I assured her I would and stared numbly at the narrow street of terraced houses in front of me. Blackened windows obscured any sign of life inside. The street lamps also stood black and lightless. It was all so unwelcoming. Nothing about it said Welcome to Yorkshire, Frances. Nothing about it said home.
I don’t know what I’d expected of Yorkshire, but somehow I wasn’t surprised that my first reaction was one of enormous disappointment. The air was bitterly cold, the streets were dull and dark, and the people spoke in accents I couldn’t understand. Yorkshire had none of the color I’d known in Cape Town—the vivid pinks and purples of the freesias and arum lilies in the flower sellers’ baskets. Yorkshire had none of the fragrant floral perfume, or the tang of salt in the air from the ocean. My greatest disappointment was discovering the true identity of the dirty gray lumps heaped up beside the station walls.
Mummy laughed when I asked her what they were. “It’s snow, Frances! Mucky old Yorkshire snow. What did you think it was? Suet dumplings?”
I didn’t know what suet dumplings were and had only seen the pure white snow of my picture books. What I saw in front of me wasn’t like that. This was dirty snow. Old snow. Disappointing gray Yorkshire snow to match the gray Yorkshire sky and gray Yorkshire walls and gray Yorkshire stone on gray Yorkshire houses. I bent down to scrape a ball of the snow into my hands and threw it immediately down again. It was so cold it burned.
“I don’t like Yorkshire snow,” I said, kicking crossly at it with the toe of my boot. “And I don’t like Yorkshire.” I folded my arms across my chest, crumpled my face into a furious scowl, and didn’t even try to stop my bottom lip from sticking out, even though I knew Mummy didn’t like to see me sulk.
She placed her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, that’s as may be, Frances Mary Griffiths, but you’ll have to learn to like Yorkshire—snow and all—because this is where we live now. This is our home, and the sooner you get used to the idea, the better.”
There was a sharpness to her voice that I didn’t care for. A sharpness caused by the exhaustion and emotion of the long journey from Cape Town, by the worry of watching a dear husband and father go off to fight in a dreadful war that had already robbed hundreds of thousands of wives and children of their loved ones. Hot tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I muttered an apology and stared hard at my boots, shoving my hands deep into my pockets, glad of the heavy wool coat Mummy had made especially for the inclement weather she knew would await us in England. We stood in silence. The mist of our breaths mingled with the ribbons of smoke that crept from tall chimney pots on the houses across the road.
“I know it’s all happened very quickly, love,” Mummy said, her voice softening as she bent down so that her eyes were level with mine. She had pretty eyes. Blue-gray, like the dolphins I would sometimes see in the harbor back home. “But you’ll soon think of Yorkshire as home. I promise.” Her face relaxed into a weary smile as she grasped my hands in hers.
Much as I longed to believe her reassurances, I knew she was putting on one of her Brave Faces. Three weeks at sea, sailing toward an unfamiliar country and closer to the front line of war, had unsettled us all. I’d known about the plans to leave Cape Town so that Daddy could join the British Army in France, but still our sudden departure had come as a surprise. As the mighty Galway Castle had carried us across the heaving ocean, Daddy had explained that our departure was confirmed only the night before we set sail. “You have to be brave, Frances. We all do. Promise me you’ll be brave.” Looking deep into his eyes, I’d promised as solemnly as I could, but standing in the dark Yorkshire streets, I didn’t feel brave at all.
“But I don’t have any friends here, Mummy. And I miss Daddy.”
There. I’d said it. The secret thoughts I’d carried with me for weeks had been spoken out loud, my whispered words snatched away by the frigid air that set my teeth chattering and my body shaking. I’d never been good at keeping secrets, and this one was too big to keep wrapped up inside me any longer. My Daddy had gone to war. I had left the only home and friends I’d ever known. I felt very lost and very afraid.
Mummy fussed at me, brushing the tears from my cheeks and tugging at my black fur hat, pulling it down to cover the pink tips of my frozen ears. I could see the glisten of tears in her eyes.
