The Dangerous Islands

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Oh, do they?’ Julia asked contentedly, leaning back on the sofa, her head on his shoulder. ‘How funny. But how am I nice? —I mean, what makes you think I am?’

  ‘The way you treat people—being so patient with that old bore Michael O’Hara, and loving to Mrs. Katie What’s-her-Name, and so tolerant that first evening with little Feinstein, when he was impertinent to you in the bar.’

  ‘That paid off in the end, Philip.’

  ‘Indeed it did. But that wasn’t why you were forbearing at the time—that was just your natural charity, and it’s one of the things I love you for.’ He covered her face with kisses.

  ‘Ooh, stop! I want to ask you something.’

  Reluctantly, Philip Jamieson removed his lips from her face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you check on Feinstein at all? Does he know what he’s talking about?’

  ‘Yes of course we did, and he does. His chum is very high-powered indeed. But sweetheart, need we think about that now?’

  ‘Oh, it just came into my mind, when you mentioned him.’ ‘Well put it out again! I want you to concentrate on us, as I am doing.’

  She pushed his face away, very gently, with one hand.

  ‘Give me a cigarette, darling.’

  ‘Too many kisses?’ he asked, lighting one for her.

  ‘No, never too many—just pauses in between! I think you ought to be glad to get a wife who’s keen on the job,’ she said.

  ‘Oh am I not? Only today, my sweet …’

  ‘I can’t help it, Philip—when a question comes into my mind, it pops out. You’ll have to get used to it. Anyhow there’ll never be another today.’

  ‘There’ll be thousands of todays!’ he said, and again stifled her with kisses.

  Their meeting ended very sweetly and gently. Both were deeply happy, felt perfectly secure.

  ‘When do we announce it?’ Philip asked, as he was driving her back to Chelsea.

  ‘When I’ve told Edina and Mrs. H. They’re the ones who matter.’

  ‘When it’s been announced, how soon can we get married? Shall you want aeons to get a trousseau?’

  ‘No—just time for a wedding-dress. I’ve got heaps of clothes. But where shall we live?’ she asked. ‘How much room is there in your lovely Inn? I shall want a female domestic of some sort, to do my washing and mending and so on—I don’t suppose Buchan would care to be saddled with that,’ she said with her slow laugh.

  ‘I rather think the set immediately below mine will fall free pretty soon; if so, it would give us plenty of space: staff and spare-rooms below, us up above.’

  ‘Like the jolly sailor-boys,’ said Julia, laughing again—she was so happy that delight and laughter fairly bubbled out of her. ‘But what about the queue?’

  ‘That set belongs to an old uncle of mine, a barrister, who’s a Member of the Inn, and he’s retiring; he might wangle it for us.’

  ‘How legal your family seems to be! Do make him wangle like mad—I’d love to live there.’

  He dropped her at the door of her flat. ‘I must race back to the office—I’m pretty late.’

  Mrs. Titmuss had unpacked everything, and the good woman was now pressing clothes in the kitchen.

  ‘Well Miss, at least it doesn’t show,’ she observed, studying Julia’s nylon-clad legs. ‘That’s one mercy. But what a performance! Mrs. Hathaway’s been on the telephone,’ Mrs. Titmuss pursued.

  ‘Oh, is she back? Good.’

  ‘Yes. She said you was to ring her up the moment you come in, but I told her you weren’t back yet, and that you’d want to rest, after travelling all the way from Ireland.’

  ‘Oh thank you.’ But Julia moved towards the telephone.

  ‘Now you go and lie down, Miss,’ Mrs. Titmuss said firmly. ‘The old lady can wait till you’ve had a nap. You ring when you want a cup of tea, and telephone then.’

  Julia really felt like lying down, and did so. ‘The Colonel’s a splendid gentleman,’ Mrs. Titmuss said meaningfully as she went out.

  What with her early start from Dublin, and so much emotion, Julia did fall asleep; she awoke full of a vague sense of happiness, and it was a few seconds before she remembered why—all the misery about Susan, which had tormented her for the past eight weeks, was over, and she was going to marry Philip. She pressed the bell beside her bed, and lay in great contentment, with no doubts of back-thoughts. In a couple of minutes Mrs. Titmuss wheeled in a trolley-table with her tea.

