Dear Deceiver Read online

  DEAR DECEIVER

  Doris E. Smith

  When Haidee Brown masqueraded as a girl named Suzanne Desmond, who was apparently her double, it was with the best and kindest of intentions, to bring comfort to a dying woman. But Haidee found herself involved in the unknown Suzanne’s life in a way that she had never bargained for.

  ‘I’m happy for to see you home,

  Hurroo! Hurroo!

  ‘I’m happy for to see you home,

  Hurroo! Hurroo!

  I’m happy for to see you home,

  All from the Island of Ceylon,

  So low in flesh, so high in bone,

  Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!’

  Irish Street Ballad

  CHAPTER ONE

  Haidee was not saying anything against the holiday, but now her nose was turned to Dublin and she was thinking about Brand. She should be home soon after seven. It was a nice thought, gladdening the platform at South Kensington and the ensuing brief walk to the Brompton Air Terminal.

  So far, a trouble-free journey. The train which had brought her up from the south coast had been punctual to the minute, she was spot on her check-in time of four o’clock for the flight and the weather was relaxingly warm and sunny. In fact, the only indication that it was mid-October and not July or August came from the looks of the assembling passengers. No tourists among them. Businessmen mostly, a couple of priests and three nuns. Haidee was agreeing with one of the nuns, a Little Sister of the Poor, that they could not have a nicer evening for flying when the group was reinforced by three newcomers, a tall girl and two men.

  It was like nothing so much as the entry of the principals. You could stand back, Haidee thought fancifully, and see as stage the glass doors of the terminal, the green and white coach, the graceful little street down which it would head, and the ‘much of a muchness’ passengers waiting to board. Herself included, of course—Haidee Brown, twenty-five, brown eyes, dark-rimmed oval glasses, smooth straight hanging brown hair, trousers, white sweater, grey cardigan, camel reefer. Now suddenly the foreground was filled.

  One of the men, grizzled and handsome, had the girl affectionately by the arm. She was animated. You noticed her smile before the rest of her and that too was gay, deep-toned rose pink for her midi coat, a paler scarf, lilac looped earrings, a chignon of fair hair. And if you wanted a pair off for her, the perfect pair off, you had only to look at the second man. Tall, lithe, casual, a sleuth disguised as a poet. His wavy brown hair was longish, his eyes sleepy-lidded but watchful.

  And it’s rude to stare, Haidee reminded herself, turning back to the Little Sister of the Poor.

  A few more minutes and the coach door was opened. The pink girl turned to the man who had her arm and kissed him. He stepped back wearing a smudge of lilac-tinged lipstick. The girl’s eyes danced mischievously, but she said nothing. The other man’s sleepy eyes lit with amusement: ‘You’re not going to let him walk down the street like that—’

  Haidee did not see the end of it, but some minutes later ‘Fair Chignon’ and ‘Brown Waves’ took the seat two rows behind her. She heard them chatting and laughing as the coach pulled away, did its little tour round the block, reentered Brompton Road and trundled off through West London.

  Not long now, Haidee thought, and hoped she was not doing an injustice to the holiday, her first for five years. Everyone in the hotel had been so kind and friendly. But perhaps the resort in off-season had been just a shade too quiet. All in all she could not help feeling a let-down to the friends who had urged her so repeatedly to ‘have a marvellous time, really live it up’.

  It was a prescription the doctor himself had given the morning after her mother had died when he had come round to sign the death certificate. Five years Mrs. Brown had been ill and for the last three Haidee had stayed at home to look after her. Not everyone had approved, the doctor himself had not, but now it was all over and the next objective was a job.

  The airport environs with their man-made scenery of tunnel, flyover and underpass—it was really very ugly compared with the green sliver of the North Bull and the intervening lagoon which Haidee had on her front doorstep—were now slipping past the windows. One more traffic hold-up and the coach stopped before a wall of glass.

  ‘Straight up the escalator and turn to the right,’ the driver said briskly. He gave Haidee a hand down the step and she went, as directed, in the wake of a priest with a fine Kerry brogue.

  There was, as it turned out, no need for briskness. The announcement came just as she set foot on the vast fields of Heathrow’s Number One Terminal Departure Lounge.