“Your father will be back soon. When the war’s over. And you’ll make new friends. Once you get settled into school and you and Cousin Elsie get to know each other, you’ll forget all about Cape Town. You’ll forget you ever lived anywhere other than Cottingley!” She smiled her special we have to be brave smile and wrapped her arms around me, pulling my woolen scarf close around my neck so that it tickled my chin. “Everywhere feels strange when it’s dark and cold. You’ll like it much more in the summer with the heather bursting out all over the moors.” She squeezed my hands tightly as she spoke, as if to make absolutely certain of it. “Things’ll get better, love. I promise.”
And right there, in the dark unfamiliar streets of Bingley, the distant promise of summer became something of a talisman to me. By the summer, Yorkshire would feel like home, and I wouldn’t miss Daddy or my friends in South Africa or the sight of the whales blowing out at sea. By the summer, the war would be over and everything would be perfect again. Holding my mother’s hands, I thought of the words inscribed inside Princess Mary’s Gift Book—the book of fairy stories I’d brought with me. “It is only by believing in magic that we can ever hope to find it.” I had to believe in better times ahead, even though it felt impossible right now.
Mummy suggested we sing something while we waited for Uncle Arthur. “It’ll cheer us up,” she said. “And warm us up too.” I loved it when Mummy sang. Nellie Melba was her favorite. “I’ll start and you join in when you’re ready.”
Amid the murky darkness, the first verse of “Lo, Here the Gentle Lark” sounded so lovely and bright. I joined in with the chorus and our song left the narrow street, soaring over the rooftops and church spires and chimneys. I imagined that somewhere, out there in the dark, Daddy might hear us, and that he would be cheered by it too.
We sang until a motorcar pulled up at the top of the street and a tall man emerged from the driver’s seat.
Mummy grabbed hold of my arm. “Look, Frances! It’s Uncle Arthur.” There was a new energy to her voice, a new purpose to her stride as she broke into a funny sort of trot and set off up the hill. “You’ll like him. Come on!”
Clutching Rosebud tightly to my chest, I picked up the small traveling case I’d carried halfway around the world and trudged up the hill after her, hoping all my disappointment and worry would slip away into the gaps between the cobbles that threatened to trip me up with every weary step.
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Cottingley, Yorkshire. April 1917.
If I hadn’t been so cold, I might have laughed at Uncle Arthur standing beside the car, waving his arms wildly around his head like sails on a flour mill.
“You made it, then!” His voice was like a bass drum, reverberating off the terraced houses. I’d never heard anything quite like it. “Annie Griffiths—back in Cottingley! Well, I never.”
Mummy grasped hold of Uncle Arthur’s hands, her knuckles turning white with the effort, as if she would never let go. “Back in Cottingley, Arthur!” she said. “Who’d have believed it, eh? I thought we’d never get here. All those hours on the train from Plymouth felt longer than all the weeks at sea. Didn’t they, Frances?”
I nodded and wondered why Mummy’s voice had gone all up-and-downy as I stared at this man called Uncle Arthur who smelled of motor oil and pipe tobacco and was all broad smiles and firm handshakes. He wore dark gray woolen trousers and a gray woolen jacket and removed a funny-looking flat cap from his head, revealing erratic strands of wispy black hair and great bushy eyebrows flecked with gray, like his mustache. I thought it strange that he had so much hair on his face and so little on his head, as if everything had grown in the wr
ong place. I wobbled slightly as I gazed up at him, still unbalanced by the pitch and roll of the ocean, and was glad when he stooped down to my height, peering at me with kind amber eyes.
“Bah ’eck. Is this really our Frances?” I tried to smile, but my face was too cold. “What’s up? Cat got your tongue?”
Mummy placed a reassuring arm around my shoulder and excused my silence. “Don’t mind her, Arthur. She’s worn out, poor thing. She’ll come ’round.”
“Suppose it’s a bit of an ordeal, all that time at sea. Never did care for it. Makes me go green at the gills. Good to be back on dry land, is it?” I nodded again, mesmerized by Uncle Arthur’s eyebrows, which wriggled about like great fat caterpillars when he spoke. “You’ll be right after a good feed and a decent night’s sleep.”
He stood upright and lowered his voice as he addressed my mother. “Missing her father, is she?”
“She is. They’re very close. She dotes on him, and him on her.”