  ‘What about supper, Miss?’

  ‘I shan’t know till I’ve rung up Mrs. Hathaway. I had a lovely sleep.

  ‘That’s good.’ Mrs. Titmuss lingered. ‘Excuse me, Miss’—a pause.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Titmuss?’

  ‘If you ask me, I think you should marry him,’ the good woman said.

  ‘I’m going to.’

  ‘You are? Well you’re not making any mistake!’ To Julia’s surprise and pleasure her servant stooped down and gave her a hearty kiss. ‘I’m ever so glad. It’s time you got married, and he’s perfect.’

  After eating several sandwiches Julia rang up Mrs. Hathaway.

  ‘Oh my dear child, you are back! Is it true you broke your leg?’ (Julia, dissatisfied with Mrs. Hathaway’s unhelpful letter about Susan, hadn’t bothered to mention this fact.) ‘But it’s better? You’re mobile? I’m so thankful. Well won’t you come round as soon as you can?—for drinks.’

  Julia rang for her car to be sent round; then she pushed the bell for Mrs. Titmuss again.

  ‘In to supper—whatever you’d got for lunch.’

  ‘Is she pleased?’ Mrs. Titmuss asked.

  ‘Who, Mrs. Hathaway? I haven’t told her yet. You’re the only person who knows so far, Mrs. Titmuss.’

  ‘Well think of that! When will it be in the papers?’

  ‘When I’ve told Mrs. Hathaway and Mrs. Reeder. Now don’t you go making a bit on the side by selling it to the Daily Express tonight, Mrs. Titmuss, or I’ll fire you,’ Julia said.

  ‘Oh Miss, the very idea!’ The daily laughed heartily.

  ‘It’s often done,’ Julia said. ‘Three-quarters of the stuff in the gossip-columns in the papers is sold by peoples’ maids and butlers.’

  ‘Now you’re putting ideas into my head, Miss,’ said Mrs. Titmuss, still laughing. ‘I see a gold-mine ahead of me! Wait till I tell Titmuss.’

  ‘Wait till I’ve told Mrs. Hathaway,’ Julia said. ‘Is that green dress pressed?’

  Julia drove rather gingerly through the crowding west-bound traffic between Chelsea and Mayfair, wondering at first if her newly-healed leg would manage the brake and accelerator pedals—however it did, with only an odd twinge of pain; by the time she swung into the mews to park her car she felt quite confident. Up in the flat Mrs. Hathaway showed slight signs of fuss.

  ‘Dear child, I am so glad that you have come. I wanted to get hold of you at once, because I did manage to find out about Colonel’s Jamieson’s marriage on my way home; I stayed with the Stewarts, and they knew everything. I felt my letter had been so unhelpful. His wife is dead.’

  ‘I know,’ Julia said.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘He told me, at lunch today. We’re engaged,’ Julia said. ‘I do hope you approve, darling Mrs. H.’

  The radiance in the girl’s face as she announced this news caused the old lady to hoist herself up out of her chair to embrace her god-daughter.

  ‘Approve? Dearest child, I’m delighted. Of course I worried about poor Susan when I saw the way the wind was blowing; I ought to have found out sooner. But one gets so tired—and then so unenterprising,’ Mrs. Hathaway said sadly. ‘Even to telephone sometimes seems more than one can summon the energy for.’

  Julia gave her a hug, and sat her down in her chair again.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ she said. ‘Gin, or brandy, or a little whisk?’

  ‘Some of your rich fiancé’s wonderful brandy, please.’

  ‘Is he rich?’ Julia asked
casually, pouring out. ‘Not that it matters, as I am,’ she added.

  ‘Well yes, fairly. But I want you to know what the Stewarts told me.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Julia said, taking her own glass to a chair, and sitting down.

  ‘It seems he was an angel to her,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘Of course her mother knew what was wrong, and did all she could to push him into the marriage, to get Susan off her hands. Poor Mrs. Broughton had had enough of D.T.s, with her husband.’

  ‘Poor souls,’ Julia said. ‘But Mrs. H., why do you say you saw which way the wind was blowing? I thought I’d kept pretty calm.’

