Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  16 June 1943

  Kilmichael Point

  Dear Charles,

  Your invitation to meet for a weekend in Wales filled me with delight, but I must confess the delight was mixed with some misgivings. Despite the years that have passed, I’ve never quite got over the feelings of being a wife and a mother, and my first reaction to the thought of spending a weekend with you was guilt. If this were merely a trip to visit you in London, I’m sure I would feel differently. But I find myself forced to come to grips with the truth about myself, and getting on with my life, and about – us.

  It probably had been a mistake to invite her to a secluded hotel in the countryside. With a heavy heart, he continued reading:

  The old hotel in Wales, far from prying neighbours or the crowds of the city, sounds like a perfect place. And despite the fact that we’ve only been together once before, over these past months you’ve become much more to me than a friend, and I’ve longed to see you. With the war, I feel that we must take what little time is given to us and not waste a moment. So there it is, as direct as I can make it. I will meet you at Barmouth, as you suggested, on the afternoon of the 22nd, trusting in you to make the necessary arrangements. The only question now is, how can I endure the days remaining before we’re finally together?

  Love,

  Mary

  Davenport stared at the ceiling. In his mind’s eye he envisioned her, trying to remember her exact features. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before re-reading her words. At last he allowed himself to believe she might actually be falling in love with him. He stood up and stretched to his full height, imagining the quaint hotel overlooking the Barmouth estuary, filled with a feeling of pure joy. Then he remembered the other envelope on the bedside table, and withdrew an engraved invitation to The All Services Ball, hosted by the Anglo-American Officers’ Association, at the Grand Ballroom of the Langham Hotel on the evening of 20th June, dress uniform or black tie. His impulse was to decline, but glancing at the name of the organization hosting the dance, he reasoned that many of his new American friends would be there, as well as his fellow British officers. It was time to re-enter society. Why not go to a dance, even if it meant wearing a dress uniform?

  Many of the officers at COSSAC had regular girlfriends, but not Davenport’s friend Major Hanes Butler. Somehow the gregarious North Carolinian had failed to attract the interest of any of the dozens of winsome English girls in the Norfolk House typing pool. Butler had suggested that he and Davenport should go to the ball together, and Davenport was making a final attempt to straighten his collar. He looked approvingly at his reflection, the gold braid on the shoulders of the navy-blue jacket, the brightly polished brass buttons and the scarlet stripe down the navy-blue trousers. Davenport waited at the barracks’ entrance, glancing up at the cottony clouds in the pale blue sky in the cool breeze of the late June evening. With a grind of gears and cough of exhaust, an American army jeep pulled up at the kerb with a young private at the wheel and Butler at his side. ‘Hop in, Charlie,’ Hanes called out cheerfully. Davenport bounded down the steps and into the back seat.

  ‘Don’t you look sharp,’ said Davenport with a smile.

  Butler looked appraisingly at Davenport’s dress uniform. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ he said. ‘Let’s go, Private. The Langham Hotel, Portland Place.

  When Davenport and Butler entered the ballroom, the dance floor was overflowing with couples dancing to the strains of American swing played by a big band orchestra attired in white evening jackets. Crystal chandeliers blazed over tables crowded with officers resplendent in dress uniform and women in long ball gowns, the walls festooned in alternating Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes, with an occasional red and white Maple Leaf. As the two officers made their way through the throng, they passed a number of their fellow officers from COSSAC, who looked enviously at Davenport, as word of his promotion had travelled quickly among the men. When they reached the bar, Davenport and Butler each ordered a Scotch and soda.

  Captain MacDonald, one of the few officers who remained from Special Planning Group B, approached Davenport and extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Charles,’ he said. ‘No one deserves it more than you.’

  Drinks in hand, Davenport and Butler made their way to an unoccupied table at the edge of the dance floor. ‘Well, Charlie,’ said Butler as he lifted his glass, ‘Here’s to that noble fighting machine, the British Army.’

  Davenport smiled. ‘And here’s to that unruly mob of colonials,’ he replied. After taking a sip, he glanced around the ballroom, noticing Colonel Rawlinson leaning against a pillar with one hand on his hip. It occurred to Davenport that his former CO, some fifteen years his senior, now out-ranked him by only the slimmest margin and that he, as Section Leader in one of the most elite units in the Allied Armies, had far greater responsibility than Rawlinson would ever exercise.

