The Matchmaker of Kenmare by Frank Delaney

Author:Frank Delaney [Delaney, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-679-60433-4
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-08T05:00:00+00:00

76

In a clanking jeep, the Americans took us to Dieppe—or what was left of it. As though we were prisoners of war they handed us over to the Canadians, who had liberated the port. We had a rough crossing to England in a troopship. And how will they stop the torpedoes? I asked myself. From there we were escorted to a series of trains. Two armed soldiers sat with us all the way—and they finally supervised our embarkation on the Dublin boat at Liverpool.

“Stay neutral,” cracked the corporal.

Miss Begley didn’t speak once, not to me, not to anybody. She looked forty-five, not twenty-five, a face pitted with shock, the black light of despair in her eyes, hands listless as dead flowers in her lap. I’ve ransacked my memory for the truth of those two days (we had a night crossing to Dublin), and no matter what nets I trawl across my mind, I can’t haul in a single word that she spoke.

And I? Remember that metabolic device that I mentioned, the control valve, which, over the years, I had attached to my emotions? It had kicked on some days earlier. It’s useful; it delays an impact until I can digest it, until I can release it slowly into my system, examine it, and cope with the feelings. Yes, it holds up the pleasure in good news, but it mostly stops bad news from ambushing me—unless I’ve been drinking, and thanks to Miss Begley’s eagle glare I hadn’t touched anything beyond a drop of wine in months.

In Dublin, I took over the rest of the journey. I went to the bank, drew out enough money to book two adjoining hotel rooms, and sequestered Kate in deep comfort for four days and four nights. She ate not at all the first day—no breakfast, slept through lunch (I kept a duplicate key to her room), and refused dinner.

On the second morning, she drank some tea. I sat by her bed, eating the breakfast that she hadn’t touched. She didn’t look at me, kept her head down, her unwashed hair falling in a lank mask over her face. She had slept in her clothes. I warmed a face towel in the bathroom and held it to her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. And I said not a word, just waited—and waited.

An hour later, I rose to go, saying, “I’ll look in soon.”

She blurted, “I don’t believe he’s dead.”

“Shhh. Take it easy.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Kate, what are you saying?”

She said, “I asked the Americans. At that place.”

“Asked them what?”

“I said, Do you know a Captain Miller, an intelligence officer?”

“Kate, I heard you. I was listening at the door. But they didn’t seem to know.”

She said, “Others came and told me. A senior officer.”

I asked, “What did he look like? Was he as bald as an egg, was that the man?”

“Yes, and he said Charles was dead.”

“Sometimes they give details.”

“He said, in a hospital. It was bombed.”

I said, “You can’t be sure of anything in a war.”

She said, “Charles is very famous in the American army.

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