Julia in Ireland

by Ann Bridge

  “How odious” Fitzgerald said.

  “So when the General squashed that, he tried again—that strip running south from Lettersall. He got someone to take £3,000—in cash, old fivers—down to old Mary Browne, as a deposit, and got her to sign a typed agreement to sell. Julia here can tell you all about that—she came on her counting them.”

  Julia told about the fivers in the drive, and the full sum spread out on the desk.

  “Poor, wicked old soul” Fitzgerald said with compassion in his voice. “She must be stopped, of course. But where do I come in?”

  O’Brien told him the rest of the story, and how the General and Father O’Donnell between them had practically frightened the old woman into giving up the scheme; of the recent fresh approach to her by the “elegant gentleman”— ending up with “So the money is now in the bank, and she has asked the Father to give it back to her, so that she can start all over again.”

  “And has he done so?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Not yet—but I have advised him that it would be wiser to return it to her.”

  “I agree. And what do you wish me to do?”

  “Take it to her!” O’Brien said laughing. “And use the occasion to make it very very clear to her that she will for-feit your respect, and that of all other reputable people, unless she abandons the whole idea.”

  “Poor Mary,” Fitzgerald said, again compassionately. “But—yes, it must be done. We cannot allow the welfare of so many whole lives to be put at risk, just to spare her feelings. Yes, I will go. How do I get hold of the money?”

  O’Brien pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Here’s a chit from the Father to Mr. O’Toole at the bank, instructing him to hand it over. But I’ll see him beforehand and tell him to have it parcelled up ready, if you’ll tell me when it will suit you to go. It mustn’t be for another three days.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because to gain time, and to ask the General’s advice, Father O’Donnell told her that the money had been put on deposit—which in fact it was, by Julia here—and that it would take a week to get it out. The week will be up after three days.”

  “I see.” Fitzgerald consulted a pocket diary. “That will be Thursday. Right—I will go over on Friday morning. The sooner one gets an unpleasant job done, the better.”

  “Splendid. It’s very good of you to take it on.”

  “It is essential to take it on” Fitzgerald said decidedly. “Everyone must do all they can to prevent a thing like this. Oh, one point—suppose I succeed, and Lady Browne again says she doesn’t want the cash, what do I do with it?”

  “Put it in your account, till we find out who it belongs to” Gerald said, laughing again. “We don’t know that yet, for certain, though we suspect Moran, or someone behind him.” He got up. “Let’s go and have lunch.”

  Chapter 9

  On the following Friday Richard Fitzgerald set out on his uncongenial errand to Ponticum Cottage. He had collected the bundle of notes from the bank the previous day, to allow himself more time, and also a case of whiskey from his wine-merchant; these, with his despatch-case, he loaded into his car. The weather was still broken and uncertain, heavy showers chasing patches of sunshine across the wide valley as he drove down it towards Lough Sayle; in fact it was teeming with rain when he pulled up at the cottage door. He got out, turning up his coat collar, and rang the bell; when Annie opened the door he first took in the case of whiskey, and then went back for his brief-case and the other bundle. By this time Lady Browne appeared, and greeted him warmly—“Richard! What a surprise! And what a pleasure to see you!”

  “It may be the last time, Mary,” he said taking off his burberry and shaking it out of the door before hanging it up.

  “The last time! What can you mean? You’re not leaving Kilmichan?”

  “I’ll tell you presently. Meanwhile here’s a little present for you—one form of comfort!” He indicated the case of spirits.

  “Oh Richard, you’re too good! Annie, put it in the dining-room. Come in to the fire, Richard—it’s a most horrid day. And what is this?” she asked, as he put the parcel containing the notes down on the desk.

  “I’ll tell you that presently too” he said, warming his hands at the fire.

  “You’re full of mysteries today! Annie, bring in the decanter, and some glasses.”

  When the old servant had done this, and had left the room, and Lady Browne had poured out drinks for them both, she again enquired about the parcel.

