Dear Intruder Read online

  ‘You have your mind made up, so it’s a hopeless one I can see,’ he agreed, his vehemence so much that of a misunderstood child that momentarily Bridget regretted her withheld confidences. She began tentatively,

  ‘Why should you care so much?’

  ‘Why?’ He shrugged. ‘Ah—say that it’s because I’ve got used to the pattern of the wallpaper, or that I don’t need to count the stairs in the dark, if you like! They’re as good reasons as any, and what matter? When do you want me to move out?’

  Bridget’s mood hardened against his flippancy. If he could dig in his heels, so could she! ‘As soon as you can, please,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing the solicitors before I go back to England to-night.’

  ‘Are you leaving me the key I’ve got?’

  ‘Yes, of course. How otherwise could you get your things out?’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d like the satisfaction of making me apply in triplicate for the use of it!’ He slung the camera across his shoulders, took a pipe from the rack and was gone.

  It was silly to feel so aroused by a man she was never likely to meet again, but Bridget had not ceased composing withering rejoinders to that last gibe all the way back to Dublin.

  Now she was with the senior partner of her uncle’s firm of solicitors, and Mr. Meath was being very apologetic.

  ‘A very regrettable omission, Miss Haire!’ he mourned. ‘You understand that we thought you would agree to our allowing Mr. Christie to continue to use the facilities of that one room. But of course you should have been told. You must believe me when I say that my clerk had specific instructions to explain the situation to you when he met you at the quay last night.’

  ‘It didn’t matter,’ said Bridget. ‘After the first shock Mr. Christie and I explained ourselves to each other satisfactorily enough.’

  ‘I’m glad of that. Dion Christie is a somewhat—er—blunt young man, with a manner which might not be acceptable to everyone. But his work is very well thought of in scientific circles. He was devoted to your uncle and we felt we could hardly do less than grant him the means of continuing his work without interruption while you were taking over the house.’

  In a light clear voice Bridget said, ‘I quite understand. And I’ve left with him the key you gave him, so that he can move out at his own convenience.’

  ‘Move out?’ Mr. Meath took off his spectacles and replaced them hastily. ‘Don’t you mean then to continue in ownership of your uncle’s house?’

  ‘No. I should like you to tell me how to arrange for selling it, if you will.’

  ‘Dear me! I’d hoped—Well, of course I mustn’t influence you as a client. But you understand that William was by way of being a personal friend as well as a client. And more than once he had expressed wishes to me which I had to persuade him it wouldn’t be proper or fair to incorporate in writing in his will.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, that the house was not to be sold, for instance. But his conviction that you would meet him by coming over to make it your home was very strong.’

  ‘But he knew nothing about me, nor the circumstances I should be in when I inherited,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Exactly. As I told him. But he remained convinced that its value to you would be as he intended—as a home for yourself and your sister while you remained unmarried. Perhaps I ought also to point out that it was in his mind that you would continue to give a home to Kate Mann, his housekeeper, and that Dion Christie would be able to continue his naturalist research from there. Of course he had no right to plan your affairs for you in such a way, but—must you sell, Miss Haire?’

  ‘I must, I’m afraid. I have a job in London—I work in an architect’s office—and during my sister Jenny’s long illness my salary has been our only income. She has been in a sanatorium for lung trouble for months. She’s cured now, but—’ Suddenly Bridget found herself sharing the whole weight of her problem with the kindly sympathy across the table. She could have done the same with Dion Christie if he hadn’t been so stiff-necked with grievance! The very thought of the man was like the prick of a thorn between quick and fingernail.

  Mr. Meath was studying her above judicially joined hands. ‘Well, your uncle could hardly have forecast better your need of the house, could he?’ he said. ‘You need it, yet can’t see your way to taking it. That’s the sum of it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just about,’ agreed Bridget.

  ‘Let’s see now—’ Mr. Meath dropped his chin on his hands and stared fixedly at his inkpot for a long time. Then, ‘Would you consider it if there were any source of income for you over here?’