  With a stroke of the bandleader’s baton, the room was filled with the rich tones of trombones, trumpets, and clarinets as the orchestra soared into a spirited rendition of the latest Glenn Miller. Davenport tapped his foot and let his eyes fall on the couples spinning across the dance floor. Butler sang along quietly in a pleasant baritone. ‘Say, Charlie,’ he said, pointing with drink in hand, ‘take a look at that.’ A low whistle escaped his lips as a slender woman in a tight red dress cut low in the back, glided past. As she spun around, her dress revealed a suggestive amount of cleavage, and the light of the chandelier illuminated a pale, beautiful face. ‘Man, oh man,’ said Butler softly. ‘That’s some beauty.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Hanes,’ said Davenport. ‘That’s my wife.’ Butler gave him an astonished look. ‘My soon to be ex-wife, Frances,’ added Davenport, staring across the dance floor and momentarily making eye contact with her. When the music ended, her partner bowed and walked off in the direction of the bar. Frances stared briefly at Davenport and then began slowly walking toward him. ‘Excuse me, Hanes,’ said Davenport as he stood up. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ He walked calmly up to her and said, ‘Good evening, darling. You’re looking well.’

  She eyed him coldly and said, ‘What do you want?’

  Davenport shook his head and said, ‘Want? Look, Frances, I merely thought I should say, now that we’re almost finished—’

  ‘Damn you, Charles,’ she said in a low, threatening tone. ‘I suppose you’re satisfied, now that you’ve had the satisfaction of humiliating Trevor and me!’

  Davenport gave her a thin smile. ‘Satisfaction?’ he said. ‘Not exactly. But you might say you’ve finally got what you deserve.’ He turned and threaded his way back to the table. ‘Say, Hanes,’ he said, ‘I’ll stand you another drink.’

  Touring the house for a last time before bed, Mary reflected on how accustomed she had become to living alone. It was only at night, with the lights out and facing the empty bed in the darkness, that she admitted how lonely she was. She had grown so used to a warm, welcoming body sharing that space. As she settled under the eiderdown, she felt a shiver of deep longing. Mary closed her eyes and, after listening to the clock, soon fell asleep.

  She watched him, lying peacefully beside her on the beach in the warm sunshine. She lightly touched him, not wanting to wake him yet unable to resist the temptation to brush back his hair, exposing his face to the sun. With the sound of the surf in her ears, she settled beside him on the sand. His arms met her movement and enfolded her in a welcoming embrace. All at once, she was in the chair in her bedroom, unsure whether it was evening or morning, listening to the sound of the clock as the breeze stirred the lace at the window. He was lying peacefully on the bed. As he slowly rolled over, a crimson efflorescence suddenly blossomed on his chest, the dark stain spreading across the fabric of his khaki uniform.

  Mary sat bolt upright with a gasp in the pitch-black room, her heart pounding. Raising a hand to her mouth, she peered into the darkness, trying to recapture the vivid dream . .
. lying on the beach . . . Charles lying beside her, and then something terrible happened. But what was it? She searched her memory, but the fragment had slipped away, leaving her with a sensation of dread and fear so intense that it churned her stomach.

  The train departed Paddington promptly at 8.10 a.m. Davenport sat by the window in the crowded carriage as the working class neighborhoods of London gave way to the open countryside, the meadows filled with bright wildflowers. The spell of near perfect weather had lasted for days and, as he watched the livestock grazing under the canopy of ancient oaks, he prayed that it would continue through the weekend. As the train rattled along past the Cotswold villages, he gazed out at the stone cottages and medieval turrets, thinking the timeless beauty of the English countryside seemed so far removed from the war’s devastation. There were two worlds now, Davenport considered, of war and the world of peace, and his time in the world of peace could not last, and he was struck by the grim, irrational certainty of this transience. Real peace, for him, could be obtained only by returning to the crucible of war.

  At last the spire of the famous Worcester cathedral came into view in the distance. Crossing the trestle bridge over the Severn, the train slowed to a stop with a hiss of steam. After a brief tram ride from the station, the final streets to his house seemed strangely unreal to him, as though somehow the war had never happened, and he was merely returning home from school. He quickened his pace as he turned on to a narrow road with rows of small brick bungalows. A neighbour wearing a sunbonnet as she worked in the garden waved to him as he passed and called out, ‘Hallo, Charles! Welcome home.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Pickford,’ he answered with a wave. He walked along the fence and stopped at the gate. As he let himself in, the door swung open and his father appeared on the porch.

