Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  She changed into a simple blue dress, the full skirt of which accentuated her trim waist, and tied back her hair with a ribbon. Adding a hint of colour to her lips and a pat of perfume on her wrists, she was satisfied. With a final look in the mirror and glance at the vase, she started down to the lounge, as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date. Davenport rose from the sofa as Mary entered the room. Tall and confident in a tweed jacket and charcoal flannels, with a regimental tie and white shirt, he walked toward her and took her hand. For a moment they looked awkwardly at one another.

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Davenport at last. ‘I trust that your room . . . is all right?’

  ‘The room?’ said Mary, letting go of his hand. ‘Yes, it’s very nice, though I found checking in somewhat humiliating.’

  ‘Really?’ said Davenport with a puzzled look. ‘Was there a problem. . . ?’

  ‘Why don’t we sit?’ she said with a forced smile. Without waiting for an answer, she dropped on the sofa and crossed her legs.

  He awkwardly sat a few feet from her, resting his arms on his knees, and smiled encouragingly. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ he began.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary with a nod.

  ‘That we’re actually together,’ he explained, ‘after all these months.’

  ‘It doesn’t quite seem real, I suppose,’ she said, comparing the sight of him to her memory of the injured soldier at the piano. He was more handsome than she remembered, but looked much more like the university lecturer he’d described in his letters than the uniformed officer she’d expected. In the ensuing silence Mary forced another smile and then said, ‘I’m surprised to see you in civilian clothes. I was expecting to see you in uniform.’

  ‘Well, it does seem a bit odd,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ve no doubt the old codgers around this place think I’m shirking.’ Both of them smiled and seemed to unbend slightly. ‘I left the uniform at home with Dad. Which reminds me.’ He reached into a pocket for a small envelope and said, ‘He wanted you to have these. He swears they’re the best sweet-peas in England.’ Mary took the packet and shook it to rattle the seeds. Davenport reached down to pick up two neatly wrapped parcels from the floor. ‘What’s the old saying?’ he said. ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts?’

  ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t have.’ He handed her the smaller parcel, which she opened. ‘Chocolate!’ she said with a bright smile. ‘How did you ever find it?’

  ‘It helps to work with the Yanks . . . sorry, the Americans,’ said Davenport. ‘They have access to all the delicacies we’ve been without for years.’ He handed her the other package.

  She felt the weight of it in her hands, removed the wrapping paper, and said, ‘My’, holding up a blue leather volume with an embossed gold border. ‘The Oxford Book of Sixteenth Century Verse. Now I can read all the poems you’ve quoted to me.’ She put the book aside and turned to him. Aware that her pent-up apprehension had been suddenly swept away, she impulsively reached for both of his hands and said, ‘Oh, Charles, I’m so happy we’re together at last.’

  Savouring her touch, he said, ‘It’s been such a long time.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We have a dinner reservation here, in the dining room. Shall we go?’

  Mary picked up her gifts and rose from the sofa. ‘Lead the way, Major,’ she said in a loud enough voice to be heard by the elderly couple seated across the room.

  Davenport took her by the arm and said, ‘It’s Lieutenant Colonel, actually.’

  Mary stopped to face him. ‘A promotion?’ she said with a surprised look. ‘We’ll have to celebrate.’

  At the end of a pleasant dinner, despite the limited choices of mutton or fish, they stepped out on the terrace as the light was beginning to fade. Two wooden chairs faced the vista of the estuary and sea. As they walked across the grass, the sun slipped slowly below the horizon, suffusing the cool air with an evanescent glow. ‘Look, Mary,’ he said, as he sank into one of the chairs. ‘Look down below.’ She watched in the fading light as the waters of the estuary raced to the west and out to sea, like water emptying from a tub, leaving the estuary empty.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ The sky had turned deep violet, and the sliver of moon was visible above the ridge.

  ‘To think,’ he said, ‘it’s the moon drawing the water out to sea.’ Gazing at her in the twilight, he thought just as some irresistible force was drawing them together.

  Charles opened his eyes with the pleasant sensation of a cool draught on his face. Sunlight streamed in the windows, and a light breeze furled the net curtains. He stretched out and pulled the covers up to his chin. Closing his eyes, he replayed the scene from the end of the evening, staring into her eyes as they stood at the door, debating whether to kiss her. In the end, he squeezed her hand and bade her goodnight, feeling like an awkward fifteen-year-old.

  Over a hearty breakfast of Irish porridge and a pot of coffee, Davenport explained to Mary his plans for the morning. First, they would drive to Barmouth and then up the coastal road to Harlech to explore its magnificent castle, returning in time for lunch. As they sped down the winding road to town, they chattered happily, exchanging stories of his work in London and her solitary existence with Chelsea, like old friends with lots of catching up to do.

  Davenport parked at the jetty and said, ‘Let’s have a look.’ Helping Mary out, he put an arm around her waist, and they walked out on the sea wall.

  ‘Exceptional, isn’t it?’ he said, raising his voice over the wind. It was high tide, and the estuary was full to the brim, a full mile across.