  ‘Aer Lingus Irish regret to announce that their flight EI.165 to Dublin has been delayed owing to weather conditions at Dublin. A further announcement will be made in an hour.’

  In the crowd round the Aer Lingus information desk for every two people who were philosophic six asked the impossible. It was a nasty mixture of seeing people behaving unreasonably and knowing that something inside you wanted to be just as bad. Haidee was alone in the world, quite alone now except for Brand; she didn’t have to wrestle with the problem of relatives or business contacts and that ought to have made her lot considerably easier than most. Strangely, it seemed only to thud home a few notes of self-pity. ‘I’ve no one to care about me, no one is waiting at Dublin to take me home.’ And a jolly good thing, she thought stoutly, and went to have some of the free refreshments Aer Lingus had offered.

  En passant, it was an object lesson to see the Little Sisters of the Poor sitting in the teeming departure area as placidly as though they were in their own chapel.

  At seven o’clock flight EI.165 and five luckless predecessors were cancelled. Alternative transport had been arranged, the clerks at the information desk stated with palpable relief. Within the hour passengers would be taken by coach to Euston for the boat train. They skimmed over the length of the journey. ‘Five hours in the train, seven on the boat. That’s from Heysham, it can’t go from Holyhead till the bridge is repaired.’

  Haidee calculated and was appalled. Dun Laoghaire nine o’clock, what time Dollymount cross-city in the morning rush hour? She’d better phone a neighbour and leave word about Brand. He at that moment was the second last straw, far away and not knowing why nobody was opening the door. The last straw was the free-for-all round the telephone. All the instruments were in use except one which was out of order. She dialled unavailingly for a few minutes and stood up.

  ‘Finished?’ a voice asked pleasantly. ‘If so, may I, please?’ An arm in a checked tweed sleeve had already stretched over her. Brown eyes smiled down at her from heavy lids. There was a pleased quirk to the lips.

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work,’ Haidee said apologetically. ‘At least it won’t work for me.’

  It didn’t for ‘Brown Waves’ either. She waited till he said: ‘Blast!’ and gave up. ‘Did you want Dublin too?’ he asked, and Haidee nodded.

  ‘Not much chance, I fear.’ He gestured at the crowd. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘In a way. Someone who might be looking for me.’ The only one now who did. Stop that, Haidee, no dice.

  The telephone was no dice either.

  ‘Looks like we’re out of luck.’ ‘Brown Waves’ pulled a face, smiled at her and moved away. It was a smile as crisp as his open shirt and with a drawback. It made you want more.

  And pigs might fly, Haidee told herself sharply.

  London by night, as the fleet of coaches lumbered through it, had the style she’d thought it had lost. Two fire tenders wailed through Piccadilly, the British Museum—a surprise to Haidee who had lost her bearings—was suddenly there on the right, and in Woburn Place the lights of a hotel foyer flashed by like a pearl in the darkness. The girl sharing the seat with her turned
out to be a student about to commence her third year medical in University College Dublin. They chatted and it passed the time, but at Euston they lost each other.

  Euston was full of hazards like putting down your case for a minute and having it get mixed up with a pile coming from Lourdes. She got it, and herself, at last to the barrier where a representative from the airline issued her with tickets to Dun Laoghaire.

  ‘Will I have a berth on the boat?’ Haidee asked him.

  ‘We can’t arrange that,’ she was told. ‘But we’ll refund the cost if you do.’

  ‘You’ll be refunding in any case, I presume,’ a voice behind Haidee cut in with decision. ‘There’s a whacking difference, after all, between this and the air fare.’ The girl in the rose pink midi was standing there. Haidee had not seen anything of her during the wait at Heathrow; probably she and ‘Brown Waves’ had been having dinner, they certainly had not been in the self-service queue for free snacks. She looked like it, she had that ‘wined and dined’ look and not a shred of the fatigue already showing in other faces. More even. She’d started an argument and was plainly revelling in it. Truthfully, at that moment dissension seemed out of place.