  ‘But there isn’t—’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know ... Now you’ll have passed an estate with a wall round it between Ardvar and Tullabor? Cion Eigel, it’s called. It was a country house once, but now it is a boarding-school for boys.’ Bridget nodded, remembering that Dan Burke had pointed out the place to her. And the solicitor went on, ‘Well, the headmaster, Daniel Steven, is a friend of mine—and I know he has a problem with him which might help yours. He caters only for boys, you understand, though he takes full charge of them if required. But now he has been asked by some wealthy people who have to spend two years in America to take their whole family—two boys and two small girls—as from the beginning of the summer term. The children must be separated if Daniel can’t do it—and he has had to refuse.’

  ‘What a pity! Couldn’t he take the girls into his own home?’

  ‘He feels he oughtn’t to. His wife is delicate and he realises his first duty is to her. He has a daughter, but she is married and no longer at home. Now I’m thinking—if you could take the little girls, it could be that you would be forming the nucleus of what might later become an annexe to the school for just such cases. This is not the first of its kind, I happen to know. And Daniel has always had to refuse.’

  ‘But could I? I mean—’ Bridget broke off completely bewildered by the project.

  ‘I should think the qualifications would be that you should be really fond of children—’

  ‘I am,’ put in Bridget quickly.

  ‘And that you could create a real home atmosphere for them; some nursing experience might help.’

  ‘Well, I’m qualified for First Aid and Home Nursing. And I can cook. But the house ... I should think it is sound for a century yet. But outwardly it’s shabby and it’s full of heavy old furniture which I couldn’t afford to replace for a long time.’

  Mr. Meath smiled. ‘I gathered from Daniel, when he was worrying to me, that these parents would pay very well indeed for the privilege of being able to leave their children with him, and I know he wouldn’t make two bites of putting the right house in order. You would have old Kate Mann to help you with the housekeeping. She has a small annuity, so she wouldn’t cost you anything. And you could come to an arrangement with Dion Christie which would suit you both...’

  ‘I told you—Mr. Christie is moving out,’ said Bridget quickly.

  ‘But surely only because you had to tell him you were forced to sell the house? It has been his base for his work for a very long time, you understand?’

  ‘It was. But I expect he will find another.’

  ‘You are thinking now that it might not be quite er—suitable? But you would have Kate Mann—!’

  Bridget spread her hands in a little pleading gesture. ‘Please, Mr. Meath—! I wasn’t thinking of chaperonage for Jenny and me. Mr. Christie is going elsewhere, and though I’d be quite willing to give a home to Mrs. Mann, even the decision about that doesn’t lie with me, does it?’

  ‘You’re right. It does not. But will you wait now’—Mr. Meath rose—‘while I go and telephone to Daniel Steven and put the matter to him?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Left to herself, Bridget crossed to the window and stared with abstracted eyes at the barges on the Liffey far below. What did she hope? For herself, she hardly knew. For Jenny, she longed passionately that this Mr. Steven would entertain the fantastic
idea. In imagination she began to fit the children into the house. They could have the garden-room as a playroom all to themselves. The photographic dark-room could be a cupboard for their toys—

  Mr. Meath came back. ‘Daniel would like very much to interview you if you would stay over until tomorrow. What do you say?’

  J Bridget took a deep breath. ‘Tell him, ' please, that I’ll stay,’ she said.

  Two months later, a fortnight after Easter, Bridget and Jenny had a compartment to themselves on the slow afternoon train from Dublin to Ardvar. Jenny was a poor sailor and hadn’t enjoyed the crossing from Holyhead and now she lay dozing, covered with their travelling-rug, while Bridget sat watching the rain-misted countryside as it slid by.

  So much had happened in these two months! There had been that first interview with Mr. Steven—a grave, rather sad-eyed man who had put a lot of shrewd questions without revealing how satisfied he was with her answers.

  Then there had been the news to break to Jenny—without allowing her to hope too much until after her own expense-paid second visit to Eire. This time, in company with Mr. Steven, she had met the parents of the little family who, thanks to Bridget, they said, need not be separated after all. And for that they were prepared to be generous far beyond Bridget’s hopes.

