The Dangerous Islands

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Out of affection you’re on his side; out of duty you have to be on mine. You’re in a cleft stick,’ he ended sadly—‘and it isn’t particularly nice for me to see you there.’

  Julia was touched by his obvious distress and incompetence— she understood the reason for it all right, and secretly her heart rejoiced.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said vaguely. ‘Let’s hope for the best.’ Very gently she drew her hand out of his, and lit another cigarette.

  But the Colonel had a further preoccupation of his own; relieved by the way she had accepted his clumsy words, he aired it. ‘How well do you know this MacMahon man? he asked.

  ‘Very slightly. He can be great fun.’

  ‘Know anything of his background?

  ‘Nothing, except that they came here from Dublin, and that he writes these very amusing thrillers. He goes over to London a lot to see his publishers and his literary agent, naturally.’

  ‘You never met him there?’

  ‘Goodness, no! I don’t move in literary circles. But I agree that it’s odd that he should seem to know about you.’

  ‘It’s also uncommonly tiresome.’ Jamieson sat, frowning.

  ‘I shouldn’t try ringing up from here,’ Julia said, accurately guessing his thoughts. ‘Rosie Carey listens to every word on London calls. I should write.’

  The Colonel still frowned in thought.

  ‘Would O’Hara know anything about him and his contacts?’ he asked at length.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’ She paused, and considered. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’ the girl asked then. ‘Whether Tony is, or ever has been, a parlour pink, or something?’

  ‘Something on those lines. I really want to learn all I can about him—the oddest facts often throw some light.’

  ‘Then I think Josie is probably your best bet—he knows everything about everyone. Only we shall have to be a bit crafty. Let’s go in now; there’ll hardly be anyone about as early as this.’

  ‘Oughtn’t we to go back to Rostrunk for tea? I told Lady Helen I would.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. If we’re too late for tea we can go at drinks-time.’

  When Julia and the Colonel walked into Walsh’s Hotel a quarter of an hour later there was no sign of Josie; a very small woman with a peculiarly sweet expression greeted Julia with the warmth which Jamieson was beginning to expect in Mayo; he found it warming. Why couldn’t everyone be as affectionate as the Irish, he thought; it was very nice. After the usual greetings Julia said—

  ‘Where’s Josie, Mary Ellen?’

  ‘I’ll fetch him, Miss Probyn, if you want to see him.’

  ‘Only if he’s about.’

  Mrs. Walsh disappeared through the door at the back; the place, as Julia had foreseen, was quite empty.

  ‘Poor Josie—I expect he’s having a nap’ Julia said. ‘What on earth can we drink at this time of day?’

  ‘Benedictine, I think.’ He was studying the array of bottles behind the counter.

  ‘Oh, Josie,’ Julia said, when Mr. Walsh appeared, ‘we happened to be in town again, so I thought we might as well take out the rest of the General’s stout.’ (This useful excuse had occurred to her while Mrs. Walsh was fetching her husband.)

  ‘Right, Miss Probyn.’ Mr. Walsh hollered for a youth called P. J., and instructed him to put the stout in the car. ‘Now will you take a little something, Miss Probyn?’

  ‘Yes, please. We both want Benedictines. And this time, Josie, you’re going to have something nice with us.’

  Mr. Walsh, having arranged their unwanted drinks said that for his part he should like a small brandy.

  ‘Well have something decent, Josie.’

  Jamieson watched with interest to see what the publican would choose. After rummaging about on an upper shelf, to his amazement Mr. Walsh brought down a bottle of Hine 1906, and poured himself out a glass.

  ‘Good God! If I’d known you’d got that I’d have had some,’ Jamieson said. ‘How on earth did you come by it?’

  ‘I’ve had this a fair while,’ Mr. Walsh replied—‘I have good friends in France who get some nice stuff over to me from time to time.’ As he spoke he took the Colonel’s glass of Benedictine, emptied it into a small sink behind the counter, and poured him out a fresh one of the priceless brandy. ‘If you’re a brandy man, Colonel, please accept this. There’s not a soul in this place knows one brandy from another—not even the General, God help him! ‘Tis Guinness or whiskey he be’s drinking always.’

  ‘That’s because of his heart, Josie; he’s not allowed brandy, and the Doctors prescribe him whiskey’ Julia said. But she was pleased at the turn the conversation had taken; it might put Mr. Walsh in a pliable mood.

