Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  She placed her teacup on the table, her heart pounding. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said hesitantly. ‘This has been wonderful, but it’s the first time we’ve been together.’

  ‘Mary,’ said Davenport in a low voice. ‘Sure, we haven’t been together physically, but we’ve been together in a more special way. Mary . . . I love you.’

  Mary brushed back her hair and said, ‘And I love you.’

  After a moment of uneasy silence, Davenport said, ‘Think about it, will you?’ Mary nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We can talk later.’

  Following another leisurely dinner in the hotel dining room, Charles and Mary returned to the lounge, where a fire was burning in the hearth, just as an older couple were tottering off to bed. ‘Charles,’ said Mary as she settled on the sofa, ‘you promised to finish telling me about your work.’

  Davenport leaned back in the comfortable armchair and said, ‘Well, it’s top secret, of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Very hush-hush. Our staff is responsible for the detailed planning for the invasion,’ he continued, ‘and I’m in charge of the British part in the landings. The Americans will have the lion’s share, but our part is quite large and enormously complex.’ Mary listened with a look of intense admiration. ‘The show will begin with a terrific naval bombardment and aerial attack, designed to knock out the beach-front fortifications. Meanwhile, parachute troops will land further inland, to disrupt enemy communications and blow the bridges. And then the men will come ashore. The tricky part will be getting the landing craft close enough to allow the men to wade in. The Germans are studding the beaches with tens of thousands of obstacles and mines. We’ve got to have the work finished by August.’

  A worried look clouded Mary’s face. ‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘that a great many men will be killed? They seem so helpless, coming ashore in small boats. Isn’t there some other way?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Davenport. ‘The Admiralty seem to think their ships will knock out the German resistance, and the dazed survivors won’t put up much of a fight. But I know the Germans, and they’ll be ready. We can do it, but it won’t be easy, and many will die going ashore.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mary. ‘So many brave young men. But thank God you won’t be going in with them.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Davenport grimly.

  ‘Charles, you’ve done your part,’ said Mary. ‘Promise me,’ she said urgently, ‘you’ll stay where you are on General Morgan’s staff.’

  Davenport looked in her eyes. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I have no intention . . . that is, I mean to stay in my present job, but I can’t make a promise like that.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’ she said desperately. ‘Please, you must promise me!’

  ‘Believe me, I have no intention of putting in for a transfer. But if I’m needed, well. . . I’m sure you understand.’ She nodded silently, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Mary,’ he began again. ‘I want you to come to London. We can find you a flat near the park, so there’ll be plenty of room for Chelsea. London’s safe now, and you’ll feel right at home with Yanks everywhere—’

  ‘But Charles,’ she interrupted, ‘what about my house? It seems so . . . so sudden.’

  ‘You ran away there, from everything you lost. Now it’s time, don’t you see? Time to start again. There’s nothing there for you. I love you and want you near me. And when the war’s over . . .’ He paused. ‘I want to spend my life with you.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘how I wish the war would end, and then . . .’

  ‘Mary, you can come to London. Do you understand what I’m saying? I want you to marry me.’

  Gazing at his earnest expression, thinking how handsome he was, she was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. She thought briefly about the day, cradled in his arms on the ledge at Harlech . . . the sensation of bare skin and the warm breath of passion. She wanted to say, yes, of course, I’ll come to be with you. She gave him a stricken look and murmured, ‘If only you knew how happy that would make me.’

  ‘It’s late,’ he said, ‘and it’s been a wonderful day. I should let you rest. I know how much it is to think about.’

  Moments later they stood at the door to her room. ‘Goodnight,’ he said simply. He leaned down to kiss her, lingering for a long moment.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said, letting go of her hand. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  The room was black and still. Mary turned on the pillow, trying to fall asleep, but a vague unease gnawed at her. After thinking about going with him to London, marrying him, she fell asleep at last. She slept a dreamless sleep and then suddenly was wide awake. She threw back the covers and walked to the window. Staring out in the darkness, she touched her fingertips to the cold glass. An image of Charles lying on the bed as a red stain spread across his khaki shirt flashed into her consciousness. The distant dream was vividly imprinted, and she knew with a sudden, terrible certainty that if she went with him, if he became hers, he would be like the others. It was a curse. In an instant she realized there was only one hope, one chance. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down, burying her face on the pillow and choking back sobs.