  “It is something of yours that you have no business to possess” he said, in a stern voice. “But you have asked for it to be returned to you, so to save Father O’Donnell trouble, I have brought it over.”

  “My money!” she exclaimed joyfully, a gleam of cupidity lighting up her old eyes; she started eagerly towards the desk.

  “You would do better not to touch it, Mary” Richard said, still in that cold voice.

  She stopped at that, and stood still, mid-way across the room, looking a little frightened at his tone.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because if you do, and don’t empower me to return it to whoever sent it to you, you will never see me in this house again; and if I meet you outside this house, I will not speak to you. That is why I said this may be the last time” he said. “You have got to make up your mind, finally, Mary, whether you care more about dirty money, or your friends—you can’t keep both.”

  Now she looked really frightened, and sank down into a chair.

  “I don’t understand you” she said, in rather a weak voice.

  “Oh, yes you do. The General and the Father explained it all to you, so clearly that you agreed to return the money once—and then your greed got the better of you again! It is only that you won’t face the facts. Well, now you must face them, once and for all.”

  She began to whimper. “Why are you being so horrid to me?” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “I won’t waste time arguing with you about what you already understand perfectly well, Mary” he said. “But tell me one thing—did the man who came to see you last week, and persuaded you to re-open the deal, give you any more money?”

  “No. He promised me more, but he didn’t actually hand any over” she said, in rather a quavering voice, which moved Richard to pity. But he had come to accomplish a task, and he must not let pity deflect him from it.

  “Did he give you any promise in writing?”

  “No, only a copy of the paper I signed before, with the details of what I was going to sell.”

  “I shall want you to give me that.”

  She got up and went to the desk, and took out an envelope; he opened it, and read the typed paper carefully.

  “Yes, I see. Well, now you must make up your mind whether you want to ruin this lovely bit of country just to get a few thousands of pounds you don’t in the least need, or keep your friends, and their respect and affection. The priest of course will have to visit you, it’s his Christian duty; and O’Brien too, it’s his legal obligation—but I think you can be sure that, except for the odd tinker who comes thieving or begging, they are the only people who will darken your door in future unless you give up all idea of this sale. Is that really what you want? Do you think it will bring you happiness in your declining years to be completely alone, always?”

  “No, oh no” she almost sobbed. “Oh no. You can take the money away again, Richard. But what do I do about Mr. Moran?”

  “I will tell you what to do, about him and everything else.” He opened his brief-case and took out two letters, ready typed, and spread them on the desk, at the same time removing the parcel with the notes in it. “Read these, carefully, and then if you are prepared to sign them—we will get Annie in to witness your signature.”

  “Annie can’t write her name” Lady Browne objected.

  “No, but she can make an X—‘Annie Kelly, her mark’—all right” Richard said, smiling. He drew out the chair for her. “Come and sit down, and read away.�
��

  She sat down, put on her spectacles, and read both the letters through. In one, to Gerald O’Brien, she solemnly undertook not to sell any land at all, to anyone; in the other, to Moran, she said that she had changed her mind, and was not going to sell any land, in any circumstances, and asked him to return the document agreeing to sell which he had taken away on his last visit—“I am assured that in any case it has no legal validity.” As for the money which Mrs. Martin had brought here in cash on an earlier occasion, the letter went on, the owner could have it returned on application to her lawyers, after establishing suitable bona fides to his claim—and ended by giving Gerald’s name and the address of his firm. Lady Browne read these slowly, occasionally muttering a sentence over to herself. At last—“Why do I have to sign these?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t trust you not to change your mind again —and I imagine, my poor Mary, that you can’t trust yourself” he said, smiling very gently at her. “These are a safeguard, a fence round your own weakness. Will you sign them?”

  “Yes” she said, and reached for a pen.

  “No, wait—we must get Annie; I want two witnesses, her as well as myself.” He went to the fireplace and rang the bell. When the old servant appeared—“I want you to witness your mistress’s signature to some papers, Annie” he told her.

