After they crossed the yard, they reentered the prison compound, and the guard led Hettie into a windowless room. Another guard was stationed behind an empty desk with a newspaper spread open before him. The seated guard was an elderly man with wiry gray hairs sprouting from his nostrils and ears. His large belly hung over his clinched belt, like a puckered balloon. Three tables with chairs were situated in the room.
“Sit there,” the guard said. “The prisoner will be here soon.”
The other guard at the desk was smoking a cigarette, a pile of mashed-up stubs already overflowing in a glass ashtray. Hettie sat down and opened her mother’s Agatha Christie mystery that she had retrieved from her satchel before handing it over to the guard at the front gate. Even though her mind was too unsettled to read, she was relieved she had the paperback in her possession so she could stare at something other than the gray walls of the visitors’ room and the elderly guard smoking his cigarette. Another siren sounded in the hallway. The guard didn’t flinch. Instead, he licked the tip of a finger and turned a page of the newspaper. He grunted and hummed. Hettie tried to focus her eyes on the words displayed across the cover of her book, but couldn’t. The clock on the wall ticked louder. More heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. She heard the clinking of keys again, and the rasping sound of numerous locks being opened and then closed. There was a volley of male voices.
Finally the door opened—and Liam stepped across the threshold. He was clad in a one-piece hunter-green prison uniform, and his hands were shackled together by handcuffs. His face was pale and gaunt, his vacant eyes lowered to the floor. It looked as if a part of him had disappeared and would never resurface, making Hettie feel as though she was breaking all over again. As soon as Liam saw Hettie, his expression lit up. She stood from her chair, and he shuffled across the room with a prison guard at his side. The guard unlocked his handcuffs, and handed Liam a cigarette and lit it for him. His right shoulder looked stiff, but there was no bandage indicating that he had been struck by the constable’s bullet.
“Twenty minutes,” the guard said, placing an ashtray on the table, a poof of ashes lifting up and then falling.
Liam nodded and then gave Hettie a wry smile. The end of the cigarette trembled as Liam brought it to his lips and then exhaled. The two of them sat down at the table.
“Hettie,” he said. “So good to see you.”
Hettie stared into Liam’s eyes. Besides the obvious signs of his physical exhaustion, she noticed that there was something different about Liam’s expression: A quiet wildness stirred in his features. He tapped the cigarette against the glass-bottomed ashtray. His fingers shook.
“Are you all right?” Hettie asked. “I heard you were injured.”
In answer, he reached for his shoulder and held it for a moment as if he were trying to listen for the beat of his own heart. Then he reached for his cigarette again and took another long draw. “I’m surprised you’re here,” he said, nervousness flickering across his face. “I didn’t think you would come.”
Hettie remained silent.
“You know, after everything—the note about your mum and Violet, and then your mum’s belongings.”
“You wrote the note that I received at the convent?”
Amid her nervousness and anticipation, rage rose inside of her. Her cheeks reddened, her palms prickled with perspiration. Liam looked up and stared at her for a moment as if he was attempting to arrange his jumbled thoughts into some sort of coherent meaning. Hettie didn’t know what to say.
“I was going to take Violet,” he said, “and sell her on the black market to a circus owner across the border. My uncle knew this man, a buyer who was looking for a young elephant for his troupe, and he had agreed to pay a tidy sum, but Sister Helen told me that I couldn’t. She wouldn’t let me.”
He blinked hard a few times, and took another inhale of his cigarette, the end of it shaking from the jittery motions of his fingers. Her temples begin to throb, and an ache settled along the edge of her right eye. As Hettie sat there, staring down at her own hands, she could barely register the depth of his betrayal but also realized that she was no longer surprised by Liam’s words or actions, that the IRA’s mission was the compass that had been guiding his priorities and morals all along. Nothing else mattered.
“The constable had it coming, you know,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “The other brigade members all agreed with me. I had no choice. I had to do it. We have to break the spirit of the police. In time, the Germans will boot them all out. The Brits are using the war to militarize the six counties. They have tens of thousands of troops here. Next thing you know, they’ll invade the South, occupy its harbors, and use them as bases in the Battle of the Atlantic.”
“But Liam, what about Maeve?”
He stared at Hettie blankly. It was as if she had uttered the name of a stranger, someone Liam had never met before.
“Maeve, your daughter,” Hettie said again, exasperation creeping into her voice. “The daughter you had with my sister, Anna. Or do you not care about her anymore?”
Liam took another long inhale. The cigarette had already burned down to its end. He nervously looked over at the guard reading the newspaper at the desk and then back to Hettie. A barely noticeable twitch jerked at the corner of his lips.
“I can’t trust anyone in here,” he said. “Even some of the republicans on my wing. You know, Éamon was here. He must have grassed. He never could keep his mouth shut. So they set him free. Let him go. But look at me.”
She felt a muddle of rage, fear, and empathy as she considered what this meant for Maeve and her future. Hettie touched one of his hands. He interlaced his fingers with hers. She could feel the quiver traveling from his hand to hers.
“I’ve always liked your hands,” he said, staring down at her fingers. “You have the prettiest hands.”