  It did. Presently—‘And how do you like Rostrunk, Colonel?’ Josie asked.

  ‘One of the loveliest houses in Europe,’ Jamieson replied. ‘And such delightful people to meet there. I thought little Mrs. MacMahon so charming.’ He risked forcing the pace a little; he thought it might help Julia if he gave her a lead.

  ‘Ah, she’s nice all right—a good, hard-working little woman,’ Mr. Walsh said judgmatically, sipping his Hine, and looking reflective.

  ‘Josie, what did Mr. MacMahon do for a living before he came down here, and started writing these books about everybody?’ Julia enquired, leaning confidentially across the counter. She was grateful for Jamieson’s lead, and followed it at once.

  ‘He was a dancer!’ Mr. Walsh replied. ‘Danced in these big ballays in London, they tell me.’ He refilled his own and Jamieson’s glasses—Julia saw with satisfaction that Josie was well launched on his favourite occupation of raconteur. ‘One time in Dublin he was bankrupt,’ the publican went on, ‘and they put the bailiffs in. He had an engagement in England that would pay off all his debts, but they wouldn’t let him away. So he sent out for a bottle of whiskey—to a house where he was known, ye understand—and he fed the whiskey to the bailiffs, and danced to them till they was dizzy! Then he got out of the window and climbed down the drainpipe, and away with him to England to his job—and came back with the money to clear himself.’

  Both Julia and Jamieson laughed heartily at this story; however it did not yield them much of the information they required.

  ‘But what sort of a person is he?’ Julia pursued. ‘It seems so odd of him to come down here, and then go and put everyone into a book—even you, Josie!’

  ‘Ah, ye read that one? Yes, I was murdered all right!’ Mr. Walsh said, grinning cheerfully. He paused, and considered. ‘Well, he’s not a very good Cat’lic—he often misses Mass. When he’s up in Dublin he goes around with all these clever lit’ry fellas—and that takes a man away from the Faith.’

  ‘Why should that be?’ Jamieson asked.

  ‘Oh, these smart writers mostly have no religion—they don’t believe in anything but themselves! Or in Russia,’ the publican replied. ‘’Tis the thing among them to think the world of Russia. Isn’t it the same in London, Miss Probyn?’

  ‘I daresay, Josie. But how do you come to know so much about the Dublin writers?’

  This was something Jamieson was longing to know too. He was both startled and fascinated to get this very positive slant on the Dublin literary scene in the smallest of possible pubs, in the wilds of Mayo.

  Mr. Walsh hesitated before replying.

  ‘Well now, Miss Probyn, you’re an old friend, and a friend of very old friends. If I let you into a little secret you’ll keep it to yourself? I’ve never told this even to Lady or the General.’

  Julia reassured him. ‘And Colonel Jamieson won’t talk either.’

  ‘Well Miss Probyn, I have a half-share in the Ailesbury Hotel in Dublin, and once in a while I go up to look into things. ’Tis very popular, is the Ailesbury; and the bar-man tells me what goes on.’

  Julia almost gasped. She had only a rough idea of what a ‘half-share’ in the Ailesbury might be worth, but it must run into tens of thousands of pounds. And here was Josie, serving
drinks behind his tiny bar in Oldport! But that was Ireland—she knew of at least two shopkeepers in Martinstown, also serving behind their counters, whose fortunes were fully three-quarters of a million each.

  ‘That’s most interesting,’ she said. ‘Of course we won’t say a word. But Josie, why are all these writers so keen on Russia? How much of a Commie is Mr. MacMahon?’

  ‘“Commie”!—that’s a great expression,’ Mr. Walsh said. ‘See now, Miss Probyn, for these boys everything Russian is right, and everything Christian is wrong. That’s the way it is’

  ‘But do they do anything for Russia?’

  ‘I think it’s little enough they do, except writing and prating about it,’ Mr. Walsh said. ‘And the Censorship clamps down on their books.’

  ‘Mr. MacMahon’s novels aren’t particularly lefty,’ Julia said thoughtfully. ‘They’re just thrillers.’

  ‘Ah, he’s too cute to put himself in wrong with the Censors—he has a family to feed! But if he could do Russia a good turn on the quiet, he would, right enough—like the rest of them.’