  “Sure, I can’t write my name, Sir.”

  “You don’t have to. Just watch her Ladyship write hers, here”—he indicated two pencil crosses with a space between them on the first letter, “and then make a cross down here”—he showed her another pencilled cross, below, after the words “First Witness.”

  “Now Mary, sign, please” he said, drawing the second letter out from under the first one. The old lady signed, Annie duly made her cross—a rather crooked one, as often happens with those who are unused to handling a pen—and Richard pulling the sheet to one side, signed his own name, and wrote in the necessary words after Annie’s effort. The same process was gone through with the second letter, and then he told the old servant that that would be all; obviously relieved, she returned to her kitchen. Richard Fitzgerald put the two letters in his brief-case, and took out several carbon copies.

  “No, don’t get up, Mary—you’d better just initial these” he said, putting them down in front of her.

  “What on earth are all these for?”

  “One set is for you—you ought always to keep copies of any important papers—and Gerald O’Brien will want some for his files.”

  “Does Gerald know you’re making me do this?”

  “Goodness yes—we drafted the letters together. Have you got anywhere safe to keep them?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a despatch-box for my papers. It’s in here” she said, pushing back the chair and pointing to the knee-hole under the desk.

  “That will do excellently” he said; he went round and drew the case out; Lady Browne, after some searching in her handbag, produced the key, and her copies were finally installed in the tin despatch-box, which Richard replaced under the desk.

  “There! You’ve done the right thing, Mary” he said cheerfully. “Why not have a whiskey on it?”

  “Yes, I think I will. I feel quite tired; you wouldn’t think just signing your name could make you so tired,” she said, going back to her own chair by the fire, and sitting down in it rather heavily. “But you must have one with me, Richard.”

  “Oh, I will.” He poured out a large glass for her and carried it over. “You’ve taken an important decision this morning, dear Mary—and there is nothing more tiring than decision-making” he said, and stooped down and gave her a kiss. Then he poured out a smaller amount for himself, and raised his glass. “Here’s to the right thing!” Richard Fitzgerald said, and drank.

  “The right thing” she echoed rather weakly, and herself took a draught. She looked rather more cheerful at the idea of what she had just done being something to be drunk to.

  “And here’s to absent friends, who will now all remain your friends,” he pursued. By the time he left the old lady was actually in quite good heart.

  Before going home he reported to Father O’Donnell, who read the copies of the two letters with almost incredulous relief and pleasure. “You have done marvels, Mr. Fitzgerald!”

  “I’ve got the cash too—I’ll put that back in your account, till we know what to do with it.”

  “I have no sort of claim to it” the priest said.

  “Well, it’s got to be in someone’s account” Richard pointed out, practically—“And ’twas to you she handed it over originally.” And on his way back through Martins-town he saw the manager, and for the second time the £3,000 was placed on deposit in the priest’s account. Mr. O’Toole was thoroughly intrigued, as well as rather amused, by these peculiar proceedings.

  “I suppose ye couldn’t give me a whiff of an idea why this bundle of money keeps dodging in and out of my safe, Mr. Richard?” he said wheedlingly. “Sure it can’t really belong to the priest?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know who it belongs to” Fitzgerald replied cheerfully. “But it has been entrusted to the Father for safe-keeping pro tem, so it’s in his account it had better be.”

  O’Brien was as delighted as Father O’Donnell when he was handed the initialled copies of the two letters.

  “Marvellous!” he said. “You’ve got her to tie herself up properly, poor old soul. Did she make a great fuss?”

  “She wasn’t absolutely enchanted at the idea” Richard said, with his sidelong smile. “But in the end she saw that it was the best thing to do. And the cash is safely back in the bank, earning deposit interest for Father O’Donnell! Oh, just let me have those carbons back for a moment—hadn’t I better make a note on them that they were witnessed by myself and Annie Kelly—the signatures, I mean?”

