Dear Deceiver(38)

Was it possible, Haidee asked herself incredulously, that the Desmond  blood was showing itself? Could fate be so cruel as to repeat Rory's  tragedy?

Today he was driving Jennie to the airport on the first stage of her  journey back to school and had suggested that Haidee accompany them. She  had declined. It would be a golden opportunity for them to get back on  the old footing. Besides, as she reminded him, she too was leaving  Glenglass that day.

'No rush, surely,' he had said.

'Paul's calling for me.'

'But you'll be in Dollymount?'

'I don't know. I don't think so.' She wished lies did not make her feel  so guilty. 'Paul said something about going away for a bit.'

'I see.' His narrowed eyes recalled the night of the fire and how  violently he had reacted to her quite innocent meeting with Paul. A  repetition? She prayed not, and yet it was extraordinarily deflating to  hear merely a tetchy: 'I'll have to know where to get in touch with  you.'

'You mean ...' she'd quavered, 'about the divorce?'

'That and other things. The will, principally. You do realize you'll be a beneficiary?'

She could not pretend this appalling possibility had escaped her.

'I've thought about that. But naturally I couldn't touch a penny.'

'Naturally?' He peered at her.



'Oh, you know,' she said hastily. 'Leaving home, not writing, that sort  of thing. There won't be much, I daresay, but Jennie must have it all.  You can arrange that, surely?'

'Me?' he had echoed. 'Talk sense, girl. You fight that one out with the  solicitor. But I'll go with you if you like. Kill two birds with one  stone.'

They were to talk about it again when he returned from the airport.

'Ready, Jen?' she asked gently at the door of the shabby room, and  Jennie in the distinctive cloak and bonnet of her-school ran over  touchingly and hugged her.

'I'll miss you terribly,' she said.

You had to tread warily. Haidee did so, pointing out how important  school had now become. Jennie agreed very seriously. Not alone O-levels.  There was the Christmas play. Fry (the name of her house) were in  charge of the wardrobe and there was masses to do. Marianne (the friend  with whom she shared a room) had said so in her last letter.

'Will I see you again?' she asked suddenly.

Between sisters it was an odd question, even taking account of the fact  that Jennie's uncle, Jack Whittaker's brother, had telephoned from  Ontario insisting that she spend the Christmas holidays with him and his  family. Best thing for her, Rory had said heartily, new roots, a new  country, cousins of her own age. It showed a fine unselfishness.  Haidee's own position was more delicate. Eventually, of course, Jennie  must know the truth, but was this the right time?

'You will, if ever you need me.'

'Of course I'll need you,' Jennie said quite naturally. 'You're my sister, aren't you?'

Fate must really be laughing, Haidee thought. When deception had been  all-important Jennie had so often made her walk the wire. The day they'd  visited the convent, for instance, only Mother Mary's finesse had saved  her from being denounced.                       
       
           



       

'I'm only a sort of sister,' she amended carefully. 'And I certainly  can't trade on it. If anyone carried the can it was your father-and  you.'

'That doesn't matter.' The bonnet made Jennie look a bit like a nursing  sister. Her grave eyes enhanced it. 'It doesn't matter what sort of  sisters we are. Even if we weren't sisters at all it wouldn't matter.  We're like each other.'

It could mean nothing or everything. Haidee thought it meant the latter.  She thought that what she had not been brave enough to say had been  said for her. And wasn't there something about the truth making you  free?

She blinked unashamedly and felt Jennie's arms go round her yet again.

'Write,' the younger girl commanded.

'I will,' Haidee promised.

Down on the loading bay, Rory tapped the horn, and a few minutes later  the long topaz brown car slid gently away, Jennie's hand fluttering from  the window.

Haidee glanced at her watch and hurried back indoors. The bus to Dublin  from a town in Wexford passed through Glenglass morning and evening. It  was due at ten-thirty. Her case had been packed since the night before.

