone remained silent as Rajan was lowered to the ground with a definitive thump.
“I had to leave Violet,” Hettie said softly. “I got your message about the constable, that I needed to return to the zoo, that he has news about my mother.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferris said.
“I thought you sent the message—”
“What message?” asked Ferris.
“Do you know where the constable is?”
“They haven’t been here since this morning,” said Ferris, “but I know they’re still keen on finding Violet. Constable Ward is set on fulfilling the directive of the Ministry of Public Security,” Ferris said. “Believe me, I wish this wasn’t the case.”
“The note said that the constable might know something about my mum.”
“I’m sorry, Hettie,” Ferris said. “Maybe she’s still out there.”
Devastated that there was no further news about her mother, Hettie sat down on one of the benches that bordered the path. Across the way was the empty puma enclosure. A few twigs tumbled across the barren, dusty surface. Ferris sat down next to Hettie and rested his hand on top of hers. Together they sat in silence. In the distance, the large mechanical crane whined and creaked.
“It’s time for the sea lions’ feeding,” Ferris said eventually. “Why don’t you join me?”
Together they walked toward the sea lions’ enclosure. On the way, Ferris paused at one of the storage closets that bordered the path and gathered an empty bucket. As he opened the door wider, Hettie noticed the strips of meat piled on slabs of ice on the shelves. Ferris retrieved an amber bottle of cod oil, poured a modest amount into the bucket, and then placed several pieces of meat in the bottom and doused them in the oil. The meat was slippery and bloody in between his fingers.
“The bears,” Hettie said, and then paused as she stared into the darkness of the closet.
Ferris nodded as he dropped a few more pieces into the bucket. Hettie ran to the other side of the path and retched. The pale-green vegetable stew that she had eaten at the convent gushed out of her, and Hettie vomited again at the sight of it. It felt as if her stomach had been punched inside out. When she was certain that she wouldn’t retch again, she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her coat and returned to Ferris’s side.
“You all right?” he asked.
“It doesn’t seem possible—our animals being fed to one another.”
“I know it’s not pleasant,” he said, “but we’re all having to do things that we don’t want to do.”
Once they reached the sea lion enclosure, Ferris unlatched the gate and they both stepped inside. Sammy stood in his usual pose, perched on the highest boulder, his whiskered nose trained toward the metallic-gray sky. The other sea lions languished on the concrete ribbon that bordered the pool, but they all nudged themselves up by their foreflippers as they noticed Ferris’s presence and the strong-smelling bucket in their enclosure.
“Dinner,” Ferris announced.
The sea lions stood a little taller as Ferris tossed up pieces of meat that they caught agilely in their mouths, one by one.
“They don’t seem to notice the difference,” Ferris said, as his eyes followed his careful throws to each animal. Sammy slapped his rubbery flippers together, demanding another piece, and Hettie smiled. “See, they like it.”
Hettie reached into the bucket. The meat felt slick and cold between her fingers, and she tried her hardest not to remember where it had come from. She found purchase on a piece and then tossed it to Sammy at the top of the rock. He caught it squarely in his mouth.
“You’re right,” she said to Ferris.
“Have I ever been wrong?” Ferris teased, keeping his attention fixed on the cadre of sea lions.
“No, you haven’t,” Hettie said.
Ferris looked up at her, their eyes locking for a split second.
�
�Hettie, I—”
But then Ferris’s gaze seemed to travel beyond her shoulder and down the path toward the heart of the zoo. Hettie turned around. In front of the Floral Hall, Constable Ward, Sergeant Miller, and Samuel Greene appeared. As soon as the men noticed Ferris and Hettie standing in front of the sea lions, they approached them at a quickened pace, walking in step with one another, their rifles slung over their shoulders.
“Miss Quin,” Constable Ward said. “We’ve been looking for you. Where’s young Violet? We’ve already checked the Elephant House and she isn’t there.”
Hettie didn’t respond.
“Miss Quin,” Constable Ward said again, “you need to share her whereabouts with us. This is about the safety of the Belfast people. This isn’t just about you and your elephant.”
“She isn’t here,” Hettie said, her voice trembling in her throat.
Samuel Greene made eye contact with her. His expression remained neutral, but Hettie could see the worry in his eyes.
“Did you stop by Rajan’s enclosure?” Ferris asked.
“Yes, we saw,” Constable Ward responded. “What happened?”
“Mr. Wright said it was a heart attack or shock,” Ferris said. “We’ll never know exactly what happened.”
Sergeant Miller rested the heavy butt of his shotgun against the pavement.
“Miss Quin,” Constable Ward continued. “You still haven’t answered my question. I’m waiting. Where is Violet? I demand that you tell me—”
“Violet died of natural causes, too,” Ferris said. “We’ve already buried her in the meadow along with the other animals.”
Ferris and the constable stared each other down. “I don’t believe you,” Constable Ward said sharply.
Ferris drew himself up to his full height. “I can show you. Follow me to the Crazy Path.”
“Fine,” Constable Ward said. “Show us the way.”
“Constable,” Hettie said hesitantly. “Do you have any news to share about my mother? Rose Quin. I think she might’ve been injured in the Atlantic Avenue shelter and transported to one of the hospitals, but I haven’t been able to find her.”
The constable stared at Hettie for an extended moment. The shallow lines of his forehead deepened, and his mouth under his thin mustache became hard.
“How on earth would I know where your mother is?” Constable Ward said. “The city and the hospitals are in a state of madness. How could I possibly know the whereabouts of one woman—”
“But you sent me the message,” she said, feeling ashamed of the desperation in her own voice. “You wrote that you knew where she is.”
“What message?” he barked.
She reached into her pocket and showed the constable the folded note.
“Who sent this?” asked Hettie.
Constable Ward took the piece of paper, studied it, and then gave it back to her.
“I have no idea.”
Tears fell down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Miss Quin,” Constable Ward said, softening his tone. “The reports so far suggest that nearly all of the occupants of the Atlantic Avenue shelter perished. There were very few if any survivors.”
Hettie swallowed hard. She felt as if something might slip inside her at any second, that she might lose herself and crumple to the ground. Hettie pinched the inside of her hand again, willing herself to stop crying, to try to not believe what the constable was saying. Sammy dove from the top boulder. Water splashed on the pavement next to Hettie’s foot.
“Now, Mr. Poole, please show us to Violet’s so-called burial site,” Constable Ward said skeptically. “As I have mentioned, we have many other issues to attend to.”
“Excuse me,” Hettie said.
“Not yet, Miss Quin,” Constable Ward said. “Not until we have verification of the elephant’s death.”
“I need to find my mum,” she said, turning toward the path that led to the entrance. “I need to see if she has returned home.”
With that, Hettie ran toward the grand staircase and down the long flight of stairs, skipping the steps two at a time, and out the front entrance. The Antrim Road was once more thronged with people unwilling to risk staying another night in the city, and making their way along the footpaths and up into the fields and forested knolls of the Cavehill. Hettie noticed that many of the men were carrying spades over their shoulders. Others carried bags of personal belongings. Others held the hands of crying children.
When Hettie turned onto the Whitewell Road, the damaged couch still sat in the middle of the road. She didn’t see any of the neighborhood children. Instead, only Mr. Brown and Mrs. Lyttle stood in front of Mr. Brown’s house. They looked like an odd pair there, sharing a cigarette back and forth.
“Hettie Quin,” Mr. Brown said. “We’ve been wondering about you, where you might be.”
“Have you found your mother yet?” asked Mrs. Lyttle.
“No, I haven’t,” Hettie said, staring at her home down the street. The windows were still dark, and the front door was closed.
Mr. Brown averted his stare to the pavement and rubbed the corners of his eyes. Instead of taking the cigarette from Mrs. Lyttle, he lit a second cigarette for himself. He inhaled deeply and released a curl of smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“What is it?” Hettie said. “Have you heard any reports about Atlantic?”
“Yes,” Mr. Brown said. “They say no one survived.” Mr. Brown paused, sucked on his cigarette again, and then looked up at Hettie. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Maybe she didn’t make it to the—the Atlantic shelter,” Hettie stammered. “Maybe she went somewhere else—”
“That could be,” Mr. Brown said, placing a hand on Hettie’s shoulder. “Maybe you should lie down, get some rest, and then you can make another round of the hospitals and other places where people are identifying family members.”
