The Cottingley Secret

  I shivered as I washed at the basin. The water in the ewer was stone cold and the cracked tablet of Sunlight soap refused to produce anything much in the way of suds. Dressing quickly in a hand-me-down pinafore from Elsie that was still a good three inches too long for me (the portmanteau with my own clothes had not yet arrived from Plymouth), I tied my hair into bunches with white ribbons and rushed downstairs. Everyone was up and about, and all was chatter and clatter as porridge was spooned into bowls, bread was sliced, and fresh pots of tea were drawn. Aunt Polly read our tea leaves, predicting a happy marriage for Elsie and an interesting encounter with a stranger for me.

  After breakfast and chores, I nagged at Elsie to show me the waterfall until she relented, despite insisting that our faces would be frozzed in no time. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be outside in the fresh air, frozzed or not. Mummy and Aunt Polly were delighted to see me and Elsie getting along so well, and although Mummy wasn’t keen on the idea and suggested we stay indoors and play draughts, Aunt Polly encouraged our little expedition outside, as long as we wrapped up well and were back for dinner at twelve. I followed Elsie through the musty cellar and out into the garden that sloped steeply down toward the tree line at the bottom, my tummy tumbling with the excitement of Christmas mornings and birthdays.

  The sky was a perfect blue and the sun cast a pleasant warmth over the garden, making glistening dewdrop necklaces of the spider webs draped between the slats of the fence between Elsie’s garden and next door. While Elsie strode ahead, I stopped to inspect every new leaf and plant, and to listen to the unfamiliar songs of unfamiliar birds that perched on the rooftops. It would have been perfect if it weren’t for the awful stench of grease and wool from the mill at the bottom of the village. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand.

  Elsie laughed at me. “Manky, isn’t it? I hardly notice it anymore. You’ll soon get used to it.”

  I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to get used to a smell like that.

  “The beck’s only small,” Elsie explained as she opened the latch on the gate. “So don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re bored in five minutes.”

  I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy picking my way around great clumps of stinging nettles and wild blackberry bushes that snagged on my coat and scratched the backs of my hands. As I walked, the rumble of the waterfall grew louder with every footstep, matching the heightened beating of my heart. Elsie told me to watch my footing as we clambered down a steep bank, grasping onto gnarled roots and embedded rocks until the trees opened up in front of us to reveal a narrow ravine.

  I stopped walking and stood in silence.

  At the bottom of the ravine was a glittering stream, about two feet in depth and six feet wide. A waterfall plunged from a shelf of shale rock to the right, tumbling in three broad steps toward the stream, where the water bubbled and boiled. Dappled shade from the trees cast intriguing shadows onto the water, while the flickering sunlight painted the early spring foliage in shades of gold and emerald and soft buttery yellow.

  “Oh, Elsie!” I whispered. “It’s lovely.”

  It was more than lovely. It was magical. It was wild and alive, and yet peaceful and serene. I could never have imagined somewhere so pretty could exist among the drab gray of the village I’d seen last night.

  Elsie rubbed her hands together and pulled her scarf closer around her neck. “It’s nicer in the summer, and nice enough at backend. Autumn,” she added, seeing the confusion on my face. “You can spend a whole day here then. I don’t fancy more than ten minutes on a day like this.”

  But I didn’t feel the cold so much. Last night’s disappointment of dirty snow and lightless streets fell away as I watched the water tumble and swirl. I already knew I could happily spend hours here, day and night, summer or winter. And there was something else. A sense of being watched, a continual urge to look over my shoulder. I didn’t say anything to Elsie, afraid that she would tease me for being silly, but I felt it all the same.

  Elsie picked up a stick, idly pushing a leaf around in the eddies that formed behind the larger rocks. I found a stick of my own and did the same, giving Elsie an idea. “Let’s have races. Come on. We might find baby frogs if we’re lucky.”

