by John Kerr
As soon as Mary brought the puppy into the house, she discovered the box for kindling next to the hearth and struggled to hoist herself over the side. ‘Aha,’ said Mary, ‘you’ve chosen a home.’ Removing the papers and kindling, she scooped Chelsea into her arms, folded her coat in the box, and lowered the puppy on top. Mary plumped a chintz pillow on the sofa and surveyed the room, thinking how much more like home it felt now that she had a partner with whom to share it.
As she turned to go to her bedroom, Mary paused at her grand-mother’s upright piano and glanced at the framed photographs on its top of the people who had mattered most: Anna and David, and the faded army snapshot Jamie had sent her. Her heart broke to see them. Running her fingers down the filigree frames, she knew she was letting go of wishes and dreams, ones she could never have. The piano brought to mind the handsome young officer in his wheelchair in the hospital and the anguished look she had caused him. Seating herself, Mary played several notes on the yellowed keys, thinking about the lovely music he was playing when she entered the room. The melody stayed with her as she tidied things, preparing for bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Evan Hockaday sat in a square of warm sunshine on the edge of the lawn with a worn, leather-bound Bible open in his lap. He looked up to observe Charles Davenport walking slowly toward him aided by a pair of crutches. Davenport leaned the crutches against a wooden bench next to Hockaday’s wheelchair and lowered himself onto it.
‘From the look of it,’ said Evan, ‘you won’t be needing those much longer.’
Davenport reached his hand down to the muscle of his right thigh. ‘Sawbones tells me if I keep working at it, perhaps in a week I should be walking with only a cane.’
‘Well, then,’ said Evan, ‘I suppose that means you’ll be leaving us.’
Davenport gazed at his friend. Hockaday took pains to dress in uniform whenever possible, with the empty right sleeve pinned to his chest and the right trouser leg carefully folded under him. ‘Yes, Evan, I believe that’s right,’ Davenport said. ‘I only wish that meant returning to Egypt rather than this bloody assignment in London.’
‘You’re a strange contradiction,’ said Evan. Davenport waited for an explanation. ‘Well,’ Evan continued, ‘it strikes me as a bit odd that someone like you, with your—’
‘Education?’
‘Yes, education,’ Evan agreed, ‘but more than that. Your interests. Your love of poetry, for example. I should have thought you’d rather be back in the cloisters with your cherished Shakespeare than returning to the front. Seriously, Charles, you should be on the planning staff, not back in the bloody desert.’
Davenport listened to the hum of the insects in the rose bushes and absently massaged his thigh. ‘Strange as it may seem,’ he said after a while, ‘I actually miss it. Something about it . . . the intensity . . . everything matters so much more.’
‘Well, you’d just get yourself killed,’ said Evan with unexpected emotion. ‘You know, I never met anyone quite like you in school–whom I would consider your equal as a scholar. I’m curious how Frances’s father felt about your academic aspirations.’ As usual, Evan chose an oblique tack when touching on the painful topic of Davenport’s divorce.
Davenport uttered a short laugh. ‘He never cared for me anyway. Told Frances she’d married beneath herself, which, of course, was true. But my choice of a career at the university? Teaching poetry, no less?’ Davenport smiled up at the bright blue sky.
‘And he, of course,’ added Evan, ‘a rich banker in the City, would have greatly preferred a well-born if daft son-in-law with aspirations no greater than winning a large wager on the first race at Epsom.’ Davenport merely nodded. ‘Well, then, Charles. . . .’ Hockaday paused. ‘Why did you marry her?’
Davenport folded his hands in his lap. ‘She was a student,’ he said, ‘when we met. Very bright, very pretty.’ Hockaday smiled encouragingly. ‘And, as was the fashion in those days among well-born girls, something of a rebel.’
‘Raising funds for the Republicans in Spain,’ suggested Evan. ‘That sort of thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Davenport. ‘And as I was her instructor, she, well. . . .’
‘Fell head over heels for the handsome young don.’
