by John Kerr
She stirred the embers with the poker. It had been a long time since his last letter. He had seemed detached, so careful, almost as though he was guarding some secret. Each time she had resolved to write him, she found herself staring at a blank sheet, unable to make up her mind how to begin. And so for many weeks no letters had passed between them. She studied her hands, smudged with ink from the newsprint, and raised them to her nose, the subtle scent reminding her of home. Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back in those simple times. She walked distractedly to the kitchen, followed by Chelsea, eagerly wagging her tail. She knew the dog would do almost anything to get out into the cold, jumping into the air to snap at a solitary snowflake.
It was a crisp, cold morning, not really snowing, though the occasional flake floated down. Grabbing her heavy coat, she looped a long scarf around her neck and they were off. It was too windy for the path along the cliffs, so they took the garden path that wandered through the gorse back to the lane. The freeze overnight had left thick mantles of frost clinging to the long stems of wild grass. She had walked about a quarter-mile when she heard the dog barking in the distance. She quickened her pace, fearing that Chelsea had cornered some creature. The dog was off the path in the gorse, standing rigidly with her forelegs extended and a low, threatening growl in her throat. Standing at the edge of the path, not wanting to go into the thick shrub, Mary called, but the dog refused to obey. Growing cold and wanting to return to the warmth of her kitchen, Mary took two steps, intent on grabbing the dog by her collar, when she froze. A man was sprawled face down in the brush. From his still, contorted position she was certain he was dead. She looked away instinctively, fighting a wave of nausea, and then forced herself to look back. Dried, black blood was everywhere, matting his hair and covering his face. On one leg, where the trousers had hiked up, was a deep purple bruise and a long gash edged in fresh, satiny red.
Oh my God, she thought, red, red blood . . . he was bleeding . Perhaps he wasn’t dead after all? She bent closer, afraid to touch him, watching for some movement in his chest when the glint of gold caught her eye. It was a cross. Jesus, Mary and Joseph . . . it was Eamon’s cross! She set off running as fast as she could to the house with Chelsea at her heels. She flung open the door of the shed and grabbed a wheelbarrow, which she shoved, slipping on the ice-encrusted ruts, along the lane until, exhausted from the exertion, she was back to the place where he lay. As she tried to catch her breath, her mind was racing. He was too big to move by herself. In an instant she was running again, tears blurring her vision, when she very nearly collided with Donald, strolling down the track. ‘Help me . . . please . . .’ she managed to say before turning and starting back, looking on occasion to see that the boy was following her. When he caught up, she was kneeling beside Eamon.
‘Oh, my God, Mary!’ cried Donald as he dropped to one knee. Together they half carried, half dragged him into the barrow, which they pushed and pulled along the bumpy lane to the cottage. After propping open the door, Donald slipped his arms under Eamon’s while Mary firmly grabbed his ankles, and on the count of three, they hauled him into the house, and, with an almost superhuman effort, laid him on Mary’s bed. Gasping for breath, she hurried to her desk for a pair of scissors. Donald stood helplessly at the bedside, unable to look away from the blood-caked body. ‘Hurry, Donald,’ said Mary as she re-entered the room. ‘Light the stove and put on a kettle of water to boil.’ She placed her fingertips on Eamon’s cold wrist, barely able to detect a pulse, and then took the scissors and carefully began cutting away the blood-soaked clothing. When Donald returned with a steaming pan and clean towel, Mary motioned to him to place them at the foot of the bed. ‘You must go for the doctor,’ she said quietly. ‘Take my bicycle and go as fast as you can for Doctor Fraser, but, Donald . . . tell no one else.’
After placing clean sheets to warm in the oven, Mary studied Eamon’s almost unrecognizable face, a black mask of bruises and dried blood, his eyes swollen shut, scalp split, and a large clot on the side of his head she dared not disturb. She cleaned and bound the wound on his leg and, when she cut away the black sweater, it was clear that his shoulder was dislocated. Were it not for the small, beautiful cross dangling from his neck she would never have known him. ‘Oh God, Eamon,’ she muttered, as she washed and bandaged him, ‘who did this to you?’ She worked steadily, covering him at last with the warmed sheets. He was deathly still, breathing in shallow gasps, and what skin was not battered or bruised was ghostly white. Mary looked up at the sound of car doors slamming and entered the living room just as Donald held open the door for an erect gentleman with a shock of white hair, clutching a black bag.
