The Elephant of Belfast

by S. Kirk Walsh

  As they walked up the incline of her road, she noticed that the Gibsons’ front yard was now empty. In fact the entire street was quiet and empty except for the tattered couch still sitting in the middle of the road.

  “Come on, Vi,” she said, her voice hushed.

  The neighborhood was a ghost town. Hettie had heard rumors that in their fear and blind panic, at least half of the city’s population had fled from Belfast and sought safety in the countryside, some even going as far as Dublin. All the windows were darkened. Hettie and Violet walked past the Moffits’ house, with only its concrete foundation remaining. A few shirts, a pair of trousers, and two frocks hung limply on the clothesline in the backyard. Mr. Brown and Mr. Reynolds stood in front of her house, passing a pocket flask back and forth. When Mr. Reynolds saw Hettie and Violet walking along the road, he slid the flask into one of the pockets of his trousers. He stepped toward Hettie and embraced her.

  “I’m very sorry about your mum,” he said. “And I’m sorry for the note. I wasn’t certain when I might see you again—and I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”

  Hettie allowed herself to fall into Mr. Reynolds’s embrace.

  “Rose looked peaceful when I saw her, I promise,” he whispered to her. “She wasn’t bloodied, like some of the others.”

  “I plan to ride down to St. George’s in the morning,” Hettie said, stepping away from Mr. Reynolds.

  Violet released a trumpet cry behind her.

  “Hettie Quin and Violet,” Mr. Brown said with a soft smile. “My favorite couple.” He placed a hand on Hettie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said. “Rose was a fine woman who had been through a lot. I’m sorry her life ended this way. It’s not fair.”

  A tear made its way down the side of Hettie’s face. It didn’t feel fair. But she knew there wasn’t much that she could do apart from ride her bicycle down to St. George’s and identify her mother and ensure that she was given a proper service and burial. In her mind’s eye, Hettie recalled her sister’s burial, watching the gravediggers maneuver Anna’s coffin into the ground at Carnmoney Cemetery on the northern edge of the city. Beyond her sister’s grave was the vast hillside of the cemetery, row upon row of white marble gravestones lining the slope, like a fixed formation of soldiers prepared for battle. Hettie remembered the three empty plots next to Anna’s grave: One of those would soon be filled, and one of them would never be needed. It was only hers, now, that was waiting.

  “You’re a brave woman, Hettie Quin,” Mr. Brown said, his hand still resting on her shoulder. “Don’t you ever forget that. There are not many young ladies like you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brown. Have the constable and his men stopped by again?” Hettie asked, glancing toward the end of their street that met the Antrim Road.

  “No,” Mr. Brown said, taking another long draw from his pipe. “Not since the last time I saw you.”

  “They haven’t returned?” Hettie asked again, hardly daring to believe it.

  “They have other worries on their minds,” Mr. Reynolds said. “I’ve heard that they’ve been tasked with helping the rescue squads search for the dead and the injured in the rubble.”

  Hettie felt relieved even though she knew her concerns about Violet’s welfare were far from over.

  “I should get Violet home,” she said.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Brown said. “Please let us know if there is anything we can do.”

  Mr. Brown hugged Hettie, too. She had lived next to the Browns and the Reynoldses for her entire life and had barely ever exchanged more than a few words of greetings with this pair of middle-aged men. Now they were both as dear as beloved uncles.

  Violet followed Hettie down the walkway that led to the rear courtyard. Scattered leaves whispered across the pavement. Her mother’s garden was thriving in the beds: There was a leafy abundance of rhubarb, lettuce, and radishes. One of the buckets was still filled with water. Hettie retrieved it and placed the bucket in front of Violet. The elephant swung her trunk into the water and then squirted it on top of Hettie’s head. Cold water dripped down onto her face and shoulders.