Another prisoner was escorted into the room. He looked to be about Hettie’s age, nineteen or twenty. A young woman carrying an infant followed the prisoner. The man started to cry as the woman revealed the baby’s face in between the folds of a blue blanket.
“That guy,” Liam said from the corner of his mouth. “He’s on my block.”
The man took the infant into his arms.
“You know, some of the other boys here, they’ve told me that there are tunnels underneath this place,” Liam continued. “They’ve been dug through all the way underneath and beyond the walls.”
Liam stomped one of his boots against the scuffed-up floor. The guard started and glanced in their direction.
“Easy there, Keegan,” the guard said.
“I could use another cig,” Liam said. “Can you help me out, Smith. Please.”
The guard rolled his eyes, walked over, and gave Liam a second cigarette.
“That’s it, Keegan,” he said. “You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Liam said, his voice frail.
He failed to light the cigarette on the first, second, and third attempts. Finally, Hettie took pity on him and struck a match and held it up to the end of the cigarette.
“Thanks, Hettie,” he said with a grateful smile.
Liam reached into one of his pockets and retrieved a worn deck of playing cards. He began to methodically shuffle the cards as though in a trance as he continued to smoke, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The cards slid together and collapsed into each other. Again and again.
“This is all we do here,” he said. “Play cards. And then play cards again. There’s nothing else to do.”
The guard stood up and stepped outside of the room, closing the door behind him. The couple whispered to each other. The baby released a soft cry.
“He’s one of the crazy ones, you know,” Liam said, nodding in the direction of the young couple. “Tried to off himself the other day, hang himself in his cell. The guards found him just in time.”
Liam began to flip over the cards, one by one: the queen of hearts, the ace of spades, the two
of diamonds. He stared at the trio of cards before collecting them again and reshuffling the deck.
“Know any games?”
“What about rummy?”
He dealt ten cards from the deck to Hettie and then ten to himself.
“No cheating,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll know if you’re cheating, Harriet Quin.”
Liam nudged his foot against Hettie’s foot.
“I won’t.”
Liam crossed his leg, and the tip of his black shoe shook uncontrollably.
“Liam,” she said hesitantly. “Are you all right?”
He stared at his shaking foot and then returned his gaze to Hettie. “Have anything good?” he asked.
She gave up trying to get him to talk and instead studied the cards in her hand. Hettie glanced at the red geometric designs on their backs and noticed that several of the cards were marked with Liam’s handwriting. He smiled and nodded. Hettie discreetly slid the cards into the front pocket of her coat, and a light danced in Liam’s eyes. The guard returned to the room, slamming the door behind him.
“All right, Keegan,” he said. “Time’s up.”
He roughly yanked Liam out of his seat. Hettie felt the bent corners of the tattered cards in her coat pocket.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Hettie,” he said. “Say hello to that elephant of yours for me.”
It was as if Liam’s former self had temporarily returned, as if the old Liam still existed inside the Liam who had lost his mind, and stolen from her, and gone and shot the constable. She wanted to say Stay. She wanted to say Don’t go away. Despite her desires and longing, she knew there was nothing she could do to change the course of things.
“I will,” Hettie said, standing up from the table. “I’ll say hey to Violet for you.”
The guard escorted Liam out of the room, and the other guard held the door open for Hettie.
“Collect your personal belongings at the desk.”
Hettie made her way down the long corridor. Once again she heard keys being rattled, and the opening and slamming shut of the multiple doors and gates behind her. At the front area, she retrieved her satchel from the warden behind the grate. Outside, the cool spring air expanded deep inside her lungs. After she pushed her bike a few blocks away from the prison, Hettie reached for the playing cards in her front pocket. Each one held a different message.
I AM PROUD TO DIE FOR IRELAND’S FREEDOM. THERE NEVER WAS A NOBLER CAUSE.
MY HEART WILL FOREVER BE WITH MY BELOVED ANNA. I WILL MEET HER AGAIN SOON.
GOD BLESS MAEVE.
Hettie studied Liam’s barely legible writing on the cards one more time before she released them, allowing the cards to fall and trip down the pavement. She stood there silently as the cards drifted away from her. A stranger walking by kicked one of them into the gutter.
Hettie thought of baby Maeve. Her gentle grip on her finger, her cherublike cheeks. For a moment, Hettie’s love for Maeve felt immeasurable. Expansive and endless. An entire ocean. It was similar to how she felt about Violet. And then she quickly recognized that they—Ferris, Maeve, Lily, Violet, the children living at the convent, and herself—all had one thing in common.
We are all orphans, Hettie thought to herself.
We are all orphans.
It was like an incantation, a set of ancient prayers, and the four words transformed into deeply felt undercurrents of truth and sadness that eventually settled into the center of Hettie’s chest. They had all been left behind, but would be able to survive, even in the most difficult of circumstances.
Once the danger of further German attacks was over, she would travel to Newcastle and see Maeve. She would be a good aunt. She would be a good sister and a good daughter. She would forget what had happened between her and Liam, and regularly visit Maeve and Mrs. Keegan. Hettie hopped on her bike and pushed the pedals with all the strength she could find. She turned onto the Antrim Road and made her way up the hill.
