by John Kerr
Wiping his mouth, he said, ‘You’ve been all right, have you?’
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘There’s something I ought to tell you,’ said Donald, leaning on the countertop.
‘All right,’ she said, taking a seat at the table.
‘I was working at the Anchor a while back, cleaning up during closing hours.’ Mary nodded, feeling a spasm of fear. ‘Those men were there talking. You know, the IRA.’
‘Oh my God, Donald.’
‘I couldn’t quite make it out, but they were threatening the other one, the nice-looking fellow.’
‘Eamon?’
‘That’s the one.’ Mary massaged her forehead. ‘The rough one had me bring him a whiskey. That’s when I overheard.’ Donald hesitated.
‘Overheard what?’
‘The IRA man warned Eamon about . . . well, about seeing you. He said, the one who’s sweet on the British officer. I remember that.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘I don’t remember. But then he pulled a gun and waved it at Eamon. I was scared and slipped out when they weren’t looking.’
‘Oh, Donald.’
‘It worried me, Mary. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.’
Mary stood up and gave him a hug. ‘Thank you, Donald. I’ll be fine. And believe me, I’m careful to stay away from those men. All of them.’
‘Well,’ he said, as he slipped on his cap, ‘I’d best be on my way.’ She walked outside with him and watched with an affectionate look as the boy disappeared down the track.
Mary returned to the rocker with the last letter from Charles and one from home. Charles’s letter upset her almost as much as her discovery about Eamon. For the first time in all the months of correspondence she couldn’t feel him in his words. His carefully written descriptions seemed contrived somehow, as though he was writing to someone else. The last letter from her mother contained the distressing news that her father, always the picture of ruddy good health, had suffered a mild heart attack. Her mother was worried sick about her brother Bill, serving on a destroyer in the Pacific, and implored Mary to come home. Well, Mary considered unhappily, the chances of booking a passage to America were virtually non-existent at this feverish stage of the war. And the thought of leaving the house, with all the care she’d put into it, and the cliffs and the sea, sickened her as much as the guilt she felt for not being with her poor mother. After penning a quick note to her brother, which she enclosed with a letter to her parents, she gazed out at the angry sea, afraid they were in for a bout of heavy weather. The sky was the shade of old pewter and the sea as turbulent as her thoughts. As much as she dreaded an encounter with Eamon, the visit from Donald had made her feel slightly ridiculous. It might be her best chance to make a quick run into town. Walking the bicycle from the shed, she lowered her head against the wind and began to pedal.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eamon O’Farrell watched from his vantage point at the front window of the Golden Anchor. At four o’clock, he had the darkened pub to himself, seated behind the half-curtains that provided an unobstructed view of the intersection of the two country roads leading into the village. Ever since he’d observed Mary hurrying from his boarding house, he’d been waiting and watching, certain she would come, forced out of hiding by a need for supplies. With the dark clouds signalling an approaching storm, he suspected that today might be the day. He watched a small mongrel playing with a group of boys, and then suddenly she appeared, a blur on a bicycle swiftly gliding past. There was no mistaking her thick black hair and trim waistline. After fifteen minutes, Mary reappeared on her bicycle, the basket filled with groceries, which she parked at the post office before disappearing inside the stone building. Moments later she emerged, clutching a letter, with a smile on her pretty face. Eamon let himself out the back door of the pub, seen by no one. Mary tucked the letter in her pocket, mounted the bicycle, and pushed off as the first drops of cold rain stung her face. A sudden wind gust brought brittle leaves swirling down the lane, and she pedalled hard, determined to get home before the downpour.
He had chosen a thick gorse bush, twisted by the steady sea breeze, at a turn in the well-worn track. He crouched, listening for her approaching bicycle. Squinting to avoid the rain, Mary’s breath came in gasps, knowing that the safety of her cottage was only several hundred yards in the distance. As she sped past the bend in the track she was dimly aware of a figure who suddenly appeared from behind the shrub. Her heart pounding, she pedalled even harder, too frightened to scream as she listened to the footfalls close behind her. Over the rushing wind she heard him call out, ‘Mary! Stop!’
