She stood for five minutes, maybe ten, watching the sunset and the seabirds and the planes coming in to land. Life carrying on, as life did. As she made her way back to the bookshop, she felt as light as the gull feather that swirled along the path in front of her.
Too full of adrenaline to eat or sleep, she poured a glass of wine and curled up in Pappy’s favorite chair with a blanket and Frances’s story. If Nana couldn’t tell Olivia about her family’s connection to Cottingley and the fairy photographs, maybe Frances could tell her herself . . .
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Cottingley, Yorkshire. June 1917.
The weeks passed quickly, blown away by the stiff spring breezes that whistled down the chimney breast and blew the blossoms from the trees and tugged at my hat as I walked up the hill from Cottingley Bar tram. The only thing the wind couldn’t blow away was the dark shadow of war that hung over us all like a thundercloud. But I was happy at Bingley Grammar, and as the days lengthened and the last of the snow thawed on the distant hilltops, so too did my indifference to Yorkshire. Best of all, the warmer weather meant more time to play at the beck at the bottom of the garden, where Elsie often joined me.
Aunt Polly called the pair of us as thick as thieves and Mummy teased me for admiring my cousin so much, dressing the same and styling my hair the same way Elsie styled hers. Or trying to. I didn’t mind Mummy’s teasing. Elsie was the sister I’d never had, and although she was sixteen, she still liked to make up games and tell tall tales and funny stories. She made up wild adventures as we whispered to each other in the darkness of the bedroom, setting me off into great fits of the giggles for which I earned a sharp “shush” and “get to sleep” from Mummy or Aunt Polly, which only made me giggle more. It was Elsie who told me to ignore the village bully, Mavis Clarke, when she called me a “funny foreigner” and kicked at my shins with her heavy wooden clogs. It was Elsie who explained that the village kids were jealous of my shiny leather shoes and smart school hat with its blue ribbons. It was always Elsie and Frances, or Frances and Elsie. I didn’t mind which, as long as we were together. I could hardly remember a time when I hadn’t known Elsie Wright. It was as if she had always been there.
But for all that I enjoyed Elsie’s company, what I loved most was to be alone at the beck with the quiet chatter of the stream. In my wonderment, I often forgot to look where I was stepping and slipped on the stones, returning home sheepishly with wet shoes and skirts. Mummy said I would be the ruination of her, honestly I would, and that she didn’t want me playing there if I couldn’t stay on my feet. I’d heard her and Aunt Polly talking in low voices about the Hogan girl’s disappearance and the rumors surrounding it. Mummy didn’t trust the beck, but I couldn’t resist going back, pulled there like the ball bearing Mrs. Hogan had shown us being pulled toward a magnet. I felt nothing but tranquility at the beck, tranquility and the suggestion of something else that lay beyond the flash of the dragonflies’ wings and the ever-shifting shadows on the water. I couldn’t explain the feeling I had when I was there, but as Daddy said in his letter when I asked him why so many men had to die in the battles, some things can’t be rationally explained, but you still can’t stop them happening.
It was an especially warm day when I first took the longer route home from school, mainly to avoid Mavis Clarke with her spiteful words and painful clogs, but also to walk beside the golden barley fields. I climbed onto the gate and dangled my legs on either side, closing my eyes as I listened to the ripple and rustle of the tall ears of barley, imagining they were whispering their secrets to the wind. It was hard to believe the world was at war when everything here was so peaceful and calm. I thought of all the poor dead men in France and pressed the palms of my hands together, saying a prayer for the war to be over and for Daddy to come home safe.
As my eyes grew heavy beneath the warm sun and the gentle lullaby of the barley, I leaned back against the gatepost and let myself drift into a gentle slumber, suspended in that magical place between sleep and waking where my thoughts were of birdsong and laughter, and a little girl, hair like flames, offering me a white flower. “For Mammy. For my Mammy.”
“Frances?”
I sat up, squinting through the glare of the sun. “Mrs. Hogan?” I jumped down from the gate, sending my satchel tumbling to the ground, spilling everything across the dusty lane. “Sorry, Miss. I must have fallen asleep.”
Mrs. Hogan bent down to help me gather my things. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s a grand day. Does wonders for the soul, sure it does.”
I liked the way Mrs. Hogan ended her sentences with “sure it does.” When I mimicked her Irish accent it made Elsie laugh.
“Is it very late, Miss? I should be getting home.” I was annoyed with myself for falling asleep. I’d planned to go to the beck and now there wouldn’t be time.
“It’s not that late. Your cousin won’t be back from work yet.” I was pleased to hear this. Elsie made too much noise at the beck. She wasn’t as patient as me and could only sit for a few minutes before she was up and striding about again, saying we should make dams and have races with the frogs. “Do you mind if I walk with you?” Mrs. Hogan continued. “I always think a walk is far nicer with two, don’t you?”
I said of course Mrs. Hogan could walk with me, although I wasn’t sure what you said to your teacher when you weren’t in the classroom.
From my first day at Bingley Grammar, I’d taken a liking to Mrs. Hogan. The pale face I’d seen at the cottage window was barely recognizable as the enthusiastic teacher at the front of the classroom. Mrs. Hogan had lively eyes and brisk footsteps and a lovely Irish lilt to her voice that made me feel as if I were listening to music. I liked the way the heels of her shoes clacked against the boards as she moved around the classroom. I liked the rustle of her skirt and the lavender-scented trail she left behind her as she swished past the rows of desks. I liked the tap tap tap of the chalk as her neat handwriting danced across the blackboard. Even when I was having trouble with my algebra or thinking about Daddy, Mrs. Hogan always had a gentle smile and the right words. I felt as though nothing bad could ever happen as long as people like Mrs. Hogan were in the world. Still, I couldn’t forget the haunted look I’d seen on her face through the window, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her poor daughter who’d disappeared.
“I was sorry to hear about your little girl, Miss.”
The words were out before I could stop them. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. My thoughts had become a real living thing, striding along the laneway between us and spoiling what had been a perfectly nice walk.