Mary Welsh was the first woman reporting on foreign affairs for Time magazine from wartime London. Mary’s editor, Walter Graebner, claimed, “Without doubt, she is the ablest female journalist in London.” Mary had narrowly escaped death from German bombs and shrapnel during the Blitz, yet she remained optimistic about the war’s outcome. As the Allies prepared to invade Normandy and hundreds of American officers and journalists passed through the city, Mary described London as “a Garden of Eden” for single women. “There was a serpent dangling from every tree and streetlamp, offering tempting gifts and companionship, which could push away loneliness.” These dalliances distracted people from “the hovering, shadowy sense of mortality.” In truth, Mary found comfort in the arms of several men, among them the young American writer Irwin Shaw who, she told a friend, was “the best lay in Europe.”
Friday, May 26, 1944, was a bright, warm day, and Mary strolled with Shaw up Rathbone Place to the lunch club at the White Tower. Mary wore a tailored jacket and skirt her seamstress had cut down from one of her husband’s civilian suits and a pair of nylon stockings, an admirer from the States had recently smuggled to her flat. When she put on her sunglasses, Shaw said she looked fresh from Hollywood. And, since Irwin knew how women dressed in Hollywood, Mary appreciated the compliment. As they neared the bistro on Percy Street, several men cast admiring glances. One romantic soul swept off his hat and bowed. Mary felt good about herself.
The bistro owner, John Stais, tended tables in front of the White Tower. He greeted “Miss Mary” with a wave, and she blew him a kiss. The beautiful weather was drawing people outside, and Mary expected a full house at the lunch club. Inside the restaurant, they climbed the stairway to the first floor. “Coming up!” Shaw shouted. A large, bearded man turned to watch. He stared at Mary as if trying to fix her features in his memory, and the intensity of his gaze made her turn away.
Shaw followed Mary across the room to the reserved table, and she took a seat against the wall. When she looked up, she saw the imposing stranger continuing to stare at her. His temples showed gray, and he had oiled his longish hair. A gigantic beard formed a dark brown hedge with white sideburns extending under his jaw. Mary thought his brown eyes were beautiful, “lively and perceiving and friendly.” Shaw saw her looking at the big fellow and casually mentioned, “That’s Ernest Hemingway.”
The room was so hot Mary removed her jacket. She had refused her mother’s advice to wear bras since the age of twelve because she found them uncomfortable. As Mary slipped off the tight garment, a passing airman commented, “the warmth does bring things out, doesn’t it?” Mary took a long drag on her Camel cigarette, and as she exhaled, she noticed Hemingway’s eyes trained on her, and he smiled, stood up, and came over to her table. Hemingway was a big man, as tall as her father. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and slim hips; he looked fit and moved on the balls of his feet with the rhythm of a big cat.
Hemingway towered over the table. “Say, Shaw,” he said, addressing Irwin but looking at Mary, “introduce me to your friend.” Ernest was 14 years older than Shaw and curt with the younger man. Shaw had recently told Mary that young writers, including himself, would soon overtake Hemingway’s generation of novelists. They were writing about the war with a fresh new style.
Nonetheless, Shaw introduced Ernest, who spoke softly and directly to Mary. Ernest told her he was a stranger in London and wondered if she could brief him on the state of hostilities. Ernest had a mid-western accent, and his voice was younger sounding than Mary had expected. He shyly asked if she would have lunch with him the next day.
Mary was busy that weekend but agreed to meet him on Monday. Ernest beamed with the happiest face she had seen in a long time, and he turned sideways to negotiate the narrow staircase. Mary’s friends gossiped the second he disappeared, and Shaw feigned jealousy, saying it had been nice knowing her. Mary regarded Ernest as another lonely man in a city full of lonely men, and it was not unusual for visiting journalists to ask her for a briefing. Still, celebrity is an aphrodisiac, and Mary had felt his commanding presence and was pleased he had asked her out. Ernest became infatuated with Mary. She exuded self-confidence and sexual appeal, and he could not wait to see her again. Ernest’s mood improved dramatically, and his brother Leicester noted, “in a couple of days, Ernest was feeling personally admired again, and life was very pleasant around him.”
Hemingway's Widow: The Life and Legacy of Mary Welsh Hemingway
Hemingway's Widow: The Life and Legacy of Mary Welsh Hemingway
Mary spent the weekend at Time’s country retreat. In good weather, Mary and her friends sprawled on blankets on the lawn and read or rode bicycles or hiked through the countryside. She rambled through the woods with her fellow journalist, Bill Walton, and mentioned her upcoming lunch with the famous novelist. Walton revealed that Leicester had earlier asked him about Mary’s whereabouts to arrange a meeting with Ernest. Slowly, Mary realized the encounter with Hemingway was far more intriguing than she had first imagined, and she wondered what Ernest had in mind. The thought of him scheming amused her as she walked into the sunlight and saw the Chiltern Hills standing against a perfect blue sky.
Excerpted from Hemingway’s Widow: The Life and Legacy of Mary Welsh Hemingway by Timothy Christian. Published by Pegasus Books. © Timothy Christian