  “I know I need a bath,” Hettie said, exasperated, “but I didn’t need you to give it to me.” She wiped away the wetness from her eyes and stepped back from Violet. “That’s for you,” Hettie said, pointing to the bucket. “Not me.”

  As if she had understood, Violet filled her trunk with water and sprayed it onto her own back. Then she took a second trunkful and directed it into her mouth. Hettie found the last bundle of carrots from the larder in the kitchen. She made a mental note to herself about retrieving a bale of hay from the Elephant House. She broke off a few carrots and gave them to Violet, who munched on them, dropping one of the carrots onto the pavement. Violet suctioned it up and threw it into her mouth. Hettie sat on the bench that Rose had often sat on when she took her first cup of morning tea. She stared beyond the top edge of the far wall of the courtyard. Already, daylight was starting to diminish.

  “Vi, you’re going to sleep here for the night,” she said. “It’s not quite as nice as the convent, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  The elephant dropped her trunk into the bucket again, but this time she tipped it over, spilling the water. A large puddle formed at Violet’s feet, and she stomped through it several times.

  “Violet!” Hettie exclaimed. “We need to be careful.” She carried the other two buckets over to the wall of the house, out of Violet’s way. “I’m not sure when the water is going to be turned back on.”

  Violet trumpeted before lowering onto her side. Bits of dirt collected on her skin as she rolled back and forth. Finally she folded her legs underneath her body and laid her head against the pavement. Above them, a pair of goldfinches, with their distinctive crimson faces and golden feathers, darted through the twilight.

  “I’ll be inside,” Hettie said, patting the elephant on her forehead.

  Violet pushed the empty bucket against the pavement with the curl of her trunk, her ears flapping. Hettie made her way into the kitchen and hunted around for something to eat. She was pleased to find some leftover cabbage stew that Rose had made four days before, but the sight also reminded her that this was the last meal she would ever eat that had been cooked by her mother, and again she was almost overwhelmed with longing and loneliness. She heated it up and ate dinner by herself. Out of habit, she turned on the wireless that sat on the kitchen counter. The station snapped into a news report about the Germans’ Balkan campaign, their invasion of Yugoslavia, how that country had surrendered unconditionally and was now occupied. Then the reporter moved on to the growing number of casualties and injuries related to the bombing in Belfast. It said that there were several hundred fatalities. Hettie didn’t believe the censored news; she had heard rumors that the actual number was well into the thousands. She wondered if her mother was being counted among the dead or if she was still among the unaccounted-for individuals.

  When she was finished, Hettie clicked off the wireless, stepped into her bedroom, and changed into her nightdress. As she walked through the house, Hettie turned off the lights, drew back the blackout curtain, and peered out at Violet. The elephant was now lying in the darkened shadows of the far corner of the courtyard. Hettie released the curtain and crawled underneath the covers of her bed. It felt as if it had been weeks since she had slept in her own bed, even though she had been awakened by the bombing just the night before. So much had happened. She listened for Violet’s movements and calls. The curtain’s edge knocked against the glass pane. Hettie closed her eyes. Tears formed in the back of her throat, and she finally gave in to her grief.

  The following morning, Hettie woke to a loud knocking on the front door. For one blissful moment as she sat up in bed, she forgot where she was—and all that had happened. But then it cascaded upon her again, and her shoulders slumped with the burden of her sadness. Hettie glanced out the window to the courtyard and was relieved to see that
Violet was still there, standing next to one of her mother’s garden beds, yanking young leaves of lettuce from the ground and tucking them into her mouth.

  The person knocked again. This time, louder.

  “Open up,” a man called. “Open up now.”

  As fear trembled through her, Hettie slipped into the sleeves of a cardigan and walked toward the door, paused, and looked out the front window. There stood Samuel Greene: His eyes were rimmed with redness, and dark stains of blood soiled the front of his uniform. Hettie took a moment to steady herself and then opened the door for Samuel and he stepped inside without a word. Hettie closed and locked the door behind him, and he sat down on the couch in the sitting room.

