Read The Matchmaker of Kenmare Online
Authors: Frank Delaney
The Matchmaker of Kenmare (32 page)
She said, “I’ll do the same. I can’t lug my diary with me.”
“What?”
She laughed at my surprise. “Of course I keep a diary. Look at the interesting things that happen to me. I might let you read it one day.”
“When do you write it?”
“Like you,” she said. “At night. I’m not always as diligent as you. And when we’re old and gray, and you come to visit me and Charles, we’ll look back over our notebooks,” she said, “and wonder that we had such adventures.”
At my age today, I delight myself with my own emotional vigor. When I reach into my memory, I can recall so much, down to the details of my own thoughts at any given moment, and, almost more important, my own mood. It’s always been my burden—and my pleasure—to take my mood from those around me. I think it comes from having been an only child, when I couldn’t help but observe my parents at very close quarters and be affected by them.
And I believe that it explains why I went along with such aplomb every time Kate Begley proposed an outlandish scheme. I picked up her energy, her vivacity, her life force—and I needed all those to help me stay alive.
That is how I went into that horrible war a third and final time. I even found in myself noble feelings about it—principally because James Clare had told me once, “In all great legends, the important things happen three times.”
Yet, I know that we faked the lightness in our hearts. There were even moments when I tried to seem like a holidaymaker. We’d hired a hackney car with a good pony, and he took us to Killarney—where we shopped for some personal needs. A chemist who knew Miss Begley kindly gave me extra razor blades, and apologized to us for the quality of the rationed soap.
I went to the bank and inquired about money. They raised eyebrows when I said I wanted German marks. An order was placed that I would collect in Dublin. “Take some American dollars,” they told me. “That’s what the international financiers are saying.”
We stayed at Mrs. Cooper’s; she and Miss Begley liked each other, and mutually knew wide circles of people. Much of the later evening was spent in trying to render our luggage as efficient as possible. We had so overpacked that we had to leave a suitcase—containing possessions from both of us—in Mrs. Cooper’s care. I joked to her that if we never came back she could sell the things and go on a spree. I don’t think the joke went down well with Miss Begley.
Here’s the first entry from Kate’s new notebook, made that night.
12 November 1944: Ben usually lodges in this house when coming through Killarney. I think she’s the Mrs. Cooper whose husband got drunk, and staggered into no-man’s-land during the last war, and was shot. Nana told me that story. I’m so excited that Nana’s getting married. Charles will be delighted too—he loves her. I know that Ben’s trying to tell me we have tough days ahead and I respect him for that. But my excitement will carry me through, and I’ll try not to worry as to Charles’s health
.
And here’s my own earliest note from that last, awful foray, during which all my views about life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and every other damn thing in the world were scuttled.
13 November 1944: The morning train was empty, and the guard joked about whether we’d have enough fuel to get us to Dublin. Miss B. doesn’t like jokes that threaten our plans. People who see us together assume that we’re married. Miss Begley, showing no tact toward me, corrected a lady, “No, I’m the one who’s married.” And I thought with a huge sadness, “Oh, but I am married.” And then asked myself, “But am I? What an irony is all this. She’s searching for somebody I know is dead and I’m searching for—what?” I can’t actually say, because I can’t actually put down on paper what I believe about Venetia anymore
.
While I think of it, I’ll include here a selection of entries from our separate journals (with commentary now and then from me) because I believe that they have the value of greater immediacy than my simple reminiscence. So that you know what to expect, they take the story right up to the moment when circumstances prevented us from taking notes.
You’ll ask yourself as you read them, “How in the name of God did they preserve those diaries?” Well, I’ll take the credit for that. No matter what happens in a war, people on the move have to have clothes, and there came a moment when I took over the custody of the notebooks. When, eventually, I told James this, he smiled and said, “I trained you well.”
13 November 1944: I love train journeys. Ben is a good traveling companion. He’s such a peaceful man to be with. And I like to be seen with him, given the way girls look at him. If I hadn’t met Charles—would I have wanted to marry Ben? Maybe, provided I could knock the sadness out of him. He’s a lot better now. He doesn’t mope as much. Why doesn’t Nana like him? And she surely doesn’t! She keeps nagging me about him, says that there’s a volcano in him. Tonight, we’re in the Wicklow Hotel and tomorrow we go to the embassy again
.