In the darkness she could see the lights shining in her windows. The racing steps drew even closer. All at once the storm broke and, blinded by the rain, she pedalled furiously, but rounding the final turn, her tyre caught the edge of a rut. A strong arm encircled her waist just as the bicycle crashed into the thick gorse. They fell heavily together onto the muddy track. Momentarily dazed, her mind could not keep up with what was happening, lying beneath his weight. Eamon struggled to his feet and, taking her hands, hauled her up to face him. Above the shrieking wind and rain, he shouted, ‘We must get out of the storm!’ She drew back with a terror-stricken look. ‘Mary,’ he shouted, ‘I promise I won’t hurt you!’
‘My things . . . my letter,’ she stammered at last. A bolt of lightning, far too close for comfort, illuminated her pale face.
‘Go on, Mary!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll bring your things!’ He gave her a push in the direction of the cottage and reached for the handlebars of the twisted bicycle. Soaked through, she stepped under the protection of her porch with Eamon close behind her, hearing Chelsea’s shrill bark and the scratch of her paws. He placed those of Mary’s purchases he was able to salvage on the porch and knelt down to unlace his shoes. ‘Take off your shoes,’ he calmly instructed, ‘and as many of your other things as you will.’ He stripped off his coat and socks as Mary kicked off her shoes. Clutching her arms around herself in the cold wind, she opened the door and stepped inside. Despite the dog’s threatening growl, Eamon stayed close to her, placing his hand on her arm.
Looking up into his eyes, she said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I simply need to talk to you,’ said Eamon calmly.
Mary forced herself to think. ‘There’s a towel in the bathroom,’ she said, ‘down the hall.’ He nodded, casting a quick look around the darkened house, as the power had failed. As soon he was gone, she hurried to the pantry for her grandfather’s shotgun. She broke it open, inserted two shells, and snapped it shut with a reassuring click. Within moments she heard his bare feet on the floor and raised the gun to her shoulder.
Eamon froze. He was still wearing his wet trousers, with a towel draped over his bare shoulders. To Mary’s surprise, a small gold cross hung on his chest from a thin chain. He smiled and said, ‘I suppose you’re going to shoot me.’ Mary stood motionless, nervously fingering the trigger-guard. ‘Put the gun aside, Mary,’ said Eamon, ‘before there’s some foolish accident.’
‘No, I won’t,’ she said in a strong voice, though a tear appeared at the corner of her eye.
‘All right, then. Have it your way.’ He pulled back a chair and sat at the table. ‘I’ve come here to talk,’ he said. ‘To explain.’
‘Who are you?’ she blurted out. ‘You’re a spy, aren’t you? A German spy.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said evenly. ‘An agent, actually, of the Abwehr, the military intelligence department.’
Mary tightened her grip on the shotgun and said, ‘I knew it. But I don’t understand. You’re Irish.’
‘No, actually, I’m not. My real name is Hans von Oldenburg. I’m from Hanover. Mary, this would be so much easier if you would brew us a pot of tea and let me get a fire going. It’s so cold and draughty in here.’
M
ary shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand,’ she mumbled.
‘For God’s sake, Mary, that’s why I came, to explain.’ He rose abruptly and started for the living room. ‘Now,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘would you please make us some tea? Keep the shotgun if you like.’
After a few minutes they were seated by the fire, cradling cups of hot, sugared tea. The shotgun lay across Mary’s lap, pointing safely at the wall. Eamon managed a small smile and said, ‘Now, as I was saying, my father and mother met at the Sorbonne, before the First War. She came from a family of landowners in County Mayo. Landed gentry, I suppose you could say. And my father was an aristocrat, Count Hasso von Oldenburg, though at heart he was a republican. Loathed the Kaiser and any form of autocracy. She was young and beautiful, it was Paris and, naturally, they fell in love.’
‘And so your mother is Irish.’