She scribbled a note: 'Paul came early. Sorry. Will write. Suzanne.' She  would have liked to add her thanks, but it was likely Suzanne would  have taken all kindnesses as her due. This done, she moved the green  suede jacket to the centre of the now empty wardrobe, put on her own  camel reefer and picked up her case and Brand's basket.

The first day she had come into this old room whose only real comfort  had been the new well-sprung bed that did not belong to it, the sense of  Suzanne's presence had been startling. Now it came again as she took  her last look across the clearing to the polished grey of the beech  trunks and the eggshell blue sky.

No one had ever mentioned what time of year it had been when Suzanne had  fled from her home. Had the forest been green or bare and brown? How  had she gone? How had she felt?

Today no men were working on the near side of the woods, so the view was  just as Suzanne might have seen it, orange leaves piling on the ride,  deserted nests showing in the web of branches. It was a feeling too deep  for words that as she stood there, saying goodbye to Glenglass, she was  not alone. Somehow it came between her and the baldness of her note so  that what she had wanted to say no longer seemed out of place.

'Say goodbye to Toby for me and give him my love,' she added. 'And thank you, Rory, thank you again.'

Brand was in an outhouse. He had been indignant when she had swooped on  him waddling across to the wood. That had been nearly an hour ago so by  this time he would be seething. She hurried across what had once been  the stable yard of Glenglass House and stopped dead. The outhouse door  was open.

Looking inside became a mere matter of form. She did so with annoyance.  Brand was not there. Whose fault? Had she not latched the door properly?  Had he managed to open it? He was a long cat and a great one for  fiddling. She wouldn't put it past him. Speculation, however, was  futile. He had to be found and quickly. It was nearly ten.

'Brand!' she called briskly. 'Here, Brand! Pish-wish! Dinner!' He had had no breakfast, so he would be hungry.

Twenty minutes later and now hoarse with her efforts, she was still  calling. It added up to what she already knew. With his tummy empty he  would come-if he were in earshot. His non-appearance could only mean  that he wasn't.

There was one other bus through the village around midday, unfortunately  a bus outward from Dublin going south. But at least it would take her  somewhere. Indeed if she were to spend the night in Wexford or Waterford  and write her explanation to Rory from there it could serve as a red  herring. It only remained for Brand to appear, and she wished he would.

She was very conscious that she was on edge, perhaps fussing unduly, but  it was unusual not to see him around. He loved his new-found haunts,  but he also loved showing himself. He would be an image on the parapet  or a clucking weaver through legs in the kitchen. He was seldom  off-stage for more than an hour and now-a cold hand touched the pit of  her stomach-almost two had elapsed. He would be starving, he would be  sure to come-he would want to come-unless ... unless something had  happened to him.                       
       
           



       

Deliberately she made herself face it. During those first few days she  had been so anxious about traps, but since then, immersed in other  matters, she'd taken his safety for granted. And how often that was the  way it went. The one thing you'd been casual about turned into an  eleventh-hour accident.

'Brand!' she called beseechingly, and struck out into the wood.

The squirrels were active and cheeky. A bushy tail raced down the path  ahead. An arc of red fur, rusting with the onset of winter, leaped  backwards and a branch swung like a trapeze.

She went on letting herself be swallowed by the dark mouth of  undergrowth. With the men on the far plantation and Rory's office shut,  it was a little like Sunday, and if you thought too much about them the  branches became menacing outstretched arms.



When suddenly a head popped over one and a voice said 'Hello, Johnny!'  she all but jumped out of her skin. The head was brown and tousled, the  ground-floor teeth slightly crooked, the grin a little sheepish. As well  it might be.

'You should be at school,' Haidee said uncompromisingly.

'I didn't feel like it,' Toby returned as directly.

Burdened as she was, this could not be ignored. 'Do you do this often?'

Rory had troubles enough without Toby adding to them.

The eyes dropped. 'No. Today's different. I-I was coming to get you. I  thought we could go for a walk.' Beautifully simple and knavish. He was a  politician, this boy. He twisted you round his little finger. And she  loved him dearly.