‘Well, Mrs Kennedy,’ he said, dispensing with the usual pleasan-tries, ‘where is the man?’
‘In my bedroom,’ she said, leading the doctor with Donald trailing behind sheepishly. Dr Fraser stood over Eamon’s motionless form gazing intently at the ugly wound above the left temple. He snapped opened his bag and turned to Mary. ‘Bring me more clean towels,’ he said, ‘boiling water, gauze, and plasters, if you have them. Look lively, lad, and give Mrs Kennedy a hand.’ Ten minutes later Mary stood at the doctor’s side as he probed the open wounds. ‘You’ve done a fine job,’ he said, laying the stainless steel instrument on the bedside table. ‘Now, let’s see about that shoulder.’ As Mary and Donald held him from one side of the bed, the doctor firmly grasped Eamon’s upper arm and popped it back into the socket, muttering something about the blessing of his being unconscious. ‘Broken ribs,’ he explained, as he bound Eamon’s chest with tape. He stitched the gashes on Eamon’s face and leg in silence and covered the clotted wound at his temple with a dressing. ‘Skull fracture,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. It was when he was stitching the gash on his leg that Eamon stirred for the first time. Mary stifled a sob. When at last the doctor was finished, he motioned to Mary and Donald to follow him to the kitchen. He sat at the table and said, ‘Shocking isn’t it? What humans will do to one another.’ Looking Mary in the eye, he asked, ‘How did this happen?’
‘I found him,’ she said quietly, ‘on the side of the path. I don’t know how it happened. He was just lying there.’
The doctor looked up at the boy and said, ‘And you, Master Donald?’
‘I was out walking when Mary near knocked me down. I ran after her and helped bring him here. I know nothing about it.’
‘Do you know this man?’ the doctor asked Mary. ‘I’ve not seen him about in the village.’
She hesitated and said, ‘Yes, I know him. He’s a friend.’
The doctor sat silently for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he mustn’t be moved. You’ll have to care for him here. I can’t say if he’ll live. The blow to his head has left him in a coma, and the next forty-eight hours will be critical. But he was near enough frozen, and that may have saved him. Stopped the bleeding for the most part.’ With that, he stood up and went back to the bedroom.
As Donald helped Mary wash the bloody linens, staring as the water turned wine-red, he suddenly looked up at her, lips trembling, and burst into tears. ‘Shh,’ she said, tenderly taking him in her arms like a child, though he stood four inches taller than she. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, gently patting his back. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
The doctor finally snapped shut his bag and stood with them at the door. ‘You should be going home,’ he said to Donald. ‘Someone has given this man a terrible beating. It had best be kept quiet that they didn’t succeed in killing him. Can you keep it to yourself?’
Donald nodded and stepped outside. Mary followed him out on the porch and said, ‘Thank you, Donald.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘You were a man today.’ He responded with a modest smile.
Later that evening the doctor returned to check on his patient and joined Mary in a simple supper of lamb stew and soda bread. They were sitting in comfortable silence in the kitchen when an anguished groan drew them to the
bedroom. The doctor withdrew a syringe and a vial of morphine from his bag. He drew some of the drug into the syringe, explaining they would use it sparingly, and carefully showed Mary how to inject the upper arm, asking her to make careful notes. Once Eamon was sleeping calmly, he said, ‘It’s in God’s hands now. Just follow my instructions, and I’ll be back before noon.’
When she was alone with Eamon, Mary settled in the rocker beside the bed listening to his laboured breathing and wondering why he’d been left to die on the track leading to her cottage. The first light of day found her curled up in the rocker wrapped in a quilt, sound asleep. When Donald arrived she went to wash. As she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she realized she’d spent the past twenty-four hours in the same dishevelled, bloodstained clothes.
