Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  Yours truly,

  Charles Davenport

  Mary slumped on the table and pushed the paper away. She’d kept alive the hope that the letter would tell her of a young soldier recuperating in an army hospital or held as a German prisoner. But the words presumed dead echoed in her mind. She felt utterly alone, overwhelmed by the familiar, black despair. Feeling as if she couldn’t breathe, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps, she thought, she had no tears left. After a few moments, she sat up and reread the simple letter over and over again, wishing somehow to draw a different conclusion. But there would be no more post . . . There was no more Jamie.

  After several hours Mary finally summoned the strength to brew a cup of chamomile tea, her only means of stretching out the pitiful wartime ration. Returning to the kitchen table, she blew across the surface of the liquid, glanced at the return address on the letter and compared it to the postmark on the envelope. As she took a sip, she considered whether there might be a way to visit this Major Davenport, to learn more about Jamie and how he had died. For several months now she’d been considering a trip to London, taking up a standing invitation to visit a former college roommate who was living in London and urging her to enjoy what the city, even in wartime, had to offer. Making a note of the simple address on the letter, Mary pictured a map of England, trying to remember the location of Sussex. In the south . . . south of London, she was sure of that. Once she reached London, surely she could get a road map and find this Abbey’s Gate. Mary penned a quick note to her friend, suggesting a trip to London a week hence and asking her to respond by telegram.

  After what seemed an interminable four days, Mary bicycled into town in the glorious August weather, feeling an intense wave of emotion as she entered the tiny post office where Mr Coggins was seated behind the counter. ‘Hello, Mary,’ he said with a knowing smile.

  ‘Hello, Mr Coggins. I don’t suppose—’

  ‘I’m sorry about the lad. War is a terrible thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, blushing.

  ‘But you do have this.’ Reaching below the counter, he produced a telegram, which he handed to her. ‘You saved me a trip to deliver it.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Mary, placing the envelope in her bag.

  ‘Goodbye, Mary,’ he called to her as she hurried out the door.

  She rose early and dressed for the journey. From her porch, she watched the first rays of the sun streaming across the rolling, silver-grey sea, and then she strapped her suitcase on her bicycle and rode into the village, where she hitched a ride on a horse-drawn wagon to the nearby town of Arklow and boarded the bus for Kingstown, the terminus for the ferry to Wales. As she stood at the railing, she was surprised by the small number of passengers until she considered the fact of Irish neutrality in the war. No doubt few Irish would be welcome in England on summer holiday. Once the ferry was underway, she stepped inside the almost empty cabin and bought a cup of tea and a biscuit. Mary sat on a bench, looking out over the bow, and tried to concentrate on the visit to London, but her thoughts kept returning to Jamie and tracking down this British major. Was she a fool to think she could find him? What sort of man would he be? She imagined an older officer, with a thick neck and iron-grey hair, close-cropped military style.

  The foghorn sounded as the famous headland of the Great Orme came into view. Mary rose from the bench and gazed at the lush green Welsh countryside, dotted with sheep, anxious to disembark and find her way to the train station for the long trip to London.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite her friend’s determined cheerfulness as she gave Mary a whirlwind tour of London, and their lively if superficial conversations, Mary felt oddly estranged, unable to bridge the gap from their carefree college days to her present reality: widowed at 24, suffering the loss of a child, and living alone, far from home, older than her years. And, despite the typical Londoner’s nonchalance about the destruction and privations, Mary found the bombed-out ruins, the queues and the shortages deeply depressing after two years in rural simplicity, untouched by the distant war. No matter how she worked at enjoying what little shopping was available, her thoughts kept returning to the possibility of learning the circumstances of Jamie’s presumed death. It was therefore with relief that they parted company on the pretext of her visiting an old family friend in the south. She found a road map at a second-hand bookseller’s, on which she finally located the village of Abbey’s Gate several miles outside Tunbridge Wells. At Charing Cross Station she fought her way through the sea of soldiers and purchased a ticket for the 5.10 train to Hastings, with an intermediate stop at Tunbridge Wells. After spending the night at an inn, Mary persuaded the proprietor to give her a lift to Abbey’s Gate, where she expected to find an army base of some kind. Instead, she found herself on the side of a country lane at the entrance to a gravel drive. With a frown, she squared her shoulders and started up the drive. When she rounded the last turn, her arm aching from the suitcase, she was brought up short by the sight in front of her. At the top of a slight rise, a large, ivy-covered brick building stood at the centre of a neatly manicured lawn. The shadow of a transient cloud passed slowly by. She must have taken a wrong turn, though she couldn’t imagine how. Well, she would have to ask, and continued on to the curve of the drive and up the steps. Taking a deep breath she rapped the bronze doorknocker.

  After a few moments a heavy-set woman in a dull grey uniform swung open the door and glared at Mary with a frown. ‘Good morning,’ the woman said sceptically. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary with a smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m lost. I’m looking for an army–ah, what I think is an army—’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘No, not hospital. A base called Rushlake, I believe it is.’

  ‘This is Rushlake,’ said the woman, eyeing Mary curiously. ‘Rushlake Auxiliary Hospital.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mary, feeling utterly discouraged. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Is there an army base near the village of Abbey’s Gate?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, miss,’ answered the woman impatiently. ‘There’s scarcely anything at Abbey’s Gate. Is there someone you’re looking for?’

  Charles Davenport sat before an old Steinway grand. He played a rich chord and then a melody he had composed long ago. There was a time when he had considered it a special song for Frances. Now it merely evoked deep sadness and longing. He was aware of a young nurse standing at the entrance to the room.

  ‘What a lovely melody,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, really,’ replied Davenport with a self-conscious smile.

  ‘Nurse Phillips asked me to tell you that you have a visitor. A young woman. Should I show her in?’

  Davenport nodded and said, ‘Of course.’ Oh God, he thought. Frances had obviously decided to come after all. He felt a momentary sensation of panic, not sure he wanted to see her. He turned back to the keyboard and played a series of chords followed by an especially difficult passage. Mary stood at the entrance and stared at the man playing the piano. She walked slowly across the room, drawn to the beautiful, lilting melody. As she came nearer, she could see that he was sitting in a wheelchair.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  Davenport stopped playing and looked up at her with a strange look of disappointment mingled with relief. ‘Hello,’ he said with a slight smile, noticing her pretty face, bright blue eyes, and thick, dark hair.

  ‘Major Davenport?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ He gave her a curious look. ‘And who might you be?’

  Mary took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘I’m sure you’ll think this is very strange, and I apologize for just dropping in, without writing or calling, but—’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Davenport. ‘Apologize, that i
s. I hardly ever see a soul except these other chaps, and the nurses, of course, and frankly I thought for a moment you might be someone else.’ He grasped the wheels of the chair and angled it away from the piano to look at her.

  She braced herself against the back of a chair, feeling it was a miracle she’d found the officer, though he was not at all what she expected. ‘I’m Mary Kennedy,’ she began again. ‘I wrote to you, enquiring about . . . ah, a young man named—’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘But, please, Miss Kennedy, why don’t you sit?’ He waited for her to settle in the chair. ‘I recall your letter now,’ he continued. ‘You wrote about Corporal Duthie. From Ireland, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary with a nod. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How in the name of heaven did you find me here?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘From the address on your letter,’ said Mary with a diffident smile. ‘I’ll admit it wasn’t easy.’

  ‘I expect not. I’m sorry if I seem a bit lost,’ he added, amazed that she had gone to such lengths to see him but delighted to have a visitor. With an encouraging smile, he said, ‘Is there something I can do for you?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I was expecting someone, well, different . . . older.’ She looked into her lap, gathering her thoughts.

  ‘Let me make a suggestion,’ he said, ‘I learned from a good friend the day I arrived here. It’s Mary, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘Well, Mary, why don’t you call me Charles.’

  ‘All right. You see . . . Charles . . . I had become quite attached to Jamie, to Corporal Duthie and, when his letters stopped, I was desperate to find out what had happened, and so I wrote to you.’ Davenport nodded, staring into her eyes. ‘And when you wrote back,’ she continued, ‘to explain that he was missing, and presumed dead. . . .’ Mary swallowed hard, fighting back the tightness in her throat and the moistness in her eyes. ‘Well, I thought that perhaps if I could see you, you might be able to tell me . . . to help me understand.’

  Mary took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. What a fool she must seem, baring her emotions to a stranger about a young soldier whom she’d never met.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Davenport with a concerned look.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Sitting erect, she began again. ‘You see, I was counting on Jamie. Not so much on him, really, but on the chance to help someone. Looking back, I realize that it probably was a mistake, with the war, but I didn’t allow myself to think about it. And now that there aren’t any more letters, I. . . .’ Reaching into her purse for the bundle of letters, she said, ‘These are all I have left.’ The words caught in her throat, and she tried to suppress an anguished sob. The room fell silent except for the twittering of the songbirds outside the windows.

  Davenport stared at her forlorn expression, trying to make sense out of her words. ‘Mary,’ he said after a moment, reaching out to touch her lightly on the arm. When he caught her red-rimmed eyes, he said, ‘Let’s get you a cup of tea. And then you can tell me how I might be able to help.’ She nodded thankfully, balling a handkerchief in her lap. ‘Nurse!’ called out Davenport. The same young nurse who had commented on his music appeared in the doorway. ‘Could you bring us two cups of tea please?’

  After the nurse returned with a tray, Mary sat for a few minutes silently drinking the soothing liquid. She put her cup and saucer aside and said, ‘Thanks. You must forgive my . . .’ She halted awkwardly, feeling embarrassed and wondering what he must be thinking.

  Davenport responded with an encouraging smile. ‘Perhaps it would help,’ he said, ‘as you’ve come all this way, to tell you a bit more about this young man and –’ He paused to consider – ‘and what happened to him.’

  Mary nodded and said, ‘Yes. I would like that very much.’

  Looking into the distance, Davenport said, ‘I remember that last morning quite clearly, indelibly, in fact. It was Duthie – your Jamie – who brought me my Thermos of morning tea. He was that sort of lad, always willing to lend a hand, never a word of complaint. There aren’t many like that, you know.’ Mary smiled. ‘That was before daylight,’ he continued. ‘The morning of June 21st.’

  ‘His last letter was dated the 16th,’ said Mary.

  ‘Yes, well, we were pretty well boxed in by then. And short of ammunition. At any rate, it wasn’t long after Duthie fetched my tea that Rommel attacked. Just before daylight. I remember looking at my watch.’ Mary sat erect in her chair, listening with rapt attention. ‘First came the Stukas, then the artillery opened up, and not long after, the tanks.’ Davenport paused to take a deep breath. ‘You see, Mary, we were on the perimeter, the outermost line. We did our best to stop them, but with so little ammunition . . . The tanks were taking a terrific toll on our position, and I’d made up my mind to try to save as much of the company as possible if we were going to be overrun.’ Davenport stopped and ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘So I gave the order,’ he said quietly, ‘to fall back. But to leave one squad in position, to cover our retreat.’ He searched Mary’s eyes.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘Corporal Duthie was among the men who stayed back,’ said Davenport. ‘I remember passing him in the trench, carrying a sten gun. I remember his boyish grin. He was a redheaded Scot, with freckles.’ A tear appeared in the corner of Mary’s eye. ‘I recall that he spoke to me,’ continued Davenport. ‘Something like, don’t worry, we’ll hold them off. It was the last I saw of him. I followed the men out of the trench, and then I was hit. A machine gun round, to the thigh.’ He paused to massage his leg. ‘But then I blacked out. I was one of the lucky few who got out. When I woke up at the clearing station I asked after the others. After Jamie. None of them made it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mary.