  When Jenny had heard she had hugged Bridget in ecstasy, and after that the broad outline of the scheme had been taken out of Bridget’s hands. As soon as the probate of her uncle’s will was granted, she made a third visit to arrange for redecoration of the house and to meet Kate Mann—black-haired still, though over seventy—by appointment.

  It was that time too that Bridget, in Tullabor for the day, went to the hotel for a midday meal. She was the only guest in the dining-room, but as she ate her boiled bacon and cabbage, the waitress came across to her table to talk.

  In answer to Bridget’s question the girl had said that they usually had few people staying, ‘except for the fishing,’ when they were often full up.

  ‘No permanent residents?’ asked Bridget, her eyes on her plate.

  ‘Sure, we had the one for a little while—Mr. Christie. But he’s off now.’

  ‘He’s not here any longer?’

  ‘He is not. He told me he was away to Galway Bay to observe the sea-birds come in off the Atlantic. He said it wasn’t likely that he’d be back, so we weren’t to keep his room.’

  Now, on the seat opposite, Jenny was stirring but did not open her eyes. Bridget twitched the rug to cover her feet more cosily, feeling the overwhelming tenderness which Jenny, so vulnerable in sleep, could always arouse in her.

  Jenny was much fairer than Bridget—‘a white mouse’ to Bridget’s ‘brown,’ their father used to say. Her hair did not curl perkily as Bridget’s did; she wore it unwaved and shoulder-length, a kind of stranded gold hood for her head and a frame for her piquant face. She had wide blue eyes and a fragile, winged look which her illness had accentuated. ‘She still shows tiredness too easily,’ thought Bridget with a pang as Jenny roused at last and began to rub her eyes.

  ‘Ardvar is the next station, dear,’ said Bridget beginning to collect their bags.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad.’ Jenny retied her head-scarf and nodded towards a covered wicker basket, the largest package they had. ‘How’s Masterman now?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a sound out of him since you went to sleep. I’ve thought it best not to enquire.’

  Jenny, however, could not resist taking a peep at the big tabby cat who had embarrassed them with his wails of protest most of the way from Euston to Holyhead and at intervals throughout the sea crossing.

  Jenny reported, ‘He’s quiet now. But he’s stiff with reproach. He says he was born a Cockney and doesn’t want to be an Irish cat. Bridgie, does buttering their paws really help, do you think?’

  At Ardvar, Dan Burke, chartered beforehand by Bridget, was waiting to stow them into the cab while Masterman’s basket and their cases went into the boot behind. On the way the soft misting rain obscured every view, so that Jenny saw little of her new surroundings until they reached Tullabor.

  ‘That’s the hotel, and this is Tullabor street. The house is a couple of hundred yards ahead on the right,’ Bridget told her.

  Jenny sat forward eagerly, turning to announce as the house came in sight, ‘If that’s it, we’ve got callers already. There’s a car drawn up outside. Would it be Mr. Steven?’

  Bridget peered ahead. ‘Mr. Steven? No, his car is nearly new. This one looks vintage ...’ she puzzled as Dan Burke drew up behind the shabby red car. The girls alighted, and while Dan unloaded their cases Bridget went forward to look into it.

  She found the driving-seat empty. On the seat beside it was a typewriter, a pile of books and some road maps. On the back seat, head propped in hand, long legs stretched across another pile of unpacked luggage on the floor, Dion Christie lay fast asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Who is it?’ Jenny, glancing over Bridget’s shoulder, was unable to answer her own question. ‘Not—not that Mr. Christie who lived here?’

  Bridget nodded in silence. Her report on Dion Christie had been vivid, but Jenny could not be expected to share the prickle of surprised irritation which ran along her own spine nor the creeping misgiving which followed it.

  All that luggage! Was he going somewhere—or coming back? Did it mean that he was returning to Tullabor after all? If so, in so small a place they would be forced sometimes to meet. And if any future encounters should be as barbed as their first—!

