Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  He stopped and turned to face her, looking in her eyes. Thinking he might kiss her, she closed them. Instead, he put his arms around her waist and said, ‘Mary . . .’ She looked back up at him. ‘You mean the world to me,’ he said. ‘But I can’t risk being seen, not even by the doctor.’

  ‘Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘You have my word.’ And then he pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead for one long moment before releasing her and walking away.

  Davenport wandered the camp with a heart like stone. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t rid his mind of the image of Jenny. The thought of marrying her was so abhorrent that the prospect of going into combat seemed almost inviting by comparison. He was oblivious to the incessant clamour, columns of men everywhere, vehicles of every description bumping along the rutted roads. Above it all he was aware of the songbirds’ warbling, the incongruous verdancy of spring, and the riot of wildflowers as the blackness of despair settled over his soul. He stopped at the railing of an old fence, gazing out on what had been a pasture, but was now a sea of tents. Closing his eyes, he tried once more to bring back to conscious memory the events of that winter night. He dimly remembered the scene in the hotel bar, gently pushing her away, shaking his head. But no matter how hard he tried, the scene dissolved into nothingness. God, it was driving him mad. Then there was Hanes, loud, drunk, hauling him up from the booth. ‘Time to get you back . . .’ Hanes had said. Davenport could have sworn it never happened, and yet he knew that a part of that fateful night had disappeared into an alcohol-induced haze.

  Walking slowly in the general direction of his tent, he could make out the sound of men singing, borne along by the gentle spring breeze, a familiar, comforting tune. As he drew closer, the voices were more distinct, the words clear. Fifty yards in the distance, the Sunday morning regimental church service was underway in a large tent, open at the sides. He couldn’t remember the last time he had attended church. But the music evoked pleasant memories, of sitting in the pew with his parents in the ancient Saxon church at home. He felt strangely drawn, and soon found himself standing at the very back of the tent, just under the flap, looking over the heads of the men packed tightly in rows beneath the canvas canopy to hear what might be the last sermon of their young lives. An Anglican priest stood in his vestments before a simple table where a loaf of bread and a silver chalice were arranged on a square of white cloth. Taking the loaf in one hand and the chalice in the other, the priest recited the words of invitation: ‘The Lord Jesus, the same night in which he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, Take, eat; this is my body which is broken for you.’

  The men rose in succession and filed to the front, to kneel with heads bowed. As he watched them, Davenport was conscious of an overwhelming sensation of wanting to surrender to some hitherto unknown call. All his adult life he had relied on his intelligence and the strength of his character to meet the challenges and obstacles he had faced. Now he realized with blinding clarity that none of that would be sufficient for the conflict that was looming. He watched as the men in front of him rose and moved to the aisle, and then fell in behind them as though driven by an irresistible impulse. Just let go, he repeated to himself in a silent incantation. Kneeling on the new spring grass next to the young, frightened soldiers, he felt the tears welling in his eyes as the chalice was lifted to his lips and the warm wine filled his mouth. ‘Dear God,’ he prayed silently, ‘I can’t face this alone. Please, dear God, give me the strength. Show me the way.’

  Mary was no longer content to wait until she needed groceries to lay her hands on newspapers from Dublin and London. With each passing day she anticipated news of the invasion, the final stroke to liberate France and end the war. And so, each day, she made the short trip to town. In any case she was happy to be out, thankful for the warm sun, the Wicklow Mountains in the distance, and the steady sea breeze at her back. She could think of little else than Charles and the role he would play in the landings, though she had no idea, besides a deep female intuition, whether he would play any role at all. Leaning her bicycle against the kerb, she hurried into the McDonoughs’ shop. ‘Here you are, Mary,’ said Mr McDonough as he slid two newspapers across the counter. ‘One shilling, thank you.’ As Mary walked out she almost collided with Donald.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, in a voice so deep it elicited a soft laugh from Mary. Blushing, the tall boy hurried inside. She secured the papers in her basket and swung a leg athletically over the seat as she pushed off for home after a quick stop at the post office. There had been no post from Charles since her last, long letter, assuring him that she understood his decision, that she greatly admired him for what he was doing, and that she deeply regretted her own choice, which, in hindsight, seemed so inexplicably wrong. But with the travel ban, could she be sure when, or even whether, her letter had reached him? Once she was back in her kitchen, Mary spread open the papers and searched the headlines. But there was nothing about the expected invasion, only news of the fighting in Italy and the Far East. She went out to the chair on the porch and watched the gulls turn lazy circles beyond the cliffs. After a while, the silence was broken by a distant rumble. She rose and walked to the end of the porch. To the north and west the blue sky merged with a billowing mass of charcoal. At that moment, a sharp gust of wind broke over her, furling her dress and lifting her hair from her shoulders. Shivering, Mary turned and let herself back in the house.