  ‘Oh yes, dear child—but Philip was blowing an absolute gale!’ She paused. ‘Oh, I am so glad. After all those boss-shots—poor Major Torrens, and then that wretched Antrobus, this is so perfect.’

  Julia laughed a little wrily at Mrs. Hathaway’s use of the expression ‘boss-shots’. Presently Mrs. Hathaway suggested that they should ring up Edina and tell her.

  ‘Yes, let’s. Philip is hotching to put it in The Times, but I said I must tell you and her first.’

  Edina Reeder was in, and was told.

  ‘Oh well, I thought it might come to that. I’m very pleased, Julia; I like him a lot. And not before it was time, I may say! Hold on—here’s Philip.’ Her voice was indistinctly audible, speaking to her husband—then his firm tones came down the line.

  ‘Julia? My dear, all congratulations! I think he’s a splendid fellow. And really you might just as well marry into the Service, and be on the strength, as do all this free-lancing for them, and not get a penny.

  ‘How money-minded you are, Philip! But I’m glad you’re pleased.’

  ‘I am—tremendously.’

  ‘Oh, there it goes pipping again,’ Julia said. ‘Good night, Philip.’

  ‘Are they pleased?’ Mrs. Hathaway asked.

  ‘Yes, very—both of them.’

  ‘What was the “money-minded” part about?’ the old lady asked.

  ‘Oh, Philip—I mean Philip-Edina—why must they both be called Philip?—has always been so cross about my doing things for Colin and never being paid,’ Julia replied airily. ‘He said that when I marry the other Philip, I should be “on the strength”.’

  Presently Julia asked how the Professor was getting on?—by now it was late September, and after the equinox the days begin to shorten rapidly in high latitudes. Mrs. Hathaway said that she expected him back any day. ‘And for the winter he plans some excavations in the Scillies.’

  ‘The Scillies? I thought there was nothing there but daffodils and early potatoes,’ Julia said.

  ‘Oh no, my dear child—the Islands are full of pre-history. And it’s a lovely winter climate to work in—so mild; his bronchitis ought to leave him alone there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Julia. ‘Well, I’ve never seen the Scillies, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.’

  But there she was wrong.

  Chapter 12

  Julia’s marriage to Philip Jamieson was announced for early in January. The date was imposed by when they could get possession of the Uncle’s chambers below Philip’s; this would only be at the beginning of November, and there was a certain amount to be done to them—Philip’s Uncle had not had very modern ideas. Julia was firm, not to say tough, about these arrangements. ‘For pity’s sake don’t let’s economise on power-points,’ she said. ‘And all the electric fires in the bedrooms must switch on by the bed, like mine does here.’

  ‘Let me see.’ This conversation took place in Julia’s flat, and he went and examined her bedroom.

  ‘Yes—very handy; I never saw it before. What’s this other switch and plug by your bed?’

  ‘For my kettle; to make tea if I happen to wake early. I like to be independent.’

  ‘Well about that, I will let you be,’ he said, smiling. ‘A good idea. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. All the plugs must be at table-level—none of that ghastly grovelling on the floor to light a fire or boil a kettle! Goodness, what torturers electricians are, if you leave them to their own devices.’

  They were both very happy during those weeks of early autumn, planning their home; each finding more all the time to approve of and value in the other. Jamieson was impressed by Julia’s practical skills about household matters; she was touched by his sensitiveness.

  ‘Who will give you away?’ he asked one day.

  ‘I never thought. There’s no one except Colin or Mrs. H., or perhaps Philip. He’s older, of course.’

  ‘I should say Reeder every time—he’s a substantial person.’

  Julia laughed. ‘Is poor Colin so insubstantial?’

  ‘Oh darling, you know what I mean. Colin is essentially an adolescent, and probably always will be.’

  ‘Well, we must see how they all feel about it.’

  ‘Do you want a lot of bridesmaids?’ Jamieson enquired.

  ‘Oh no—I’m too old for that.’ She paused. ‘I would like to have one, though, and I think she’d like to do it.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘The Duke of Ericeira’s daughter, Luzia. I was her governess at one point, and I’m very fond of her.’

  ‘Oh, you mean all that Portuguese mix-up, and getting out the Hungarian priest—I remember. But why should you have bothered to be any child’s governess?’