  Mary shielded her eyes with her hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just last night we watched all that water rush out to sea.’ She gazed toward a fogbank obscuring the horizon, pointed, and said, ‘There, directly across the bay, is Kilmichael Point. And at the top of the cliffs is my house.’ She turned to him and said, ‘If you close your eyes you can see it.’

  A gust of wind whipped around them, causing him to hold her tight. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘do you have any idea how happy you make me?’ She pulled away and answered with a smile as the stiff breeze tossed her hair. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘before we’re blown off the breakwater.’ Racing back to the car, they scrambled inside and looked at one another, laughing at their wind-tangled locks. When Mary leaned over to muss his hair, their eyes met, and she impulsively kissed him. Reaching an arm around her, he held her close and savored the kiss. ‘Mmm’ he said as he pressed the ignition and pulled out onto the road. Mary leaned back, allowing the wind to flow over her with a look of deep contentment. They rumbled along the narrow road, bounded by pastures filled with black-faced sheep, enclosed by rock walls that rose steeply toward the cloud-enshrouded mountaintops. After a half-hour they entered the town of Harlech and, around a curve, the blackened ruin of Harlech Castle came into view. They parked and he took a thermos from the back while Mary tied a scarf over her hair, and they strolled arm-in-arm on the cobblestones to the castle. Entering through a high arch into an interior courtyard, Davenport looked up at the blackened ramparts and turrets and said, ‘I remember coming here as a child. Like most boys, I was intrigued by knights and castles.’

  He led her by the hand to a spiral stone staircase. When they emerged on the ramparts overlooking the courtyard, a group of school children appeared with their young teacher. ‘Listen,’ said Davenport, as they pressed against the wall to let the children pass. The guttural sound of the native Welsh on the lips of the children was strangely pleasing. Davenport led Mary to one of the corner turrets facing out to sea. Extending a hand, he helped her up on the smooth stone wall where they could rest their backs on the tower. From their perch they looked out over the dunes to the glittering waves of Cardigan Bay stretching to the horizon. Comfortably ensconced on the ledge with Mary leaning against him, he said, ‘Can you imagine the raiders coming ashore to invade thi
s citadel? And the bow-men on these very walls, ready to repel them.’ Davenport looked far out to sea. ‘1283,’ he said. ‘The year King Edward built this castle to subdue the Celts and conquer Wales.’ Mary put her bag on her lap and opened the clasp. ‘And I see you’ve brought your book,’ said Charles.

  ‘Yes, Professor, I have,’ she said, as she took out the blue volume from her purse. ‘And you’re going to read me your favorite poems.’

  Davenport took the book and leafed through the pages. ‘Here’s a good place to begin,’ he said. ‘Andrew Marvell’s To his Coy Mistress.’ As he read aloud, Mary unscrewed the lid of the thermos and poured a cup of hot tea. She relished the warm sun on her face as she sipped her tea and listened to Davenport’s carefully enunciated voice. After a while, he put the book aside, lifted her chin, and kissed her, softly at first, and then with an intensity that surprised both of them. She reached her arms around him and moulded her body to his, delighting in the sensation.

  Mary finally pulled away and looked up into his eyes. ‘Now I want you to read your favorite sonnet from Shakespeare.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, turning the pages. ‘My favourite is number seventy-three. “That time of year thou may’st in me behold,”’ he read aloud, ‘“when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang . . .”’ Reaching the final couplet, he closed the book and recited the verses from memory: ‘“This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong . . . To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”’ Mary held him close and said nothing but silently repeated the closing line of the sonnet. A cloud slid before the sun, casting a shadow that caused Mary to shiver in the cool breeze.

  Davenport held her tight, glanced at his watch, and said, ‘The time has got away from us. We’d better be going.’ He vaulted down from the wall and then reached up to lift her down. With her arm through his, they returned by the narrow winding staircase down to the rectangle of bright green grass.

  It was nearing one o’clock when Davenport turned the Morris into the hotel drive. As soon as the car came to a stop, Mary climbed out and said, ‘I’m going up to change. I won’t be a minute.’

  ‘No hurry,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you in the dining room.’

  He slipped on his blazer and walked to the dining room in a separate building connected to the hotel by a brick path. As he entered, two elderly couples were settling their bill. A black squall was approaching from the north, abruptly blotting out the sun and tossing the boughs of the evergreens at the edge of the lawn. Turning, he saw Mary standing in the entrance, wearing a floral print dress, belted at the waist, and, he noted with approval, nylon stockings, a rare sight in wartime. Davenport rose, held her chair, and said, ‘You look smashing.’ He bent down and kissed her cheek.

  Looking at him happily, she said, ‘This is such a treat. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to dine in a nice restaurant, with linen and silver on the table.’ Davenport sipped his drink as they studied the menu. ‘Lobster bisque,’ said Mary. ‘I might almost be back in Boston.’

  ‘You shall have it,’ said Davenport. ‘And whatever else pleases you.’ The waiter returned, and they each ordered bisque and Dover sole. ‘And the wine list,’ said Davenport.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but with the war . . .’

