Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

Mary sat down. ‘Eamon,’ she said in a halting voice, ‘I wish you’d explain how you got mixed up in all this. Here you are, spying on the British, and – as you put it – trading arms with the IRA.’ He looked at her with intense interest. ‘And so if you’re involved in this conspiracy to kill Hitler and stop the war, why would you be here in this small Irish village? It seems so strange.’

  ‘You’re very astute, Mary,’ said Eamon. ‘Naturally the Abwehr maintains networks in the neutral countries, including Ireland. To keep an eye on the British. And the arrangement with the IRA, trading guns for assistance watching the coastline, was a logical thing to do. With my background, half-Irish, speaking the language fluently, I was the obvious choice. But—’

  ‘Are you suggesting there’s some other reason you were sent here?’ interjected Mary. ‘That the other was a—’

  ‘Pretext,’ said Eamon. ‘Exactly.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Our plan is to end the war. With Britain and America, that is. What’s the use of killing Hitler if one of his contemptible underlings, like the pig Göring, simply took his place? We would have accomplished nothing.’

  ‘What does this have to do with your being in Ireland?’

  ‘I was sent by Adam von Trott to Ireland on the pretext of spying on the British and co-operating with the IRA. But Adam’s real purpose . . .’ Eamon paused. ‘My real assignment was to find a way to deliver a message.’

  ‘A message,’ Mary repeated, spellbound.

  Eamon nodded. ‘Surely you wondered why I was spending so much time wandering nearby, close to your cottage . . .’

  ‘Well, I assumed it was to use your radio transmitter, hidden in the cellar.’

  ‘That’s true, but mainly I was hoping to befriend you.’ She blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘For a reason,’ he continued. ‘I’d heard you had a relationship with a British officer, and when you told me he had a staff assignment in London . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘Please keep talking,’ she said.

  ‘I took a look around one day when you were away, and discovered that your Charles reported to General Morgan. To COSSAC.’

  Mary slumped in her chair. Rubbing her forehead, she said, ‘And how did you discover that?’

  ‘From his letters,’ replied Eamon. ‘I found them in the chest in the hall.’

  ‘Oh, Eamon,’ sighed Mary.

  ‘Remember why I was sent here, Mary. To find a way to deliver a message to the British and American high command. Davenport is the perfect contact, reporting to the Supreme Allied Commander.’

  ‘So all this time,’ she said almost to herself. ‘Do you mean as far back as last year you were merely befriending me in order to take advantage—’

  ‘No!’ he said loudly, expending his little strength. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You were so full of despair, so lonely. I wanted to help. But when I learned about Charles, and COSSAC . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Mary, sitting up straight. ‘I understand.’

  He looked at her affectionately and said, ‘Of course I was attracted to you. But you see, there’s someone waiting for me at home.’

  ‘Your girl?’ asked Mary, wondering why she’d never considered that this handsome man had a girlfriend.

  ‘No,’ said Eamon quietly. ‘My wife.’

  ‘Your wife,’ said Mary with an amazed look. ‘Oh, Eamon, so many secrets. But you were about to tell me about the message, and Charles . . .’

  ‘Once our plan is about to be put into action,’ he explained in a stronger voice, ‘when we’re ready to strike, it’s critical that we communicate to the Allies our intention to kill Hitler, arrest the Nazi leadership, and sue for peace with Britain and the United States. That’s the message I was sent to deliver.’

  Mary sat in stunned silence, gently rocking back and forth. ‘Eamon,’ she said at length. ‘Oh, my God.’

  Mary knew it was only a matter of time before he would be well enough to leave, but she forced herself not to dwell on it. The admiration she felt for him and the fear for his likely fate were so great that she knew she would have difficulty managing her emotions. She had no idea where he would go, or how he would elude the men who had nearly beaten him to death. As on most late afternoons, she made a pot of chamomile tea, which she served in her grandmother’s Belleek china, which helped to compensate for the flavourless concoction. Eamon was in the comfortable chair by the hearth, watching her with a contented look, a worn leather Bible in his lap. Though his wounds had healed, he walked with a slight limp, and his vision was blurred. ‘There we are,’ she said, handing him a cup before sitting on the sofa. After taking a sip, she said, ‘Now I suppose you would like me to read to you.’