  This was disconcerting. Suppose the novelist got himself invited to come out to the Island in the O’Hara’s boat, Julia thought—that would really tear it. The idea prompted her to put a blunter question than she usually ventured on in Mayo. After a comment on Mr. MacMahon’s political views she said, leaning confidentially across the counter—

  ‘Josie, what happened to the General’s boat?’

  Mr. Walsh also leaned across, so far that his curly iron-grey head almost touched her golden one.

  ‘Miss Probyn, the lads had her out one night, when Lady and the General was away; what they did to her I don’t know, but anyway they had the engine busht someway.’

  ‘How disgusting!’ Julia said.

  ‘Ah, ‘twas a shame all right. They wanted to go out after the herring, and just took her.’

  ‘How disgusting!’ Julia repeated. ‘Really, Josie, that was very wrong.’

  ‘Ah, it was wrong all right.’ A pause. ‘But it wasn’t a sin,’ Mr. Walsh added with great definiteness. Jamieson, brought up in the traditions of John Knox, was fairly thrown back on his haunches by this singular ethical outlook.

  ‘But didn’t Tom Grady hear the engine when they took her out?’ Julia asked.

  ‘He was away that evening too—old Mrs. Tom Billy was sick, and he’d gone for the praste. He was raging mad after, when he heard what happened.’

  How typical, Julia thought. She had now been staying in Rostrunk for thirty-six hours; there had been endless discussion about what had gone wrong with the boat—but it was clear that Tom Grady, Michael’s loved and trusted ‘herd’, had withheld the truth from his master. Julia was not surprised; but as often in Ireland, she was rather shocked. What was it Father Murphy had once said to Helen? ‘Ah, Lady, if Mother Church had known the Irish, She’d have made lying one of the Seven Deadly Sins!’

  Presently they paid, and left. Driving back—‘Well, obviously it’s no good waiting for Michael’s boat,’ Julia said. ‘We shall just have to take the mail boat from Roonagh, and stay in the pub. Probably better, really; we shouldn’t have had much time to hunt round on short day trips, and with other people on our tail all the while.’

  Miss Probyn’s use of the word ‘we’ was balm to Colonel Jamieson. No need to ask if she would come with him; she meant to.

  ‘What’s the pub like?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, rather sweet. There are basins in the bedrooms, and if there’s any water at all, it’s hot. And the food’s quite good; Mrs. O’Malley has an Aga.’

  ‘Why should there sometimes be no water?’

  ‘Oh, if there’s been a drought, or if the wind-pump isn’t working. We’d better ring up from Rostrunk and see when we can get rooms.’

  What a blessed girl, the Colonel thought. But all he said was— ‘Oh, is the Island on the telephone? How convenient.’

  ‘Well no, not exactly—in fact one telegraphs. There’s some kind of wireless machine, like they have in Australia in the Out-Back; and Mrs. O’Malley sits and works sort of bicycle-pedals. She’s the post mistress as well, you see.’

  This was another glimpse of what the Colonel was coming to regard as the fantasy of life in the West of Ireland. Black Magic and private radio-communication, it all came alike to them! But his relations with Julia pressed more heavily on him than Irish peculiarities. Philip Jamieson was deeply conventional, and since he had decided to make Julia his wife if he could, her reputation had become a matter of great importance to him. He cogitated for some time as to how to put his next question.

  ‘How shall you explain to the O’Haras that you are coming to the Island with me?’ he asked at last. ‘Do they think you are interested in fulmars?’

  ‘Oh goodness no! I shall just say that I think you’d better have someone to help you out, in this foreign land, so I’m going too.’

  ‘Will the General accept that explanation? Do you suppose this MacMahon man talked to him about my being in M.I.5 after we’d gone?’ the Colonel asked rather anxiously.

  ‘More than likely—if Michael tackles you about it you’ll have to decide for yourself whether to say Yes or No. Of course he knows, or did know, that I’ve been involved with Colin, but luckily he forgets a great deal. Anyhow he’s become conditioned to accept pretty well anything I do. The one thing Michael worries about is morals, and he knows I’m completely moral,’ the girl added blandly, without the slightest change of colour. It was the man who blushed.

