He sounded at his mistress as she approached and the close-up was reassuring. His bib was a bit stringy, but the rest of his cream-streaked mane was magnificent. He had not pined.
Paul came in to be introduced to ‘Scandinavian, meaning flame’ and was as impressed as Brand considered proper. The orange velvet crown inclined itself for a pat.
Haidee’s cat-minder was even more impressed—with Paul.
‘Nice work, ladybird!’ she approved. ‘Alone she did it!’
‘Heavens!’ Haidee had seen the clock and it was already nearly one. Again a taxi would be necessary if she were not to be late at the hotel Paul had suggested for lunch. ‘Oh, honestly, I wish he’d said tomorrow.’
For this she was severely reprimanded. ‘There’s some don’t know their luck,’ Brand’s minder observed.
Not true. Haidee knew hers only too well. She just wished she’d had more time to do Paul justice. A real scramble this—into tights and block-heeled black shoes and a dark grey jersey dress with grey and white striped sleeves. Not in the least exciting, she was sure it wouldn’t grab him, but the best she could do at short notice.
Astonishingly, Paul, waiting in the foyer of one of Dublin’s premier hotels, appeared most gratifyingly ‘grabbed’ and lunch was a happy marriage of delightful food—cucumber soup, curried chicken and an orange-flavoured icecream in butterscotch crust—and gay conversation. The trouble was that the easier the company the faster went the clock. In what seemed like no time Haidee saw Paul looking at his watch.
‘Are you in a hurry?’ she asked guiltily.
‘I was just going to ask if you were,’ he returned. ‘If not, I have to make a call at the—’ He mentioned the name of a city hospital. ‘Perhaps you’d come with me. It won’t take long and then we could have tea and go on talking. That is, of course, if I’m not boring you stiff.’ He gave her again that neat quick smile.
‘Oh no. Never. Boot on the other foot, actually,’ she stammered.
‘Boot on the other foot, my foot!’ Paul returned decisively.
They laughed a little longer than, strictly speaking, the witticism deserved. It was that kind of atmosphere, relaxed, lighthearted and warm. In fact, just what the doctor ordered. Wasn’t there something about catching each day as it flies and so living—how did it go—in Eternity’s sunrise? Paul was not serious, Haidee knew that, but he was sweet and kind and gorgeous—especially now in that blue gold-buttoned blazer. Generous too.
‘I want to get some flowers,’ he said as they walked up the street. ‘You can choose them. I’m sure you’re good at flowers.’ But in the shop he brushed aside her modest suggestions and plumped recklessly for two dozen longstemmed roses. Two things could be deduced. The patient was female and a close friend.
‘Would you mind awfully carrying them?’ Paul asked diffidently. ‘I don’t know why it is, but I always feel such a fool.’
Haidee did not mind in the least. Was his friend seriously ill? She hoped not.
‘Oh yes,’ Paul answered briefly. ‘Yes, love, she’s very ill. In fact she—won’t recover.’
In any circumstances it would have been sad. The happy-go-lucky mood in which they had lunched heightened the pathos. Here she was enjoying herself, having that nice-things-round-the-corner feeling, and for that other person it must be so different, so dreadfully different.
At the hospital she thought to wait in the hall, but Paul disposed of this. ‘Oh, won’t you come up? There are waiting rooms. She’s on the private floor.’ The lift was full. In it he stood drawn up to his full height and gave her, across the heads of their fellow passengers, that neat almost conspiratorial smile. Four floors up he ushered her out and straight across the corridor to a closed door. A waiting room, she supposed, and here she was still carrying the flowers.
‘I’d better give you these,’ she began, and stopped short. Paul had stretched across her, the door had been opened and she felt herself propelled into the room, a room clinically bright with white walls and a high white bed on wheels. Oh no! Haidee had never meant to intrude at such a time. She tried to step back, but there was something quite steely about Paul’s arm.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘She’s only semi-conscious.’
Haidee saw now the face on the pillow. It was a face of marble and with childlike loveliness. The eyes were half closed and no hair showed under the snowy coif-like bandage.
‘What happened?’ she asked softly.
‘Car crash,’ he answered.