  “Yes, that would be as well” O’Brien agreed; Richard quickly made the notes, adding his own signature, and O’Brien in his turn witnessed that. “You can’t be too thorough, dealing with types like Moran” he said, putting the papers away.

  “Yes—what are you going to do about Moran? It would be as well to keep him away from poor Mary, if it were at all possible—he’ll only upset her.”

  “I don’t really know what we can do” Gerald said worriedly. “I thought of getting someone in Dublin to go and see the head of his firm, in case they can put some sort of pressure on him. But it’s not easy.”

  “Well, I must be getting along” Richard said, getting up.

  “Thank you immensely for all you’ve done,” Gerald said, rising too, and saw him out.

  Late that evening Gerald rang up Julia. “I suppose you couldn’t switch from Sunday to tomorrow? Lord Oldport has suddenly offered me a day’s fishing on the Avonmor—it’s one of the best salmon rivers in Mayo, and I’d love you to see a good day’s salmon-fishing! He apologised for the short notice, and so do I!—but a tenant who’d rented it for three weeks has fallen ill, and had to cancel at the last minute, and he doesn’t want to waste the good water, or the fish! Could you?”

  “What time would we have to start?” Julia asked.

  “Oh, the earlier the better—whatever you can manage.”

  “Well I know I can’t have the little car tomorrow—Helen wants it, and Michael’s going to a meeting in Ballina. Hold on, I’ll go and look up the time of the early bus.”

  The early bus proved to be very early when it passed Ros-trunk; 8:15. “I can be at the station at Martinstown by nine, or near after” Julia announced, returning to the telephone. “That do?”

  “Yes, that will be all right. Right, see you there then. Oh, and Julia, bring something to sit on—a mackintosh square or an oilskin.”

  “Will do.”

  In view of the early start Julia went out to the kitchen when Nonie and Attracta had gone to bed, and put herself up a lunch of meat pies and cold duck, and a flask of sherry, which she stowed in her haversack; she asked her host if he could lend her an old oilskin? “To sit on�
�Gerald’s got a day’s fishing from Lord Oldport, and he wants me to go along,” she explained, in answer to his inevitable question.

  “Which river, d’you know?” O’Hara enquired.

  “It sounded like Avonmor.”

  “The Avonmor! Lucky devil!” The General exclaimed. “It ought to be fishing perfectly just now, too. Yes, come along”—and he presently routed out a rather elderly oilskin from among the welter which hung in the cloakroom passage. “If you fold that double, it’ll keep you dry enough.”

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  “Better take plenty of gaspers—the midges can be pretty bad out there” he added.

  Julia gratefully put an extra supply of cigarettes and a tube of midge-repellant cream into her haversack, took a thermos of coffee up to bed with her, and set her alarm-clock for 6:30. At ten to eight she was hurrying up the lane to catch the bus, and just after nine, descended from it at Martinstown station, where Gerald was waiting.

  “Sorry I couldn’t come and fetch you, and save you the early start” he said, as she got in, “but I had to get a lot of work polished off before I could get away. I was at my desk at 5:30!”

  “You poor darling!”

  The Avonmor proved to be the lower half of the river running down the wide valley by which one approached Lough Sayle, on the right of the road and, except where a bridge crossed over, at some distance from it; Julia had never been down to the water. Gerald drove the car off the road, and they walked across the grass, grazed fairly short by sheep, which even so early in the summer had a yellowish tinge—indeed when the sun came out for a moment the whole valley looked golden. Julia commented on this.

  “Yes, I don’t know why it isn’t more green—the sort of grass I suppose. We don’t want too much of that sun, though.”

  On reaching the river-bank Gerald dumped his gear at the spot of his choice, pulled on his waders, set up his rod, and studied a book of flies carefully before selecting one and tying it to his cast. He handed Julia the landing-net—“If I’m lucky, you’ll have to wield that.”