  ‘Well, girl,’ she said to Chelsea, who was staring attentively out to sea, ‘it looks as though we’re in for quite a blow.’ The sentence was punctuated with a sharp clap of thunder and another swoosh of wind that set the weather vane spinning. ‘I’d better fetch some wood and shut the windows before it hits.’ The dog panted after her as she loaded firewood into the barrow and secured the shutters. Within minutes, the sky had darkened, turning the sea from bottle green to slate. The house secure, Mary arranged the logs and kindling on the andirons and struck a match to the balled-up newspaper. The flames leapt in the hearth, casting an eerie light.

  After several hours night had fallen and the squall line passed, the driving rain now a steady drumbeat on the roof. After placing another log on the fire, she slipped on her coat and stepped out on the porch to watch as the storm raced out to sea on its way to the coast of Wales. Thinking she heard the cough of an engine above the rain, she looked down the track, where a beam of light flickered through the gorse. Who on earth, she wondered, at this time of night and out in the storm?

  An old car of indeterminable make swerved along the muddy track and came to a stop at the side of the cottage, the headlamps shining through the curtain of rain. For a moment Mary considered hurrying inside for the shotgun, but intuition told her there was nothing to fear. A man emerged from the passenger seat, wearing an oilskin hat with a wide brim and a long, matching coat, like the foul weather gear she remembered the Gloucester fishermen wearing back home. He spoke briefly to the driver and walked up on the porch.

  ‘Eamon,’ gasped Mary. ‘My God . . . it’s you.’

  Eamon took off his hat and said, ‘Sorry to show up like this, without warning.’

  ‘Come inside,’ said Mary, with an involuntary shiver, wondering whether it was from the cold. Eamon nodded, peeling off the coat and tossing it on the chair.

  ‘Come, sit by the fire,’ said Mary, holding the door, ‘and let me bring you a glass of whisky.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eamon. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Mary brought not one but two glasses of her grandfather’s whiskey to the warming fire. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘what brings you here on this stormy night?’

  He waited a moment before answering, looking around the room affectionately. ‘Tonight I tell you goodbye, Mary,’ he said. ‘A U-boat is standing off the coast, waiting to return me to the Fatherland.’

  Mary forced a smile. ‘Oh, Eamon, I’m going to miss you so muc
h . . .’

  ‘Mary,’ he said softly. A determined look crossed his face. ‘I’ve come to ask you a great favour.’ She gave him a questioning look. He took a sip of whiskey and then reached into his pocket for an envelope. ‘I’ve brought a letter,’ he said. ‘And you are the only one . . . the only one, I can trust to deliver it.’

  ‘But, Eamon . . .’ she interrupted.

  ‘Please,’ he said in a low voice, ‘take this.’ He handed her the envelope. ‘I need you to take it to Charles.’

  ‘To Charles?’

  ‘It’s our only chance,’ he said urgently. ‘Davenport can make sure it’s delivered to General Morgan . . . and to Eisenhower.’

  ‘This is madness! Charles has left Morgan, and I’ve no idea where to find him. And besides, the border is closed. There’s no way across.’

  Eamon rose and stood before the fire. ‘The message is written in code,’ he said firmly. ‘Davenport will know what to do with it. I’ve made the arrangements to get you across. And I know where he can be found.’