She stood pitifully, resisting tears. Not only for the sake of Paul’s friend, whoever she might be, but because another room was now so vividly before her, another bed, another pillow, another still peaceful face. It was not, after all, so very long ago, and that face had been so dear. The tears came nearer and she blinked. At the same moment a sudden change came over the face on the pillow. The head moved, weakly but restlessly. The eyes tried to open. There was a moaning sound, at first almost inaudible and then clearer and more compelling: ‘Suzanne ... I—want—Suzanne...’ A hand plucked feebly at the sheet. ‘I—want—Suzanne.’
Haidee acted instinctively. She bent over the bed and took the hand in hers. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed gently. ‘It’s all right. She’ll come.’
A footfall sounded and a young nurse hurried into the room. She halted at sight of them. ‘I’m sorry, she’s not allowed visitors,’ and then her gaze travelled from Haidee’s stooping form to the tears in her eyes and the sheaf of roses one arm was still holding. ‘Unless—you’re not...’
Haidee wasn’t. She was an interloper and a perfect stranger, and she was just about to say so and apologize when Paul's mouthed opened.
‘Yes, nurse,’ he said positively. ‘Suzanne at last.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Yes, all right, love. I know I sprang it on you, but what else could I do? If I’d asked you, you’d have said no.’ Paul had brought her to the hospital’s coffee bar. ‘Drink up,’ he encouraged, tapping her cup. ‘Drink up and I’ll get you another.’
It spoke for Haidee’s state of mind that she obeyed him mechanically. The coffee scalded her mouth—and shocked her out of her daze. ‘Who is she?’ she demanded. ‘And who’s Suzanne? You said the name to me last night on the train.’
‘Keep your voice down, love,’ Paul cautioned. ‘One never knows. How long have you been away? A fortnight?’ She nodded. ‘Then you won’t have seen the papers. The accident happened about ten days ago just before I went to Sweden.’
‘Who is she, though, Paul?’ Haidee interrupted. ‘Who is she?’
‘Sorry, lily maid. You’re so like Suzanne I keep expecting you to know. She’s Antonia Whittaker.’
‘Antonia Whittaker!’ That too was a familiar name. And emotive. The owner of Glenglass, the woman who like Casabianca had stood to her post and watched her surroundings being ravaged. ‘I had no idea.’
Paul filled in—and tragically. Jack Whittaker who had been driving had died instantly. Clinically Antonia should have died too, but one thing had kept her clinging to life—her daughter Suzanne and the will to see her again.
‘I still don’t understand. Where is Suzanne?’
‘Nobody knows,’ he said simply. ‘She left home fifteen years ago when she was seventeen. Quarrelled with her stepfather and walked out. They’ve advertised, of course, even before the accident, but it’s turned up nothing. I tried a few leads myself in London yesterday, people I thought might know, but they didn’t. And then by the purest chance I met you.’
‘And I’m like her?’
‘Very.’ The brown eyes, rather close set, seemed to be boring into her face. ‘I don’t say I couldn’t tell you apart, but it’s good enough to satisfy after fifteen years—and there’s pressure or something—Antonia doesn’t see very well.’
‘Oh, Paul, I know you meant well, but...’ Silly to argue, she supposed. The damage had been done. She’d spoken, she’d touched and she thought she’d managed to soothe the sufferer. If
she had registered at all in that poor fuddled brain she could not cold-bloodedly turn her back on it. And besides, the little nurse had been there as witness. ‘What about relatives?’ she asked, collecting herself.
‘None. Well, none in this country. There is one, but she’s away.’ He let it sink in for a second. ‘Antonia’s deteriorating fast. They told me that on the phone. That’s what decided me. All right, I pushed you into it. I’m sorry. But don’t make mountains out of molehills. I’m not asking you to be Suzanne to the world in general. All you need do is repeat today’s performance a few more times.’
‘Supposing she asks me questions?’
‘She won’t. Good heavens, you’ve seen her. She’s only semi-conscious. I think the most she can say is Suzanne.’ Suddenly his face acquired a black look that turned him alarmingly into a stranger. ‘Do you realize what a mess we’ll be in if you don’t?’
Oh dear, what a caper! And all because he couldn’t resist a lost cause.