Despite the unceasing rain, ankle-deep mud, and temperatures hovering just above freezing, there was an electricity in the air and a growing confidence in the men of Second Battalion, K.S.L.I. Davenport had proved an excellent commanding officer, intuitively knowing that more was accomplished by example than exhortation, by earning the men’s respect rather than their submission to discipline or intimidation. He had been right; they were small and many of them frail to begin with. But the conditioning had produced remarkable results. The young men of his battalion had proved to be the equals of the Ox and Bucks, the Guards, and other elite units in the gruelling exercises conducted day after day. It was Saturday. The men had been given a twelve-hour leave, so long as they ventured no further than Edinburgh, twenty-five miles to the north west along the North Sea coastline. He was at his desk, completing the hated fitness reports. The private on duty answered the telephone: ‘Yes, sir. Right here, sir. Colonel Davenport?’
Charles glanced up with an annoyed expression and said, ‘Who is it?’
‘The brass, sir,’ replied the private. ‘In London. General Eisenhower’s staff.’
Davenport snatched the phone and said, ‘Lieutenant Colonel Davenport.’
‘Charlie, you son of a bitch!’
‘Hanes? Is that you, Hanes?’
‘’Course it is. Dammit it, Charlie, how in the world are you?’
‘Jesus, Hanes,’ said Davenport irritably, ‘I should’ve known. Eisenhower’s staff.’
‘Well, close enough,’ said Hanes Butler. ‘Listen Charlie, I’ve got a weekend pass. I was thinkin’, what if I came up with the gals? We can find a place to stay in Edinburgh. Have a night out on the town. What do you say?’
‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Davenport hesitantly. ‘Peg and Jenny, you mean. But how do you think you can—’
‘No problem. I managed tickets on the express. We should get in by six.’
‘Six? Six this evening?’ said Davenport in an amazed tone.
‘That’s right,’ said Butler. ‘If you say the word.’
‘Well,’ said Davenport, ‘we’re quite a way out from Edinburgh. Perhaps we can meet—’
‘Name the place. I’ll get a car somehow.’
‘You never cease to amaze me. Let me think. There’s an old hotel on the strand at Dunbar. The Victoria, I think it’s called, half an hour from Edinburgh. We could meet for dinner.’
‘You got it. The Victoria Hotel, at seven. And look sharp. Jenny’s dying to see you.’
Thanks to the mid-February thaw and respite from the constant rain, Charles was able to walk on the duck-boards without sinking into a morass of icy mud. Despite the relative warmth of the afternoon, his room in the temporary barracks was cold and dark. Pulling the chain to light the single bulb, he sat on the bed and unlaced his boots. Next to the framed photograph on top of a crate was a blue envelope, Mary’s last letter. A wave of guilt passed like a shadow over him as he thought of her and the plans he’d made to see Jenny. Shrugging it off, he took his dark-green uniform, smartly pressed from the laundry, from its hanger, and laid it across the bed. Then he took his kit to the adjoining hut to wash and shave. Half an hour later, he stood before the mirror combing his damp hair. He felt a schoolboy excitement at the memory of Jenny’s kiss and embrace outside the London restaurant. As he thought back, a knot of anxiety tightened in his gut at the memory of the afternoon in Wales, and making love to Mary. Be careful about Jenny, cautioned a small voice as he adjusted his tie. He slung his coat over his arm and hurried to the bus. After a fifteen-minute ride, the coach rolled at dusk into Dunbar. The pavements were crowded with soldiers and sailors, though few of them had girls on their arms, passing in and out of the pubs and amusement arcade. An old wooden structure, with bay windows facing the sandy beach, occupied the end of the road, with a dilapidated sign for the Hotel Victoria. As Davenport entered the foyer, he observed that, like everything else in town, it had seen better days. The carpets were worn, and the upholstered furniture, like the potted palms, was a throwback to an earlier era. The sedate hotel, fragrant with the floral perfume worn by elderly matrons, seemed an unlikely place for rowdy soldiers out on the town. Above a bevelled-glass door were the words ‘Old Vic’, Davenport smiled and entered the bar.
He chose a stool at the empty bar and ordered a whisky and soda, wondering whether Hanes had lost his way, or, more likely, their train was delayed. Just as he was about to return to the lobby, the door swung open and Butler strode in, looking sharp in his uniform, Peg on his arm, with her usual dumbstruck expression. Jenny followed behind, in a coat that reached to mid-calf and a rather plain hat, looking more like the simple shop girl than the attractive woman he remembered from their last encounter.