  She stared at him in amazement. ‘You know?’ she said. ‘How could you possibly—’

  ‘Please listen to me,’ he said evenly. ‘I only wish the weather were better, but we have no choice . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, as a clap of thunder boomed far off in the distance. Pinpricks of fear spread from her chest to her neck. ‘Surely, you’re not suggesting—’

  Eamon took a step toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Mary, try to understand,’ he said. ‘You’re our only hope.’ She stared at him in the flickering light from the fire. ‘I promise you’ll be safe,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’ve arranged things with some fishermen who . . . well, they’re arms runners as well. They’ve agreed to take you across, and there’s a car waiting on the other side to drive you to Davenport. But, please, we must hurry.’

  ‘But, Eamon, I—’

  ‘Goodnight, Mary. You must tell Charles that the end of the war – I swear it – depends on delivering this letter into the right hands.’ He released her shoulder and gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, ‘and God bless.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Within a matter of minutes, Mary had packed a bag and was pulling on her coat while trying to calm the anxious pup. ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can,’ she said, as she tapped her pocket to make sure the envelope was there. With one last look around the room, she let herself out the door after taping a hurriedly scrawled note to Donald. Hearing the laboured turning of an engine, followed by a deep, throaty exhaust, she stared in the darkness and rain at the man in the driver’s seat of the old car. ‘Come along, miss,’ he called out to her. ‘We’d best be on our way.’ She squared her shoulders and walked to the passenger door, peering inside at the driver, a complete stranger, with a round, kind face and thick, white hair. When Eamon mentioned the arms runners, she had assumed the worst. But, as soon as she climbed into the cramped seat, she realized she had nothing to fear. After struggling for a moment with the gearstick, the old gentleman made a neat turn and swung onto the muddy track. ‘Mary Malone Kennedy, is it?’ he said with a sidelong glance.

  Mary stared for a moment and then smiled and said, ‘That’s right. How did you know?’

  ‘It’s a great joy,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘to meet the granddaughter of Paddy Malone.’

  ‘You knew my grandfather?’

  ‘Knew him?’ he said. ‘I should say so. We shared a cell at Frongoch during the Rising.’ He slowed and turned on the road into town and said, ‘Yes, your grandfather and I were great mates right through to the end, side by side. As fine a man as I ever knew.’

  Reaching the coastal highway, they rode along in silence, passing through darkened villages and continuing south. Far out to sea Mary could see flashes of lightning. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but in the confusion, I neglected to ask your name.’

  ‘O’Farrell,’ he replied. ‘Eamon O’Farrell.’

  Mary gaped at him and said, ‘How strange.’

  ‘The German, you mean,’ he said with a smile. ‘Your friend, as I understand it. You might say he borrowed my name, Mary. Just as well I’m not well known in these parts.’

  Mary stared at the swathe of pavement in the headlamps, turning over the concentric circles of fate . . . her grandfather and the old man . . . the old man and Eamon. ‘Well, Mr O’Farrell,’ she said at length, ‘where are you taking me?’

  ‘In another half-hour we’ll turn on a dirt road that leads to a fisherman’s cottage. The boys will be waiting.’ Mary leaned back, filled with dread at the prospect of crossing the Irish Sea in a small craft on a stormy night. But at the end of the journey – somehow, if she trusted Eamon – would be Charles, and she would endure anything to see him one last time. ‘Don’t worry, lass,’ said the old man. ‘These are men of the sea, and it’s a fine, seaworthy boat, and fast. These lads know their job, and they’ll get you safely across.’ She nodded and stared into the darkness. ‘Ah, here we are,’ said the driver as he turned on a rutted track. After a few minutes the headlamps washed across a stone outbuilding, and the car came to a stop. A man appeared out of the shadows, wearing an oilskin coat and hat identical to those Eamon had worn. The driver patted Mary on the arm and said, ‘Good luck, my dear,’ he said. ‘May the good Lord look after you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr O’Farrell,’ said Mary, shivering at the thought he was leaving her in the company of strange men. She took her small bag and climbed out.

