Bathed in that terrible light, men would have run this way and that in their confusion and panic, trying to cut the lifeboats free, the boats then dangling over the side as the ship listed suddenly, so suddenly, it would have upended in a ball of fire and hiss of steam before slipping below the waves to give the death rattle of bursting bulkheads and boiler plate.
Not speaking, Hamish had looked at her, she not saying anything, either, each of them wondering how many survivors there could possibly be from that one ship alone? The men on watch perhaps, but definitely not those who had been below decks in their bunks or the engine room—how many tons of shipping had Erich’s U-boat sunk, how many lives had been lost to the cold, cold waters of the North Atlantic because of him?
The news had gone on to other things, she knowing Hamish had still been watching her. Leningrad was under siege, Moscow threatened. Near Kiev, in the Ukraine, more than seven hundred thousand Russian soldiers had surrendered to the enemy.
London had been bombed again.
And in the North Atlantic, a convoy out of Halifax, in Canada, had been savagely mauled by a wolf pack of German submarines. Seven ships had been lost—not just that one freighter. Two hundred and eighty-four men were known to have died or gone missing and yet here she was, clean, not covered with Bunker C and freezing, lying only in fear of losing everything, of disgracing herself and those who counted most, of dying too.
‘Mary, what is it?’
When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘Is it the loss of those men? There is no feeling in war. Men have to kill without feeling. It’s the only way. We have our own U-boats. Had the shoe been on the other foot, it would have been the same.’
Mary knew he was thinking of Erich and herself, of the man he’d befriended, the patient he had cared for and trusted, the wife as well.
Fraser sat down on the edge of her bed. He thought to tell her that on the late bulletin they’d announced that one of the U-boats had been sent to the bottom, and that this must mean the Royal Navy had some new means of detection.
He thought to tell her that he understood. He tried to reach out to her, only to pull back at the last and then to reach out again.
As his hand came to rest on the back of her head, she heard him gently saying, ‘What is it, lass?’ and when she didn’t answer, felt his hand slide down under her hair to the nape of her neck. Even as she went on and on and couldn’t seem to stop herself or say a thing, he worked at relieving the tension in her. The feel of his hands was like some magical balm. He knew she was desperately in love with Erich Kramer and that it couldn’t have been easy for her at the castle today, and when she had finally settled down a little, he said, ‘Our Ria says you’re all a-rattle these days. Like a chicken she once knew as a girl. “The poor creature had its head off, it surely had, Doctor, and ran about the yard trying to peck up its dinner before climbing into the nest to lay four brown eggs and die. Four, it was, I’m telling you, Doctor. Ah and sure it was a tough ould bird it was. Stewed to string and still like binder twine!”’
Grimacing, clamping her eyes shut, Mary tried to stop herself. Hamish loved these people, was in sympathy with them, with the very heart and soul of them.
A meeting place, Kevin O’Bannion had said. Some place along the coast—in Donegal perhaps? Somewhere hidden so well, the Germans could bring in a U-boat to take Erich Kramer and Liam Nolan off and how, please, had Erich known of the White Horse Inn and Mrs. Tulford, how?
Pushing herself up on one arm, she turned to look at him. ‘Hamish, make love to me,’ she said—nothing else. She had to have him in her, had to feel the warmth of his ejaculation, had to have a reason for what had happened to her body, had to lie.
At midnight she awoke to the sound of a single aircraft. The pillowcases were damp. Hamish hadn’t come to bed with her.
On Thursday she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t go to the castle in the afternoon. On Saturday it was the same.
No breakfast for fear she’d throw up and let the news out. Weak tea and a biscuit at dinner. Something solid for supper, and then, after Mrs. Haney and Bridget had left for the day, two ham3 sandwiches with mustard and a glass of porter.
1 Scuttled with many others in May 1945.
2 Eggs were extremely scarce in England but plentiful in the North and the South of Ireland, as were butter, milk, and other farm produce, both regions being predominantly agricultural at the time.