  Davenport let his bag drop and half walked, half ran, up the brick steps. ‘Dad,’ he exclaimed, reaching out to embrace him.

  The elder Davenport placed his hands on his son’s shoulders and leaned back to get a better look. ‘My goodness, Son,’ he said with a smile. ‘What’s this?’ He motioned to the insignia on Davenport’s collar.

  ‘I’ve been promoted,’ said Davenport. ‘I’m a lieutenant colonel now.’

  ‘A lieutenant colonel,’ said his father at length. ‘Your mother would have been so proud. Now, come in, and let’s have a cup of tea.’

  After passing an hour or more over potted meat sandwiches in the kitchen, Davenport sat with his father in the small parlour at the front of the house. On one side of the room were bookcases filled with cloth-bound volumes and a collection of photographs; his mother on her wedding day; father, mother and son on his graduation day from college; and Davenport in uniform before embarking for Cairo. His father knocked out his briar pipe on the heel of his hand into an ashtray, hunched over with his arms on his knees and said, ‘Tell me, Son, what will this new assignment mean?’

  ‘I’ll be supervising the detailed planning for the British portion of the invasion.’

  ‘That’s a big job.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And most of the work has to be finished before the final planning conference with the Americans in August.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking this means you’ll be spared from any more fighting?’

  Davenport looked down at the carpet before answering. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied. More convincingly, he added, ‘It’s a staff assignment for me till the war’s over.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Davenport’s father. ‘You’ve done your part, and it’s time for the other chaps to do theirs. Well, I know you must be on your way.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘There’s one other thing, Son,’ he said quietly, ‘your mother would know how to say this, but I’m on my own now.’ Davenport gave him an expectant look. ‘After all you’ve been through, you deserve someone who’s right for you. From everything you’ve written about her, Mary seems very special . . .’

  ‘She is,’ said Davenport. ‘You’ll like her very much.’ He stood up to go.

  His father rose and said, ‘Well, then, good luck, Son.’ Reaching into his pocket, he said, ‘I almost forgot.’ He handed Davenport a small packet. ‘Seeds from my best sweet-peas. For Mary’s garden.’

  Mary stood at the railing, her fingers wrapped around the smooth teak, as the ferry slipped away from the Kingstown dock. The Irish Sea stretched into the distance, the air filled with scents of sea-salt and wet hemp, one shimmering wave after another that scrolled into a long, white crest with flashes of silver and pearl. Leaning back, she let the breeze furl her skirt as she had when she was a child. There was a weightlessness to her mood, so sensitive to the smallest thing that she could feel nothing at all. She couldn’t think or plan, so she swayed at the railing in the sharp breeze. Finally the piercing whistle from the stacks signalled their approach to the long pier jutting out from Holyhead, warning her to retrieve her bag and disembark. Her heartbeat quickened with the realization that within a short while she would be there.

  Davenport double-declutched his father’s Morris and shifted gear, delighting in the unaccustomed pleasure of driving the open country roads. He sped through the gentle hills of Shropshire and passed into Wales, where the change in scenery was almost as striking as the change in language, the unpronounceable string of consonants on the road signs. Densely forested hills, smudged with clouds, rose steeply from the roadsides, and the lush green pastures beyond the rock walls were dotted with sheep. Rounding a sharp turn, the sun broke through the clouds encircling the hilltops, striking the bright green foliage cloaking the ridge. Davenport slowed at the sign for Dolgellau, a name that flooded him with childhood memories, clattering along the same road in the back seat, his father at the wheel with his mother beside him. After passing through the village, he drove the final miles into the centre of town and after a few moments located the bus depot. He hurried to the small waiting room, which was empty except for an elderly woman dozing on one of the wooden benches. He checked the time, fifteen minutes before the scheduled arrival of the bus from Caernarfon. When the clock showed 5.40 he stood up impulsively and walked to the door. Despite the fact that ferries were still running from Ireland, with the wartime restrictions he feared she might have been detained, or worse, the short voyage from Kingstown cancelled. After several minutes he heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching vehicle and watched as the wide bumper nosed into the bus stand and slowed to a stop a few paces from him. With a final squeal of brakes, the doors swung open. Several older couples slowly descended the steps, followed by a young mother holding the hand of a small boy who stubbornly stopped to inspect the mechanism of the door, and then Mary’s slender legs and hips came into view as, clutching her hat and bag, she made the last awkward step down to the pavement. Feeling his heart skip a beat, he pushed past the boy and said, ‘Mary.’ For a moment he stared into her eyes and then folded her in a warm embrace.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Davenport took a tense, timid Mary by the arm and walked her to the car. In relative silence with the wind rushing in the partially opened windows, they drove off. With her thick, dark hair complementing cornflower-blue eyes, Mary was even prettier than Davenport remembered.