  ‘There’s bound to be something in the cellar,’ Davenport said encouragingly. ‘Would you mind having a look?’

  The waiter returned after a few minutes with a bottle and silver ice bucket. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, as he held out the bottle for Davenport’s inspection, ‘I’m afraid it’s all we had.’

  Examining the label, Davenport said, ‘A ’36 Montrachet. That should do nicely.’ After sampling the wine, he instructed the waiter to pour it, then raised his glass and, looking Mary in the eye, said, ‘Your health and happiness.’

  ‘And yours,’ said Mary before taking a sip. ‘Oh, Charles, I’ve never felt happier.’

  When they had finished lunch and were enjoying the last of the wine, the storm struck, the rain slapping the windows in sheets and the wind shaking the branches of the trees. The lights flickered with another crash of thunder, and Davenport, staring fervently at Mary, said, ‘Do you know how much I love you?’

  She bowed her head for a moment before raising her eyes. ‘And I love you too, Charles,’ she murmured. ‘Before this weekend, I wasn’t sure. But now I know.’

  ‘God, you make me so happy.’ He felt her stocking-clad leg against his under the table and a deep stirring of passion. Reaching across the table to take her hand, he said, ‘Are you finished?’

  She squeezed his hand and said, ‘Yes, let’s go.’ As they rose from the table, the sky outside the window was dark as night. Standing in the doorway, they looked out at the pouring rain. Charles turned to Mary and said, ‘Let’s make a run for it.’ Drenched from the dash across the path, they walked past the somnolent clerk at the front desk and hurried up the three flights of stairs. Standing outside the door to her room, they laughed at the sight of their clinging, rain-soaked clothes and dripping hair. ‘Let’s get you inside and out of those wet clothes,’ he said, as he fumbled with the key. Mary arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh,’ said Davenport with a smile, ‘I suppose that came out wrong.’ She followed him into the dark room, clutching her arms around herself with a shiver. Moving past him into the bathroom, she said, ‘I won’t be long’, and closed the door firmly behind her. Davenport hung his jacket on a chair and unbuttoned his shirt, listening to the sound of water pouring into the bath. He tapped lightly on the door. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘might I bother you for a towel?’ The door opened a crack, and her slender hand appeared with a towel. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as her hand disappeared behind the door. After switching on the lamp, he stripped off his clothes, dried off, and stood before the mirror with the towel wrapped around him, combing his hair. He watched in the mirror as the bathroom door opened and Mary emerged, wearing a robe with her long, damp hair lying on her shoulders. He put down the comb and turned around. She walked up and took both his hands.

  ‘Oh, Mary,’ he said, his heart pounding.

  ‘Shh,’ she said, touching his lips with her fingertips.

  He bent down and kissed her. After a minute he pulled back and said, ‘We shouldn’t.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, tightly clinging to him. On tiptoe, she kissed him again amid the sounds of rain dripping from the trees.

  Mary pressed her cheek against the down pillow, her eyes closed. The bedding was soft and warm on her bare skin, a pleasant contrast to the cool breeze on her face. She blinked into the half-light and reached a hand across the bed. Where was Charles? Modestly pulling the blanket to her chin, she sat up. The room was neat but empty. She blushed at the thought of the passion they’d shared. She threw back the covers and rose from the bed. After splashing water on her face and brushing out her tangled hair, she dressed quickly. Satisfied the hall was empty, she let herself out and walked to the top of the stairs. As she placed her hand on the banister, she could just make out the notes of a piano. The music grew louder as she went down, a lilting, melancholy melody that seemed somehow familiar. Standing at the entrance to the lounge, she could see Charles at the piano with his back to her. Mary listened, staring at him and remembering. As he played the final notes, she brushed the tears from her eyes and walked across the room. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said as he looked up at her.

  He rose from the bench, put his arms around her waist, and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to wake you.’

  Mary pressed her face against his chest. ‘What were you playing?’ she said. ‘It’s the same melody you were playing the day we met at the hospital.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Davenport. ‘It’s something I wrote. You remember?’ Mary nodded. How could she forget? As he leaned down and kissed her, the fragrance of her face and hair flooded back over him.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘we should be careful.’

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sp; ‘Yes,’ he agreed with a smile. ‘It wouldn’t do to spend our entire holiday in bed.’

  ‘Charles, I’m famished,’ said Mary. ‘Do you suppose they’re still serving tea?’

  A short time later, an elderly waitress entered with a tray with a teapot, china, milk, sugar, scones, jam, and clotted cream. Davenport poured as Mary spread jam on a scone and took a bite. ‘Here’s one department,’ she said, ‘where the British are hands down winners.’

  Once he’d poured them a second cup, Davenport sat back comfortably on the sofa and happily looked at her. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘there you are, all alone in your cottage.’ She crossed her legs and took a sip of tea. ‘And there I am, in London in a tiny room in the barracks. And soon to be a free man.’

  ‘Is the divorce about to be final?’

  ‘A matter of weeks, if not days. Mary, there’s so much we could enjoy together. If you were in London . . .’