‘I figured we’d find you here,’ said Butler with a grin. He shook Davenport’s hand warmly. ‘How the heck are you?’
‘Splendid,’ said Davenport. He looked expectantly at Jenny, who responded with a nervous smile. ‘Hello, Jenny,’ he said. ‘Let me help you with your coat.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, casting a glance around the bar.
‘C’mon, you two,’ said Butler as he squeezed into a booth with Peg. Seeming to gain confidence, Jenny slid daintily across the seat opposite Peg.
‘You’ve had a long day,’ said Davenport.
‘Long day!’ exclaimed Peg. ‘I’ll say. Thought we was never goin’ to get here.’
‘Why don’t I get us a beer?’ suggested Hanes. Charles sat next to Jenny and stole a glance at her. She slipped off her hat and shook out her curls, which bounced on the shoulders of her polka-dot dress.
‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘You’ve let it grow.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes, actually, I do,’ he said, aware of her fragrance, something exotic and sultry. ‘Lovely perfume,’ he added with a smile.
‘Did you miss me, Charlie?’ she asked unexpectedly.
‘Miss you? Er, yes.’
‘Life’s been so dull since you’ve been away,’ said Jenny. As soon as she learned that Hanes had somehow managed to arrange the trip to Scotland, she’d made up her mind to seize the chance, practising her enunciation and the words she would say.
Hanes returned with a tray, which he carefully lowered to the table. As he slid back into this seat, he said, ‘By the way, I checked us into rooms here at the hotel. No point in driving all the way back to Edinburgh. Now, tell me, how are things with the real army?’
‘Lots of mud and marching. But the boys are coming around. It’s a fine outfit.’
Peg lifted her glass, took a sip, and said, ‘Ooh, that’s good.’
Jenny stared at Davenport. ‘With all that marchin,’ she said, ‘you must be awfully fit.’ Gazing into her hazel eyes, Davenport placed his hand on hers on the seat cushion and took a swallow of whisky.
‘OK, Charlie,’ said Butler. ‘Where are you taking us for dinner?’
‘Let’s finish these drinks,’ said Davenport, ‘and then walk down to a restaurant on the quay. The Crown; nothing fancy, but quite decent.’
Jenny sipped her beer and s
aid, ‘What’s the rush? A girl’s got more on her mind than a plate of sausage and mash, after all the way we’ve come.’ She gently placed Davenport’s hand on her thigh. ‘Gosh,’ she said dreamily, ‘it’s been such a long time.’
‘Yes,’ he responded quietly, taken aback but feeling a wave of excitement at her soft flesh beneath the fabric of her dress.
Peg reached for her glass and said, ‘It’s too bad, Charlie, that you’re stuck way up ’ere. You know, just practisin’ with these lads.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Davenport.
‘Well, I don’t ’ave to tell you,’ she said with the air of someone who’s in on a secret. ‘I mean, the real army, the one goin’ across’ – she lowered her voice – ‘is down at Dover. I know – my brother told me.’
Davenport and Butler exchanged a brief look. ‘It’s just as well, Peg,’ said Butler with a smile. ‘We don’t want Charlie gettin’ shot at, do we?’
‘No, we don’t,’ said Jenny, squeezing Davenport’s hand. ‘We want ’im safe and sound.’
‘And Hanes too,’ said Peg. ‘Let the other stiffs be the ’eros, I say.’
The tables at the Crown were packed with British officers, a violinist and cellist were playing sentimental favourites, and the lights were low and candles flickered on the linen-covered tables. ‘You were right about the salmon,’ said Butler. ‘How were your chops, Peg?’
‘Lov-a-ly,’ she said with a contented smile. ‘And I saved room for pudding.’
Davenport, feeling the effects of the wine, stared at Jenny. Beneath the table, her ankle lightly touched his. She seemed to give him the slightest wink as she raised her wineglass to her lips. She wasn’t as pretty as he remembered; in fact, in her polka-dot dress she looked downright plain.
‘Charlie,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m feeling sleepy. Would you walk me to the hotel?’