The Dangerous Islands

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Who’s not trustworthy?’ she asked.

  ‘That man MacMahon. I don’t know why we see so much of them.’

  ‘I like her,’ Lady Helen said.

  When Jamieson had left she questioned her husband further about Tony MacMahon’s untrustworthiness, and he told her.

  ‘Oh, that’s what you dashed up to Dublin about. Darling, why are you so furtive?’

  But the report was a relief to her mind; and so it was to Julia’s when, later, it was passed on to her.

  ‘Anyhow, we shall soon hear from Mrs. H.,’ that young woman said cheerfully.

  Back at the hotel Jamieson telephoned to Dublin for a flight to London the following evening; then he sought out his friendly landlord, and apologised for his abrupt departure.

  ‘It’s too bad you never got a day on the river,’ Mr. Bowden-Brown said regretfully. ‘Tell me, how is Miss Probyn? I heard she had an accident on the Island and broke her leg.’

  ‘Yes, she did; but Dr. O’Brien thinks she’ll be about again quite soon.’

  ‘That’s good.’ The landlord looked at Jamieson, wondering why he was hurrying off when his ‘young lady’ was laid up—but the Colonel’s manner always constituted a warning to the curious, and he said no more.

  ‘Shall I find Shamus Moran at home?’ Jamieson asked. ‘I shall want him to drive me in to the train.’

  Mr. Bowden-Brown telephoned; Mr. Moran was in, and the Colonel walked along the beautiful river and up the grey street, made his arrangements, and settled his bill. Shamus insisted on his customer coming to have a drink, and they went into Josie’s little bar.

  ‘Well now Colonel, isn’t this a terrible thing altogether, Miss Probyn going and breaking her leg?’ Josie said, as he poured out their drinks. ‘What happened her?’

  ‘She had a fall. It was most unfortunate,’ Jamieson said. The careful English expressions fell like a douche of cold water on the warm Irish exuberance; but Josie Walsh was not easily quelled.

  ‘Is she bad? Will it mend?’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much. She should be all right quite soon.’

  ‘And you’re staying in it?’

  ‘No—unfortunately I have to get back.’ He paused. ‘Apart from this accident it was a wonderful trip,’ he said—the bar was full, and every one was listening. ‘Those fulmars are quite extraordinary.’

  ‘’Tis wonderful what people will do to see nachur!’ Josie observed to the bar at large.

  Jamieson decided to ask a question himself, and did so, quietly, to Shamus Moran— it was his method of putting the ball into the other court.

  ‘Did your boys get General O’Hara’s boat put right?’ he asked—and was at once aware of a fresh stir of interest in the bar.

  ‘Not yet, Colonel.’ Shamus looked slightly embarrassed; the audience looked amused. ‘It seems there’s some replacements wanted; we’ll have to send away for them,’ poor Mr. Moran said, rather unhappily.

  ‘Ye’d do well to send away for an enginair!’ a voice among the crowd observed, causing subdued mirth. Josie Walsh intervened.

  ‘Another drink, Colonel?’

  But Jamieson refused a second drink. The ball was now quite definitely in the other court.

  Next morning he dashed over to see Julia and say goodbye. She was sitting up in bed, a fleecy white bed-jacket round her shoulders.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, perfectly. O’Brien gave me some pills for the pain, but so did the Yank—and his work much better.’

  ‘Pain?’ he asked, distressed.

  ‘Well bones don’t really like being broken, so they protest.’

  ‘Does it hurt now?’ Jamieson enquired anxiously.

  ‘No, not a bit. And with Feinstein’s pills I shan’t let it hurt,’ the girl said blithely.

  ‘Darling, you do realise that I really must get back at once?’ Jamieson said. ‘I hate leaving you, but I know you’re in the best of hands.’

  ‘Sure I am. Look at this room, and this view! I made Annie swing the bed round this morning, to let me look down the Bay; she’ll swing it back into the corner tonight. Michael has all his beds mounted on hospital castors, so that they can be wheeled about like trolleys.’

  ‘He would,’ the Colonel said. ‘Where practical things are concerned, I think he’s one of the most intelligent men in the world.’

  They chatted on, happily, till it was time for him to go.