  When Charles awoke, judging from the brightness of the room, he decided it must be late. Cursing himself, he threw back the covers and fumbled for his watch. He stood up and, as he reached for his robe, noticed the corner of a blue envelope under the door. Stooping to pick it up, he knew in an instant it was from Mary, and he slumped back on the bed to read her brief note:

  Dearest Charles,

  This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I can’t possibly explain it, because I don’t understand it myself. I love you with all my heart. And no matter what happens, even if you should find someone else, I will always love you.

  By the time you read this, I will be gone. During the night I made up my mind to go back to Ireland, knowing that if I stayed I would never have the courage to do what I believe I must, as I can’t face losing you. I could never explain and can only say that I will be waiting, however long it takes, when the war is finally over. Yesterday was the happiest day in my life, and the saddest.

  I pray, Charles, that some day you’ll come for me.

  Love,

  Mary

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Oh God, sighed Mary, it felt good to be home. This is home, she insisted. On her knees in the garden, she dug a furrow in the damp soil and reached for the packet of seeds. As she carefully tipped the seeds, an image of Charles on the sofa came to mind; so handsome in his tweed jacket with his neatly combed hair. She clutched the packet, not wanting to let the image go, like all the other fragments of the weekend that filled her mind. She didn’t know how she could ever explain; everyone she’d loved, she’d lost. Mary bent over to smooth the soil with the back of the trowel. She stood up, leaving the tool, and went to the tap, rinsing her hands and drying them on her tattered apron before slipping it off and tossing it on the porch. She started for the path down to the beach with the dog trotting after her. Standing on the rocks below, Mary stared into the tidal pools and then stepped gingerly onto the sand and slipped off her sandals. As they walked along, Mary allowed the waves to lap over her feet, thinking about Charles, when suddenly it dawned on her that she had not given him the sweater she’d brought as a gift. Mary’s whole being crumpled in on itself, and she sank to the sand in misery. She stayed there for what seemed a long time, shuddering sobs racking her body, as the puppy lay unhappily at her side, chin resting on her paws. And that is how Eamon found her, swept away by sadness, simply lost. His shadow was the first sense Mary had of someone standing above her, stepping between her and the sun. She had not even heard Chelsea’s bark. Shielding her red, swollen eyes with her hand to look at him, there was a brief, fleeting feeling that it might be Charles. But she recognized Eamon crouching beside her, reaching out a hand to
her shoulder in comfort. She instinctively drew back, as though his touch were caustic.

  ‘What is it, Mary?’ he asked softly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  She merely shook her head, too distraught to consider the risks of another encounter on the isolated stretch of beach. After a few minutes he eased himself into a sitting position and said, ‘It’s no use holding it in. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.’

  Mary sat up and eyed him warily. ‘It’s nothing I care to talk about,’ she said hoarsely. Not wanting to appear rude, she added, ‘But thanks, anyway.’ He clasped his arms around his knees, looking at her with an expression of genuine concern. She took a deep breath. ‘Oh, God,’ she sighed, ‘sometimes I feel like such a fool. I’m afraid I’ve thrown away the thing that matters most to me.’

  ‘It sounds,’ he said, ‘like a matter of the heart.’

  She looked up and, brushing away a wisp of hair, nodded slightly. In the past, she’d told him something about her losses and wondered if he had heard the gossip in the village. ‘Yes, you could say that,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s someone I . . . care about very much. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever see him again, because, well, I can’t explain it. If only the war would end. . . .’

