“Are they real, Mammy?” she’d whispered as her mother made to leave the room. “The fairies?”
The light caught the silver in her mother’s earrings, making them shimmer as she turned in the doorway. “Anything can be real if you believe it is.” A smile played at her lips as she blew a kiss. “Sleep tight, love. Nana and Pappy are in the sitting room. Be good for them. No messing, now. I’ll see you in the morning and I’ll tell you all about the photograph then. Fairies don’t like to be rushed. We’ll have more time tomorrow.”
As her mother pulled the bedroom door softly closed behind her, something nagged at Olivia, a sense of foreboding she was too young to understand. Her stomach churned in knots of worry. Her skin prickled with a silent dread. She desperately—irrationally—didn’t want her mammy to leave. She sat up in bed to call after her, but didn’t want to make her cross and spoil her special evening, so she lay back down under the covers, clutching the photograph in her hands, first wondering and then dreaming about the little girl and the fairies.
AS THE FINAL chords of a Beethoven symphony danced around the bookshop, Olivia put down the article. She thought of Pappy’s letter and the document in the package: “. . . It is a memoir of sorts—a fascinating story. . . . You know my views on stories choosing the right readers at the right time. . . . Consider it a project in distraction. . . .”
Taking the thick bundle of paper from her backpack, she untied the violet ribbon, settled back in the chair, and continued reading . . .
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Cottingley, Yorkshire. April 1917.
I woke up to my mother gently shaking my shoulder.
“Wake up, Frances, love. We’re here.”
I opened a sleepy eye, forgetting for a moment where here was. There had been so many heres recently, new ports and towns to wake up in.
I sat up, stretched, rescued Rosebud from the floor, and clambered out of the car. The cold air nipped at my cheeks and crept into my bones so that I was sure I would never be warm again. A bitter smell of chimney smoke and damp wool settled on my skin and made me cough.
Mummy rubbed my back—for reassurance or to help the cough, I wasn’t sure. “There it is, Frances,” she whispered. “Number 31, Main Street. Just as I remember it.” She fussed at the creases in her skirts before moistening the corner of a handkerchief and rubbing at a sooty mark on my cheek. I squirmed and batted her hand away. “Well,” she prompted, “what do you think of your new home?”
The house stood at the top of a steep hill, at the end of a row of seven or so terraced houses bunched together like books on a shelf, with Number 31 the bookend propping them up. They were all the same simple shape: a narrow doorway in the middle, two lace-curtained sash windows at the bottom, two at the top, and a black gate and railing separating the small front garden from the street. I didn’t think much of my new home, but I knew better than to say so.
“It looks nice, Mummy. Which is my bedroom?”
“You mean Elsie’s bedroom. You’re not to think of it as yours, Frances. We’re to remember that this isn’t our house. That we’re guests.” She glanced at the house. “I think Elsie’s bedroom’s at the back. It looks out over the garden.”
But I wasn’t listening. My attention had strayed toward the dark space that lay beyond the row of houses and continued on beyond the crest of the hill.
“What’s up there?” I asked.
Mummy’s gaze followed mine. “Nothing much. Cottingley Woods and the glen that cuts through them. There’s a small stream down there. A beck, the locals call it. Nothing for little girls to be troubling themselves with, anyway.”
“I’m not little. I’m nine and a half.”
I sensed Mummy stiffen beside me. “That’s as may be, Frances. Still, you’re not to be going there.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous beside the water. And you’ll muddy your new boots. That’s why. Now, stop mithering.”
There was something Mummy wasn’t telling me. I wanted to know more about the woods and the glen and the beck, but my thoughts were interrupted by squeals of delight as Aunt Polly appeared at the front door.
Mummy grabbed my hand. “Eee! There’s our Polly now! Come on, Frances.”
I followed my mother up the short garden path, turning, just once, to look back at the dark space beyond the house. Mummy’s words of caution only made it more appealing, but as I reached the front door, my curiosity was smothered by lavender-scented folds of soft green fabric as Aunt Polly scooped me up in a great big hug.
“Well, look at you, Frances Griffiths! All grown-up!” She placed her hands on my frozen cheeks. Her palms were as rough as old calico but toasty warm. “And a real bonny lass too. Just like our Annie was at your age. Just the same.”
Aunt Polly’s voice was all singsong and merry. It reminded me of the birds I would hear in the evening through my bedroom window. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—my aunt, my mother’s sister—admiring her lovely smile and her thick auburn hair piled up in fashionable puffs around her face. I forgot all about forbidden woods and rivers and gray Yorkshire snow and stepped inside.
The narrow hallway was filled with tears of joy and eehs and ahhs while Uncle Arthur carried in the luggage, declared himself jiggered, and closed the door behind him with a thud. I flinched at the sound. Everything I’d known was on the other side of that door, and wherever he was, I knew my poor Daddy wouldn’t have a front door to close behind him, however jiggered he might be.
Aunt Polly bundled coats and hats under and over her arms until she resembled a farmer’s scarecrow. “Our Elsie’s ever so keen to meet you, Frances,” she chirped, taking hold of my hand and leading me into a pleasant little room to the left of the hallway. “Come on through, love. There’s no need to be shy.”
There was no time to be shy. I was deposited on a rug in the middle of the room, like a museum exhibit declared open for inspection. In front of me, beside a crackling fire, stood a pretty girl whose eyes reflected the tawny glow of the flames and sparkled with mischief.
“Now, Frances,” Aunt Polly announced. “This is your cousin, Elsie. Elsie, this is Frances. Your cousin, all the way from South Africa.”
Elsie was tall for sixteen, almost as tall as the ferns precariously balanced on high plant stands on either side of the chimney breast. I admired her pretty lace blouse with a cameo brooch at the collar, and her fashionable bottle-green skirt that skimmed her ankles. I hadn’t expected her to look quite so grown-up. She had the same rich auburn hair as her mother, and the same beguiling smile. Even if she didn’t look anything like Alice in Wonderland, she looked ever so friendly.
“Hello, Frances. I like your ribbons.”
I’d chosen the violet ribbons for my hair especially that morning, keen to make a good impression on my Yorkshire relations. The color reminded me of summer evenings in Cape Town. I blushed at Elsie’s compliment and muttered a thank-you.