Uncle Arthur declared the war to be a funny old business, and they both looked sad and shook their heads before Uncle Arthur turned to speak to me again.
“You were nowt but a bairn last time I saw you, Frances. You’re almost as big as our Elsie now! Must be all that sunshine, eh?”
His accent was so thick, I imagined you could slice it and put butter on it. He had a funny habit of twisting his cap between his fingers as he spoke, as if he were wringing out a dishcloth. As I watched him do this, I noticed his hands were enormous. I tried not to stare because I knew it was poor manners, but I stared anyway as Mummy chattered on beside me.
“It’s strange to be back in Yorkshire, Arthur. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it. There’s something in the air, something that gets to you. You know?” She patted her chest, and Uncle Arthur nodded to indicate that he understood. “For all the time we’ve been in Cape Town, now that I’m back it’s like I’ve never been away. I can’t wait to see our Polly! How’s she keeping?”
And with that, Mummy burst into tears. I stood awkwardly at her side, wishing she would stop. I’d seen her cry only once before—the previous day when we’d said good-bye to Daddy. It was as if by finally arriving in Yorkshire, all the emotion of our journey had to somehow escape from her, like a kettle singing on the stove. Except it wasn’t steam coming out of Mummy. It was great fat tears that only came faster when Uncle Arthur put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
“Now, now, Annie. We’ll have none of that. Can’t have you arriving at your sister’s all red-eyed and rotten-looking. She’ll have you put straight to bed with a dose of castor oil.” He took a striped handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her before busying himself with our luggage. “Polly hasn’t sat down since we got the telegram yesterday evening to say you’d landed in Plymouth. Never seen the house so clean.” He peered over the top of the car. “Don’t tell her I said that!”
Mummy laughed through her tears and promised she wouldn’t.
“Don’t mind me, Frances,” she said, noticing my discomfort. “I’m just relieved to be here. I’ll be right after a cup of tea.”
I hoped so. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep being brave if Mummy kept bursting into tears like that.
The wind tugged impatiently at my skirts and the hem of my coat, and I was glad when Uncle Arthur suggested I jump into the car and Mummy tucked a warm blanket over my knees. I placed Rosebud and my books on top of the blanket, turning the pages of Princess Mary’s Gift Book, lingering over the illustrations that accompanied my favorite poem, “A Spell for a Fairy,” and whispering the familiar lines of verse. “‘There shall be no veil between them, / Though her head be old and wise. / You shall know that she has seen them, / By the glory in her eyes.’”
After a few minutes of huffing and puffing and what sounded like Yorkshire cursing, Uncle Arthur climbed into the driver’s seat. He rubbed his hands together briskly, blowing on them for warmth as he declared himself nithered. When I asked what nithered meant, Mummy laughed and explained that nithered was a Yorkshire way of saying you were really cold. I tucked Rosebud beneath the blankets to stop her being nithered too.
“We’ll have you back at the house in no time, Frances, love. You’ll be better after a bit o’ scran. Your Aunt Polly has stew and suet dumplings ready.” Uncle Arthur had to shout to make himself heard above the noise of the engine. “Hope you’re hungry. She’s made enough to feed Kitchener’s Army!” I thought of the mottled gray snow outside the station and hoped that Aunt Polly’s suet dumplings would look more appetizing. “And our Elsie’ll just be home from work,” he continued. “She’s all talk of her cousin from South Africa. Says she can hardly remember you. She’s not a bad lass, our Elsie. Daft as a brush, mind, but not a bad lass.”
He chuckled in a funny way that made me smile.
I didn’t remember Cousin Elsie and was intrigued to meet her. Mummy had talked about her all the way here during the long sea crossing. It had been Cousin Elsie this and Cousin Elsie that. I imagined her to look like Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and that being sixteen—a full seven years older than me—she would tell me lots of clever things. I worried she wouldn’t like sharing her bedroom with me, let alone her bed, but that was to be the arrangement. I’d worried about it all the way from Cape Town and worried about it now while Uncle Arthur crunched the gears as the motorcar struggled up the steep, narrow streets.