  The morning slipped away beneath the strengthening sun as we became engrossed in our game, searching for the broadest leaves to make boats for the baby frogs we found hiding behind rocks and among the long grass. I winced at the cool touch of their skin, shrieking when they sprang from my hands. On Elsie’s count of three, we released our boats, running along the riverbank after them, eager to see which would reach the finish line first. Elsie won most of the races, and the baby frogs abandoned ship far too soon, but I didn’t mind. I loved it there at the beck and couldn’t resist taking off my shoes and stockings to dip my toes into the water.

  Elsie laughed as I squealed at the icy cold. “You’ll catch your death, Frances Griffiths, not to mention a slipper on your backside if your mother catches you! And mind you don’t slip on those stones. The water’s running fast. It’ll knock your feet from under you easily enough.”

  I walked at the edge of the water for as long as I could bear it before following a path of slippery stepping-stones to the far bank, where I jumped up onto a bough of a willow tree. It made a perfect seat. I swung my legs beneath me, letting my bare toes skim the surface of the water. From my perch, I noticed a cottage, hidden almost entirely by trees. It looked familiar somehow, and as I narrowed my eyes against the glint of the sun, peering through the shifting branches to get a better look, I saw a woman standing at an upstairs window. She was looking directly at me.

  I jumped down from the branch and ducked behind the bank. “Elsie,” I hissed. “Who’s that?”

  “Who’s what?”

  “Through the trees. In the window at the cottage. Someone’s watching us.”

  Elsie didn’t seem at all concerned. “That’ll be Mrs. Hogan. Your teacher. Remember, I told you about her last night.”

  “Why is she watching us?”

  “Probably wondering who you are. She often stands at the window. Folk say she’s looking for her little girl.”

  I stayed low as I walked back across the stepping-stones toward Elsie. As I turned to look over my shoulder, I caught a movement of the lace curtain as Mrs. Hogan disappeared into the dark interior of the cottage. “How sad for her. Is she nice?”

  Elsie shrugged. “Keeps herself to herself, mostly. She speaks with a funny accent too—Irish—so the pair of you will get along fine.”

  “Was she your teacher?”

  Elsie shook her head. “I went to the village school, but you’re a clever clogs so you’re going to Bingley Grammar, where Mrs. Hogan teaches.” My stomach lurched at the thought. Today was Saturday. Monday would be my first day in the new school. I felt sick with nerves. “Mummy says she’s also sad about Mr. Hogan being off at war,” Elsie explained as we wandered back upstream. “He joined up last year when conscription came in. It wasn’t long after the child went missing.”

  I knew all about being sad when people went off to war. “Why didn’t Uncle Arthur go to war?”

  “Too old. He tried to enlist anyway, but he failed the medical examination. He was assigned to stay at home and help at the mill and with other mechanical jobs for the farmers. He doesn’t like to talk about it. He feels guilty not to be doing his bit at the Front.”

  As I followed Elsie back along the riverbank, I brushed my fingertips against the silky catkins on the willow trees and wished Daddy had failed the medical examination too. I stopped now and then to collect interesting-looking pebbles that clacked together satisfyingly in my pockets, and to pick the pretty wildflowers: stitchwort and ragwort, silverweed and harebell, lady’s purse and cinquefoil. Elsie told me their names. As we walked, I repeated them over and over so I wouldn’t forget them, storing them away like precious gems to admire again later, in private.

  But it wasn’t just the pebbles and flowers that enchanted me at t
he beck that morning, or the rush of water against my toes, or even the little ducklings that squeaked at us from their nest among the rushes. Perhaps it was just the excitement of being somewhere new, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was waiting for me there. And although I’d seen her for only a brief moment, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Hogan’s face at the window, or Elsie’s tale of the missing child.

  Lost in my thoughts, I whispered to myself as I strolled along. “‘Out of that sand you melt your glass, / While the veils of night are drawn, / Whispering, till the shadows pass, / Nixie—Pixie—leprechaun.’”

  Elsie poked playfully at me with her stick. “Do you believe in fairies then, Frances?”

  I worried that Elsie would tease me if I said I did. “Do you?” I asked cautiously.

  She smiled and walked on. “It’s more fun to believe, isn’t it? And one thing’s for certain. You’ll never see them if you don’t.”

  And in that moment, as the breeze played among the bulrushes and the birds sang in the branches above us, I knew Elsie and I would become the greatest of friends. Although she’d been in my life less than a day, I knew with great certainty that Elsie Wright would be in my life, always.

  That night, in the dark hush of the bedroom, I let my thoughts wander back down the cellar steps and out along the garden path, through the gate and down to the little stream where I walked over dew-wet grass, my eyes tipped toward the violet sky, somewhere between the end of night and the start of morning. I heard the sound of birdsong and laughter, bells ringing in the distance, the steady rush and tumble of the waterfall. I saw flashes of green, then blue as I felt myself being lifted, my feet dancing on air. And there, on the bough of the willow tree, sat a young child, hair like flames, her hand reaching out to offer me a single white flower. “For Mammy,” she said. “For my Mammy.”

  Three

  Ireland. Present day.

  Lost in the words of Frances’s story, Olivia jumped at the jangle of the shop bell, the pages in her hands fluttering in the breeze that rushed through the open door.

  She looked up to see a child standing on the doormat. She appeared to be entirely alone, as if blown there on the wind like a miniature Mary Poppins.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” Olivia stood up and walked over to her. The child was clearly distressed. Tears fell like fat summer raindrops from pale eyelashes that glistened, heavy with more.

  “I’m lost.”

  Her words limped away through the dim light of the shop, the acknowledgment of her predicament triggering a fresh downpour of tears. She was a striking child, all rosy-cheeked innocence and tumbling red hair, a Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life. Her navy school uniform was at odds with the silver fairy wings sprouting from her back.

  Instinctively Olivia hunkered down so that she was on a level with her. “Have you lost your mammy?”

  The girl gulped in a breath of air. “I don’t have a mammy.”

  Olivia’s heart crumbled at the words. She knew them too well. She wanted to say that she did have a mammy, that we all have a mammy, even if she isn’t with us anymore, but all she could do was offer the same insincere reply she’d heard so often herself.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “Daddy went into a shop and I can’t find him and now I’m lost and I don’t know where he is . . .” More tears prevented her from saying anything else.

  The child’s distress was unsettling and made Olivia fidgety. She took a tissue from her skirt pocket and offered it to the girl with an encouraging smile.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe here. I’ll help you find your daddy. I promise.” For good measure, she said she liked her fairy wings, which produced a half smile in response as the girl took the tissue, sucking in great mouthfuls of air through her sobs as she wiped her nose.

  “It was dress-up day at school. I was Titania, but I lost my wand.”

  “Titania? Queen of the Fairies?”

  An emphatic nod. “Daddy read me a story about her. It’s called A Midnight Dream. Or something like that.”

  Olivia’s heart melted a little. As a rule, she found children noisy, unpredictable things. Whenever she was with Jack’s many nieces and nephews she felt inadequate: not funny enough, or cool enough, or interesting enough to hold their attention. She tired of their company easily, and they of hers. Perhaps that was why part of her had always suspected she would never be anyone’s mammy, and yet when she’d seen it confirmed in black and white it was all she wanted to be. She thought of the letter in the drawer of her nightstand in London, the letter she hadn’t told Jack about. Dear Miss Kavanagh, Following your recent appointment with Dr. Kent . . .

  Shaking off the thought of it, she focused on the child again. Something about this little girl was different from other children she knew. Something in her eyes suggested an old soul.

  “What’s your real name, then, Queen Titania?”

  “Iris.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “They were Mammy’s favorite flowers.”

  Were. Was. The awful vocabulary of loss. Olivia said they were her favorite flowers too. “I fell in love with them when I saw Van Gogh’s painting on a school trip.”

  Unimpressed, Iris passed the sodden tissue back to Olivia. “What’s your name?”

  “Olivia. I’m named after the heroine in Twelfth Night because I was born on Twelfth Night. My mammy loved Shakespeare too. She was a teacher.”

  “What’s Twelfth Night? Are you a teacher? Will my daddy be here soon?”

  This was something else Olivia found difficult about children: their endless questions.

  She grabbed her coat and the shop key. “Come on. Let’s go and find him.” She held out her hand, then hesitated. Was hand-holding appropriate? What were the rules when you found a lost child? Thankfully, Iris showed no such hesitation, linking her fingers trustingly around Olivia’s. It was such a simple gesture, and made Olivia pause. She’d forgotten how reassuring that connection could be; how something as simple as a hand to hold could make you feel useful, or safe, or loved, or any number of things you weren’t feeling a moment before. Jack wasn’t a hand-holder. He preferred to link arms, as if they were a promenading couple from an Austen novel.

  She smiled at Iris, who looked back at her with such innocence Olivia couldn’t bear it. “He can’t be far away. I bet he’s outside wondering where on earth you are.”

  As she spoke, the door opened and a tall, bearded man rushed in, his panic-stricken face collapsing into folds of relief as he saw Iris.

  “Iris! Thank God!”

  “Daddy!” Iris wrenched her hand free from Olivia’s and ran to him, throwing her arms around him as he sank to his knees. He wrapped his arms tightly around his daughter as they released their worry and relief in a jumble of hugs and tears.

  As she observed their little reunion, Olivia thought of her own childhood. Had she ever been lost? Had her mammy ever held her like this man held Iris now? She shut her eyes, willing a memory to surface, but nothing came. This was Olivia’s reality: imagined moments, always wondering. The truth was that her mother had become more like a dream to her than a real person, a story she’d once read but couldn’t fully recall. Sometimes, Olivia could hardly remember her mother at all.

  Iris unpeeled herself from her father and dragged him toward Olivia, telling him all about the kind lady who had saved her life.

  “It wasn’t quite that dramatic!” Olivia explained. “She just wandered in. We were coming to look for you.”

  “Thank you so much.” He offered his hand. “Ross Bailey. This little monkey’s dad.” The relief poured off him like water.

  They shook hands as if they were sealing a business deal, and Olivia wondered how it was that one moment you were dealing with the impact of your grandfather’s last will and testament and wondering how to call off your wedding, and the next you’d inadvertently come to the rescue of a little girl and were being than
ked by her father, who carried an intriguing scent of sea spray and turf smoke and whose eyes were the color of good whiskey.

  Ross Bailey had the appearance of someone who didn’t especially care what he looked like, or didn’t have time to worry about it, but looked good anyway. In jeans, a crumpled gig T-shirt, and a floppy beanie worn casually over shoulder-length hair he was a negative image of Jack—perfectly groomed, perfectly fragrant, perfectly ironed Jack. Intrigued by his crumples and stubble and eau de mer, Olivia held Ross’s hand a moment too long. Long enough to feel the hard edge of his wedding band against her palm. Long enough to feel a momentary pang of guilt at having taken off her engagement ring.

  “Iris was very polite and brave,” she said, dropping Ross’s hand like a hot coal, and shoving hers firmly into her skirt pocket.

  Iris beamed at the compliment, the color returning to her cheeks in perfect pink circles as she grasped her father’s hand. She was the image of him. The same lived-in eyes. The same quizzical eyebrows.

  Ross ruffled Iris’s hair affectionately. “She’s always wandering off, this one. Daydreaming. Chasing cats and clouds. I guessed she might have come here. I’m a writer, so I often drop in looking for inspiration or a cup of tea. Mac makes a great brew!”

  “You know Grandpa Cormac?”

  “Mac’s your grandpa?”

  Olivia nodded. Is? Was? How did you refer to the recently departed?

  “Ah, he’s a great man. Always finding interesting books for me, and always has a few stories of his own to tell. Is he around?”

  This was what Olivia dreaded the most. Having to tell people. Having to explain it all, over and over, as if somehow her grandfather’s death was her fault and she had to constantly apologize for it.