  ‘You know how much I enjoy listening to you read scripture.’ He leaned over to hand her the family Bible she’d found among her grandmother’s books.

  Putting her tea aside, she opened the Bible and said, ‘And what will it be today?’

  ‘I was thinking just now about St. Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi. The King James translation is so beautiful.’

  ‘Chapter and verse?’ asked Mary. She was no longer surprised by his encyclopaedic knowledge of scripture.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘Beginning with the tenth verse of the third chapter.’

  Mary read aloud: ‘That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death; if by any means I might attain unto the resurrection from the dead . . . but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus . . .’ She paused and said, ‘May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It seems to me that you and the others in your conspiracy have this conviction of sharing in Christ’s sufferings, even if it means your own deaths.’

  ‘Persecution, suffering, death even, in the service of God are an aspect of our faith.’ Mary nodded. ‘And now read the eighth and ninth verses of the fourth chapter.’

  ‘Finally, brethren,’ she began, ‘whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise – think on these things.’ She gently closed the volume. ‘Oh, Eamon,’ she said, ‘if only I had your faith.’ There was more she wanted to say, but she’d never spoken to him about her religious beliefs and felt ashamed in the presence of his unpretentious devotion.

  ‘Tell me what happened to your faith,’ he said simply.

  ‘Well,’ she began nervously, ‘I was raised a Catholic, and I was a good girl growing up.’ She laughed self-consciously, which somehow caught in her throat. ‘But then, when my baby was taken away, and David was killed . . .’ She hesitated, composing herself.

  ‘You were angry with God,’ suggested Eamon.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a nod. ‘Very angry, though I knew it was wrong. I couldn’t believe that a God I’d been taught loved me would do such a thing. And ever since, I’ve given up trying. I just don’t understand how God could have let all this happen.’

  ‘You see, Mary,’ said Eamon calmly, ‘believing in God doesn’t mean things are going to turn out the way you hope or even the way you pray. And when you suffer as great a loss as you have, it doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love you.’

  ‘Then what does it mean?’ she asked, fighting back tears.

  ‘Faith in God,’ said Eamon, ‘gives you the strength to endure. To carry on, in the face of these losses. But first you must see the world through a different lens.’

  Mary dabbed at her eyes and said, ‘Maybe I’ve been wanting the wrong things.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps you have.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY


  Mary stood on tiptoe, reaching far back on the pantry shelf. She could have sworn that there was one last unopened bag of flour, but with all the baking of late she realized it was gone. As she untied her apron, she made a mental list of the items she needed from town, wondering whether there might be a letter waiting at the post office. Leaving the apron on the kitchen table, she stepped into the sun-dappled living room where Eamon was reading in his accustomed chair. ‘I’m off to town for supplies,’ she said cheerfully.

  Eamon looked up with a smile and said, ‘Take care, Mary. What’s the old Irish blessing? May the road rise to meet you and the wind be always at your back.’

  She considered the traditional valediction as she shrugged on her coat. ‘Yes, well, goodbye,’ she said, as she reached down to pat Chelsea. Taking advantage of the mild early spring weather, many of Mary’s neighbours were out and about as she cycled into town. Mrs Dillon, walking her retriever, stopped her to enquire about the status of the O’Leary twins, in whose birth Mary had assisted Doctor Fraser. Her new role as the doctor’s occasional nurse had elevated Mary in the eyes of the villagers and increased their curiosity about the American woman on Kilmichael Point. ‘Mary,’ called out Katy Fitzgerald, a young woman pushing a pram past the old stone church. ‘Will you be seein’ the doctor today? It’s the baby’s ears acting up again.’