14 November 1944: In the Wicklow Hotel. I’m exhausted. How does KB do it? How does she produce so much energy? And the charm that goes with it? That man in the embassy would do anything for her. We weren’t supposed to hear a fraction of what he told us—he seemed to have forgotten war censorship. I’m too tired to write up in detail what happened today
.
14 November 1944: Ben was so startled to wake up and find me in his bed! I wanted him to have company in the night. He looked so scared when they told us at the embassy that we can become part of the American war effort. They’ll let Ben drive an ambulance in France. I can be his assistant. This is the best news. I don’t think Ben can face it, but I can give him the courage, I know that. He’s brave in himself, he just doesn’t know it. Tomorrow night we leave on the boat for England. I’m looking forward to seeing Claudia again. Sent Nana a card. I think Bob (Nana’s man-friend) will call to see her, now that he knows I’m not there
.
Thursday morning, 16 November 1944: Slept badly, but was able to catch up on the newspapers. KB is singing in the room next door while mighty battles are being fought in eastern France. I hadn’t imagined that the Americans could drive up from Italy so fast. If the little maps in the newspapers are right, they’ll be in Germany within a week or two. Wouldn’t that be our best policy—to wait until that happens? Then we could have the best of both worlds—be safe with the Americans, yet able to ask questions of the ordinary German people? She won’t agree. I wish I knew what to do
.
Later (Thursday afternoon): Miss B. is shopping; I’m waiting for her in the lounge of the hotel. We sail tonight, and I’m not too comfortable now with our plan. To judge from the news reports, Europe is going through awful turmoil, and we have no business going into that kind of scene. We’ve already been near shells and machine guns, and it got us nowhere. This is a wild-goose chase—to find a dead man
.
Thursday, 16 November 1944: Night on the boat from Dublin; the sea is calm. Ben isn’t. I don’t think he’s speaking to me. He says he has
no faith in this mission. I’ve told him that to be a friend you must have faith. He got very cross with me and wanted not to get on the boat. He says that he will only come as far as London. He says that we have to go—“have to” emphatically—to the American embassy in London. I say, “Why?” And he says, “Because.” I say, “Because what?” And he says, “Just—because” (which is no sort of grown-up answer). Now I’m the one who’s afraid. But I’m not going to let him see that
.
Thursday, 16 November 1944: The Irish Sea is v. rough; I’m feeling sick. Not a bother on KB. She sails blithely on. I’m going to confront her; I have to. I’m going to say, Look, Charles isn’t with the American forces, and he’s not behind enemy lines. Charles was assassinated in Fauville. When will I do it? On the train? Or should I do it before we disembark so that we can just stay on the boat and go back home?
Later: 4 A.M. I knew she wasn’t sleeping either, so I suggested (an hour ago) that we stand on the deck and enjoy the air. Stars everywhere, and a whipping breeze that would scrub the face of the moon. I said my say. “Charles will not come back,” I said. “They told me in France that they had no doubt. Why don’t we go home and leave it at that? Have a Mass said for him. Pray for him.” I thought that would soften the blow. It needed to—literally. She slapped me on the face. The few other people taking the night air looked around. She walked away
.
Thursday, 16 November 1944—or is it now Friday morning?: A beautiful night. Lots of stars. A pleasant breeze. Ben has been very agitated. And stupid. He’s behaving as though I don’t know what went on in France, what the Americans said. What he doesn’t know is the strength of my instinct. And it tells me that Charles is not only alive but well. I’ve given Ben a good talking-to
.
Saturday, 18 November 1944: KB still not speaking to me. Claudia not at Ritz Hotel, won’t be back until Monday. Are we waiting until then? KB won’t say. She seems distressed, won’t answer my questions
.
In London on that November Sunday, as you may suspect from the journal entries, we saw nothing of each other. Around lunchtime I knocked at her door and waited; she slid a note out underneath; it rustled at my toe cap:
GO AWAY
.
I turned the note around and scrawled on the back of it, “I will. I’m going back home.” Then I left the hotel and walked for miles, utterly confused about everything. In the weeks to come I would recall that walk as peaceful, a haven, a small paradise.
Of course I didn’t go back home, because I’d given my word. As I walked, I brought myself around to catch the breeze of optimism, despite the ruined streets. A curious note in the newspapers over lunch triggered it:
MANY IRISHMEN NOW ENLISTING IN BRITISH FORCES
. What was their thinking? To get in at the end because victory must soon come?
