“Does he have a name?” Albert asked, holding the snail between two fingers.
“No, not yet.”
“What about Ulysses?” he suggested. “I read about him in school last week. He was a hero and a king who loved adventures. We’ll call him Uli for short.”
“Perfect,” Hettie said. “You take good care of Uli for me, then.”
“Yes, Hettie,” Albert said, still staring down at the snail in his palms. “Yes, I will.”
Hettie made her way across the street. Her house looked the same, except there was a handwritten note taped to the front door. Hettie’s heart rate quickened. Perhaps the note offered some definitive news, maybe her mother was alive after all. As she approached her house, Hettie lifted the note from the door, unlocked the door with her key, and closed it behind her. Without taking her coat off, she sat down at the kitchen table, and finally read the note:
Dear Hettie:
It’s with great regret that I discovered your mum’s body at the Falls Road Baths when I was looking for one of my cousins earlier today. I was told that her body is going to be transferred to St. George’s. It would be good if you could visit the morgue at the market tomorrow so you can identify her body and collect any of her personal belongings.
Hettie, I’m so sorry for the loss of your mum so soon after your sister. Please come & knock on my door if you need anything.
Warmly,
Mr. Reynolds
Hettie reread the note, the piece of paper shaking in her hands. She could hardly believe what she was reading. Maybe Mr. Reynolds had gotten another woman’s identity confused with her mother’s, and therefore this note wasn’t meant for her. Hettie’s head started to spin. She lifted herself up from the table and held on to the edge of it. She felt light-headed and dizzy. She held on to the table more tightly.
When her head was clear again, she managed to stumble down the darkened hallway to her mother’s bedroom. A seam of light appeared on the floor, making her feel hopeful for a moment. She couldn’t remember if she had left the overhead light on or not. Hettie flew through the door, half expecting to see her mother in her own bed. All those months she had felt discouraged and sometimes even sickened by her mother’s inability to get out of bed most mornings, and now she would welcome the sight of her mother lying there, with her tired eyes and groggy voice, her hand holding her spot in a paperback mystery. Instead, Rose’s bedroom appeared the same as when she and Liam had left several hours earlier. A crumpled tangle of sheets sat in the center of the bed. She could smell the lingering scents of their sex—musty like the smell in the woods after a steady downpour. She reached for her mother’s lilac perfume on the bureau, sprayed several squirts into the air, and stood watching the vaporous mist of the perfume disappear in the dim light.
Then Hettie noticed the assorted contents of her mother’s mahogany chest and random shoes scattered across the worn floorboards: clip-on earrings missing their partners, tortoiseshell hair combs, a lace handkerchief that used to be Rose’s mother’s. Hettie began to collect the stray items from floor and realized that several objects were missing. Her grandmother’s brooch with the three diamonds nestled neatly in the knot of the golden bow. A pair of pearl-inlaid cuff links. A small, gold-plated engraved clock given to her father by his workmates when he left Harland & Wolff. Dismayed and dejected, she sifted through the side compartments of the polished box. Nothing was there.
Frantically, Hettie examined the cluttered surface of her mother’s bureau, opening and closing the drawers several times. Rose’s savings were gone. Not a single pound note was left behind. How could she have been so careless? With a shout of fury, Hettie hit her fists against the bureau’s surface and started to cry. Maybe a stranger had wandered into their house and looted the valuables and currency while she was gone. Then Hettie remembered the front door had been locked, that she had used her own key to enter the house.
Hettie ran to the door that led to the courtyard. The door was flung open and the gate to the adjacent walkway left ajar. She returned to the house and sat down at the kitchen table. The note from Mr. Reynolds lay there still. Next to his note, she noticed the short message with her own handwriting, telling Rose that she had gone up to the zoo to help out with the animals and that was the best place to find her. It felt as if she’d written the note several years ago.
Hettie pressed the warm heels of her palms into her eyes. She felt the impulse to crawl into her bed and try to sleep her way out of this. It struck Hettie that maybe this was what Rose had been attempting to accomplish with all those mornings and afternoons spent in bed; the weight of the sadness was too much, it was somehow easier to surrender to the melancholy rather than move through the prescribed motions of the day. Hettie blinked her eyes again—and the handwriting above her own came into focus. The brief note was written in a chicken scratch that was difficult to read. She strained to make it out. It was from Liam.