Hettie knew that Mr. Brown meant the impromptu morgues at the Falls Road Baths, and Peter’s Hill and St. George’s, that these were the places she would most likely find her mother. It felt as if the center of her chest were caving into itself.
“I will,” Hettie managed.
“Give yourself a wee rest, young lady,” Mrs. Lyttle added.
Just then a number of people filed out of the Gibsons’ front door, three houses down. Hettie noticed that all the individuals—young and old—were clad in their church clothes of grays, blacks, and browns. They exchanged hugs and pecks on the cheek. Then Hettie saw Mr. and Mrs. Gibson and Johnny’s older brother, Tommy, at the center of the gathering crowd. She surveyed the familiar faces. Many people from the neighborhood stood on the square parcel of brown grass: the Moffits, the McGraths, the Smiths, the Finneys, and others. Many of the children—Albert O’Brien, Lizzie Reynolds, Rodney and Jack Dawkins—who usually played on the street stood next to their parents, their hands folded in front of them, their round cheeks red and splotchy.
“Where’s Johnny?” Hettie asked.
“Didn’t you hear?” Mr. Brown said.
Hettie shook her head, knowing what they were going to say but not wanting to hear the news.
“Johnny Gibson died, love,” said Mrs. Lyttle gently.
Hettie’s knees trembled. She thought back to little Johnny playing on the damaged couch in the middle of the road. His kind greeting to Violet. How could he be dead now?
“He and Albert O’Brien went out on their bikes, and as he rode along the road a delayed bomb concealed in the rubble near the footpath exploded. He bore the full brunt of the blast. He was so unlucky—a case of the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Johnny Gibson,” Hettie whispered. “No.” For a moment, Hettie could see him running away from the toppled-over tin can, his clenched fists pumping on either side of his compact body.
“I know,” Mr. Brown said. “It’s a horrible loss for his family. I hope his mother survives this.”
“Go and lie down, Hettie,” Mrs. Lyttle said, holding Hettie’s hand an
d then letting it go. “Poor thing, she’s in a state of shock.”
Without saying another word, Hettie walked toward her house. Instead of walking in the front door, she crossed the street and joined the dense crowd of mourners. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson stood near the front steps of their two-story home. His arm was threaded through hers, and Mrs. Gibson clutched a stained and worn handkerchief in one hand. It looked as if Mr. Gibson was holding her up. Tentatively, Hettie approached the couple and gave them each a hug.
“Johnny was a brilliant boy,” Hettie said as she hugged Mrs. Gibson.
Mrs. Gibson stifled a sob. “He always liked you, Hettie. He often talked about you, how you work with the animals.”
Mrs. Gibson continued to hug Hettie, her embrace both strong and soft. Hettie stood still. In her mind, she saw Johnny again and his freckled face and his unbridled enthusiasm for Violet.
“I’ll always remember him, Mrs. Gibson,” Hettie whispered into the grieving mother’s ear. “You were blessed to be his mum.”
“Thank you, Harriet Elizabeth Quin,” she said. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Finney came up to Mrs. Gibson and held her for an extended moment. Hettie stepped away and lingered among the crowd, then felt a little tug on her hand. She looked down to see Albert O’Brien staring up at her.
“Hettie,” he said, “where’s that elephant of yours?”
“Oh, Albert,” Hettie said, kneeling and hugging the boy.
Albert slumped into her embrace.
“She is with the nuns right now,” she said, “but I’m going to bring her home soon.”
“You promise?” he said. “I want to see her again.”
“Yes, you’ll see her again soon,” Hettie said, reaching into her pocket. “In the meantime, can you take care of another friend of mine?” Hettie presented Albert with Ferris’s snail. “Just for a few days,” she said. “You’ll need to feed him a few leaves every morning and every night. And water, too.”
Albert’s eyes brightened.
“Yes,” he said, cupping the snail in his palms. “I’ll take care of him.”
“Thank you,” Hettie said.
The Elephant of Belfast Page 27