  She became aware that Jenny was getting wet and that Dan Burke was waiting for his fare. When she turned round after paying him she found that Dion Christie had already heaved his length out of his car. He was yawning and running his fingers through his tousled hair, but at the sight of her he demanded in the accusing tone she found familiar, ‘What was it that kept you so long? I thought you would have been here hours ago.’

  ‘I can’t think why the time of our arrival should interest you,’ said Bridget drily.

  His eyes widened. ‘Why not? I had to know, so I asked Meath, of course. I’ve been driving from Galway since first light and I’m nearly starved. I hope you’ve brought something to eat?’

  The sheer audacity of that left Bridget speechless. Did he really think that, after their acrimonious parting, she was going to put herself out to feed him, just because he chose to dash across the country without making provision for himself? But he had already scooped their three cases into a grasp as expert as a railway porter’s and was approaching the front door.

  Over his shoulder he asked, ‘Have you got the key? It doesn’t matter about my gear. I can unpack later, but you’d better be getting in out of the rain...’

  Adroitly Bridget swept round him so that she faced him on the narrow doorstep. ‘If you want a meal or—or accommodation, there’s the hotel,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘There is not. A coachload of tourists drove in from the north, and the gourmands had all the luncheon eaten between them by the time I arrived. They’re staying the night, so there won’t be a room either.’

  ‘Did you ask?’ began Bridget, only to be interrupted by a little cry of dismay from Jenny.

  ‘Masterman!’ breathed Jenny. ‘He—that Mr. Burke—has gone off with him—back to Ardvar!’

  It was true. There was no cat-basket in sight. But before Bridget could offer the obvious consolation—that they could telephone Dan Burke as soon as he reached Ardvar—Dion Christie asked, ‘Masterman? Who’s he?’ He was looking at Jenny and there was no edge to his tone.

  ‘He’s my cat. We’ve brought him from England. His full name is Masterman Ready, because he’s never not—ready for his food, I mean. As though he hadn’t enough to bear without this! How could we have forgotten him, Bridgie?’ Since her illness Jenny was easily moved to emotion, and her lip was quivering now.

  ‘You weren’t to blame. You had a counter-irritant—me.’ Dion Christie’s sudden puckish grin was only for Jenny. He went on
, ‘And this Masterman—he’s been left in the cab?’

  ‘Yes—in a basket in the boot. The poor lamb will be terrified...’

  ‘Not if he doesn’t get as far as Ardvar. And he won’t.’ Don Christie set down the cases at Bridget’s feet and turned back to his car.

  Jenny laid an impulsive hand on his arm. ‘Are you going after the cab? Oh, you are good—could I come with you?’

  He paused with his hand on the car door, looking down into her eager face. Then, ‘You’ve been ill, haven’t you? So better not. My bus isn’t waterproof and you’re too wet already. I’ll explain to Masterman why you had to send me instead.’ At the words even Bridget’s prejudiced mind was shot through with the thought that some men would have been less gentle with Jenny’s concern over a mere cat. But then Jenny’s fragility invited kindness.

  Jenny was glowing with praise of Dion as they went into the house. ‘He’s nice, Bridgie! Don’t you think you may have worked yourself into quarrelling with him that first time? For instance, you had only to explain why you thought you’d have to sell the house.’

  ‘And he had only to refrain from accusing me without reason of riding roughshod over wishes that Uncle William hadn’t even expressed,’ retorted Bridget. She touched Jenny’s sleeve. ‘Dear, you’re very wet and you mustn’t take risks. Go and get into something dry, while I organise some warmth. We won’t bother with a real fire; we’ll have one electric fire to eat by, and I’ll air the sheets and blankets by the other. Then, while I make up our beds, you can have a bath.’

  ‘I want to see over the house,’ objected Jenny.

  ‘All right. But later—when you’ve changed.’

  Jenny still lingered. ‘What about Mr. Christie? When he brings Masterman back?

  He said he was hungry. You’ll give him something to eat, won’t you?’

  ‘If he’s not above sharing what we have. I don’t know what there is yet. Mr. Steven said he’d lay in some stores—mostly tins, I expect.’