Dear Hettie, I’m sorry that I had to do this. It’s not for me. It’s for the cause. This war is our opportunity to strike. We, in this generation, must fulfill Ireland’s destiny. The thousand-year yoke of England’s rule must end. We can’t give up now. It’s about a better future for all of us. You, me, Maeve. I hope you understand. I hope you will find forgiveness for me. Tiocfaidh ar la. Liam
Hettie swept her arm across the surface of the kitchen table, sending the porcelain teacups crashing onto the floor and shattering into countless pieces. She glanced down at her trembling hands. Her palms were damp and dotted with spots of redness. Everything was piling up, and she felt as if she were being buried under an avalanche; it was tumbling down on her, like a tall shelf of books spilling onto her, their hard edges and solid weight pounding onto her body.
Amid the whirl of her fury and sadness, Hettie sat down at the breakfast table and placed her head against the tabletop. The surface felt cold against her cheek. Her head buzzed. She didn’t know what to do. Who could she trust? Who should she turn to? Then somewhere inside, Hettie managed to recall her conversation with Mr. Wright, about Nicholas and the animals. From the hallway, she retrieved a broom and dustpan. Hettie methodically swept up the scattered shards of the broken cups and deposited them into the trash bin. She went out to the buckets of water that Rose had filled in the courtyard prior to the bombing and washed her face and hands, and dried them with a dish towel. From the larder, Hettie gathered the last turnip and a stale roll left behind in the bread box. Without further thought—after all, what was there to think about anymore?—she departed the house and followed the road down through the neighborhood and down the hill to the convent, making each turn as she remembered it. On the other side of the Shore Road stood the large blue gate with the curlicues of wire intersecting the top edge of the wall.
Hettie pressed the bell and heard a melody of chimes on the other side of the gate. She waited. There was no answer. Hettie tried the bell again. Once again, there was only silence. She pressed her ear against the wooden gate, expecting to hear the voices of the young children playing in the courtyard. She hit her clenched fists against the gate and rang the bell multiple times. What if Éamon had found Liam and somehow convinced him that selling the young elephant could contribute to the IRA and Ireland’s cause?
Hettie paced in front of the convent. She tried the bell one more time, but still there was no answer. Several cars and lorries passed on the two-way street. Distressed and disoriented, Hettie began to walk along the shoreline road in the direction of the docks. An oncoming car honked its tinny horn as it passed by, and Hettie jumped farther onto the narrow shoulder, lost her balance, and fell to the ground, but she managed to break her own fall. Pebbles and twigs stuck to her palms. She wiped her hands off on her trousers.
When Hettie looked up again, she studied the shoreline, which was visible from the other side of the street. Despite the lingering smoke of the air raid, Belfast Lough was a clear expanse of gray blue flecked with curling whitecaps. A convoy of merchant ships, with Roya
l Navy frigates and corvettes escorting them, lumbered along the distant horizon. Silver-backed seagulls bobbed in the salt-laced air before one of the birds plummeted into the water and snatched up a small fish with its yellow bill. Looking farther down the beach, Hettie examined the shore more closely. At first she thought she was seeing things: There, near the frothing surf, was a modest audience of nuns, dressed in their blue habits, watching Violet as she trotted in and out of the breakers. Overjoyed that Violet was still with the sisters, Hettie climbed over the short wall that bordered the beach and started to run toward the small group of nuns. As she drew closer, she recognized Sister Evangeline and Sister Helen.
“Sisters,” Hettie said. “Sisters. I’m back. I’m here.”
Sister Evangeline looked up with a smile. A few stray hairs escaped from the edge of her habit and flew up into her face. “Violet, look who’s here!”
The elephant chased the waves into the Lough before running up the steady incline of hard-packed sand as yet another wave pursued her.
“We thought Violet might appreciate a change of scenery,” Sister Evangeline explained, holding the curled crop in one hand. “Hettie, you’ve trained her brilliantly. She follows so well.”