3 While there were rationing restrictions and periodic checks, farmers and other rural people, as here, tended to fare much better than those in the urban centres.
3
Fay met her in the orchard at the far corner of the garden. The Fraser woman had been gathering windfalls, it being Sunday and the one day the woman had the kitchen to herself. The rotten, sour-sweet cider smell of the apples was all around the twat, as were the yellow jackets. ‘You’re a fancy woman, Mrs. Fraser.’
‘Don’t you care if someone sees you from the house?’
The voice was shrill; Fay shook her head. ‘It’s the rebel’s curse and cause t’ be a rebel. The more we stand out, the more we succeed.’
Hamish was in the house. Hamish … Mary set the basket down. ‘I can’t go through with it. I can’t betray my country and my husband.’
Brave words now were they? ‘We’ll see about that then.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She was agitation itself. ‘That you’re to make of it what you will. Slut, I’m thinking. See what happens to sluts who bed those they’re not supposed to and then refuse to do as they’re told.’
‘Wait … Please wait. Don’t you see it’s not easy for me to take things into Tralane? The guards always check.’
Fay turned to swiftly close the distance between them. The woman’s cardigan had come undone, a button had been lost from her blouse. ‘By guards, you mean Captain Allanby.’
‘Yes … Yes, him.’
‘What’s he to you then?’
With a toss, the Darcy woman threw back the hank of reddish brown hair that had fallen forward over her brow and let an insane look come into her sea-green eyes.
‘Nothing. I don’t exactly like him.’
‘But he fancies you, does he? You’re quite the looker. Always in heat, is it? And there’s Jimmy Allanby himself panting at your heels and wanting to lick the arse off you. Am I not right?’
Mary waited for her to shriek, ‘Answer me!’ but it never came.
Fay touched the place where the button had gone missing. ‘You’ve lost something, deary. You want to mend a thing like that, you do, what with all them men lusting after that body of yours.’
Involuntarily Mary felt the gap. She’d forgotten all about the button. She should have gone back into that corridor to look for it, knew she’d been far too upset. ‘Wait … Please wait,’ she called.
Fay turned to look at her from under the last of the trees. ‘Objecting is it? Not obeying orders? Well, you watch and you wait, and you’ll learn soon enough.’
The Fraser woman crouched to grab and throw apples at her—any of the damned things. Stung repeatedly by the yellow jackets, the woman never once took her eyes from her, the juice and the pulp of those now clenched running like blood through her fingers, but she’d not cry out, not this one, though the pain must be hurting her something terrible.
Fay was impressed but didn’t care to let on and walked away without another word.
It was Hamish who pried Mary’s hands apart in the kitchen and said, ‘What have you done?’
‘Stung myself rather badly, I’m afraid.’ Had he seen them talking? Did he now know what she was up against? If he did, Hamish didn’t let on. He washed the pulp and juice from her hands, then found his tweezers and removed the stingers, after which he bathed the stings with methylated spirit and swabbed them with cotton wool that had been dipped in vinegar.
&n
bsp; ‘Now go and lie down for a bit. We’ve apples enough.’
‘I didn’t want to waste them. I really was trying to help out. Mrs. Haney …’
‘Och, I know you were and that Ria’s been on another of her rationing crusades. A cup of that blackberry tea perhaps, and then a walk? Would that suit?’
‘Yes … Yes, of course. You know I always enjoy our walks, but let’s have the rosehip with a touch of her honey. It will please her if we do, and at least then I can then tell her that we did.’
And not lie. Mary’s hands could only be throbbing like blazes, yet she acted as though immune to it.
They’d had their ‘tea’ and then their walk. They’d had their supper in by the fire and had gone to bed after the news. Hamish never closed his bedroom door. Doctors who are always on call can never do a thing like that, for the telephone might ring at any time.
His light had still been on at 11.00 p.m. and then at midnight. He was reading again. Robbie was lying on the bed beside him. The two of them were snuggled up, the dog as asleep as dogs ever get, which simply meant that Robbie would be certain to have heard her, she standing out in the corridor.