‘Yes. Her Irish heritage meant a great deal to her. They were married in 1913. Sadly for them, the war came along, my father joined his old regiment and Mother found herself living among her own country’s sworn enemy. She was so cut off from her family during those years that she was determined her son would grow up knowing Ireland.’ He smiled and said, ‘Might I bother you for a bit more tea?’
Mary lifted the shotgun from her lap and began to lean it against the wall but suddenly changed her mind. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This isn’t like before . . . Herr Oldenburg. And besides, the tea’s gone. Now, why are you telling me all this?’
He studied her, admiring the fire in her eyes. ‘Because it’s important to me that you understand who I am.’
‘I know who you are,’ she said angrily. ‘You’re a German spy. And you’ve got something to do with those IRA toughs.’ Mary tightened her grip on the shotgun. ‘When I think back on those chats of ours, in this very house, listening to you carry on about Hitler. God, what a fool I was!’ Mary tried to stifle a sob. ‘Now why don’t you just get out, and leave me alone!’
‘Please, Mary,’ he said calmly, ‘just give me another minute, and I’ll be gone.’ She pressed her lips tightly together and motioned with the gun for him to continue. ‘Yes, I work for German intelligence,’ he continued, ‘but Ireland’s neutral, like Spain and Sweden, and all of the parties have networks here. I was sent here to gather information. On the movement of British forces—’
‘And ships, no doubt,’ she interrupted. ‘So that your U-boats can blow them out of the water. Innocent seamen with wives and children at home, dying by the tens of thousands. And you expect me . . .’ Her words trailed away as Eamon hung his head and pulled the towel around his shoulders. The wind was moaning through cracks in the walls.
Eamon spoke in a soft voice without looking up. ‘Yes, and to co-operate with the IRA. They’re dreamers and fools, and worse. But they care about one thing only, and that’s beating the British, whatever it takes. And so we have a simple bargain: we sell them arms, and in return they help us watch the coast. But I tell you, Mary, I despise those men—’
‘Sure you do,’ she said hotly. ‘Just as you hate Hitler. God if only you knew . . . If only they knew.’
Eamon looked up at her. ‘I’ll be on my way now,’ he said sadly. ‘I simply wanted you to know the truth. So now you know, and I won’t be botherin’ you again.’ He rose wearily from his chair. ‘But there is one other thing: my grandfather, my mother’s father, whom I adored as a boy. The IRA murdered him in cold blood, before my poor grandmother’s eyes, to settle some score. So that’s what I think of the bloody IRA. Now, if I can get my things.’
Mary watched silently, cradling the shotgun, as he emerged from the hall wearing his rain-soaked clothes and pulled on his coat. He turned toward the door, then stopped and said, ‘I almost forgot. Your things are on the porch, except for the newspapers, of course. And I’m sure you’ll want this.’ He took an envelope from his coat pocket, wet through, the blue ink streaked, and handed it to her. Without another word he walked to the door and let himself out into the storm.
Standing in the rain, Charles clutched his suitcase as a black saloon pulled up and the driver rolled down the window. ‘Sir,’ said the driver, ‘you should have waited on the platform.’ Davenport recognized the elderly chauffeur who had met him on his last visit. He walked quickly around to the passenger side, tossed his bag in the back, and climbed in beside the driver. ‘Sorry to make a mess,’ he said as the water dripped from his hat on to the leather seat.
The chauffeur said, ‘Quite all right, sir. Shall we be off?’ The rain slackened as they drove in silence along the winding road. The gentle Cotswolds, clad in wildflowers in the summer, were now a dull grey against an even darker sky. As they turned into the drive, Davenport glanced at the stark, black boughs of the leafless trees, reminded of the verses: When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold . . .
‘You’ll be staying the weekend, sir?’ asked the driver
‘Yes,’ replied Davenport, ‘till Sunday afternoon.’ As they rounded a curve on the brow of a hill, the magnificent castle appeared in the distance. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone briefly on the honey-coloured stone towers. Davenport pictured Evan Hockaday as he remembered him on his first visit, sitting cheerfully in his wheelchair as the dog bounded down the steps to greet him.