  ‘Promise to let me know how you get on, and when you are coming back,’ he said. But this time his farewell kiss didn’t make Julia cry—it rather overwhelmed her. Anyhow quite soon she would be hearing from the omniscient Mrs. H.

  But Mrs. Hathaway’s reply was delayed long enough to cause Julia to fret. She had failed to register that Mrs. Hathaway was off on a round of visits in Scotland; Julia’s letter chased her from house to house, missing her everywhere, till she fetched up at Glentoran. Morning after morning when Attracta brought up the post about eleven, Julia scanned the envelopes eagerly, looking for one in the firm, elegant, rather old-fashioned handwriting—and every day in vain. When the parlour-maid had gone she would stare out from her bed at the long narrow vista of the Bay between its low green shores, with the blue line of the Atlantic beyond; on the right she could just see the chimneys of the MacMahon’s small white house, and often the sight increased her distress.

  One morning Attracta, having handed her the letters, said—

  ‘Miss Probyn, old Katie Hennelly is below, wanting to see you. Can she come up?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Julia glanced at the window-sill, where a tray of drinks now stood permanently. ‘Bring up another glass and some more gin—there’s hardly a drop in that bottle.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Miss Probyn.’ The maid shortly returned to usher in old Katie, putting a fresh bottle of gin on the tray.

  ‘Katie, how good to see you! Wait, Attracta—did you draw that cork? Then give Mrs. Hennelly some gin. Is it vermouth you like with it, Katie?’

  ‘Well bless ye, Miss Probyn dear, ’tis by itself I like it. … May the Lord love you!’ the old woman said, as Attracta put a glass of neat gin on a small table by her chair.

  ‘I heard ye broke your leg out on the Island,’ Katie said, sitting down and taking a sip of her gin. ‘How did ye come to fall off the quay?’

  So Katie knew that much!

  ‘I obveralanced,’ Julia said.

  ‘Is that the way it was? I was hearing that someone threw a sack of wool at ye.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Julia said, in her slowest tones, though she was aghast that this story should already have reached the mainland. ‘There were some children playing up among the wool-bales,’ she said deliberately, ‘and they did topple one down, but it didn’t throw me in.’

  ‘And is your leg mending?’ Katie asked, her eyes sparkling like bits of blue grass in her red weather-beaten old face.

  ‘Yes, splendidly, thank you.’

  ‘That’s good. Is the gentleman in it yet?’

  ‘Do you mean Colonel Jamieson? No, he had to go back to London.’

  ‘Well I wonder he’d leave ye. There’s a lovely man!’

  The days slid by. Julia hobbled downstairs, clutching the slender banisters, and moved from room to room with the help of a rubber-shod stick. At last Mrs. Hathaway’s letter arrived; when it did, it was unhelpfully indefinite.

  ‘I only got your letter here, where of course I am out of touch. I do seem to remember that he married someone very unsatisfactory, long ago, but I thought it had all come to an end. I will try to find out more when I get back to London—one can’t write about these things.’ (Was this a subtle rebuke, Julia wondered?—she herself had written about them.) The letter ended—‘When do you come back?’

  In fact Julia got back to London the day after Mrs. Hathaway returned there from Glentoran; in the meantime she had received several letters from Jamieson, each enquiring urgently about the progress of her recovery. One however read cheerfully: ‘I think I’ve
cooked the little Maritime Bohemians’ goose. The Irish Fishery Patrol will have an eye open for that allegedly Scand boat, and keep her outside the three-mile limit; so your female friend will have to take one of the normal routes to get home. If they have entry visas they are bound to be forged—and I fancy that little couple will be rather thoroughly interrogated. Ireland doesn’t like Communists at all! Meanwhile everyone here is delighted at our—your—success.’ And he too asked when Julia was coming back?

  In her reply Julia was vague—‘Probably the week after next,’ but she gave no date. When her plane touched down at London Airport and she started to get out, she was amazed to see Jamie-son’s tall figure waiting on the apron at the foot of the steps.

  ‘So you can walk again, bless you,’ he said, as she came down.

  ‘Yes. But how on earth did you know when I was coming?’