Robbie went everywhere with Hamish. A Sheltie with an absolutely gorgeous coat and a clear, crisp mind, he embarrassed her with his loyalty. It was as if the dog knew she wasn’t behaving properly and had therefore shunned her. Oh, he’d shake a paw and come if called but one could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
Mary hesitated. There were so many feelings crowding her—guilt, loss, fear; a cold, sheeting fear that terrified, for Fay Darcy had meant what she’d said, but a need also to tell Hamish everything, to talk it out and see what was best. To confess, to say, I’ve been cheating on you.
Another page was turned—had he seen the Darcy woman and herself and thought to say nothing of it? Nothing—Hamish who knew a lot more about the IRA and the local people than he ever let on? He would know what she’d been going through, would try to understand. That was his very nature.
She would have to do something. There couldn’t be any questions as to who the father was, not for her sake and not for his. She would have to face up to the rest of it, too, ought, really, to confide in him since only he could help her.
He nudged the reading glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. The pale light from the lamp brought out the softness of the reddish tints in his sandy hair, making him look gentler, kinder, calmer than she’d ever seen before.
Though it hurt her knuckles, she knocked and said, ‘Hamish, I have to talk to you. Can I come in?’
The dog looked up, saw whom he had already known was there and, saddened by the thought, laid his muzzle down again. There was such a look of dismay in Robbie’s eyes, it was as if she had not just disturbed their peace but would come between them.
‘Robbie, go and lie on the carpet, there’s my wee lad. Mary, is it your hands? Do you want a sleeping tablet?’
She shook her head and managed a smile. ‘No, they’re fine. Lots better. The swelling seems to have reached its peak. I only wish they hadn’t stung me between the fingers.’
Robbie slunk off the bed and went to curl up on the carpet. As Fraser watched, Mary came to stand where the dog’s paws had first touched the floor. She was wearing the dark blue velvet dressing gown he’d bought her a year ago this coming Christmas, when such things could still be found, but what was there in the look she gave? A plea for understanding? A ‘Hamish, I don’t just need to talk?’
‘What is it?’ he asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she let the robe fall about her ankles, himself pulling back the covers.
With a brief, self-conscious smile, she slid in beside him and snuggled down. ‘You smell nice,’ she said, giving him a contented sigh and meaning it too, no doubt. ‘Did you know that?’ she asked suddenly, twisting to look at him before settling back. ‘Hamish … Darling, why can’t things be like they used to be? I need to be with you some of the time, even if you’re out on a call. I need to have someone I can talk to, like we used to. Something’s come up and … Well, it’s more than I can handle on my own.’
Dear God, she’d come to him at last. ‘Light on, or light off?’ he asked.
She had shut her eyes anyway, must be wondering how best to begin.
‘The news was terrible, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Everything indicates the Germans are going to win.’
Fraser felt how hot her hand was, she taking his own to tuck it under an arm. ‘Does Erich believe this?’ he asked, letting her sense the tightness in his voice.
Mary gave a shrug. ‘I haven’t seen him yet, but the others all believe it. A few months, a year at most and then they’ll be free again.’
Almost to a man, Fraser knew they could be arrogant when they wanted, too young most of them to know what war was really like, too fit, taken too early perhaps. Officers, of course. The pick of the crop, the ones who had joined up first, Nazis some of them, not all, but those who had hanged one of their own certainly must have been, though he’d not say any of this to her. He’d wait.
‘I’ve become a symbol to them, Hamish. A “good” person among the enemy. Someone they feel they can trust. Someone they can joke with and talk to, and be themselves.’
‘It was wrong of the colonel and the others to have asked you to spy for them. You mustn’t do it, lass. It’s far too dangerous. They won’t find the men who hanged the Leutnant zur See Bachmann, not even if you were to listen and repeat every word you had heard.’