‘I should have known better,’ said Davenport, ‘but I convinced myself that she didn’t care for the life she’d been born to, that we could live happily in poverty, surrounded by books and ivy-covered walls.’ He shook his head. ‘And, though I was certain I could help her to become more, well, interested in ideas, gradually things began to change. After a year or so,’ he concluded with a frown, ‘she began complaining. She was desperate to see her old friends and insisted on taking a flat in South Kensington – with funds from her trust – though it meant a long commute for me.’
‘I see,’ said Evan. ‘Tell me something else,’ he said in a cheerful tone. ‘What is it about these Elizabethan poets you find so captivating?’
‘Oh, that’s actually quite simple,’ said Davenport, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘They had the most extraordinary grasp of iambic pentameter. There’s nothing equal to it in English literature. It must have simply flowed in their blood.’
Evan opened the Bible in his lap. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Just as the translators of the Authorized Version were similarly steeped in that noble mere.’
‘Really?’ remarked Davenport. ‘I had no idea.’
Hockaday looked at him seriously for a moment, then broke into another cheerful smile. ‘You should try reading it. As I keep telling you, it could save your soul.’
‘Tell me something,’ said Davenport, ‘no doubt you’ll be leaving here before long, will you go home to your family?’
‘Leave the service, you mean?’ asked Evan with surprise. ‘Certainly not. I’m sure the army can find something useful for me.’ He looked intently at Davenport with his good eye. ‘We must win this war, Charles. With all my heart I believe that. I’m sure they’ll find a place for me.’
Davenport studied Hockaday. He would spend the rest of his life an invalid, dependent upon others for the most elementary needs. And yet there was not a trace of bitterness or self-pity. Davenport wondered where he came by this remarkable strength and determination, somehow to remain in the army and help defeat the hated Germans. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘you’re a brave chap, Evan – or perhaps merely a stubborn one. But who knows? We certainly need every man.’
After a moment Evan said, ‘Charles, the woman who was here to see you last week.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m curious. She seemed terribly attractive. But terribly unhappy as well.’
Davenport thought about Mary Kennedy, with her flashing blue eyes, suddenly dissolving into unreachable despair. ‘Yes, Evan,’ he said after a pause, ‘she’d been participating in the Red Cross programme, you know, writing to the boys overseas.’
‘I’m vaguely familiar with it.’
‘Well, she was corresponding with a young lad in my company. He was one of the unfortunate ones who didn’t make it out at Tobruk. so when his letters stopped coming, she was desperate to learn what had happened, and eventually wrote to me. Naturally, I sent her the usual note, that he was listed as missing and presumed dead.’
‘Was she in love with him?’
‘I don’t think so. There was more to it, something about the importance of the correspondence that I couldn’t quite follow.’ Davenport stopped, remembering the way she looked, the pain in her eyes, when she tried to explain. There was something about her sadness he hadn’t been able to make sense of. ‘At any rate,’ he began again, ‘she was greatly relieved to learn a few of the details of what happened.’
‘I see,’ said Evan.
Davenport suddenly stood up from the bench and grabbed his crutches. ‘Well,’ he said between clenched teeth, ‘I’d best get back to work.’
Emergi
ng from sleep to the tap of tiny paws brought a smile to Mary’s face. Sitting up, she grabbed her white chenille robe, and with Chelsea yapping at her feet, went out to greet the day. Sitting on the cottage steps, she petted the pup curled in her lap and began again to frame her letter to the officer. Over and over during the night she had searched for a way to explain the intensity of her feelings. Slowly the letter took shape, the words entwined with the dimly remembered melody he was playing when she entered the room. Mary placed Chelsea on the damp grass and looked into her wide, intelligent eyes. ‘Don’t venture too close to the cliffs,’ she warned, pointing toward the top of the thirty-foot drop to the crashing surf. ‘I’ve got a letter to write. Then we’ll have our breakfast.’
