Olivia sat with Nana for the rest of the afternoon, occupying herself by tidying up, changing the water in the vase of flowers on the table, and refreshing the jug of water by Nana’s bed. She polished the photo of Pappy with her cardigan sleeve, so handsome in his uniform, off to war. But no matter how much she tried to distract herself, her thoughts kept returning to Frances, and Cottingley, and her great-grandmother, and the connection between them all.
At teatime, Olivia took her cue to leave, kissing Nana’s cheek and telling her she would visit again in a few days. She left Nana with a bowl of soup and a quiz show on TV, the volume turned up so high she wasn’t sure if Nana heard her say she loved her.
On the bus home, Olivia thought about the story unraveling in Frances’s memoirs, and in the Arthur Conan Doyle book Mrs. Joyce had found at the cottage and which Olivia had been reading in quiet moments at the shop. One paragraph in particular had resonated with her:
There are certain facts which stand out clearly and which none of the evidence I was able to obtain could shake. No other people have seen the fairies, though everyone in the little village knew of their alleged existence.
Everyone in the village included her great-grandmother, Ellen Hogan. Had she seen fairies too?
The more Olivia thought about Frances and Elsie’s photographs and the cottage in the woods and Ellen’s missing child, the more she felt an urge to visit Cottingley. Something was pulling her back there, a sense of family connection. Like a skein of wool being wound, she was being drawn in.
Back in Howth, she followed the slope of colorful houses that decorated the street, so pretty in the evening sunlight, and there was Bluebell Cottage at the crest of the hill. Tonight was Olivia’s last night there. Tomorrow she would say good-bye.
SHE SPENT THE evening poring over mountains of paperwork to make some sense of it all. Business transactions. Orders. Invoices. Rent. She checked her e-mail, a wall of black unread messages. She scrolled through as quickly as she could, and there it was, a message from Jack asking if her phone was broken because the wedding planner had been on to him to say she couldn’t get hold of Olivia. He added that everything was going well in China and that he might have a trip to Germany the following week but would make it up to her with dinner somewhere fancy when he got back. She felt more like his mistress than his soul mate. She didn’t have the desire, or the energy, to reply.
Too restless to sleep, she took Pappy’s old radio upstairs and listened to classical music into the small hours: concertos and symphonies, Mendelssohn’s “Fairies’ March,” Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.” It soothed her soul. When she did drift into sleep, she dreamed of forests and glistening streams and the voices of children, laughing and whispering, their faces and secrets concealed behind the leafy trees. Sometimes she felt the sensation of cool, wet grass under her feet, and always there was a little girl, hair like flames, handing her a white flower. “For Mammy. For my Mammy.”
The dreaming had started after the accident, her darkest fears and insecurities manifesting in curious images and strange people and faraway places, so vivid that when she woke up, she wasn’t sure if they were dreams or reality. She didn’t tell anybody at first. It was when the sleepwalking started that her grandparents became aware of it. Anxiety, the doctors said; the result of trauma and shock. They said she would grow out of it, but she hadn’t, and she was glad.
Her dreams brought alive happy memories of a time when she had laughed and loved, when she’d fought for what she believed in. They reminded her of what she’d once wanted and who she once was. It was her dreams that now urged her to wake up from a reality she no longer believed in.
ON HER LAST morning at the cottage, Olivia woke early. Everything felt visceral as she dressed and made her way downstairs: the brittle cold of the kitchen tiles, the rattle of bubbles as the kettle came to the boil, the bitter aroma of coffee as the water hit the freeze-dried granules.
She cupped her hands around her favorite mug and stood at the window. She’d always been an early riser, her otherwise lazy body instinctively aware that it was a privilege to be awake at dawn to watch as the sky turned from navy to gray, lavender to violet and rose. Pappy would often join her, just the two of them and the winding thread of tobacco smoke from Pappy’s pipe as they watched the world wake up. Those were some of Olivia’s favorite moments. Catching the start of a new day when nothing was yet done, and everything was possible.
After dressing, she worked her way methodically through each room of the house, taking one last look, pulling the curtains, closing the door on all that once was. She paused at Nana’s dressing table, gazing into the mirror, searching for the younger Olivia in the glass. What would she say to that lost and frightened child who’d once stood here, more alone in the world than she had ever imagined it was possible to be? Would she tell her to believe in fairies, or would she say there was no such thing? Or would she simply tell her that whether you choose to believe in something or not, the joy is more often in the wondering than in the knowing?
In the back of a drawer at the bottom of the dressing table, so hidden she almost missed it, she found an old Instamatic camera. She checked the exposure reader. It still had film in it. Her mam always carried an Instamatic camera in her handbag, forever snapping away as Olivia played, catching her off guard. As she slipped it into her pocket, Olivia wondered what secrets this camera might reveal.
Turning to leave, her leg banged on the edge of the dressing table. She heard a rattle, and only then did she notice a narrow secret drawer beneath the mirror. Her heart thumped as she pressed against it and it sprang open.
She knew what was inside even before she saw it.
The silver photo frame.
She lifted it out, remembering that night when she’d grasped it so tightly beneath the bedcovers, smooth and cool to the touch. Beneath the dusty glass, the familiar photograph of the little girl and the fairies looked back at her, the little girl she now knew was Frances. That playful smile at her lips. So many questions, still unanswered.
She put the photo frame into her bag, pushed the drawer shut, and left the room, closing the door softly behind her before she walked downstairs and out the front door. The cottage released a long sigh as it fell into a peaceful slumber behind her, the wrought-iron gate squeaking a reluctant good-bye as she closed it for the last time. Her heart broke at the finality of it all, but she knew it was the right thing to do—the only thing to do to save the bookshop.
The morning light was clear and melodic, lending everything a bright-edged quality as she made her way down the hill, the breeze at her back, pushing her on to find the next chapter of her story. As she walked, she thought about the photograph in her bag. Whatever secrets it held, she was certain that Frances would tell her, in her own words, in her own good time . . .
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE