Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  It was mid-March, and there had been several days without rain or the temperature falling below freezing. Mary stood on her porch in a pair of old dungarees, boots, and her rain-proof jacket, determined to descend the cliffs and enjoy a stroll down the sandy beach that stretched for miles to the south of Kilmichael Point. ‘Come along, girl,’ she said to the pup, who had paused to investigate the first shoots of grass. Standing at the cliffs, the panoramic view stretched from the Wicklow Mountains to the north, across the Irish Sea towards Wales and to the south far into the mist-shrouded distance. The air was spring fresh, as though something had been shaken into the atmosphere when the last, sharp licks of winter had finally succumbed. Mary paused to take a deep breath and listen to the crash of the surf on the rocks. And then she heard another sound, quite close by, a man humming a familiar tune. He suddenly appeared ten feet below her, slowly ascending the path.

  ‘Why, top of the mornin’, Mary,’ he called out, pausing on a ledge and removing his cap. ‘Lovely day.’ Chelsea growled threateningly as Mary shaded her eyes.

  ‘It’s Mr O’Farrell,’ she said politely, ‘if I remember correctly.’

  ‘That it is. But please, call me Eamon.’ He slipped on his cap and continued up the path to the top. Chelsea barked even more loudly as he approached.

  ‘Hush,’ said Mary, reaching down to restrain the dog. ‘You’ll frighten Mr O’Farrell.’

  Eamon smiled and said, ‘She’s a beautiful young spaniel. What’s her name?’

  ‘Chelsea,’ said Mary as the dog quieted, her large, intelligent eyes darting between the two of them. ‘What brings you to our remote stretch of the coast?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing, really. Just a bit of beachcombing on this glorious morning. You’ve quite an exceptional view. What do they call this place?’

  ‘Kilmichael Point,’ said Mary. ‘I can see you’re new here, Mr O’Farrell.’

  ‘I do wish you’d call me Eamon,’ he said. ‘And, yes, I’ve not been here many months.’

  ‘You’re staying in the village?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve, ah, found work there . . . I was living before up in the hills.’ He gestured vaguely toward the distance. ‘Well, I should be on my way.’ He touched a hand lightly to his cap. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again.’ Mary waited until he disappeared before making her way down to the beach, her mind filled with an image of the pleasant man who seemed destined to cross her path.

  Less than a week later she encountered him again as she was walking with Chelsea on the beach. At first he was a mere dark form in the distance. But, as he came nearer, he smiled and waved a greeting. With Chelsea beside them, they walked together the half-mile to the foot of the cliffs, making small talk about the weather. By the time they started up the pathway to her cottage, Mary was feeling more comfortable with Eamon, to the point of asking his opinion on the progress of the war.

  ‘Not our fight, is it?’ he commented. Just as Mary was shaking her head, he added: ‘But Hitler’s got to be stopped. And now that the British have the Americans on their side, perhaps the tide has turned.’

  Mary smiled as they reached the top of the cliffs. ‘Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?’ she asked. It was the first of many times that Eamon O’Farrell would settle on Mary’s porch or take a walk along the beach with Chelsea romping along. They spoke often of the war, and she found his views on the subject strangely contradictory. He was quick to point out the moral shortcomings of the British and argued that the ordinary Germans were no more at fault than the British or Americans. His dislike of the Russians seemed almost equal to his contempt for the Nazis. Mary considered him an odd bundle, yet sensed an ally and, more than anything, she simply liked him. After all she had endured from the local townspeople, she willingly forgave some of his questionable opinions.

  As the days grew longer, Mary, still shut in for the most part against the March winds, eagerly awaited the first signs of spring. Seated at her kitchen table, she took a last sip of tea and folded her newspaper. Reaching down to stroke Chelsea’s soft fur, she said, ‘For a change I’m taking the car into town and leaving you behind.’ She could swear from the alert look in her large brown eyes that the pup understood every word. ‘I won’t be long, and I’ll bring you a treat.’

  As she drove toward the village, Mary dwelled on the question whether, as Charles had written, the Irish insistence on neutrality, and the possibility that the IRA was aiding the Germans, might actually provoke the British to attack Ireland. Despite the recent gains in North Africa and on the Eastern Front, the war was going badly, which might lead desperate men in Ireland to think that this was their one chance to strike against the British in the north. As British shipping losses continued to mount, it was certain that German U-boats would benefit from agents scouting the movement of British ships from the safety of the neutral Irish coastline, which might prompt the British to move against the Irish. As she turned on to the road into the village, these reflections left Mary even more disquieted.

  After buying groceries, papers, and a treat for Chelsea at the McDonough’s store, she steered the car down the road toward the post office. Driving past the Golden Anchor, she observed a man wearing a long coat and hat pulled low walking out of the pub. Taking her foot from the accelerator, she strained to see the man’s face. There was no mistaking it: it was the IRA man, wearing the same hat and coat he’d worn on New Year’s Eve. Intensely curious, Mary slowed to a stop, glancing in her rear-view mirror in time to see a second man step outside the pub, clapping a comradely hand on the IRA man’s shoulder. It must be the other man, thought Mary – Tom, if she remembered correctly. She turned to get a better look. At that moment the men shook hands and parted, the IRA man walking away as the other man began walking in her direction. To her horror, she recognized Eamon O’Farrell. She quickly looked away and stepped on the accelerator, almost certain that in the brief moment she had not been seen. After dropping her letters at the post office and learning from the dour Mr Coggins that she had no mail, Mary climbed into the car and drove the short distance home, deeply troubled by her strange discovery.

  Davenport sat at the desk in his room examining one of Mary’s latest letters and another from the firm of barristers representing Frances. Putting aside the letter from Mary, he slit open the other envelope. A scowl came over his face as he read it, demanding that he produce a sworn statement with respect to his assets and income. He thought back to the encounter at the officers’ club with Frances’s lover. The lawyers were apparently proceeding on the assumption that Davenport’s army career would require him to show deference to the man. Well, now there was nothing to be risked in exposing the man’s adultery. Yes, he decided again, he would have his lawyer file the necessary papers to question him under oath. He quickly read Mary’s letter and then took the fountain pen from his pocket and wrote:

  25 March 1943

  London

  My dear Mary,

  I was so pleased to read in your last letter that the attitude in your village continues to thaw. Perhaps with the coming of spring the hostility, and I suspect the envy, of some of your neighbours will melt away. And of course you have Chelsea to cheer you up.

  I wish I could say that things are more pleasant here. But since my run-in with Frances’s colonel, I’ve felt even more unwelcome among Col. Rawlinson’s inner circle, who are the worst type of Englishman, the sort who’ve given the Irish so much to resent over the centuries. If it weren’t for missing you, Mary, I should happily quit this assignment and return to my old division. With the recent victories in Tunisia, however, I wonder where our army will go next.

  Do you think about the end of the war, the kind of world this will be? Will it have been worth the sacrifice of so many lives? I find myself thinking about it often these unhappy days. I long to be back at the university and often think how wonderful it would be to have one’s own home and to raise a family. A
nd I often wonder what you will do when the war is over.

  If I were with you now, in that room you’ve described looking out on the Irish Sea, I would sit with you and read poetry. This is one of my favourites by Ben Jonson:

  I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

  Not so much honouring thee

  As giving it a hope that there

  It could not withered be;

  But thou thereon didst only breathe,

  And sent’st it back to me;

  Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

  Not of itself, but thee!

  I had better close. Please be careful about the IRA men, as they’re deadly serious and their hatred for the English knows no bounds. I shouldn’t be the least surprised to learn they’re co-operating with German agents operating on Irish soil. And Mary, please write soon.

  Affectionately,

  Charles

  CHAPTER NINE

  The rumours started sometime on Saturday, and by late Sunday they were as thick as bees around a honey-jar. At eight o’clock the following morning the men of Planning Group B took their seats in the map room amid a steady buzz of conversation as they awaited the arrival of the colonel. The room fell silent at the sound of the door and footfalls on the linoleum. Davenport watched expectantly as Rawlinson approached the lectern, his chin thrust forward, followed by a compact man with greying hair and a dark moustache, wearing the red lapel tabs of a general officer. As the two senior officers walked past, the men sat ramrod straight, as quiet as church mice. Rawlinson took his accustomed position facing the men at the lectern while the general stood to one side. Davenport carefully studied Rawlinson, who looked unusually pale and tightly gripped the lectern, as if to steady himself. Peering out at the familiar faces, he said, ‘Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant General Frederick Morgan.’ Rawlinson coughed into one hand. ‘General Morgan,’ he began again in his carefully enunciated voice, ‘has the distinct honour of having been recently appointed Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander.’ A low murmur passed among the men. ‘And as such, has assumed direct responsibility for Operation Round-up. Effective immediately,’ Rawlinson paused to straighten his tunic, ‘Special Planning Group B is disbanded.’ Rawlinson turned to the general and said, ‘General Morgan.’

  Davenport felt a flutter in his chest. Disbanded! That would possibly mean a return to his old unit and escape from this oppressive clique. He studied the general as he stepped to the lectern, the close-cropped grey hair, penetrating eyes and lean, fit physique. ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ said Morgan in a gruff voice. His eyes searched the room, seeming to stare at each man. For the briefest moment, he made eye contact with Davenport. ‘Let me begin,’ he said, ‘by thanking you men for your hard work. Much that’s been done here will prove very useful to the staff charged with planning the invasion.’ Damning with faint praise, thought Davenport. He noticed Rawlinson standing self-consciously to the side, his eyes downcast as though studying his shoes. ‘Indeed,’ the general continued, ‘I found your report very instructive in its analysis of landing areas and the proposed timing of the invasion: with one glaring exception.’ He paused to look at the men with the expression of a disappointed schoolmaster. ‘It utterly failed to take into account the critical shortage of landing craft, apart from a passing comment, which rendered it useless as a planning document.’

  The tension in the room was palpable, as Rawlinson shifted and appeared to sway slightly. ‘Now, then,’ Morgan said briskly, ‘Colonel Rawlinson has been reassigned to a new command, and, with a few exceptions, the rest of you will receive orders to report to various combat units in the Mediterranean theatre where recent losses have resulted in a critical shortage.’ Yes, Davenport considered, this would definitely mean a return to action. ‘Lastly, the following men are being retained on my staff and will report for duty tomorrow at COSSAC headquarters.’ Morgan withdrew a sheet from his tunic. ‘Majors Davenport and Smith-Dorrien, Captains MacDonald and Peterson. The rest of you are dismissed.’

  Davenport sat in stunned silence as the men around him rose from their desks and began filing out. He looked up at Leslie Ashton-Gore, standing beside him with a bewildered look on his boyish face. ‘Well, Charles,’ he said, ‘I suppose you should be congratulated, and it would appear I’m headed for the front.’

  ‘Good luck to you, Leslie,’ said Davenport warmly. After a few minutes, Davenport joined the other officers who were being retained on Morgan’s staff at the front of the room. Morgan stood casually before them, one hand in his pocket. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said in a friendlier tone, ‘henceforth you’ll be on the staff of COSSAC, comprised of both British and American officers. A most interesting group. The work you’ve done here will carry forward in the detailed planning of the invasion. Ah, Mr Davenport.’ He looked Davenport in the eye. ‘Your recommendations on the landing craft issue were especially helpful. A pity Colonel Rawlinson ignored them. But based on your conclusions, if I may confide in you men, there will be no cross-Channel invasion in 1943.’

  The damp, musty smell of the cellar evoked memories . . . Mary sitting backwards on the chair, her knees folded under her and her chin resting on chubby fingers that gripped the chair-back as she watched her grandfather oil his mower. His pipe was in place as he explained the importance of keeping the mower oiled and sharp. It was spring. Bulbs were blooming, trees budding, and now, late in April, the grass was beginning to grow. It was far from needing mowing, yet she couldn’t resist the desire to oil and sharpen the old mower exactly as her grandfather had shown her. Mary lifted the heavy old machine and rested it on the scarred bench. Finding the oilcan, she began as she’d been taught, working it into the wheel hubs. Lost in the ratchety clacking as she turned each wheel, she found herself again surveying the cellar; the orderly arrangement of Christmas ornaments Donald had carried down for her and then noticed a dirty bundle of cloth in the shadows. Deciding to investigate, she lifted the cloth cover and discovered an electrical device that resembled an old, cabinet-enclosed Victrola, with vacuum tubes and wires connected to a black base and assorted knobs and dials. Draping the fabric over it, she pulled the chain to extinguish the bulb, ascended the stairs and shut the door behind her.

  With the help of young Donald McDonough, Mary had set about a thorough scouring of the house, painting walls, putting new linen on the beds and lace on the windows. The only area of the house yet to be done was the cellar, and Mary decided to tackle that last. They began early on a Saturday, hauling empty bottles up to the shed, oiling the tools and hanging them over the workbench, cleaning the single window for the first time in years. The vegetable bins were taken outside and shaken out, and the musty odour replaced by the scent of lemon oil and soap. After almost nine hours the job was done and Donald paid and on his way.

  The following morning, after the previous day’s exertions, Mary slept late, and when she rose she briefly considered donning her decent dress and riding into town to attend Mass at the tiny church. With a guilty shake of her head she decided against it, succumbing to the alienation from the church and its teachings she’d felt since the death of her loved ones. She decided instead to make the trip in the delightful spring weather to buy the Sunday newspapers which were sure to be filled with the latest news of the war now overspreading the globe. Piling the papers on the counter before Mr McDonough, she reached for a box of tuppenny nails to add to the supply in her refurbished cellar.

  Chelsea was soundly asleep on the porch when Mary returned to the cottage. Hoping not to disturb her, she silently leaned the bicycle against the shed and reached for the newspapers in the basket when she thought of the box of nails. First things first, she decided, slipping the box in her pocket and tugging gently on the door to the cellar stairs. She peered into the blackness and felt for the handrail. Taking one hesitant step down, she considered going to the kitchen for a match. No, she would just blindly feel her way down until she could find t
he chain for the overhead light bulb. Slowly descending in the dark, she swung her hand through the air, brushing against the chain. Then Mary heard something, the smallest scraping sound and, with a rush of adrenaline, she found the chain and gave it a yank. In the sudden flash of illumination, she gave a short scream at the sight of a man crouching in the shadows with his hands covering his face. He slowly stood up, dropping his hands to his sides. It was Eamon O’Farrell.

  ‘My God, Eamon,’ Mary blurted with a pounding heart. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He raised his palms. ‘I’m sorry to have startled you.’ Taking a step closer, in a steady voice he said, ‘Mary . . . please, let me explain.’

  The image of Eamon outside the pub with the IRA man flashed across her mind. She stepped backwards instinctively, feeling the damp cellar wall at her back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a pair of pruning shears on the bench and quickly grabbed them. ‘Don’t come near me,’ she said, raising them in front of her.

  ‘Put those down,’ Eamon said calmly. ‘If you’ll just listen to me—’

  She gave her head a sideways jerk, her eyes full of fear.