Mary stared at the sheet of pale blue paper on her writing desk, the nib of her pen suspended just above the surface. Then in her smooth, neat script, she began to write:
20 August 1942
Kilmichael Point
Dear Major Davenport,
I wanted to thank you again for your kindness in taking the time to see me and explain the circumstances of Jamie’s apparent death. You have no idea how much better I feel knowing that he died courageously so that others might escape, and that there is at least some possibility that he was taken prisoner. I also feel I owe you an explanation as to why his disappearance caused me so much distress.
You see, Jamie was the last in a series of losses in my life. Several years ago, my husband and I lost our only baby, and shortly afterward my husband was killed in an accident. I came to Ireland from America to escape these painful memories, and my correspondence with Jamie had been helping to restore some purpose to my life. With his disappearance, I’m afraid they caught up with me again. I deeply appreciate your kindness and understanding, which greatly helped me to put things in proper perspective.
With hopes for your speedy recovery and warm regards,
Mary Kennedy
Carefully folding the letter in an envelope and addressing it as before, she felt a great burden had been lifted from her. What she wanted was a long walk on the beach in the delightful weather. But first she would post the letter. Pulling up at the post office, she took Chelsea from the basket and leaned the bicycle against the kerb. With the pup trotting along, she entered the small stone building and joined the queue.
‘Good morning, Mrs O’Flaherty,’ said Mary brightly to the petite, elderly woman standing in front of her. ‘Lovely day.’
‘Why, hello, Mary,’ she said, turning away from her parcel. ‘You must be so lonely, all by yourself out there on the point,’ she added. ‘Promise me you’ll come by for tea.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mary. ‘I will.’ When her turn came, Mary placed her envelope on the counter as Mrs O’Flaherty bent down to caress the puppy’s silky ears.
‘Well, Mary,’ said Mr Coggins, ‘where have you been of late? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you these many days.’
‘I’ve been away,’ said Mary with a happy smile. ‘In England.’
‘England?’ repeated the old man with exaggerated surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Mary, vaguely aware of Mrs O’Flaherty lingering behind her. ‘To London.’ Anticipating the question, she added, ‘To see an old friend from college.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Coggins, who was studying the name and address on the envelope.
Glancing from his face to the letter, Mary said, ‘And I’ve been to see the commanding officer of the unit in which the young soldier, with whom I was corresponding. . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Coggins, taking his eyes from the envelope to meet Mary’s.
‘To see the officer in the hospital, and get an explanation of what had happened.’
‘I see,’ said the clerk. ‘And now you’ll be corresponding with the British officer,’ he added, dropping the envelope in the slot. Mary heard the sound of the door swinging shut.
‘Why, no,’ she said, taken aback. ‘I expect not. Come along, Chelsea,’ she commanded with a small clap of her hands. ‘Good day, Mr Coggins.’
The lazy summer passed, with little more to occupy Mary than tending her garden, walks on the beach, and occasional trips into town for groceries and the Dublin and London newspapers. As usual, she’d arranged for the McDonoughs’ boy Donald to deliver her purchases in his dogcart. Chelsea lay curled beside Mary on the sofa, ears drooping on her paws and a sleepy look in her wide brown eyes. All at once, she jumped to the floor and scrambled to the door, barking her puppy bark. ‘What is it, girl?’ asked Mary as she rose from the sofa. With a low growl in her throat, Chelsea stared through the glass at the big yellow dog yoked to the two-wheeled cart as young Donald McDonough, whistling a tune, walked up to the porch, his face obscured by bags of groceries. ‘Hush,’ said Mary as she held open the door. ‘We don’t want to frighten poor Donald.’
‘Aye, she’s a vicious one,’ said the boy, as he walked past her into the kitchen and lowered the sacks to the table. Chelsea ran to greet him, tail wagging happily.
‘Wait just one minute,’ said Mary as she hurried to her bedroom for her bag. When she returned, the boy was standing beside the table, his freckled face screwed up as though looking into the sun.
‘Are you for the British, then?’ he asked.