  At Rostrunk they again had drinks in the beautiful library. Presently Julia said—‘Michael, could I get onto the pub on Clare Island? Colonel Jamieson wants to get out there as soon as possible; and he thinks he’d better stay, so as to have more time for these birds.’

  ‘I can take him over in a day or two,’ General O’Hara said. ‘The boat will be all right by then.’

  ‘Are you sure she will? Anyhow we want to go at once.’

  The General, who occasionally used an eyeglass, now placed this in his eye and fixed it on Miss Probyn in a cold stare.

  ‘Who are “we”, Julia?’ he asked.

  ‘Me and the Colonel. I’m going too, to show him round.’

  ‘Oh, what a good idea!’ Lady Helen said, from the depths of a leather armchair. ‘Clare Island is such a strange place, and you know it so well. Do go and telegraph, dearest.’

  Julia went through into the gun-room and used the telephone.

  ‘Oh Rosie, Miss Probyn here. Listen—could you send a message to Mrs. O’Malley on Clare Island, and ask the soonest date she’d have two rooms free? For me and a friend—and then ring me back.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Miss Probyn. ’Tis nice you’re with us again.’

  ‘Lovely to be here, Rosie.’

  In the library another conversation was going on. Lady Helen saw that the idea of this expedition was fretting her husband—he fidgeted about, asking where the Scotch whisky was, and why there was no soda? She dealt with everything in turn, in her usual calm manner.

  ‘I thought it might amuse Colonel Jamieson to drink Irish whiskey for a change,’ she said. ‘But if you hate it, Colonel, do say, and you shall have Scotch and soda instead.’

  The Colonel said that he rather liked Irish whiskey.

  ‘Oh, excellent. Now Michael darling,’ General O’Hara’s wife went on serenely, ‘I’m going to ask something very difficult of you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, startled.

  ‘To grow up, the least little bit; I mean to be in the faintest degree au courant with contemporary life. You’re all upset because Julia is going to stay on the Island with Colonel Jamieson, to help him—but nowadays that is common form; it means nothing.’

  ‘’Tisn’t the sort of thing that used to be done when I was young,’ the General said gruffly.

  ‘No, my darling—but you see you’re not young any more.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Everything is quite different today. Do stop worrying, and have another whiskey—an
d don’t say a word to Julia. Promise?’

  Rather grudgingly, the General promised. It was a fine question whether he or Jamieson was the more embarrassed by Lady Helen’s open tackling of the matter; but Jamieson, at least, was immensely relieved.

  The General did pour himself another drink, and then turned to his guest with a question.

  ‘That fellow MacMahon said you’re in M.I.5,’ he pronounced. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I am connected with Intelligence, certainly,’ Jamieson replied rather stiffly—‘but I should be interested to know how your neighbour became aware of the fact, and why he should wish to publicise it. His Communist leanings, perhaps?’

  ‘Michael, I always told you that Tony was a parlour pink, and you never would believe me,’ Lady Helen said. She held out her glass. ‘Another little suppeen, please.’

  ‘Helen, you don’t need any more.’

  ‘Oh you grudging creature! I do.’

  Reluctantly, the General refilled his wife’s tumbler.

  ‘What makes you think Tony MacMahon is pro-Russian?’ he asked Jamieson then.

  ‘We learn things from all sorts of people,’ the Colonel said. The General reflected.

  ‘That’s not so nice, having a Communist here on the Bay,’ he said at length. He considered again. ‘Are these birds a blind? Are you after something else?’ he asked.

  Here the Colonel lied, coolly and deliberately.

  ‘No. I’m going to Clare Island to watch fulmars,’ he said— ‘whatever your Bolshevik neighbour may choose to think.’ He wished that Julia was there to take a hand in this; he realised already that if they made any sort of enquiries on the Island the story would be all over Mayo in a matter of hours.

  ‘Oh. Well you see young Colin, Julia’s cousin, is in the Secret Service too—not much good at it, I shouldn’t think—but anyhow I gather she often helps him out. Did quite a smart job in Switzerland a year or two ago, I heard.’

  ‘Really? How interesting,’ the Colonel said.

  Fortunately at this moment Julia reappeared.

  ‘The most marvellous piece of luck!’ she said. ‘Mrs. O’Malley has had a cancellation, and we can have two rooms tomorrow. So I shall be leaving you for a day or two, dear Helen.’