  Samuel said nothing. Instead he just sat there, holding his head in his hands. Stiff strands of his dark caramel hair poked through his long fingers dotted with dirt and dried blood.

  “What happened, Samuel?” Hettie asked eventually.

  He still didn’t answer. Hettie noticed that one of his knees was shaking.

  “It’s Constable Ward.”

  “Is he on his way?” Hettie asked. “Do I need to hide Violet somewhere else?”

  “He’s dead, Hettie,” Samuel said, finally looking up at her. “He was shot, killed.”

  Hettie thought of Constable Ward and his careful aim at Andy, the brown bear, whose meat was now being fed to the other animals. It didn’t fully register that the constable could have been the target of someone else’s weapon.

  “What happened?” Hettie asked, sitting down next to Samuel.

  “Liam Keegan shot him.”

  “Liam—”

  She felt a quiver of disbelief. Her stomach turned.

  “Yes, your brother-in-law, Liam Keegan,” he spat. “The man who was here yesterday, threatening me.”

  Hettie worried about what was going through Samuel’s mind at that very minute: Did he think that she had put Liam up to the deadly task in order to protect Violet? Did he have any idea of what had happened between Liam and her?

  “He and three of his IRA mates were hiding in one of the damaged shelters this morning. We were driving down Ainsworth Avenue, about to stop—and out of nowhere, they opened fire on us and then ran away. Constable Ward chased after the men into a house, and there was more gunfire. I ran in just in time to see his bullet graze Keegan’s shoulder, but before I could do anything Keegan managed to shoot the constable and he died instantly.”

  Samuel paused for a minute and stared down at his hands, opening and closing his fingers.

  “He didn’t even make it to the hospital. I tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was too late. The bleeding wouldn’t stop.” His voice cracked.

  “Oh God—” Hettie had no idea what to say. It was too horrific.

  “I know you didn’t put Liam up to this despite how much you must have hated Constable Ward for carrying out the execution of the animals,” Samuel said, his eyes pinching together. “His murder was the work of the IRA. Even after all we’ve been through, with most of the city reduced to ruins and dead bodies being dug out all over the place, they won’t stop.” His voice was laced with disgust.

  “Where is Liam?” Hettie managed.

  “He’s in Crumlin Road Gaol,” Samuel said, “along with two of his mates. The third one managed to get away. Liam and the two others aren’t talking.”

  “What will happen next?”

  “He’ll be charged with murdering a policeman. It’s a capital offense. If he is found guilty, Liam Keegan will likely be hanged,” Samuel said. “It’ll be the first hanging of a republican terrorist in the history of this state. De Valera has already executed loads of them in the south. It’s the only way to deal with them.”

  “Executed?” she spluttered.

  “He murdered the constable. He killed my boss,” Samuel said, glancing down at his trembling hands. “It’s an act of absolute treason.”

  Just then Violet released a soft trumpet call from the courtyard.

  “She’s here,” he said, finally meeting Hettie’s eye.

  “We returned last night. She slept in the courtyard. I’m not sure where to take her now.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about Violet anymore,” Samuel said. “With the constable’s death, the IRA’s campaign, hundreds of bodies to be exhumed and buried, survivors to be dug out, I think we have other things to worry about.”

  “What about the official orders?” she asked.

  “The Ministry of Public Security has told us to prioritize rescue work, searching for bodies, stopping looting, gathering intelligence on the IRA and arresting the bastards. The entire force is totally exhausted. We’ve had practically no sleep. We’re run off our feet. We don’t have enough men or equipment. We can’t cope on our own and are totally dependent on the help we get from the troops. Éire is at the root of it all. There’s no doubt that the entire IRA campaign is being armed and funded by the Germans. It’s being orchestrated by their embassy in Dublin.”

  “What do you mean?” Hettie said, her forehead furrowing in confusion.