‘I realize what a crazy soft heart you have, Paul Freeman. Someone must have dropped you on it when you were a baby!’
‘Then it’s on?’ The sun had come out again in Paul’s nice ‘pointer’ face.
‘So long as we tell the doctor. He’ll know what to advise.’
‘Good idea,’ Paul agreed. ‘Only he’s off duty. I’m sure I could phone him though tonight or tomorrow.’
‘Then will you?’
‘For you, lily maid—anything,’ he promised. ‘And bless you. I’m very grateful.’
The next twelve hours or so went in settling in at home, Brand, as though by accident, always turning up. He was a flat bored-looking heap under the hydrangeas when she cut the back grass and a watchful eye and nose with a mantilla of the sitting-room curtain when she cut the square in front. When she went upstairs he galloped after her shaking his golden fleece.
Breakfast was still on the table when Paul telephoned. He had spoken to the doctor and the odds against Antonia having any more lucid periods were long. This notwithstanding, he had told him about Haidee.
‘And did he buy the idea?’ Haidee asked.
‘Of course. Just one thing, love, I’m afraid I won’t be with you for a while.’ He had been given an unexpected directive to Waterford to do a piece on glass which would be followed by other pieces on industries in all the provincial cities.
It was a dismaying, not to say terrifying, prospect. ‘You mean I’ll be on my own? Oh, Paul, I can’t! Must you go just now?’
‘There’s a short answer to that one, lily maid. It’s my bread.’ He went on to say yet again that all she had to do was to show herself ‘and make the right noises’. ‘It won’t be for more than a day or two. It can’t be. And she’s more or less comatose. It’s a piece of cake.’
The expression grated, but she supposed that was being pedantic. Paul had spoken lightly. He did not mean it as it sounded, and now again he was rattling on: ‘They have your address and phone number. Naturally they asked for it.’
Natural, no doubt, but it sent an icy shiver down her spine. She said so and, surprisingly, Paul did not laugh. ‘If you’re really that worried, pack it in. I just thought you were God-given.’
He’d got her thinking too—the eyes that had tried to open, the one uninjured hand that had tried to move the bedclothes, the longing that had lived on when almost everything else of Antonia Whittaker was dead ... her daughter, her home and now two husbands gone ... and Haidee herself, had she been God-given?
‘I suppose now that the doctor knows about me I needn’t be word-perfect. It won’t matter.’
‘Oh, darling, you do go on!’ Paul said irritably. It was almost as though he were beginning to lose interest. Not that that could possibly be, of course, when he cared so much about Glenglass and the fortunes of its owners. ‘Play it by ear, that’s all. If you think it’s getting too hot for you, have sense. Drop out. Just say when they ring that Suzanne’s gone and you don’t know where. It’ll be in character, after all.’
The conversation over, Haidee went to call on Skipper. Skipper was another friend. He belonged to the next-door neighbour and being a young dog needed a lot of exercise. Haidee was certainly god-given so far as Skipper and Skipper’s mistress were concerned.
‘He’s missed you, I can tell you,’ the latter now observed. ‘We all have. Come in tonight and tell us about the holiday.’
‘I will,’ Haidee promised gaily.
It was a sparkling morning. Which way to go? Skipper was keen on the grass plots which bordered Clontarf Promenade. The company was good there, it was a recognized canine meeting place. And perhaps she should not go too far as it was now past eleven. She hesitated, looking up river at the frieze of storage tanks and the red and white chimney on the generating station. But hard luck Skipper, and hard luck Brand, who from eleven o’clock each morning began talking about lunch. Today, late as it was, it had to be her old and favourite funkhole.
‘Trying to make up my mind!’ she called to Skipper’s owner who had come into her front garden to tie up a clump of chrysanthemums. ‘I’m going on the Bull.’
The North Bull had started life as a sandbank only visible at low tide. It had stood up as dry land only after the building of the north and south walls of the river. For a period it had been a chain of islands and called the Bull and the Calves, but soon the Bull had swallowed the Calves and grown to its present two miles. It could be reached by a bridge at its nearer extremity or by the new solid causeway midway across. It is an area of beach, sand dimes and salt-marsh, and a bird sanctuary. From October to April its tidal mud is a feeding ground for wild geese, duck and wading birds from beyond the Arctic Circle.