  ‘Aer-Lingus, of course. They have such things as passenger-lists. I’ve got a car outside,’ he added, ‘and one of our people will take your luggage down to Chelsea for your Mrs. Titmuss to unpack. I thought we might have lunch at my place.’

  ‘But Mrs. Titmuss is expecting me to lunch,’ Julia protested.

  ‘Oh no she isn’t! I’ve fixed that. She was delighted—said it would give her more time to “get Miss Probyn’s things straight,”’ Jamieson replied. ‘Yes?’ he said to one of the airport officials.

  ‘We have all the lady’s things ready, Sir, and here is the car.’

  ‘Right—thank you. Have the luggage taken to that other car, will you? Here’s the chit from the Customs.’ He returned to Julia. ‘Where are your keys? Mrs. Tom-tit will want them.’

  Julia obediently handed over her keys. She was rather overcome by all these masterly arrangements, and also very thankful not to have to hang about in the usual confusion at London Airport: passing the immigration control, trying to spot her luggage on the conveyor-belts, trying to get someone to carry it, waiting to get it through the Customs; queueing to board the coach to the Air-Terminal, queueing again there for a taxi. This V.l.P. treatment was far more agreeable—she and Jamieson were driven across the apron in one of the airport cars to the barrier, where an Immigration officer was ready to check her passport; then on to where Jamieson’s car was parked. They got into it and drove off.

  ‘Lucky you,’ Julia said to her companion as they sped up the Great West Road. ‘Normally London Airport is my idea of Hell.’

  Julia entered Jamieson’s ‘place’ with the deepest interest. It was in Gray’s Inn; shapely rooms looked out onto a space of shaven lawn shaded by great plane-trees—it was strangely quiet, in spite of the city all round.

  ‘How beautiful,’ she said, going to the window. ‘But how on earth did you get in here? I thought only people like Judges could live in Inns.’

  ‘My Father was a Judge, and when he died I got the reversion of his Chambers. I was extraordinarily lucky—there’s always a huge queue now.’

  A manservant in a white jacket and a chef’s high hat, who spoke with a strong Peebles accent, served first cocktails, and later on an exceedingly good lunch. The rooms were full of beautiful furniture, period English, interspersed here and there with some lovely pieces of marquetrie, whose pale inlay lit up and set off the severe mahogany and walnut. The pictures were French, and very good; there was a lovely Boudin over the mantelpiece in the sitting-room, and two Seurats in the dining-room.

  ‘Did you collect all these pictures?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Not all—several belonged to my Mother. I bought the Boudin and the Harpignies myself, though. I like Harpignies— he’s such a sunny painter.’

  This apt piece of understatement pleased Julia as much as it surprised her—indeed Philip Jamieson’s whole background as expressed in his rooms was both unexpected, and delightful. Only did any of it really matter to her? The horrid question crept in, tarnishing the pleasure of the moment. To cover her dis-comforture she asked about the furniture.

  ‘A lot of it is family stuff. This dining-table has never been out of our possession since good Mr. Hepplewhite made it for my great-great-grandmother, and the chairs too. But my old Dad was fond of furniture, and picked up most of the William and Mary things—he liked walnut.’

  ‘Quite right. But the marquetrie? So few English people have the courage to buy it.’

  He was pleased.

  ‘I’m glad you approve of that. In fact I broke away from tradition, and bought it myself. Dutch, of course; English marquetrie has always been beyond the reach of anyone but millionaires.’

  Presently he went on to tell her what had happened to the two Czechs.

  ‘The Irish Fishery Patrol picked up that Russian motor-cruiser, and chased her out of the three-mile limit in double-quick time. So our friends had to go down to Shannon to get a plane home to Prague. Of course they’d got forged entry visas, but Shannon had been tipped off, and I gather your little assailant had quite a thin time before they were allowed to leave.’

  ‘Well I’m not sorry,’ Julia said uncharitably. ‘When are your people going to clear that up? And the Highland places, too?

  ‘All in good time. We have rumours of another set of installations further South, and it might be as well to deal with the whole lot at once.’

  ‘Others? Oh, where?’

  ‘Don’t be so inquisitive! If I need you, I’ll tell you when the time comes.’

  ‘Oh very well.’ Julia spoke rather coldly.

  ‘Darling, I’m only being official, as I have to be,’ he said, reaching out to take her hand.