  “Local IRA leaders are supplying intelligence about our defenses and targets here in Belfast to German agents who are based south of the border. They’ve passed on information about what targets still need to be bombed. They’ve told them to blow up the bridges over the River Lagan, so Belfast will be brought to a standstill.”

  “That doesn’t seem possible—”

  “The IRA is our fifth column. If German troops invaded, they would come out into the open and help them all they could,” Samuel said softly.

  There was another knock at the door. For a second Hettie prayed that it might be her mother or Liam, even though she knew these weren’t rational thoughts. Her mother was dead, and Liam was in prison. She was going to have accept these facts at some point. Hettie opened the front door and felt another ripple of relief.

  Ferris stood before her. The sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Scratches and dirt decorated his forearms. He still wore his old school scarf. She opened the door for him and guided him into the sitting room. Samuel Greene looked up at him.

  “What are you doing here?” Ferris asked.

  “I wanted to let Hettie know about the constable,” Samuel said. “That she didn’t have to worry about Violet and the government’s directive any longer.”

  “Is it true? Did Liam Keegan shoot Constable Ward?” Ferris asked.

  “I was there,” Samuel said, his bottom lip shaking. “I saw Liam pull the trigger. He shot him right in the chest.”

  “Have the IRA taken responsibility for it?”

  “That’s what’s being reported.”

  “That’s unbelievable,” Ferris said. “After all the city has been through.”

  “None of us can—” Samuel said.

  A loud cracking resounded from the courtyard, and they all jumped in fright.

  “What in damnation is that?”

  “Violet,” Hettie said, making her way to the rear door.

  The two young men followed her. There in the courtyard, Violet stood on her hind legs, her broad torso extended up into the air, and her trunk curled in the curve of a question mark.

  “Come down, Vi,” Hettie said, calmly. “Come down now.”

  Violet returned to all four feet and lay down on the pavement. The elephant had torn up her mother’s garden beds and eaten most of the greens and radishes. One of the wooden benches along the exterior wall of their home had been shattered into several pieces.

  Ferris looked around and smiled weakly at Hettie. “So much for your spring garden.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hettie said. “It was my mother’s, not mine. She won’t need it anymore.”

  Hettie slumped down on the remaining bench—the one that she used to sit on with her mother—and Samuel and Ferris sat down on either side of her. Together, they watched as Violet munched on the scattered greens on the pavement. A strange peace took over the courtyard, the k
ind of peace Hettie hadn’t known in a long time. Despite the death of her mother and Liam’s despicable actions, she knew in that moment she would be able to go on and meet whatever came next.

  “Ferris, could you take Violet back to the zoo?” Hettie finally asked. “I need to go down to St. George’s. They say my mum might be there.”

  “Yes,” Ferris said. “Yes, I’ll take her back to her home.”

  “Let me go to St. George’s with you,” Samuel said. “I might be able to help.”

  At first Hettie wanted to refuse Samuel, to go by herself, but she knew that he was right: With his position in the special branch, and given the crowds and chaos at St. George’s, he could make the search for her mother easier.

  “Thank you,” Hettie said.

  “We should go sooner rather than later before the bodies are removed from the market and taken for burial in the city’s cemeteries,” Samuel said.

  “Let me change,” Hettie said.

  She went into her bedroom and changed into a clean blouse, a fresh pair of trousers, and a jumper. The hem of her other pair of trousers was still damp from when she’d stood in the waves with the nuns and Violet. She lifted the fabric to her nose and took in the salty scent, and thought of Sister Evangeline and Sister Helen. Inside the pocket, she found her mother’s wedding ring still tucked in the bottom corner. Hettie stowed the ring in the front pocket of her clean trousers before returning to the courtyard.

  “Good luck,” Ferris said.

  “Thank you, Ferris,” Hettie said. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Come and find me afterward.”

  “I will,” Hettie said, walking over to the side gate to her father’s bike.