  ‘I’ll pass the word,’ said Mary, starting off again, the wind furling her hair. At McDonough’s store, young Donald sprang to her assistance with unusual alacrity, reaching for items on the upper shelves, showing off his height, now just shy of six feet. Still guarding the secret of Eamon, Donald showered Mary with attention at every opportunity.

  ‘And the newspaper, of course,’ he said, as he placed the heavy bag on the counter and reached for the Irish Times. ‘Filled, as usual with news of the fightin’.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Donald,’ said Mary with a pretty smile.

  ‘If I was an American,’ he said.

  ‘If I were an American,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Yah, well, if I were, I think I’d be joinin’ up. The navy, I suppose, like your brother.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, hoisting her bag, ‘and break your poor mother’s heart.’ She saved the post office for last, leaning her bicycle against the building. Mr Coggins gave her the slightest suggestion of a smile as he slid two envelopes across the counter and said, ‘I was wondering when you were going to claim these.’

  Mary saw at once that one was a letter from Charles and the other from home. Restraining the impulse to tear open the envelopes, she smiled and placed them in her handbag. ‘Thank you, Mr Coggins,’ she said brightly. ‘Have a lovely day.’

  The dog pawed at the door with more than her usual enthusiasm at the sight of her mistress. ‘Hush, Chelsea,’ said Mary as she placed her groceries and newspaper on the kitchen counter. ‘What’s got into you?’ She reached for the envelopes in her purse and carefully examined the postmark on the letter from Charles. Tearing it open, her eyes fell on the opening paragraph. With an exaggerated sigh, she slumped in the chair. The sheet of paper quivered in her hand and then swam before her eyes. He was returning to combat. It was what she had sensed for months but refused, absolutely, to admit since the tone of his letters had taken that strange turn. She had tried blaming it on her irrational fears, but deep in her heart she had known. Mary dropped the letter on the table with a groan, unable to read past the first paragraph. In the silence she could hear nothing but the pounding of her heart and the old, dreaded voice in her mind, whispering to her of death . . .

  Mary rubbed her eyes and got up, concerned that Eamon might have heard her. But when she walked into the living room it was empty. The bedroom was empty as well. Without so much as a word of farewell, he had vanished. During the weeks she had patiently laboured to heal his broken body, Eamon, she now realized, had been working to mend her broken soul. She had been needed, with a purpose and meaning she hadn’t felt since Anna had nursed at her breast. Though she had been preparing for the end – Eamon had spoken of leaving almost since the first week – she was unprepared for his sudden departure. Her initial reaction would once have been tears, but that would dishonour all he had taught her. If only she had one more chance to talk with him, to seek his counsel about this news from Charles. What was it Eamon had said? That she’d been wanting the wrong things and must learn to see the world through a different lens? She stood by the old bureau, staring out the windows at the jade green sea. Glancing down, she saw a small envelope with the inscription ‘Mary’. Inside she found a plain white card with the words:

  Dear Mary,

  Thank you for giving me back my life. I will never forget you. Remember that we ‘rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us.’

  Trust in God,

  Eamon

  Mary wiped away a tear. She wondered where Eamon would go, how he would evade the men who had very nearly killed him. She knew he would keep himself alive to see his plan through to the end. She only wished there had been a goodbye. No, she did not. He had slipped away just as he had first appeared on the path below her cottage. No long, tearful goodbyes. Simply gone. Only later, after she had steadied herself, did she read the rest of Charles’s letter. Again she cried, not the crying she might have indulged weeks ago, but tears of acceptance. The words from the poem were so perfect: Our two souls, therefore, which are one. Now all that mattered was that he loved her, and she loved him and, trusting in God as Eamon counselled, that some day they would be together again.