  An onlooker expressed the thought. ‘Who does she think she is? It’s not the young fella’s fault there’s a fog. Lady Muck!’ The jibe, embarrassingly loud, sent Haidee moving down the platform. Unfortunately, by this time she was a marked woman. ‘Are you by yourself?’ the critic asked eagerly, catching her up. ‘That’s grand. I am too.’

  The second boat train, pulling into its platform, could well have blanched at the crowd awaiting it, the normal number swelled by twelve hundred air refugees. Haidee had no real intention of eluding her self-invited companion, it just happened. At the same moment a friendly voice said in her ear: ‘Bags of room here. Come on.’ A pink-clad arm gave a brisk wrench to the door handle of the nearest coach.

  The multitude, no doubt with Haidee’s acquaintance amongst them, was surging obediently into the second class carriages. The first class ones were almost empty.

  ‘My ticket isn’t first,’ Haidee said doubtfully, looking at the twinkling eyes that had invited her so cheerfully to enter.

  ‘Me neither, chum,’ came the gay reply. ‘Who cares?’ She checked abruptly. ‘Oh, wait. It’s a non-smoker.’ She threw a glance backwards over her shoulder. ‘It won’t do you. It’s a non-smoker. Try the next one.’

  Another voice replied. ‘Brown Waves’, thought Haidee disappointedly. To have travelled with the pair of them would have done much for this weary journey. She would not now have that pleasure. The fair girl was already leaving the compartment. And then a surprising thing happened. She glanced back in the same friendly fashion. ‘Come on, we’ll go next door. He’ll want to smoke. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Haidee found herself speaking to the tall figure which had now come alongside.

  ‘Hello,’ said ‘Brown Waves’, smiling. ‘We meet again.’ He took Haidee’s suitcase and put it on the rack.

  ‘Get comfy,’ his companion invited. ‘First come, first served.’ She took a corner seat and set about removing her coat. ‘Take off your jacket,’ Haidee was bidden maternally. ‘Then you can put it over you later on. You know,’ she added with an impish beam, ‘this could be worse.’

  A lot worse, Haidee amended silently. But she was still sheep enough to have qualms about the hundreds of law-abiders travelling in crowded discomfort.

  ‘If the ticket collector comes...’ she began.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re three to one,’ ‘Brown Waves’ said smilingly.

  In fact for the whole four and a half hours no badge of officialdom so much as looked in their windows.

  It was a journey for seeing the funny side and this ‘Fair Chignon’ (neither she nor ‘Brown Waves’ had volunteered their names) made sure they did. She told hilarious stories and clowned with the can of Guinness ‘Brown Waves’ brought her. It was no wonder he seemed so fascinated. But after the stop at Crewe she suddenly pulled down the blinds beside her, wrapped her coat around her and said goodnight.

  ‘We should do the same,’ ‘Brown Waves’ advised Haidee. ‘The night is still long.’ He drew the remaining blinds and dimmed the light.

  Haidee did not blame him for not wanting to stay awake with only her for company, but sleep was one bonus she did not hope for. For all that one had to go through the motions. She slipped her glasses into her handbag and snuggled as best she could under her camel jacket.

  Odd to be cleaving the night like this, miles from home, in a hinterland of darkness. Ghostly stations resounded as the train roared through and by looking round the edge of the blind she could see distant road lights that looked like chains of oranges. She was tired, concerned for Brand who must by now be wondering what had gone wrong, and lonely. And yet for much of tonight she’d forgotten her troubles. It was months since she had laughed so much and it went to show that no gloom need ever be total. The Chinese knew that of old and said it more poetically: ‘Keep a green bough in thy heart and God will send thee a singing bird.’

  Haidee loved birds. Dublin’s wild bird sanctuary on the North Bull, half a mile as the crow flies from her front door, had many times in the past two years solaced her along with its migrating geese. It did not offer boughs. If you wanted the best in trees you would find them due south across the bay Where the Dublin and Wicklow mountains reared against the skyline. She thought now of trees, trees at sundown and the sleepy twittering of birds.