Hettie glanced back up at the road and felt some relief, realizing that the shoreline wasn’t entirely visible.
“They can’t see us from the road,” Sister Helen said, noticing her gaze. “I promise, Violet is safe here.”
“We thought she might enjoy a swim,” added Sister Evangeline, “and we all needed a wee break.”
“We should all go swimming,” one of the other nuns said.
“Sister Ruth, you know it’s not proper for nuns to swim,” Sister Helen said.
“At least we can dip our feet in,” said another. “Feel the water.”
“Fine,” Sister Helen said.
Hettie knew what the nuns suggested was ridiculous; it all verged on absurd. With the aftermath of the bombings and the constable and his men pursuing Violet, why would she join this group of women in the sea? But then she thought of her mother. Of little Johnny Gibson. Of Colleen White. Of Rajan and Maggie and Wallace. Of Mr. Wright’s brother. Of the hundreds of thousands of lives already lost around the world to this ghastly war and other wars—and of the many thousands who would, in all likelihood, still die during the months to come. And when might the Germans bomb Belfast again? What if this was her last opportunity to feel the bracing salty water against her skin? Despite her better judgment, Hettie decided to bypass caution and remove her boots and socks along with the nuns. The sisters held up the hems of their habits to their knees and edged closer to the breakers. Hettie folded up the legs of her trousers. The water was cold and refreshing. A brisk snap against her skin. Violet threw her trunk through the wave and spouted a shower of water.
“Hey, Vi,” Hettie called.
Hettie stepped farther into the waves and watched Violet spray her own back with water. She closed her eyes and felt the salty breeze against her face. She felt a childlike wonderment taking in the bizarre sight of the elephant playing in the sea amid all the loss and chaos. It was like watching a fanciful filmstrip that she had never seen before. Light and levity opened up inside her.
Here is your gift. Here is your elephant, Hettie thought to herself. Violet is alive. And so are you.
“Did you find your mother?” Sister Helen asked.
Hettie didn’t answer Sister Helen. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket for the stale sweet bun. Right away, Violet started to trot in Hettie’s direction, curled her trunk around the roll, and deposited it into her mouth. Hettie took a step closer to her and rubbed Violet’s forehead. She smelled like salt and seaweed.
“Did Sister Evangeline take good care of you while I was gone?” Hettie said.
Violet searched her trunk under one of Hettie’s arms for another treat. Hettie laughed and gave her the turnip from her other pocket.
“I love you,” Hettie said. “I love you so much.”
Hettie and Violet touched foreheads before the elephant trotted into the surf again, kicking her feet through the breaking waves. Sister Helen stood next to Hettie and placed a hand against the small of her back. Hettie kept her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where gray met gray along the far edge.
“The constable didn’t have any news, did he?” asked Sister Helen.
Hettie sighed. “He said that very few people survived after the Atlantic Avenue shelter was bombed,” she explained, “and then when I returned home there was a note from a neighbor who had identified my mum’s body at the public baths on the Falls Road. He said that they’ll be transferring her body to St. George’s and I should go there tomorrow.”
Sister Helen didn’t say anything, but moved her hand into Hettie’s hand and held it for a long moment. A tear fell down Hettie’s cheek.
“At least Violet is all right,” Hettie said with a sniff.
Hettie and the nuns continued to watch Violet play along the shoreline. A flock of seagulls continued to bob in the air. Hettie’s feet sank into the cold sand as the water rushed around her ankles and then receded. She watched as the shifting tide and sand made her feet disappear.
“Where did Liam go?” Hettie finally asked Sister Helen.
“Unfortunately, he fell in with the wrong people,” Sister Helen said firmly. “He listens to me about some things, but not everything.”
“He was at my house,” Hettie said, her voice dull. “He stole my mother’s valuables and savings.”
“How do you know it was Liam?” Sister Helen asked. “I heard on the wireless that looters are breaking into the houses all over the city.”
“He left me a note telling me so,” Hettie said.
“Liam,” Sister Helen said with a sigh. “He’s gone too far.”
“Too far with what?” Hettie asked.