  ‘Well really to get inside Portugal,’ Julia responded. ‘I think my method is as good as Mr. Gunther’s, if not better.’

  ‘By what I remember, distinctly better, as far as we were concerned. It’s all coming back to me.’

  ‘Well do you agree to the Ericeira child being my bridesmaid?’

  ‘Yes, if she’ll come.’

  ‘Oh, I think she’ll come. By the way, look what they’ve sent.’ She showed him a set of eight exquisite Blanc de Chine plates embossed with flowers.

  ‘Good Heavens—they must have cost the earth! We shall have to have a cabinet specially made for them.’

  ‘I thought we might eat our fruit off them.’

  ‘But my dear, these are as fine as anything in the British Museum,’ Jamieson said, looking horrified.

  ‘Oh much better, I expect. I imagine these are from the darling Duque’s own collection—he has masses, and he knows I love Blanc de Chine.’

  ‘They must love you a good deal,’ Jamieson said, looking thoughtfully at his fiancée.

  In fact both Jamieson’s rooms and Julia’s flat were already beginning to list up with wedding-presents. Julia was slightly irritated to receive several presents with the monogram ‘J. J.’.

  ‘I never thought I should look like a whiskey—on my luggage, and everything,’ she said rather gloomily.

  ‘Haven’t you got another Christian name?’

  ‘No, just Julia.’ She saw his face. ‘Darling, I don’t really mind a bit! I’ll put up with anything to be Mrs. Philip Jamieson.’ He kissed her; but said then—‘Well, Miss Probyn, you get on with those invitations. You haven’t lost my list, have you?’

  ‘I never lose anything but my heart, and now you’ve got that,’ she told him, provoking another kiss. ‘And I’ve laid on a girl for the invites. We ought to finish them in a week.’

  But before the week was out Jamieson came round and reported to Julia that he would have to go away at once, for several days. ‘I told you we’d rumours of another installation; now we think we’re onto it, so I shall have to go. It’s a great bore just now, but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘Where?’ Julia asked.

  ‘In the Scillies.’

  Julia took fright. The Prof, was going to the Scillies. On an impulse—‘Can I come too?’ she asked.

  ‘Why? Do you know the place?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to come.’ She was thinking whether she had better mention the Professor or not.

  ‘Well, I’m always better with you than without you,’ the man said. ‘But I should have thought you would want to be here just now. Why do you want to come?’ he repeated, looking rather keenly a
t her.

  Julia felt much safer with Jamieson now than she had done when they were in Scotland.

  ‘Mrs. Hathaway said the Prof, was going to dig in the Scillies this winter. If there’s going to be any trouble, I’d like to be about.’

  Jamieson frowned, and was silent for a moment or two.

  ‘Dash!’ he exclaimed at last. ‘I hoped all that was over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well naturally we have been working afresh on the poor old chap, and his record; it’s always exceedingly difficult to préciser these things—so much is underground, and every sort of false lead; but it looks as though he never really helped the Russians to much purpose—just pretended to, because he was being blackmailed.’

  ‘Do you mean he’s cleared, from your point of view?’ the girl asked eagerly.

  ‘Practically, yes. He had really nothing whatever to do with that installation near his dig at Callernish, that we have found out; those types on the motor-cruiser surveyed the site, and then that trawler we met steamed in and installed the works.’

  ‘But the garage man in Stornoway said the three men in berets went and talked to him.’

  ‘Of course, but that may have been just to keep up the pressure—compromise him afresh, if enquiries were made. The Russians are very strong on that.’

  ‘That might explain why he was so odd and nervous when we went over.’

  ‘Exactly. A man in his situation is nervous all the time, of everything and everyone. But they managed Clare Island without him; definitely he never went near it. So I hoped that he had managed to wriggle free. But those devils never let go,’ Jamieson exclaimed angrily. He paused, considering.

  ‘Yes, I think it might be a good plan if you came; he’s probably less frightened of you than of most people. And if he’s gone there it is really important to contact him and get him safely away before they do the dirty on him, somehow or other.’

  ‘But why should they want to do the dirty on him?’ the girl asked, frightened again.

  ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ Jamieson said harshly. ‘For the dear Russians that is Rule Number One. He may have no tales to tell, but they take no risks. Is he there yet, do you know?’