While Mummy and Uncle Arthur talked about boring grown-up things, I pressed my nose to the window, following the threads of smoke that wound their way from chimney pots on gray houses. Despite the gathering gloom, no light shone from the windows, and the street lamps stood lifeless, like fire irons. It had been the same in Plymouth. “Blackout,” Daddy had explained. “So the enemy can’t find us with their zeppelins.” I didn’t like to think about the enemy. War had felt far away in South Africa. Now it felt dangerously close. I thought about Daddy’s portrait tucked inside the pages of my book and prayed for his safety.
After a short distance, the smoky gray town gave way to the dip and rise of valleys and rolling hills, field after field crisscrossed with undulating lines of low stone walls that stretched all the way to the horizon. Bracken and gorse covered the landscape, silvered by moonlight.
“God’s own country,” Uncle Arthur announced as the car struggled up another steep incline. “That’s what Yorkshire folk call Yorkshire.”
I said I could understand why, what with it being so high up and so close to heaven. Mummy turned to me and said I was a good girl and why didn’t I shut my eyes now and try to sleep.
The motion of the car and the steady hum of the engine soon conspired to lull me into a travel-weary sleep. With my arms wrapped around Rosebud, I dreamed of heather-topped hills and sleepy valleys and a pretty woodland stream where dragonflies danced across the water as I sat down among the ferns and the meadowsweet, waiting for the summer to find me.
Two
Ireland. Present day.
Afraid the pages would be blown away by the wind, Olivia tied the ribbon around them and returned the document to her backpack to continue reading later. As she did, a gust of wind snatched Pappy’s letter from her hand, sending it tumbling away among the scree and rocks.
Scrambling to her feet, she rushed after it, grasping at handfuls of air as the paper skittered past her feet, snagging momentarily on a distant gorse bush until another strong gust wrenched it free and sent it rushing over the cliff edge. She gasped as it took flight, joining the gulls to soar high above the sunlit sea toward England and Yorkshire, where Pappy had first met his beloved Martha. As she watched it shrink to a distant dot, Olivia thought of Pappy’s last words to her: “You need only the permission of your heart.” Her heart wanted everything she saw in front of her now: space to walk and to think, crisp natural light, fresh sea air, possibility. Pappy was right. She didn’t need anybody’s permission. Perhaps—and her stomach lurched as the thought developed from a murky seed of doubt to one of incre
asing certainty—she didn’t have to marry Jack.
And there he was, back in her thoughts. Jack Oliver. The man she was due to marry in three months, despite the doubts that kept her awake at night and dragged like lead weights on the ivory lace train she regretted choosing. “A bad case of the jitters. Totally normal,” her friends said, prescribing an antidote of gin and shopping when she’d confessed to her uncertainty. But it went deeper than the jitters. Far deeper. And then there was the letter she’d received three weeks ago. The letter she hadn’t told Jack about. The letter that confirmed what she’d feared, and cast the greatest doubt of all in her mind.
Her breathing quickened as the audaciousness and then the conviction of her thoughts bubbled up inside her. What if she called the wedding off? Adrenaline rushed along her skin in goose bumps, like a child anticipating something forbidden about to be done.
She couldn’t.
Could she?
Life was all about the wedding lately—endless decisions about chair covers and dessert wine and other things the guests would never notice. But what if she didn’t have to make those decisions? What if she stayed in Ireland and took care of Nana and managed the bookshop? What if she made a life here, in Howth, the quiet harbor town she’d grown up in where people moved with the ebb and flow of the tide rather than an unreliable tube service?
As she turned the bookshop key over in her hand, it struck Olivia that in answering the wedding planner’s questions, she’d ignored the most important questions of all: Was she happy? Did she really want to go through with this? What alternative future might she find if she dared to look?
On impulse, she took off her engagement ring and pushed it deep into the corner of her skirt pocket. Her hand looked strange without its glittering diamond solitaire, better for its absence. She’d never liked it, or the way it caught on her favorite jumpers and trapped dough between the prongs when she made bread. She’d have happily worn one of her mam’s vintage costume rings, bursting with character and story, but vintage wasn’t Jack’s style. Diamonds were Jack’s style, and as he’d reminded her, they are, after all, a girl’s best friend.