‘Who did it? You must have some idea.’
‘Is that what you wanted to discuss?’
‘Not exactly but … but it’s a part of it. It must be.’
Fraser reached out to switch off the light. Sliding down under the covers, he turned on to his side and laid a hand fondly against her cheek. ‘Och, with you I’m at a loss; with Robbie I know exactly what to do.’
‘I’m not a dog,’ she said, feeling the nearness of him now, the warmth.
‘Of course you’re not, nor would I have it.’
‘I’m not the girl you lost in France, nor the wife you used to have. I wish I was that girl, Hamish. Sometimes I really do, but I’m not.’
It’s Erich, isn’t it? he wanted to say but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Again she snuggled down against him, this time with her head in the crook of his arm.
‘You’re such a good man, Hamish. I don’t want to see you hurt. There are things I have to tell you and I want so much to say them.’
It began to rain, and they listened to it gusting against the windows, Mary plucking at his pajama top until finally managing to slide a hand in under. ‘I like the feel of the hairs on your chest,’ she said.
‘I am partial to having you feel them.’
‘Are you really?’ she asked, pushing herself away to sit up and look down at him through the darkness.
‘Och, you must know that. What is it? What’s been troubling you?’
‘So many things I don’t know where or how to begin.’
Mary pulled off her nightgown. Shutting her eyes, she kissed him on the chin and snuggled up again, wanted so much to say, ‘Make love to me, my darling,’ but felt it wouldn’t be right of her. Guilt and Erich lay between them, the child as well. ‘Come in me, Hamish. I have to have you in me.’
Fraser kissed her then and slid her arms about his neck but suddenly she began to cry, couldn’t seem to stop herself.
‘Mary, please tell me what it is before it’s too late.’
Her knees came up on either side of him, he wanting her no matter what and tearing at his pajama bottoms, trying to get free of them.
It had to happen. Hamish needed the offer doubt would hold; she needed it too. ‘In, my darling. In,’ she begged.
A rain of gravel hit the window. Another burst followed, he penetrating her deeply only to curse and withdraw. ‘Oh damn and blas
t it! What the blessed hell’s the matter now? I’m not a bloody vet!’
Robbie was barking like crazy and leaping about in the darkness, the two of them having forgotten all about him.
Another blast of gravel hit the window, giving the telltale tinkle of broken glass as Hamish fumbled blindly for something to wear, she scrambling out of bed to thrust his pajamas at him.
A woman was standing in the darkness and the rain, clutching a shawl about herself and keening up at them. ‘Doctor … Doctor, come quickly. Oh, please, Doctor. Something terrible’s happened.’
‘Mrs. Haney, what is it?’ he yelled, leaning well out of the window.
‘Doctor, it’s Caithleen O’Neill. She’s in the field back of Ned Cassidy’s cowshed.’
Hamish let a roar out of him, a cry of despair at the insanity of things. Turning swiftly from the window, not bothering even to close it, he shouted, ‘Put the light on, Mary. For God’s sake get dressed and don’t hang about. I’m going to need you. Don’t just stand there gaping at me. Get some blankets!’ as if she were to blame for what had happened, as if he knew all about things and the worst had happened to someone else.
Hamish had never spoken to her like this before. Never!
Knowing Mrs. Haney would see her nakedness against the light and that it would have to be enough for gossip’s whispers, Mary ran to the window to look down. The child would die within her as she died herself. It would never be born, not properly. There would be no time for that but she might lose it as she died and that would start them talking.
The rain came down in buckets but she heard it as at the frontier, the headlamps shining out into the night. They were on a lane that ran beneath overhanging branches and between low and tumbled walls of stone. Ned Cassidy must have taken his milk cart along it thousands of times but had never once lifted a finger to maintain the blessed thing. The lane wasn’t just a typical Irish boreen but a prideful example of it, the ruts being overly deep, the boulders huge. At every turning there was either the empty blackness of a field or a wall of brush and trees that threatened to dent the top of the car.
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