Mary stared at the boy with a bewildered expression. ‘Why, Donald,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure what you mean. I’m an American. Why do you ask?’
‘Well,’ answered the boy, without missing a beat, ‘there’s talk in the village that you’ve been to London. That you’re for the British and all.’ Before she could answer, he scooped up the tip money and, as quick as a flash, was out the door and gone.
Outside the War Office in London, on an early September morning, Charles Davenport stood on the busy Whitehall pavement and stared at the massive stone building. Despite two years in the service, he’d never been there. With his cane firmly in his right hand, he entered the lobby and made his way through the crowd of uniformed men. Smiling at the pretty receptionist, he said, ‘I’m here to see Colonel Rawlinson. The Office of War Plans.’
‘Third floor, Room 348,’ she said, without looking up from her papers.
Davenport grimaced. Well, he considered as he started for the staircase, that was one way to rebuild the strength in his leg. When he reached the third floor, he paused for a moment to catch his breath before locating a sign on the bare, dun-coloured walls pointing to Rooms 300 – 350. With a glance at his watch he started down the long corridor, paying no heed to the soldiers hurrying past him. Finally, at the far end of the corridor, Davenport reached a door numbered ‘348’ and the words ‘Office of War Plans’ on the frosted glass. A plain-looking, middle-aged woman stared up at him through gunmetal wire-rimmed glasses.
‘How can I help you, Major?’ she said with a trace of a smile.
Davenport removed his hat and said, ‘I’m Charles Davenport. I’m here to see Colonel Rawlinson.’
‘Yes, Major Davenport, we’ve been expecting you.’ She rose from her chair and said, ‘Come this way.’ At the end of a passageway, she opened a door, leaned inside, and said, ‘Major Davenport is here to see you, sir.’
‘Hallo, Davenport,’ said Colonel Ian Rawlinson as he rose from his chair to give Davenport a quick handshake. ‘Have a seat.’ He spoke with a clipped, carefully enunciated upper-class accent and appeared to be in his middle forties, with thinning hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. Judging from his girth and carefully manicured nails, Davenport concluded that he was a typical, desk-bound staff officer. He smiled pleasantly at Rawlinson, who’d returned to his swivel chair before a large wall map. ‘Well, Major,’ Rawlinson began, ‘I understand you’ve been recuperating in hospital. Have you brought your orders?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Davenport reached into his breast pocket for a folded sheet. ‘I was discharged yesterday.’
‘I see,’ said Rawlinson as he studied the p
aper. ‘All in order,’ he said after a moment. He leaned back and steepled his fingertips. ‘I understand you were wounded at Tobruk. A hell of a cock-up.’ A sheen of hair tonic glistened on Rawlinson’s forehead.
Davenport weighed his response to the colonel’s vulgar insult. ‘It was quite unfortunate, sir,’ he said after a pause. ‘A great many fine men were lost.’
‘Unfortunate?’ repeated Rawlinson. ‘It was a disgrace.’ He leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘I suppose that’s what one should expect with colonial troops, eh?’
‘The South Africans are determined fighters, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘And their dispositions were, naturally, the responsibility of Eighth Army command.’ Without waiting for Rawlinson to object, he added, ‘There’s only one way to beat Rommel, and that’s at his own game. In a battle of manoeuvre, not bottled up with your back to the sea.’
Rawlinson smiled condescendingly. ‘Quite the strategist, I see,’ he said. ‘That’s a good thing, Davenport. We’ll need strategists in this office. And speaking of Eighth Army command, I assume you’ve heard that Churchill sacked Auchinleck and Ritchie? Replaced them with Alexander and Montgomery.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Churchill,’ said Rawlinson dismissively. ‘Damn meddling politicians. In any case, Davenport, in your new assignment you needn’t worry about beating Rommel in Africa; we have a far more formidable nut to crack. This is a new unit that’s been cobbled together from a number of outfits. There’s a briefing at 0800 tomorrow morning. You’ll meet the rest of the men and hear what it’s all about. In the meantime, see to your living arrangements.’