Fifteen
DURING THE FOLLOWING WEEK, THE ZOOKEEPERS STARTED TO ferry in ponies, chickens, and goats purchased from the neighboring farms. In the meantime, Mr. Wright mostly remained sequestered in his office, making appearances only when it was necessary. He had become something of a ghost: his gaze vacant, his voice subdued, his posture slumped. More than once, Hettie had stopped by his office, but he never answered the door when she knocked.
Despite the changes in Mr. Wright and the zoo, everyone attempted to go about their usual business, cleaning out the enclosures and preparing the areas for the new animals. Hettie developed a habit of bringing Violet home each evening, walking along their familiar route of the Crazy Path to the Antrim Road to the Whitewell Road. Despite Samuel Greene’s reassurances that the police would not seek out the elephant, Hettie felt better knowing that Violet was within close proximity, day and night. In addition, another scenario played out in the back of Hettie’s mind: What if the police’s special branch started to draw conclusions about Liam’s violent act being associated with the protection of Violet rather than the IRA’s mission to unite Ireland and set up a thirty-two-county republic? Given all this, Hettie thought it was worth the risk to have Violet under her care at all times. Surprisingly, Hettie’s neighbors were growing accustomed to the appearance of Violet on their street, coming and going, at the end of the day, and in the morning. In addition, the elephant’s presence in the courtyard made Hettie’s evenings and mornings more bearable now that Rose was gone.
Once the zoo had reopened, it remained largely empty despite maintaining its regular hours of operation. During the evenings, the ornate doors of the Floral Hall remained open, too. Instead of live musicians and singers, a collection of shellac records and a gramophone were positioned at the front of the stage and supplied music. A kind of tinny, distant facsimile of the former big band sound. There were always a few people who were courageous enough to remain in the city and who still had a heart for dancing. Soldiers often turned up, if only out of boredom. There was nothing else for them to do in Belfast apart from drink in its pubs and clubs.
On Monday, April 28, Josephine Christie arrived at the zoo before it opened in the morning. Mr. Christie had apparently fallen ill and wasn’t well enough to travel from their office headquarters in London. That morning, as Hettie made her way to the Elephant House with a half bale of hay in a wheelbarrow, she spotted Mr. Wright and Josephine Christie standing in front of the flamingos. Many of the birds were still asleep, perched upon a single leg, their graceful necks and heads curled into their pale pink bodies. Josephine wore a black dress that dropped to her ankles; a transparent charcoal collar of ruffles bordered the edge of her chin. She and Mr. Wright were walking slowly along the pathway, their heads bowed as they spoke with each other.
That afternoon, Hettie busied herself with her usual duties, but kept expecting Mr. Wright and Josephine Christie to appear at the door of the Elephant House. Finally, toward the end of the day, when Hettie was preparing for their nightly walk down the Crazy Path, Josephine appeared. She carried a collapsed umbrella, the folds of tartan cloth gathered together, the curved bamboo handle hanging from her delicate wrist. In her other hand, she held a drawstring bag of black velvet that looked like a magician’s bag of tricks. Josephine stepped into the dusty yard of Violet’s enclosure.
“Good to see you, Hettie,” she said. “Are you doing all right? Mr. Wright told me about your mother. I’m so sorry.”
Hettie allowed Josephine to hug her. She still wasn’t sure what to say when others mentioned Rose. During recent weeks, grief overcame her at unexpected moments—fixing a pot of tea, exchanging morning greetings with Mrs. Curry on the street, listening to classical music on the wireless. A sudden dilation of sadness would open up inside of Hettie, and warm tears would roll down her cheeks. But then, sometimes the sorrow disappeared just as quickly. At home, she slept in her own bedroom and left the door to her mother’s bedroom closed. Each evening, she still kept expecting Rose to join her for a
cup of tea on their bench in the courtyard. Even though they had never talked that much, Hettie missed the comfort of their rituals and daily conversations. Nowadays, she took her nightly cup of tea with Violet in the courtyard.
Josephine silently studied Violet across the yard.
“Did Mr. Wright tell you about Rajan?”
“He did,” Josephine said, averting her eyes to the dusty yard and then pausing. “What are your plans? What are you going to do now?”
“I’m staying here,” Hettie said, “to care for the animals and Violet.”
“But the government is urging citizens to evacuate. Women and children, in particular.”
“I have to stay,” Hettie said. “I want to stay.”
“Because of Violet?”
“Yes.”
Josephine surveyed Violet’s enclosure again. Violet walked in their direction, lifted her trunk up in the air, and opened her mouth, her tongue slipping out and curling up in the air, like the subtle curve of a sly smile. Hettie reached into her coat pocket and handed Violet a broken end of a carrot. The elephant grabbed the carrot with her trunk and tucked it inside her mouth. Josephine patted Violet’s forehead and then clasped her hands together, lowering her head as if she were saying a silent prayer.
“Well, I must be going,” Josephine finally said, looking up at Hettie. “Apologies for my hasty visit.”
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