  ‘This way,’ said a second man from the shadows. ‘You’re late.’ Mary could just make out three men standing beside a stone barn. Not a light was burning in the nearby house. She fell into step behind the men, mere dark shapes in macs, descending steps down to a pier, resonant with the whining of ropes and the scraping of a hull against the pilings. ‘Watch your step, miss,’ said the nearest man, turning toward her as he started across the wet planks. The yellow beam of a torch flickered, revealing the dark shape of a boat. One of the men disappeared nimbly over the side, returning after a moment clutching something under his arm. He said, ‘My name’s O’Kelly. We’re in for a rough ride, miss, so you’ll be wanting these.’ He handed her the bundle. ‘Now, boys,’ he ordered, ‘let’s get underway.’ Mary unfolded the package – an oilskin hat and coat – and put them on. She reached for the hand offered by one of the men, who steadied her as she stepped over the side onto the deck.

  Coils of rope, reeking of creosote, were stowed against the transom beyond a squat hold that occupied most of the deck, presumably to stow the day’s catch. The air was thick with exhaust from the idling diesels. As the men cast off the lines, there was a deep rumble and shuddering vibration of the engines and the boat lurched forward, its bow knifing through the heavy seas. Mary clung tightly to the railing as the boat gathered way, bucking on the waves. As the captain opened the throttle, it surged forward, planing across the rough seas. Mary wiped the salt spray from her eyes and lowered the brim of her hat. They seemed to be flying into the maw of the storm, now a great mass of black billows directly in their path that blossomed into silver star-shells with the flashes of lightning. She stared ahead, growing queasy as the boat pitched and rolled.

  ‘You’d best come below,’ said a man at her side.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Mary, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the engines and crashing waves. She clung to the railing, letting the wind and spray wash over her face. A bolt of lightning arced across the skies, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Fat drops of icy rain stung her face. Dear God, she prayed, take me safely to him and grant that this plan of Eamon’s succeeds.

  Charles sat at his cluttered desk with a pencil clenched in his teeth. He stared at the blank sheet of paper, trying to think of a way to begin the letter to Mary. Each time he started to write, he was overwhelmed with guilt and despair. The thought that he might have forfeited
his one chance at true happiness in a thoughtless lapse of self-control made him almost physically ill. He couldn’t begin to tell her about the trap he was in; nor could he pretend, even in a few, simple words of greeting and farewell, that there was any hope left for them. Staring out at the desultory rain, he snapped the pencil in two and tossed the pieces in the wastebasket. With D-Day approaching, the tension in the camp was rising, despite the daily films, games of football and cricket and the sudden bounty of eggs, steak, and other long-forgotten delicacies. ‘Fatten ’em up for the slaughter,’ went the gallows joke among the men. Let’s just get on with it, Davenport thought, reflecting the sentiment of the million men encamped in the coastal counties. He looked up at the sound of angry voices, a disturbance in the outer office. God, not another fist fight . . . He rose from his desk and stuck his head out the door. An MP, dripping wet in his long coat and steel helmet with the white stripe, stood pointing in the face of the corporal on duty.

  ‘I’ve got a mind to write you up,’ said the MP angrily. ‘Now get the effing colonel—’ At the sight of Davenport he halted in mid-sentence and snapped to attention.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Davenport irritably.

  ‘Sir,’ said the corporal. ‘I was telling this bloke that you was not to be disturbed, and he was makin’ a bloody row about havin’ to see you.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Davenport asked the MP.

  ‘What it’s about, sir, is a lady we’ve detained at the guardhouse.’

  ‘A lady?’ said Davenport. The MP nodded. ‘And what, pray tell,’ said Davenport with growing asperity, ‘does the fact that you’ve detained a lady at the guardhouse have to do with me?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said the MP with a nervous glance around the room, ‘she insists on seeing you.’

  Davenport felt a flush of anger. Damn, he said to himself. Jenny’s got her nerve. ‘Well, Sergeant,’ he said calmly, ‘you know better than that. It’s absolutely prohibited.’