by John Kerr
‘Fine,’ said Sarah with a smile. ‘But come with me to the picnic anyway.’
Bidding Sarah goodbye, Mary left her cycle and entered the shop. As she walked up to the counter, Mr McDonough, the proprietor, placed two newspapers in front of her.
‘There you are, Mary,’ he said. ‘The Times and the Daily Telegraph. Will there be anythin’ else today?’
‘Just these,’ said Mary, as she placed a box of candles on the counter and fished in her purse for a few coins. A tall boy suddenly appeared from behind the shelves of tinned goods and shot past Mary with a box of sweets.
‘And this,’ he announced.
‘Now, Donald,’ said his father sternly. ‘Put that back. . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ said Mary with a smile, ‘with all the chores Donald does for me.’
‘Thanks,’ said the boy, giving Mary a brief, adoring look before tearing out of the store. Mary followed him out, secured her purchases in the basket, and bicycled back home. She left the newspapers on the kitchen table, lit the fire in the stove, and filled the kettle. As she waited for the water to boil, she glanced at the front page of the London paper. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the far right headline:
TOBRUK FALLS
Garrison surrenders at loss of 25,000 men
Oh my God, thought Mary. Tobruk . . . the British Army in North Africa. Her heart skipped a beat. Had Jamie been at Tobruk? She couldn’t say. With censors reading every letter, he never revealed his whereabouts. But he was somewhere in the desert in North Africa. As the kettle whistled, she scolded herself for always thinking the worst. There were so many other places he might be, and even if he were at Tobruk, the paper merely reported that the garrison had surrendered and the troops were now prisoners.
Home. To England. Davenport could scarcely believe it. As he peered out into the fog he reassured himself that within the hour the ship should be safely within the Solent, where no U-boat would venture, and that for now the fog rendered them virtually invisible. Having survived the harrowing voyage through the submarine-infested Mediterranean, he was confident they would arrive safely at Southampton. Listening to the boom of the foghorn, Davenport pulled the blanket more tightly around himself and thought of his childhood home, a simple cottage with the midsummer roses spilling over the worn garden wall. His thoughts then turned to his wife Frances and the telegram she’d sent him. The usual army cable advising that he’d been wounded would have reached her within days. And, as soon as he’d been able, he’d written from hospital in Alexandria, assuring her that he would be fine and would be sent to recuperate in England as soon as a ship could be found. Yet it seemed an unnaturally long time before she responded with the telegram that reached him the day before the ship sailed. For perhaps the hundredth time, he considered the words she had chosen: delighted by his prospect for a full recovery . . . not to return home on her account . . . put the war and his duty ahead of personal considerations. ‘Duty,’ Davenport said softly as he stared into the fogbank.
A nurse appeared at his side and said, ‘May I offer you a cup of hot bouillon?’
‘That would be marvellous.’
In a moment she returned with a tray and , bracing herself against the gentle roll of the deck, poured him a cup of the dark broth. Davenport inhaled the rich aroma before taking a small sip. The taste of bouillon reminded him of his childhood, seated at the table in the kitchen with his mother. He was relieved his mother had not lived to see him return in a wheelchair. She had been too sweet for war. The thought of the cosy kitchen of his childhood brought to mind images of the English countryside, the dark-green fields, hedgerows, and stately oaks, so vastly different from the tree-less wasteland of the Libyan desert. How he had longed for England. He took another sip of the rich broth and, peering into the fog, at last could see the faint outline of the Isle of Wight a mile or so in the distance. In a few short hours he would be home.
The midday sun had burned away the fog as Davenport waited at the top of the gangway for an orderly, savouring the warmth and fresh salt air. At the sight of the enormous stores of war matériel piled on the pier for the return trip to Egypt his wound seemed inconsequential. England was no longer alone. The vast resources of America could now be brought to bear.
‘Ready, sir?’
Davenport smiled and said, ‘Roll away, Corporal.’ A small group of soldiers and civilians were waiting on the pier but Davenport scanned the faces without interest, certain that Frances was not among them. Perhaps she thought her appeal to his sense of duty might have succeeded in changing his mind – and the army’s – about his returning home to convalesce. Before long he was on the train. Though most of the wounded were bed-ridden and had been transferred from stretchers to sleeping compartments, Davenport was still in his wheelchair, secured next to a window in the Pullman car, transfixed by the beauty of the midsummer English countryside. He forgot about Frances, forgot about the war and his wound, and let his gaze fall on a leafy oak ‘which erst from heat did canopy the herd,’ in the words of Shakespeare’s sonnet. Yes, it was a dream waking: home to England. With the gentle rocking of the train, he soon fell peacefully asleep.
CHAPTER TWO
Davenport gazed out the window at the faces on the platform – for the most part women with anxious expressions – as he waited for the orderly, who soon appeared, released the wheelchair and manoeuvered it into the space between the carriages. ‘This is the tricky bit,’ he said, as he placed one arm under Davenport’s legs and the other around his shoulders, gently lifted him and carried him down the steps. Davenport winced at the pain and sought to avoid the stares of the people crowding around him. Not often since Dunkirk had the public endured the sight of wounded men returning from the field of defeat. The sergeant lowered him into a waiting wheelchair attended by a nurse in a long, grey cloak. He scanned the faces in the slender hope of finding Frances. As the nurse wheeled him past trolleys of luggage and throngs of soldiers, Davenport considered how strange it was to be back in London. He felt as if he might simply hail a taxi to his flat in South Kensington. He visualized Frances in the sitting-room, dark hair stylishly curled, soft cashmere revealing the curve of her breasts. The image stirred a fleeting moment of desire. God, he reflected, it had been so long. As they went inside the terminal, Davenport motioned to a telephone box and said, ‘Nurse, I’d like to make a call.’
‘Certainly, Major.’ She rolled the chair to the box, opened the door, and angled it inside. Davenport reached for a coin, cradled the receiver, and dialled the familiar number, listening as the phone rang and rang. Despite the fact that Frances could not possibly have known the date of his arrival and, that for all he knew, she was merely outside in the garden, his heart sank. He turned to the nurse with a wan smile and said, ‘No one home.’ Taking the handles of the wheelchair, she manoeuvered him to the exit, where a line of drab green ambulances had taken the place of the usual queue of black taxis. The ambulances had attracted a small crowd. Davenport sat ramrod straight as two orderlies helped him onto a waiting stretcher, which they loaded into the back of an ambulance. The doors closed, engines started, and the caravan wound its way through London and onto a wide thoroughfare heading south.
Davenport dozed in the mid-afternoon warmth, waking to peer out at the green fields and hedgerows of the Kent countryside. Passing over a bridge he observed a sign for the town of Tunbridge Wells. After navigating its streets, the ambulances continued down a country lane, turning at a sign for ‘Abbey’s Gate.’ A quarter-mile down a tree-lined drive, they arrived at the ivy-covered Rushlake Auxiliary Hospital. The Royal Army Medical Corps had built the hospital in 1916 to deal with the flood of wounded from the Battle of the Somme. It was a large structure with a central administrative building and two identical wings, one for enlisted men and the other for officers. At the sound of the arriving ambulances, a tall, grey-haired officer emerged, followed by nurses in crisp uniforms, w
ith tall, white caps. After the more serious cases were dealt with, Davenport was helped into a wheelchair and pushed along the walkway to the arched entrance.
‘Welcome to Rushlake Auxiliary,’ said the grey-haired officer. ‘I understand you’ve come a long distance, all the way from Alexandria.’
‘Yes,’ replied Davenport, ‘it’s quite a relief to be here.’ The nurse wheeled him to the front desk, where an older woman with an air of seniority stood behind the counter.
‘Good afternoon, Major,’ she said. ‘Your name?’
‘Charles Davenport.’
Consulting her chart, she said to the nurse, ‘Room 309. Oh, and Major Davenport, you have a letter and a telegram.’ She produced the items from a drawer and handed them across the counter.
‘Thanks,’ said Davenport, stuffing the envelopes in his jacket without a glance as the nurse turned the wheelchair and rolled him down a long corridor. They shortly arrived at a ground floor room with two beds, separated by a cloth screen, and a window that looked out on the courtyard. The bed on the left appeared to be occupied, but its occupant was absent. The nurse helped him out of the chair and to sit on the bed. Lightly massaging his wounded thigh, he sighed audibly. Meeting the young nurse’s eyes, he said, ‘Long day.’
‘Well, Major,’ she said with a smile intended to brighten his mood, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be under our supervision for a time.’
Davenport thought back to the dingy room in Alexandria and the heavy-set, older nurse who’d cared for him there. ‘I can imagine worse,’ he said, returning the smile.
After arranging the pillows, the nurse helped Davenport to lie down. ‘You should rest for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll look in on you after a bit.’ Once alone, Davenport unbuttoned his jacket and removed the two envelopes. He studied the familiar cursive on the cream-coloured envelope and, taking a deep breath, extracted the letter and slowly began to read:
6 July 1942
London
Dear Charles,
Several weeks have now passed since I was notified you were wounded and I have finally ascertained that you are being evacuated to an army hospital in Sussex, where I’m hoping this letter will be awaiting you upon your arrival. From your letter I was greatly relieved to learn that your injury is not serious and that you should be able to return to your regiment.
Davenport put the letter aside and stared at the whitewashed ceiling. He patted the bandage beneath his trouser-leg. With a sigh, he continued to read:
I hate the war, Charles, not only for what it has done to you but for my miserable existence with you away. There’s nothing decent to eat, I’m forced to wear the same worn-out clothes day after day, and the city is dark and depressing thanks to the blackout and the blitz. And unlike the other army wives, I can’t quite bring myself to help out in the war effort sewing bandages or volunteering at the canteen. I often wonder if things might have been different for us if, with all our connections, you might have arranged a staff posting somewhere nearby rather than plunging off to North Africa.
There’s something I must tell you, Charles, and, painful as it is, I know no other way than to say it straight out. With you so far away, and for so long, and I so lonely . . .
Davenport put the letter aside, conscious of the pounding of his heart. No, he thought, not this. Biting his lip, he turned back to her letter:
– I began seeing someone else. And, though I was determined not to let it happen, well, it did and, frankly, I’m in love with him.
Davenport choked back a sob and rubbed a tear from his eye. With a trembling hand, he quickly finished reading:
– When I learned you’d been wounded, I thought you would stay with the army in Egypt and it wouldn’t come to this. But now that you’re here, there’s no getting round it. The truth is, it’s made me realize how little we really have in common.
Charles, I know it’s a shock but I must ask you for a divorce. The fault is entirely mine, but sadly these things happen. I’ve spoken to a solicitor who assures me it can all be arranged quietly and without a lot of fuss. As soon as you’re able, please come for your things. I pray for your full and speedy recovery.
Warmly,
Frances
Davenport tossed the letter aside with a groan. Warmly? Surely she could have chosen a more fitting valediction. He buried his face in the pillow, convulsed with sobs. It was in this wretched condition that he was startled by a cheerful male voice calling out, ‘Halloo.’
The same young nurse stood in the doorway grasping the handles of a wheelchair in which a young man, wearing standard issue, blue cotton pyjamas and a dark-blue robe, was seated. Davenport quickly noted that his right sleeve was pinned to his robe: his right leg was also missing, and a black patch covered one eye. The young man flashed an easy smile and said, ‘I’m Evan Hockaday, First Lieutenant. And who would you be?’
‘Charles. Charles Davenport.’
‘Well, Charles, sorry about the leg and all that, but it’s dashed good having you here.’ The nurse rolled the wheelchair to Hockaday’s bedside and helped him out.
‘There you are,’ she said, as Evan settled on the bed. ‘Major Davenport, how are you getting along?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll be going.’ The nurse closed the door behind her.
Evan cast an appraising glance at Davenport and continued to smile in an open, cheerful way. ‘I wonder if you’d mind,’ he said, ‘calling me by my Christian name?’