  ‘Yes, the war,’ said Eamon, nodding in agreement. ‘Don’t worry, Mary, you don’t need to explain. They’re lucky here, with no war to send their men and boys off to. But I think I understand what you’re going through.’

  When she tried to speak her voice cracked, and the tears began again, turning to convulsive sobs. Rather than try to comfort her, Eamon merely sat cross-legged on the sand and listened. After a while, exhausted by the intensity of her feelings, the tears stopped. The sun had sunk below the cliffs, leaving a chill in the wet sand and gusty breeze. Eamon stood up, dusted the sand from his knees, and reached down to take her hands. ‘We had best get you home,’ he said, as he helped her up. He led her like a child along the beach, recovered her sandals, and ascended the twisting path to her cottage.

  Standing with one hand on the door, she considered his kindness and said, ‘Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’

  ‘You have tea?’ said Eamon with a smile.

  ‘A little.’

  They sat in silence at the kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to whistle. ‘You might try telling me,’ Eamon began, ‘now that you’re a bit more calm, about your, ah, friend. Has something happened to him?’

  Mary rose to take the kettle from the stove, certain that he knew something of the rumours, and poured the steaming water into the pot. ‘My friend,’ she said, ‘as you’ve no doubt heard, is a British officer.’ She placed cups and saucers on the table with the teapot and milk jug. ‘And no, nothing has happened to him.’ After pouring each of them tea, she sat and took a sip. The heat on the back of her throat was a welcome relief after so much crying. She let the cup nest in her hands, spreading warmth. ‘I mean, he was wounded,’ she added, after taking another sip, ‘but that was some time ago. Actually, that’s how we met, in the hospital. And we’ve just been writing to one another, since he’s been in London, on staff assignment.’

  ‘I see,’ Eamon nodded, politely pretending to understand.

  ‘But I went to see him in Wales, at a place called Barmouth. And, well, I’m afraid I made a mess of things.’

  ‘And now you’re worried,’ Eamon suggested, ‘that what with the war . . . Listen, Mary, there are thousands and thousands of women just like you whose men are away.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Mary, ‘but it’s not that. I’m afraid I left him, without even saying goodbye. I just couldn’t bring myself to face him. I can’t possibly explain it.’

  Eamon finished his tea and studied Mary’s face. ‘I think I understand,’ he said. ‘With all you’ve lost, that is. But didn’t you say that he’s on staff assignment in London?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, then, he should be safe, now that the air raids have stopped.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t make sense, Eamon, but I just can’t get over the feeling. . . .’

  ‘London must be a fascinating place to be stationed,’ said Eamon. ‘What sort of job does your friend have?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very important,’ Mary answered with a small smile. ‘And he’s just been made lieutenant colonel.’

  Eamon abruptly stood up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t worry. I’m sure your colonel will be out of harm’s way. And you’d better make sure he understands why you left him the way you did.’

  Mary nodded and said, ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, I’d best be on my way,’ said Eamon cheerfully. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  Mary smiled and said, ‘Thanks so much for . . . well, for listening.’

  ‘Don’t think of it,’ said Eamon. ‘Perhaps now you’ll realize,’ he added, ‘that I’m not such a bad fellow.’ Before she could answer, he was out the door and on his way. The catharsis had cleared her mind, she realized, for the first time since she’d returned from Wales. She walked to the bureau in the living room and extracted several sheets of paper and her pen from the drawer.

  Davenport, seated at the desk in his windowless office, put down his pencil and rubbed his eyes. Oblivious to the voices in the hallway, he studied the large, finely detailed map of the Normandy coastline. An area stretching from Cabourg at the eastern extremity, to the village of Port-en-Bessin, about midway along the coast toward Cherbourg, was marked in red pencil. This forty mile section of beaches represented the British and Canadian sector. Further west, from Port-en-Bessin to Quinéville on the Cotentin peninsula, was the American. He sat back and tried to visualize the enlarged intelligence photographs he’d seen. Rows of quaint seaside homes perched just above the wide beaches . . . the tips of steel obstacles protruding ominously above the wave-tops ahead of the breakers. The houses would be full of snipers and machine-gun nests. Behind the houses would be mortar companies and the German 88s, the deadly fire of which Davenport had witnessed in North Africa. The code name for the British sector was Sword Beach. For hours on end, Davenport struggled with the mind-numbing details of planning the British assault. In a scant two weeks, he thought wearily, it had to be finished, in time for the conference in Quebec.

