Olivia looked into Iris’s eyes, so full of hope and wonder. And there it was. The memory of a time when she’d felt the same hope and wonder, when she’d believed in fairies and happy endings. It was like looking in a mirror and she was a little girl again, asking her mammy the same question.
She held out the page so they could look at the photograph together. “That’s a good question, Iris. This photograph was taken a long time ago. As far as I know, some people thought the fairies were real, and some didn’t.”
“Who’s that? Is that you? Is it your mammy?”
“She’s called Alice.” The enigmatic smile. The knowing look in her eyes. “See? It says her name underneath.”
“Who is she?”
“That I don’t know.” Olivia thought about Frances’s manuscript, of the photograph signed to Ellen, of the file full of newspaper clippings, a trail of bread crumbs tempting her to follow them. “But I’d like to find out.”
Ross bundled Iris away before she could interrogate Olivia any more. “That’s enough of your questions, madam. Come on. We’ve things to be doing.”
“Like what?”
“Homework and hot chocolate, for starters.”
Ross thanked Olivia again for looking after Iris. He pulled a business card from his jeans pocket as he stepped outside into the lane. “Listen, I only live down the hill, so if you need a hand with anything, give me a shout. Mac helped me out plenty of times. I’d like to return the favor.”
Taking the card, Olivia mumbled a “Thanks, but I’ll be grand” and closed the door behind them.
She turned the business card over—“Ross Bailey, Writer”—and stood for a moment, forehead pressed against the cool glass in the door, as the wind blew Ross Bailey, Writer, and his daughter back to wherever they’d come from. She watched until they faded into the distance, and then she turned to walk back to the desk. As she did, she noticed a white flower on the doormat: a slender green stem, one leaf, five perfect bell-shaped blooms. Assuming Iris had dropped it, she picked it up, rinsed out her coffee cup, filled it with water, and placed the flower inside. The inscription Live seemed more appropriate than ever.
Settling herself back at the desk, she picked up her phone to check for any missed calls or messages. There were five e-mails from the wedding planner, two missed calls from the bridal shop, and three text messages from her two bridesmaids. She didn’t have the energy to respond to any of them. She thought about calling Jack to check her reaction to hearing his voice, but he was in China on a business trip and she had no idea what time it was there. She tossed the phone into the bottom of her bag and picked up the Conan Doyle article again.
The photograph of Alice and the fairies stirred so many memories of that awful day of the accident. Olivia remembered how Pappy had gathered her into his arms in the pale light of early morning and wept quietly against her shoulder. She didn’t remember how he told her, didn’t recall his exact words. She remembered only the photograph in the silver frame lying on the bed beside her and how, as she’d looked into that little girl’s eyes, she’d seen a lifetime of questions her mammy would never be able to answer.
The wind rattled the glass in the window frame. A reminder that there were things to do.
As a violin concerto danced among the bookshelves, Olivia made herself focus, working steadily through the official-looking correspondence. She was shocked to see how much it was costing to keep Nana in the nursing home every month, but at least all the bills were paid and everything appeared to be in order. It wasn’t until she opened a letter from a solicitor that she realized everything was far from in order.
30th April 2017
Dear Mr. Kavanagh,
We refer to previous correspondence in this matter, and regret to inform you that our Client can no longer support the sizeable debt owing and our Client’s patience is at an end.
Please regard this letter as our final warning.
All outstanding debts and arrears must be settled by three calendar months from the date hereof. Failure to do so will result in the issue of proceedings, without further notice, to recover the sums due . . .
She couldn’t bear to read on, guessing what must have happened. Pappy had poured all his money into keeping Nana in the nursing home and, as a result, the bookshop was in debt. It was now the middle of May. She’d already lost two weeks.
Olivia buried the letter in the bottom of her bag and switched off the shop lights. As an afterthought, she grabbed Frances’s manuscript and the Conan Doyle magazine article. Maybe Nana Martha would remember something about Frances, or the fairy photographs, although Olivia doubted it.
Poor Nana didn’t remember much about anything anymore.
Four
Ireland. Present day.
St. Bridget’s nursing home smelled of old chrysanthemums and loss. The cloying scent settled on Olivia’s skin, working its way into her pores until she felt she would suffocate if she didn’t go back outside for some fresh air. But she couldn’t. She had to endure it. Like everyone else there, she had little choice in the matter of staying or going.
The nurses at reception directed her to the dayroom before returning to their endless form-filling and chipped mugs of milky tea. Carrying a packet of jelly babies, and with the bulky manuscript in her bag weighing heavy on her shoulder, Olivia walked along the corridor, passing the framed prints of floral paintings that she found so hopelessly depressing. Her footsteps were muted by the soft linoleum flooring. Even her breathing quieted. Everything was done with a hush at St. Bridget’s, as if the people there had a mute button permanently switched on. The silence provoked a nervous energy in Olivia, making her want to laugh when there was absolutely nothing amusing about the place at all.
At the dayroom door, she hesitated. Nana was in her favorite chair by the window, her eyes closed as one of the nurses read to her. Olivia leaned around the door frame to listen.
“‘Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting / For fear of little men.’”
Olivia whispered along with the words, recognizing the William Allingham poem “The Faeries,” which Nana used to recite to her as a child. Nana had loved to tell her the tales of the Little People, reading from a favorite collection of Irish fairy stories. Olivia had vague memories of her mother scolding Nana, saying, “You’ll have the child ruined with a head full of fairies.” But Olivia had loved the old tales as much as Nana did, The Stolen Child and The Fairy Hill becoming firm favorites. She asked for them night after night, enchanted by Nana’s storytelling, by the old-fashioned language and forgotten names and places. Nana brought the stories alive, until the púca and the sídhe became real to Olivia and she insisted on leaving out a saucer of milk and other little treats so they would keep her in their favor.