As if reading his thoughts, the driver said, ‘Master Evan is staying in the south wing. It would be best to take the servants’ entrance, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Of course,’ said Davenport. When the car came to a stop, he let himself out and retrieved his bag from the back.
‘Allow me, sir,’ said the driver, reaching for Davenport’s suitcase. ‘Right this way.’ Davenport followed the old man up a flagstone path to the entrance at the rear of the building where they were greeted by an immaculately dressed young man with neatly parted hair.
‘I’m Smith, sir,’ he said. ‘Master Evan’s valet. He’s expecting you.’ As the chauffeur disappeared up a staircase, Davenport followed the young man to a book-lined study, where Evan Hockaday was seated by the fireplace, a plaid wool blanket on his lap. Pivoting his wheelchair, he smiled and said, ‘Hallo, Charles. Come in.’
Davenport took Evan’s outstretched hand, and said, ‘It’s wonderful to see you, Evan.’
‘And you’re looking well,’ said Hockaday. ‘Smith, would you please ask Maggie to bring us a pot of tea? And some of those biscuits?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Oh, and Smith, the fire could use a bit of stirring.’
Seated opposite Evan before the fire, Davenport held his cup and saucer in his lap and said, ‘How is your father getting along?’
With a frown Evan said, ‘Father is unwell. He seldom leaves his room. It was a shock when I first arrived.’
‘Sorry,’ said Davenport, ‘but it’s to be expected at his age.’
‘It’s more than that, I’m afraid,’ said Evan.
Davenport studied Evan. In the dim light he seemed to have aged and the cheerful sparkle in his good eye had turned to a look of deep sadness. ‘How do you mean, Evan?’
‘Since I last wrote to you we have received word about Robert.’ Evan glanced at an oil portrait of a handsome young man above the writing desk. His hair was thick and dark, unlike Evan’s fine flax, but the pale blue eyes and confident smile were identical.
Davenport put his tea aside, leaned forward and said, ‘What about Robert?’
‘Killed in action,’ said Evan. ‘In Burma, with Wingate’s Chindits.’
‘My God, Evan. I’m so sorry. Damn the war.’
‘Father naturally assumed that Robert . . . that Robert would be the one to carry on, to take his rightful place. Especially since what happened . . .’ Hockaday paused to compose himself. ‘Since what happened to me, Father was hoping for so much from Robert. It’s almost as if he died with him.’
‘Don’t worry, Charles,’ said Evan with a surprising smile. ‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am to be alive. It’s Father I’m worried about.’
Bright sunshine woke him. At the sound of a tap on the door Davenport lifted his head from the pillow and called, ‘Come in.’
The door swung open, admitting a maid with a tray. ‘Your coffee, sir,’ she said and then withdrew. He threw back the covers and, after donning a dressing-gown, poured a cup. Opening the curtains, he gazed out on the lawn, blanketed with fresh snow. He was admiring the view and sipping his coffee, when the door behind him creaked open.
‘Splendid, isn’t it?’
Davenport turned to Evan in his wheelchair, attended by Smith, his valet, who departed, closing the door behind him. ‘I heard the storm during the night,’ said Davenport, placing his coffee on the bedside table. ‘The grounds are lovely with a fresh coat of snow.’
‘I thought we might take a look round the country in Father’s Bentley.’
‘An excellent idea.’
They spent the morning touring the Cotswold countryside, enjoying the views of the snow-dusted fields and stone cottages from the back seat of the car with the elderly chauffeur behind the wheel, travelling along the arrow-straight Roman road from Cirencester to Bourton-on-the-Water, thence to Broadway in time for lunch at the Lygon Arms, overlooking the distant Vale of Evesham. At a quiet table in the hotel dining room, Davenport folded his napkin and said, ‘So Robert was with Wingate in Burma?’
‘Yes, General Orde Wingate,’ said Evan bitterly, ‘and his scheme to operate behind the Japanese lines. Some say the man’s a lunatic, others a genius, but not many of his men made their way out of that God-forsaken jungle.’