  Davenport looked up from his typewriter to see Hanes Butler standing in the open doorway, holding an unlit cigar. ‘Give it up, Charlie,’ said Butler, waving the cigar at the pile of paper on the desk. ‘You’re the last sonofabitch still workin’. Let’s get a drink.’

  ‘Sorry, Hanes, but I really need to finish this.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But be sure to lock up and turn out the lights.’ The door clicked softly as Butler departed. After another hour, Davenport tore the paper from the carriage of his typewriter. Taking his jacket from the back of the door, he flipped the lightswitch and closed and locked the door. After a stop at the pub around the corner from the barracks, Davenport walked heavily up the steps into the foyer. The corporal at the desk was dozing but awakened at the sound of Davenport’s footsteps. ‘Sir,’ he said, sitting up, ‘you have a letter.’ Davenport accepted a familiar blue envelope from the corporal’s out-stretched hand. The sight of Mary’s neat handwriting stirred a feeling of deep unease. Wordlessly he tucked the envelope in his pocket and made his way to his room. In the two weeks since he returned from Wales, he’d reread her note dozens of times, searching for insight into her inexplicable departure, and for hours had sat at his desk, pen in hand, trying to find the words to convince her to reconsider, or at least to explain her motives for leaving. But no words would come.

  He sat down on the bed and studied the letter. As the days had passed, his fears had grown that he might never hear from her again. Drawing in a deep breath, he opened the envelope, unfolded the sheets it and read:

  7 July 1943

  Kilmichael Point

  Dear Charles,
>
  I went to my garden at first light today, where I found my frequent nocturnal guest, silently nibbling dew-dampened lettuce. He’s a black lop-eared bunny, and I’ve been searching for him for some time. I was certain if I found the culprit I’d take drastic measures. Instead I sank to my knees and watched, my heart breaking.

  Davenport put the letter aside, hesitant to read on, and then picked it up again. ‘How can I possibly explain?’ she wrote in her neat hand. She apologized for the pain she’d caused him, but insisted that she loved him so much she couldn’t possibly be with him in London, that everyone she’d loved, she’d lost and that she ‘couldn’t be responsible for the destruction of what I hold most dear . . .’ Davenport frowned at the stilted phrase, unable to plumb its meaning. In another obscure reference, she wrote that ‘it’s just like that line of verse you read to me at Harlech,’ and then closed with:

  I will wait, wait forever and more. If this war ever ends I promise I’ll be here. Try to understand and write if you will, if you can.

  Love,

  Mary

  Charles felt enormous relief, his despair slipping away. But what was she trying to tell him? He studied the letter. She loved him, and therefore she had to leave him? ‘The destruction of that which I hold most dear . . .’ It made no sense. And the obscure reference to the line of verse. He thought back to that sunny morning at Harlech. Was it the sonnet? Yes, of course. He recited the verses from memory: In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire that on the ashes of his youth doth lie, as on the death-bed whereon it must expire. To love that well which thou must leave ere long. He shook his head as he wearily reached down to unlace his boots.

  The following morning Charles walked into Norfolk House with renewed confidence and energy. In a week he would depart for Quebec, travelling with the top COSSAC staff, the chiefs of the army, navy, and RAF, and the prime minister himself. He stopped at his office to read a memorandum from General Morgan on the details of the trip to Glasgow and the hitherto unknown arrangements for their passage to Quebec on the Queen Mary, with a shiver of excitement at the thought of an ocean crossing on the luxurious Cunard liner. He picked up his folder and glanced at his watch; almost 8.30, time for the briefing.