  She turned to him and said, ‘It’s beautiful, Charles. Not at all what I expected. These hills are so steep and so lush. What’s that?’ She pointed where the roadside fell away toward a wide body of water.

  ‘The Barmouth estuary,’ said Davenport with a smile. ‘It stretches some fifteen miles into the valley, and at low tide empties all its water into Cardigan Bay. It’s quite a sight.’ He turned into the drive at Bontddu Hall, a gabled Victorian hotel overlooking the estuary.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ said Mary, as she climbed out and glanced at the drooping boughs of the evergreens and manicured lawn.

  Taking her suitcase, Davenport walked with her to the hotel’s entrance and held open the door. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he
said quietly, as they approached the front desk, ‘but I made the reservation under the name Miss Mary Kennedy.’ She briefly made eye contact and said, ‘Of course.’ As he struck the bell on the counter to summon the clerk, Davenport placed her suitcase by the counter and said, ‘I’m going up to my room. Shall we meet for drinks at, say, seven?’ Feeling a wave of embarrassment as two dowagers with shawls emerged from the lounge, Mary responded with a pained nod and forced smile. Touching her lightly on the arm, he turned and walked quickly to the stairs. Was this what the weekend held in store, she wondered, as she waited? Whispered comments, furtive glances, the disapproving stares of the older guests?

  After a moment, the elderly clerk appeared at the desk and said coldly, ‘Can I help you?’

  It dawned on her that she had never registered alone as a hotel guest. There had always been her father, and then David. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m checking in.’

  The clerk raised his eyebrows slightly and said, ‘You have a reservation?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mary. ‘Under the name Kennedy. Mary Kennedy.’

  The clerk harrumphed, opened a worn black book and ran a crooked finger down the entries on the ruled page. ‘Kennedy,’ he muttered, ‘ah, here it is. Miss Mary Kennedy. Two nights, departing on Sunday.’ As Mary rested her arm on the counter to sign the register, she was conscious of the man staring at her and glancing at her wedding ring. Looking up to meet his cold stare, she said, ‘Oh, you see, my husband is, well, he passed away . . .’

  ‘Terribly sorry, ah, Miss Kennedy.’ He took the register, lifted a heavy brass key from its hook and laid it on the counter. ‘Room 312,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help with your luggage?’

  ‘No, thank you, I’ll manage,’ said Mary as she reached for her suitcase. By the time she reached the third floor, she was out of breath and angry with herself for feeling so ashamed. Was it a sin to be young and alone, a single woman registering as a hotel guest? Charles had made it seem even more awkward when he had simply left her, though she supposed it would have been even worse had he stayed. Finding her room, she unlocked the door and looked in. It was no one’s idea of luxury, yet it had an understated elegance that seemed just right, with a brass bed dressed in crisp linens, between tall windows where curtains stirred gently. Mary dropped her bag and tossed her hat on the bed. The faintest hint of lemon scented the oak dressing table, where there was a vase with fresh flowers just beginning to droop. Mary was struck with a sense of déjà vu – remembering an almost identical vase in the hotel room on her honeymoon. The image caught her unaware, triggering a feeling of betrayal. She felt for her wedding ring, gently turning it before slipping it off and placing it on the dressing table then stood before the mirror to see what damage the day’s travels had done, studying the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and outlining her smile. Raising her fingertips to her cheeks, she wondered . . . what would he think? Could she possibly live up to his expectations? Could he live up to hers? Shaking her head, she began getting ready for the evening.