  When next she opened her eyes the compartment seemed strangely quiet. It took a minute to orientate. ‘Brown Waves’s’ eyes were also open and watching her. The semidarkness robbed him of his colour; she saw checks, white collar points, a dark triangle of sweat-shirt. Saw too, and was thankful that the shadows hid her silly blushes, how gently his lips curved as she turned her head.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes. I...’ She stopped confusedly. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘Not yet. Morecambe, I think. Looks like it.’ He lifted the blind on a bleak foreshore. A few parked caravans flashed past. ‘Yes, Morecambe,’ he confirmed, and dropped the blind.

  He was still looking at her intently. She pushed back her hair.

  ‘Do that again,’ he commanded.

  She blinked incredulously and saw the gleam of his teeth.

  ‘Sorry. Fact is you’ve been bothering me for hours. You remind me of somebody. Without your glasses it’s quite amazing.’ It added to the intimacy of the moment that he was obviously taking care not to disturb ‘Fair Chignon’ in her corner.

  ‘We’re all supposed to have a double.’ Haidee did not think hers would have put any strain on the Celestial Photo-Copying Unit.

  ‘Yes. You could certainly be Suzanne’s.’ The smile flashed. ‘That’s not your name, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Haidee.’

  ‘Haidee.’ It was a rather pretty name and he made it sound even better. ‘And very apt, I’d say.’ Once more he smiled at her surprise. ‘French, meaning a lily, I think. Am I right?’

  She nodded, telling herself not to be so idiotically flattered.

  ‘So! Definitely not Suzanne,’ he summed up teasingly. ‘Are there any more at home like you?’

  ‘No. I’m the last of the Mohicans.’

  ‘The last?’ He quickened.

  Haidee explained, not asking for pity because that sort of trouble came to everyone in time. She got it none the less.

  ‘I am sorry,’ ‘Brown Waves’ said simply. ‘But I’m sure you won’t be the last of the Mohicans for long. Live alone, do you?’ he asked a second later.

  ‘Except for my gentleman friend.’ It was demurely said. Not the first time she’d seen a face change at this point, but this face, boned—as she now thought—like an Irish setter, outdid all others to date. She took pity on it. ‘Brand. Scandinavian, meaning flame. My cat.’

  ‘Your cat!’ The laugh was boyish and the creases round his eyes enhanced
his charm. ‘I thought for the minute—’

  A sound from the corner interrupted. ‘Fair Chignon’ was awake and yawning. She glanced through the window. ‘Hey, you two, what have you done? We’re going back to London!’

  The train was moving again, apparently in the direction from which they’d come. Just so, ‘Brown Waves’ explained smoothly, Heysham’s nip of coast was on a loop line to the south-west. Ten minutes later they stopped again. ‘Heysham!’ shouted a voice. ‘Heysham!’

  It was twenty-five to two and dark as pitch.

  ‘Brown Waves’ lifted the case down while Haidee shrugged on her jacket and ‘Fair Chignon’ her pink coat. The platform was already teeming with people all heading for the notices which read: to the ships.

  ‘In case we get separated,’ ‘Brown Waves’ said, ‘my thanks for your company.’ His eyes rested doubtfully on ‘Fair Chignon’ who for all her talents was patently not a good case carrier. ‘Can you manage? Shall I?’

  She refused. Haidee admired her for it, all the more because she was at last beginning to flag. ‘I should say not. You have your own. And don’t wait. I’ll hold you up. Don’t you wait either,’ she bade Haidee. ‘This bloody boat is going to be over its eyeballs. It’s every man for himself.’

  It was a strange reversal of fortune. Glamour in the shape of smart shoes and leather luggage lost out fast whereas Haidee’s ‘flats’ and supermarket suitcase could have kept pace easily with ‘Brown Waves’s’ swinging stride. She watched him now as he caught up with the streaming crowd and it swallowed him.

  ‘You shouldn’t have waited,’ ‘Fair Chignon’ panted as they went down a badly lit passage beside the empty shipyards. ‘But thanks. I hope it won’t lose you your chance of a berth.’

  If it did it couldn’t be helped, Haidee thought. One good turn deserved another and she’d been ‘adopted’ so kindly at Euston. But it probably would mean kissing good-bye to a berth and, in the circumstances, ‘Brown Waves’ could not be judged too hardly.