  ‘I think officiality, if there is such a word, is rather misplaced on the part of your wretched Service where I am concerned,’ Julia said.

  ‘I entirely agree. I’m just “working to rule”, my precious’ the man said. ‘Come and have some coffee.’

  When the chef-clad manservant had brought in coffee and liqueurs to the sitting-room Jamieson said—‘That will be all, thank you, Buchan. A good lunch.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ He withdrew. Jamieson poured out coffee for Julia and for himself; he lit cigarettes for both of them. The girl had a sense of something impending from the moment Jamieson said ‘That will be all’—and she was not mistaken. Her host came and sat on the sofa beside her, and spoke rather slowly.

  ‘I said on Glare Island that I would tell you later on how much I love you—I’m going to now.’ Again he made to take her hand, but stopped, checked by the expression on her face. ‘Darling, what is the matter? What on earth is wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Susan,’ Julia gulped out.

  He got up, and strode about the room; then he came and sat down beside her again.

  ‘Susan, God help her, died over eighteen months ago,’ he said. ‘I say God help her, because she couldn’t help herself—her father died of D.T.s, though I didn’t know that when I married her.’ He paused. ‘It was rather hell for both of us, but really worse for her; all those years when it was coming on, and she knew it, and tried to stop and couldn’t—eating pounds and pounds of sweets.’ He put a hand over his eyes for a moment. ‘In the end there was nothing for it but a Home; but she hated the idea of that so much that we left it too long, I imagine—anyhow they couldn’t make this modern cure work with her. She came out once, supposed to be all right; but in a few weeks she was as bad as ever again.’

  ‘Oh,’ the girl said. ‘Oh, Philip!’

  ‘Yes. She quite realised that she had got to go back, but she couldn’t take it any more, and killed herself.’

  ‘How?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Sleeping-pills. How she got enough to do it Heaven knows, but dr …’ he bit the word off—‘but people with that craving get as crafty as the devil! She always managed to get hold of drink, even when there wasn’t a drop in the house, and I was keeping her short of money on purpose—I did all the housekeeping myself.’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ Julia shivered; she could imagine what all this had been like.

  ‘I told you it had been hell,’ Jamieson said. ‘Bu
t now I should like to know who brought all this up, and why you didn’t know that she was dead?’ His face and voice were very severe. ‘It can’t have been Mrs. Hathaway,’ he said. ‘She would never make mischief.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Julia hesistated; but she realised that Jamieson meant to have the truth, and she had no particular wish to shield Tony, who had caused her so much needless distress. ‘Tony MacMahon told Helen that Susan was still in a home,’ she said.

  ‘Oh he did, did he? Well one day someone will have a few plain words with Master MacMahon,’ the man said coldly. ‘They already think in Dublin that he’d be as well to drop his Commie connections—and he might be told to stop lying at the same time.’

  ‘Think of Blanaid,’ said Julia.

  ‘No, I won’t think of Blarney, nice little thing as she is. At this moment I’m only going to think about you and me, Julia and Philip!’ He put his arm round her. ‘My darling, you must know already that I love you very much; and now that all these miserable lies are out of the way, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  He took her in his arms, but first he held her away, gazing into her face.

  ‘Do you love me? I don’t want you to marry me out of pity— I’m afraid I rather let myself go about Susan, but you brought that up.’

  ‘I know I did—and I brought it up because I love you, and wanted to marry you, and thought I couldn’t,’ Julia said frankly. The complete simplicity of this statement pleased him immensely; then he also remembered her face of absolute misery when he had said, not so long before, that he proposed to tell her how much he loved her, while she still thought that Susan was alive. The recollection perfected his recognition of her sincerity and her integrity. Now he drew her close, kissed her face instead of studying it, and did, at last, tell her in great detail how much he loved her, and why.

  ‘It isn’t only that you’re so ridiculously beautiful,’ he explained at one point. ‘Of course it’s absurd for one woman to have so much—your eyes and your hair and your colouring; monstrously unfair, really—any one asset would make most women’s fortune! But you see you’re nice, too. Beautiful women are so apt to put all their eggs in the beauty basket, and bank on that; and sooner or later they become bitchy.’