Haidee enjoyed walking. She strode zestfully along James Larkin Road, the name—an honoured one in Dublin—which had been given to the new coastal thoroughfare. A woman and a small boy with field-glasses were sitting on the sea wall, another boy was cycling along the footpath, his eyes not on where he was going but bent right towards the island. As he passed Haidee he wobbled, but she did not blame him. It was low tide, the mud flats were uncovered and the chocolate brown of them white with gulls. The Bull itself, so mellow was the morning, looked more yellow than green and each time a breeze stirred the water holes on the flats they trickled silver. She called Skipper and turned right along the causeway.
It was a spread of brown and blue. Two dunlin stood plumply on the rippled mud. A curlew rose from grass on the estuary side. Knots of Brent geese swooped and soared over her head, one minute dark, the next flashing white as their undersides caught the sun. Their cries came on the wind, thin, high, exquisitely sad. Like perhaps the pipes and pennons of that long ago day in Limerick when their human namesakes ‘The Wild Geese of Ireland’ had marched to the ships and embarked for service in France. School lessons about the Irish armies routed at the Boyne and the Treaty of Limerick which had spared their leaders, provided they accepted exile, always came alive for Haidee when the geese sang over the marshes. But today she thought of another exile — Suzanne, supposed to have been so like her. How like? Would anyone, apart from Antonia to whom it would be fed, ever take one of them for the other?
She’d been walking out along the causeway almost directly in the line of Howth Head, today a purply blue. A car passed her slowly, drove on and stopped.
The door opened and a man got out. At first she took him for a bird-watcher—there were already two on the causeway, a tall girl in a muddy anorak, and a middle-aged tweed-capped man—but as he came towards her the purposeful stride struck home. No! It was too fantastic. What coincidence could have brought her and this man face to face within forty-eight hours of disembarkation? Wait now, don’t run away with it, she told herself sharply; you know he’s Rory Hart from Glenglass, but he doesn’t know you, he never saw you, remember.
She felt secure then, secure enough to let the scene impress, the steel blue water, the long ramp, the whirring of wings and the striding figure. The word was—power. A blunt-faced head, held e
rect. Legs that moved easily. A fit man. And then—a few yards away the striding stopped. Dark blue eyes focused directly on her. The lip curled slightly.
‘So this is it. Miss Brown of Dollymount. Good grief, you’ve done some crazy things in your time, but this beats all!’
Haidee would not have disputed it. Her head was spinning. The dark brocade-like surface of the mud flats, the harebell blue of the sky and the white fans of the gulls wobbled like melting jelly.
Rory Hart’s face did not wobble. It remained dour, the mouth set, the eyes impatient. ‘Come, come, don’t give me surprise. When you came back to Dublin you must have known we’d meet. And don’t tell me you don’t know what to say. You may have changed your name, my dear Suzanne, but not your spots, I’ll bet.’
Suzanne! For all that he’d spoken quietly the echoes were flying like the geese, out to sea, up the lagoon, across the saltmarsh ... Suzanne—Suzanne—Suzanne—my dear Suzanne.
Minutes ago she’d been wondering how like Suzanne she really was. This terrifying moment was the answer. A forward step and his hands came down on her shoulders.
‘What are you doing?’ she jerked.
‘I’m looking,’ he said calmly. ‘I want to make quite sure.’
She knew weasels mesmerized their prey before they killed it. If she’d been told that the Glenglass weasels passed on the tricks of their trade she would have believed it. No power, it seemed, could draw her eyes from the dark blue ones searching her face and they did it quite as pitilessly. Most nerve-racking of all the moment when one of the hands rose and whipped off her glasses. ‘How long have you worn these?’
Shock jolted her into unvarnished truth. ‘A few years.’
It was all so impossibly silly. The deception at no time was intended for anybody but the dying Antonia Whittaker. She had only to explain as Paul had explained yesterday to the doctor in charge of the case. ‘I’d like...’ She stopped as the glasses were at once extended to her.
Dear Deceiver Page 3