“Liam is a simple man, and he has simple ideas,” she said after a pause. “He believes that the Catholics in the six counties are the most oppressed people in Europe, and that the British government and their Unionist lackeys at Stormont are to blame. He would welcome a German victory in England’s war. He thinks that it might lead to a united Ireland and a fully independent Irish republic.”
Even though Hettie knew all about Liam’s passion for a united Ireland, she still couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Violet walked over to Hettie and nuzzled her damp forehead into her side, imprinting a fragmented map of wetness on the sleeve of Hettie’s coat.
“You have a good swim,” Hettie said to Violet. “You like the water, don’t you?”
The elephant took a step back and shook her entire body, releasing an arc of moisture, and they laughed, holding their hands up to protect their faces.
“She can stay as long as you want,” Sister Evangeline said.
“Thank you, Sister Evangeline,” Hettie said.
“I’m sorry about Liam,” Sister Helen said. “I’m sorry for what he did. I will do my best to reach him and have your mother’s valuables returned to you.”
Hettie understood it was highly unlikely that any of the possessions or money would be returned to her. She thought back to the Gibsons’ front yard of mourners and Albert O’Brien and his delight over the small gift of the snail. At least Hettie still had Violet, and in a way, taking care of the elephant was restoring some part of herself, a part of herself she didn’t know existed until she met Violet on the quayside of Belfast all those months ago.
“I imagine Liam is probably trying to sell everything on the black market right now,” Hettie said matter-of-factly. “Her valuables will be crossing the border soon.”
“He asked us to collect funds for the republican cause,” Sister Helen said, “but this time he’s gone too far. He shouldn’t be stealing from anyone. It’s a sin, and undermines the righteousness of his cause.”
Hettie looked beyond Violet, out toward the breaking waves, the weak afternoon sun that was making its way through the gray bank of clouds, and the distan
t ships hugging the horizon. The elephant trotted toward Hettie, and she rubbed Violet’s forehead again. At that moment, Hettie felt a precision and a clarity. She needed to distance herself from Liam and his associations even if he wasn’t returning anytime soon. The reality of her situation only sharpened all of this: Her mother was dead, Liam had never loved her, but she had Violet. She was her family now, and Hettie needed to do everything that she could to protect her. She retrieved her socks and boots, and sat down on the sand to slip them back on.
“We’re going home,” Hettie said, standing up and brushing the sand off her trousers.
Despite the fact that the nuns provided suitable safety and a steady supply of food, Hettie felt compelled to take Violet with her: After all, what if Liam returned? What if Éamon knew that Liam had brought the elephant to the convent? Despite the comfort of the convent, it still wasn’t entirely safe. Hettie wasn’t sure where she would take Violet, but she knew that she would be able to find a hiding spot until the threats subsided.
“Are you certain you don’t want to stay with us?” Sister Evangeline asked. “There are rumors of another bombing.”
“We’ll return if we need to,” Hettie said with a rising conviction in her voice. “I promise.”
“We’ll be here,” Sister Helen said. “I’m sorry again. I’ll do what I can.”
“We best get going.”
Hettie embraced each of the nuns. As she stepped away, she clucked her tongue, and Violet followed Hettie as she focused on the rhythm of her footfalls, each boot sinking slightly into the shingly sand. Then Hettie turned around one more time. The nuns now stood in a circle with their hands joined together and their heads bowed in prayer, their feet bare as the bottom edges of their habits rippled in the breeze. The powder blues of their robes blended into the soft blues and grays of the Lough, creating a single band of color along the eastern horizon.
Thirteen
HETTIE MADE HER WAY UP THE HILL FROM THE SHORE ROAD, Violet whinnying behind her, lifting her trunk into the air. The image of the praying nuns receded from Hettie’s mind as they navigated the heavily potholed road. Piles of rubble were still scattered throughout the streets. Random objects appeared on the lawns and the shoulders of the road—a man’s lace-up shoe, a cracked teapot, an unopened letter, a lace brassiere. But a growing boldness informed Hettie’s gait, and she kept her attention on Violet until they arrived at the Whitewell Road.
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