  ‘You might say he saved my life,’ said Davenport. ‘Mine and a good many others, with that extra bit of time. I’m sure the ones who stayed behind were overrun and almost certainly killed, with the fire they were taking. But there is a chance . . .’ He stopped and looked Mary in the eye. ‘A chance, a slim one, that he was taken prisoner.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asked Mary, sitting on the edge of her chair.

  ‘There’s no way of knowing, of course. I’m almost certain he was killed, but there is the chance.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘I should be going. You’ve no idea how helpful this has been.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m glad you came.’

  Taking her handbag she stood up and reached out to give him an awkward handshake. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘for being so understanding.’

  He gave her a last, long look, wanting to capture the image of her lovely pale face and her brave smile. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Have a safe journey.’

  Mary’s trip seemed to last forever, waiting to board the trains in Tunbridge Wells and London and the tedious journey to the northern Welsh coast in a cramped second-class compartment, unable to sleep, left to her troubled thoughts. In a way, she reflected, she was a changed person from the distraught woman who’d made the trip to London a few days before. Emotionally and physically exhausted when she at last reached Wales, she found an inexpensive room for the night. The next morning she boarded the ferry across the Irish Sea, leaning against the railing in the salt air as the distant Wicklow Mountains came into view. At last Mary retrieved her bicycle from behind the post office, strapped down her suitcase and pedalled down the overgrown track the last few miles to her cottage. She had barely rounded the first bend when a flash of rust and white darted across the path under her wheels. Oh my God, she thought, I’ve killed someone’s dog! She could hear the puppy’s yelping and crying. Mary felt sick, but, as she approached, she realized the puppy wasn’t hurt but huddling in terror. Taking its tiny body into her arms was a sensation Mary hadn’t known in a long time. When Mrs McIlney arrived on the scene she was certain
the puppy was dead, the way Mary was carrying on. When she realized that the dog was unharmed, she was simply angry at the ball of fur sheltering in Mary’s arms. ‘I’ve only three pups left,’ she exclaimed in her thick brogue, ‘from a litter we never expected, and if I’m going to spend my time chasing after them, I’ll drown the lot of them!’

  Mary smiled at the idle threat, and then, in a flash, the words registered, and she asked, ‘Might I keep this one? I’ll pay, of course. And tell me, Mrs McIlney, such a beautiful little spaniel. What’s the breed?’

  ‘Ah, Mary. Don’t you know your history?’ answered the older woman. ‘She’s the breed of royalty. Cavalier King Charles.’ In no time Mrs McIlney was walking away with a satisfied smile, and Mary was riding on, her suitcase left behind for now and her coat bunched in the basket, the little spaniel within it, completely content, big brown eyes on her strange new owner.

  Mary decided she’d best find a name for the puppy. She glanced at its pale pink belly rising with each little breath and her sparkling white fur broken by patches of rusty brown. Rolling past a break in the lane, Mary glimpsed the sea, and, at that moment, the word, the name, Chelsea, came to mind. She looked at her soft droopy ears, shiny black nose and big brown eyes and decided it suited her perfectly. As the last, golden rays of the setting sun bathed the side of her cottage, Mary and Chelsea arrived home, exhausted yet content.

  The first thing Mary had done on her arrival in County Wexford was to wrap her grandmother’s bric-a-brac and carefully store it away in the cellar. What was left was pleasantly large, low-ceilinged rooms. Sturdy, old furniture, and the things from the past that meant the most to Mary. The living room ran half the length of the front of the house, and the kitchen was typical of houses from the last century, with a large, old-fashioned range, a white enameled sink, and well-worn wooden table and chairs. Beyond that, a single bathroom, the master bedroom, and the small upstairs dormer bedroom. The heart of the house, though, was the living room, with whitewashed plaster walls and dark oak dado rails and almost no decoration. Her grandfather’s ancient shillelagh hung above the wide cobblestone fireplace. Three windows with her grandmother’s lace curtains faced the sea.