‘Of course,’ said Davenport. He glanced at Evan’s youthful face, with fine flaxen hair and an almost pink complexion. His good eye was cornflower blue.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Evan.
‘Took a machine-gun round in the thigh at Tobruk.’
‘Bloody disaster, Tobruk.’
‘Indeed. And what about you?’
‘I was wounded at Gazala as soon as our unit came into the line. I was an FOO with the 4/14 Field Battery. Direct hit from a 105.’ He flashed a boyish grin. ‘Rommel’s gunners had excellent aim.’
Davenport nodded and said, ‘Sorry. Tough break.’ Leaning back on the pillow, he stared up at the ceiling, absently tapping Frances’s letter on his palm.
‘Bad news?’ said Evan.
Davenport looked at him with a frown and said, ‘You might say so.’ He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted, and dozed. When he awoke, he remembered the telegram on the bedside table. He reached for it and tore it open. As he read it, he ran a hand through his hair and whistled softly.
‘More news?’ asked Evan
‘Yes,’ said Davenport bitterly. ‘I’ve been reassigned. To a desk job in the War Office, as soon as I’m discharged.’
Ever since Jamie’s last letter, with its obscure, dark comment about the desperateness of the British position, Mary had waited and watched for the post. With the news of the fall of Tobruk and the passing of weeks, she grew increasingly frantic. She wrote to the Red Cross in London but received no reply. She even cabled an enquiry to the Army Office of Personnel and received a terse response that such information was restricted to next of kin. Mary soon lost hope of ever learning Jamie’s fate. Venturing back to the rim of the cliffs on another blustery day, an idea suddenly came to her. Mary thought of the officer of whom Jamie had often written . . . but what was the name? Returning to the neat bundle of letters, she found it: Major Charles Davenport. Perhaps if she could get a letter to him, he might be able to explain. She settled at the kitchen table and, taking a sheet of pale blue stationery, she thought for a moment and then wrote:
20 July 1942
Kilmichael Point
County Wexford
Ireland
Dear Major Davenport,
Through my participation in the Red Cross letter-writing programme, I befriended a young man, Cpl Ian James Duthie, who served under y
our command in North Africa. I corresponded with Cpl Duthie on a regular basis, and then suddenly his letters stopped. I’ve tried contacting the Red Cross and the army, but no one will tell me what has become of him, as I am not family.
Sir, I simply must find out what has happened to Jamie. If you can remember this soldier, who wrote so admiringly of you, can you tell me of his fate? Please understand that this is not a romantic matter. He is simply a friend who has become very important to me. You truly are my last hope.
Sincerely,
Mary Kennedy
Though there was no more reason to think the major had survived the disaster at Tobruk or escaped captivity than Jamie had, Mary felt that somehow her letter might reach him. With some effort she learned the general delivery address for the British Army, and, in the slender hope that the letter might find its way, she dropped it in the slot at the post office.
It took about two weeks to receive a reply and, by the look of the envelope, it had been half way around the world. She gave Mr Coggins an expectant look as he slid it across the counter. For a moment she thought it might be from Jamie, but a quick glance at the neat handwriting indicated otherwise. She was conscious of Mr Coggins’s stare.
‘Another letter from the young lad?’ he asked.
‘No, it’s from his . . . well, from an officer.’ She slipped the letter in her purse.
Mr Coggins pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Well, Good day to you Mary.’
She pedaled home as quickly as possible. Her heart pounding, Mary sat at the table and briefly studied the envelope. Tearing it open, she carefully extracted a single sheet of and began to read:
26 July 1942
Abbey’s Gate
Sussex
Dear Miss Kennedy,
Thank you for your enquiry regarding Cpl. James Duthie, who served in my company. While it is the usual policy of the service to restrict communications to the next of kin, I have obtained permission to respond to your letter. It is with deepest sympathy that I must inform you that Cpl. Duthie was listed as missing in action and presumed dead. He fell on 21 June, in the Battle for Tobruk. Cpl. Duthie fought valiantly, defending his post when it fell under determined attack. He was a fine soldier, a good man and it was my privilege to serve with him. Please accept my condolences.