My own
war effort
—I used the term mockingly—didn’t seem nearly as grave as the sacrifice they were making. Or, second thoughts, was it a sacrifice at all? An army in retreat attracts increasing enmity—everybody wants to kick the dying man.
Not that you could tell the Germans felt weak. Their military spokesman, General Dittmar, had been quoted as preparing to counterattack in Holland and Belgium.
“We stand at the interval between the stage of thinly manned fronts and a new phase of the war. The outlook remains hopeful in view of the means of war, some of which are already in use and some in preparation.”
By “already in use” he meant, I assumed, the V1 and V2 rockets that had been falling on England, and which therefore might now kill us in London.
I read General Dittmar’s statement with further confusion. He was the official spokesman for the German High Command. Whom can one
believe? Are “we” winning? Certainly the maps show the German fallback—and now I learned on the same page that the Allies had taken the town of Metz, close to the German border. Also, Stalin, coming in from the east, was at the gates of Budapest.
When I folded the newspaper and went to finish my mug of tea, I found my hands shaking. Oddly, our neutrality calmed me. I began to focus on the word and think what it meant. The political fact of our Irish leaders not wanting us to get bombed had little to do with this idiotic escapade on which I had embarked. Or had it? If I grew “neutral” about it, if I became less emotional, might I be of greater service? Might it not be kinder?
But oh, what a thing is a demon! Could I honestly call my feelings toward Kate Begley “neutral”? Thus ran the argument in my mind. But at least I had begun a useful debate with myself, and one based on kindness. It didn’t do me much good.
Monday, 20 November 1944: Lovely to see Claudia again. She was so helpful, and gave me a letter of introduction to General Montgomery, who’s with the English army in Holland, and may be moving into Belgium and would love a soldier like Charles. I said, “Wasn’t he born in Ireland?” Claudia laughed and said, “Please don’t mention that to him.”
Claudia and I had a long talk. She told me many things about the war. Her great friend is the American ambassador in London, and she sent a letter to him while I was with her to get me introductions inside the U.S. Army too. She also showed me a report (I don’t think she should have shown it to me) about Charles and his unit
.
I think that Claudia has been much more involved in the war than I guessed. Ben always said that she was probably part of a secret network; Ben may be right. I wish that boy would take more credit for
his cleverness. I went to the ladies’ room and when I came back, Claudia was standing in front of Ben and holding both his hands
.
Monday night, 20 November 1944: Hull, a town in the east of England: We are stuck in this damp hotel, to which we stumbled from the train in the pouring rain. What a day! Very early, KB dragged me to see Claudia at the Ritz Hotel, and Claudia behaved as though we were her long-lost children
.
When she heard of our “mission,” as she called it, she took us away from her office to a much more private set of rooms and began to talk to us. I didn’t get the impression that she thought Captain Miller was dead, but, as she said, How would she know where he might be? She tried and tried to dissuade us, but no argument worked with Miss B
.
I asked her how safe we would be if we found ourselves behind the German lines, and she said that we should spend time “out in the countryside among the people”—exactly the same advice as Mr. Seefeld. She said that being Irish and neutral would probably help, but if we’d like to think about it, we could also be very useful. She was going to “send some messages.” I knew what that meant, and I didn’t like the sound of it at all
.
KB went for everything gleefully. I wonder if, deep down, she suspects that Captain Miller is dead, and wants us—or herself—to die too. Death wishes are strange things; the sanest of people can have them. And, with her rampaging sentimentality, she may want us to die in battle—but I’m not ready for that sort of sacrifice. I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to go there
.
Claudia asked me to come and stay with her on our way back if we’re coming through London again. She believes that the war will end very soon, and perhaps after that I might like to visit her in her country home
.
Tuesday, 21 November 1944: The night is as dark as can be. If I look out my window I can’t see as much as a glimmer. Ben is in the next room sulking. I haven’t told him about today’s telegram; we are to sail on tomorrow’s second tide to Bremerhaven
.
Claudia has suggested that I get to a village “southwest of Bonn,”
she said, “because that’s where the Allies will be breaking through,” and she thinks it “possible that Charles would likely be working around there.” I’ve looked at the map
.
Ben is going to say, “How in the name of God are we going to get down that far?” Claudia has assured me that we will be “handed on,” she calls it, “from person to person. You may have to carry some things, but it will be all right.” She is such a decent woman. We’ll become good friends. I’ve changed my mind about the English, and I now begin to like them a lot more
.