  At the end of the day, Mary sat in the rocking chair rereading the simple note from her mother. For months she had been dogged by guilt for failing to return home, fearing her father might be gone before she could tell him goodbye, but thankfully he’d made a full recovery. And her mother had enclosed a letter from her brother Bill, full of confidence. Mary inhaled deeply, thinking of Charles and her far-off brother and the perils they were facing as she watched the fading light. These were issues of faith, exactly as Eamon had taught her. She must stop screaming at God about what had gone and ask His help in understanding what she now faced.

  She awoke to the sun streaming in the bedroom window, momentarily forgetting that Eamon had left. The realization that she was alone forced her to consider how empty her life had become. Later she went to her bedroom, savouring the smell of antiseptic, the last trace of him, before turning the mattress and remaking the bed. After placing her silver hair brushes and perfumes on the dressing table, she surveyed the room. It was as if Eamon had never been there. But in the weeks she had nursed Eamon O’Farrell back to life, she had begun to find her way.

  The men of the Third Division had been encamped along the Scottish coast since January, training endlessly for the amphibious landings. At the end of March, without warning, orders arrived to abandon winter quarters and prepare to move out. The King’s Shropshire Light Infantry travelled by lorry to Newcastle where they entrained for their final encampment fifteen miles inland from the Channel. The convoy of drab green lorries stretched as far as the eye could see. Village children stood clinging to the fences, listening to the deep reverberations of the engines, acknowledging the drivers’ waves with tentative smiles and extended hands. It seemed the whole of the vast British and American armies was crowding into the south of England. Tens of thousands of vehicles bearing equipment and supplies that beggared description, hundreds of thousands of men, tramped endlessly along the lanes in their steel helmets, heavy packs and rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Davenport sat at his desk in the battalion HQ rereading the fitness reports of his company commanders. With the advent of spring, the number of sick cases had declined to the point that they were now at full strength. And, he noted with satisfaction, after the months of training, the men were fit, eager, and spoiling for a fight. Putting the reports
aside, Davenport unfolded the letter from Evan Hockaday with its remarkable news that Evan had fallen in love with a young woman who worked with him at Bletchley and that they were planning to be married at a small ceremony at Marsden Hall. The thought filled him with happiness, along with a twinge of envy. Putting the letter aside, Davenport picked up a pink envelope, fragrant with the sickly-sweet smell of Jenny’s perfume. He was aware that the perfume-scented envelopes, addressed in her wide scrawl, were something of a joke among the enlisted men. With a frown, he reread the letter, noting the poor handwriting, the occasional misspelled word. But he admitted to feeling admiration for her pluck and determination. She was saving her earnings from the shop, living at home, sewing her own clothes when she was able to find fabric, so that she could go back to school. ‘Not to college, of course,’ she’d written, ‘but to learn a trade.’ He imagined her learning the skills of the efficient secretaries in the typing pool at Norfolk House. With a bit of help, she might even shed the Cockney accent, considering how determined she was to leave behind the shop-girl’s life. He tossed the letter on his desk with a heavy heart. He had led her on, willingly responding to her advances, however clumsy, and he’d been attracted, not only by her looks but by her spirit. But from the moment he’d finally resolved to tell Mary that he’d given up the safety of his desk job and would be leading men into combat, his only thoughts had been about the coming invasion and surviving it so that he could be with Mary again. He’d been a fool to entangle himself with Jenny, and it was time that he told her the truth. Taking a sheet of army stationery and his pen, he wrote quickly:

  Dear Jenny,

  I’ve just finished reading your last letter. I truly admire your ambition to go back to school and have no doubt that you’ll succeed and find a professional position. As for me, we’ve left our training camp, and though I’m not at liberty to divulge our whereabouts . . .

  He paused and considered striking out the word ‘divulge’. With a frown, he continued:

  This may be my last opportunity to write for the foreseeable future, as momentous events lie ahead. I’ve enjoyed our time together and think you’re a wonderful girl, but there’s something I must tell you. I’m involved in a relationship with someone else, and we’re promised to one another. I should have explained this sooner, but it’s best that you know. I will remember you fondly and have no doubt that with your looks, personality, and drive you will do well. I do hope you understand.