Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  So when old Joshua died no Averdale stood ready to take his place. For the first time in three hundred years the chain of command had been broken. An Averdale son would not be taught about power by his father. That task would be performed by others - and perform it they did, though rarely in a way which suited young Mark. He was the despair of the select preparatory school in the London suburb of Dulwich, and the larger but equally exclusive establishment on the Thames known as Eton School threw him out on his sixteenth birthday. Schoolmasters decided that he needed firmer control than they could provide, and the suggestion that he be put down on Dartmoor in His Majesty's Prison was made with only the faintest of smiles.

  He was born at Brackenburn, the huge family mansion outside Belfast, with its sweeping views across Lough Neagh and five thousand acres for a back garden. Lady Averdale, having discharged her responsibility of delivering another son, promptly handed him over to Nanny who, with the help of a night nurse, took good care of him. After which Mark's infant hood was unexceptional - although there was one incident which, in retrospect, demonstrated two aspects of his character with piercing clarity - his stubbornness, and his love of possessions.

  He was five at the time, and playing with some toy soldiers in the nursery. They were expensive reproductions of the armies of Wellington and Napoleon and although much of the intricate craftsmanship went over the boy's head he was captivated by the tiny figure of Napoleon. That too was a pointer for the future - Mark's knack with a collector's item - for the model was a connoisseur's piece if ever there was one and the boy singled it out from the moment he saw it. So much so that with Mark behind him Napoleon won the Battle of Waterloo time after time.

  None of which was known to old Joshua Averdale who stopped at the nursery one day and became intrigued by the armies spread across the floor. To his eye something was wrong. He started to shift the pieces around. Then he picked up Napoleon. Mark uttered a strangled cry and tried to snatch it back. His father was too quick for him. Mark flew at his father - forgetting fear, ignoring Nanny's shrill warning. Old Joshua tried to brush him away - but Mark grabbed the hand holding Napoleon and bit - sinking teeth into flesh and hanging on like a bull-terrier. Not until Napoleon fell to the ground did Mark let go, despite the blows raining down on his head. He was thrashed an hour later, bent over a chair while his father wielded the cane with his undamaged hand. Mark screamed and was sent to bed - but then came the mystery. Old Joshua was determined to confiscate Napoleon, but Napoleon could not be found. Napoleon was never found. Mark had hidden him and no amount of further punishment persuaded him to reveal the whereabouts of the piece. In the fullness of time the matter was forgotten, but apart from Mark nobody ever set eyes on Napoleon again.

  A similar incident occurred at the Dulwich school four years later. Mark was not popular. His Ulster accent caused amusement and the constant teasing probably did amount to provocation - but Mark's retaliatory actions were indefensible. As when his stamp album went missing. The boy who borrowed it returned it intact an hour later - but Mark's outrage was fearful - and his action of holding the boy's head down the lavatory while classmates urinated over him was too much for the school. Mark was expelled the same day.

  It was the same at Eton. The school's considerable disciplinary system broke its back on him. He established the still unequalled record of being beaten more often than any boy in the school's history. Academically he was a failure, taking an interest only in art and history, ignoring everything else. Socially he was the leader of the most troublesome group in school, but apart from a boy called Ashendon and a handful of others he was ostracised - a matter about which he seemed supremely indifferent. He was a non-event on the famous playing fields and achieved distinction only as a cross-country runner, where his stamina was such that he outran even the oldest boys in the school.

  Of course his parents were long since dead by then, so responsibility for the boy rested with his four harassed guardians. Initially they drew some comfort from his prowess as a cross-country runner, seeing in it such qualities as courage and persistence which they hoped might be repeated elsewhere ... but they waited in vain. Mark Averdale reserved his determination for a few special things of his own choosing ... as the world was to find out.

  Mark celebrated his sixteenth birthday by holding a midnight picnic on the river. Hampers from Fortnum's guaranteed an excellent feast, but as well as food it was subsequently discovered that the seven boys consumed four bottles of vintage champagne and two of Haig's Dimple. Who suggested the nude bathing was never revealed, not even by the coroner's inquest - all that established was death by accidental drowning of young Peter Marsden. By then, however, Mark Averdale had already been expelled.

  What to do with him - that was the question. No other school would take him. A university career was out of the question. Even the army was doubtful - Sandhurst was sounded out, but they refused with positive firmness. For a year a succession of tutors were engaged in the thankless task of furthering Mark's education. All of them failed, although the last did achieve some insight into Mark's character. In his letter of resignation to the guardians, Mr Harvey MacPherson, a Scots educator of very good reputation, wrote:

  "The boy is far from stupid. I caught him on the raw last week by condemning his intellect. Indeed I went so far as to say that he lacked a sufficiently retentive memory to attain any level of scholastic achievement. (Not something I would normally say to a pupil but Mark's refusal to study riled me more than usual that day.) He gave no reply at the time but the day before yesterday presented me with a copy of Othello. Then he sat down in front of me and wrote the entire play out from memory, including stage directions and scene setting. The exercise took him four hours during which time he barely paused, and then only to ask for more paper. When he finished he said perhaps I would like to check his work for accuracy, then he left my room and I did not see him until the following morning.

  Of course I checked the work thoroughly and with the exception of two spelling errors, it was totally accurate. It may interest you to know that there are fifteen thousand words of dialogue in Othello, and the stage directions in my edition account for another seven hundred. (I can vouch for this since I counted the words myself.) I must tell you that I consider Mark's achievement to be quite remarkable - the equal of which I have not come across in fifteen years of teaching.

  Naturally yesterday morning I complimented him. In fact we discussed the work, enough to establish that as well as learning the lines he fully understood every aspect of the play. I apologised for my ill-judged criticism of his intellect and went on to plead, as persuasively as possible, that he take a greater interest in his studies. He refused point blank. He said he had memorised the play simply to refute my criticism, but that his attitude towards traditional theories of education had not changed one bit.

  Then came an even more disturbing incident. I was saying it was my duty to provide him with an education which would help when he assumed responsibility for the House of Averdale. He smiled at that and said he already had everything necessary. He rolled up one sleeve and took out a pocket-knife and, before I could stop him, cut a deep incision into his forearm. I was appalled by the blood, but he remained icy calm. 'Averdale blood', he said, then tapped the knife blade, 'and cold steel to keep the Croppies down. That's what made the Averdale fortune, and that's what will keep it.'

  Doctor Lawton's medical report is attached and you will be relieved to note that no permanent damage was suffered - although nine stitches were sewn into the boy's arm - but I must confess the incident upset me profoundly. (Incidentally, you may be unfamiliar with the term, but 'Croppies' denotes Catholics over here.)"

  The letter concluded with various platitudes. The kind Mr MacPherson even managed to find something good to say about the boy, praising his obvious iron will and courage and adding, surprisingly perhaps, that Mark had an eye for beautiful things - "In particular," MacPherson wrote, "the boy has a well developed interest in pain
ting and can speak quite knowledgeably about every canvas in Brackenburn. In fact I am something of a student myself, and I remembered reading that Rouen's famous painting 'Women Bathing' was owned by the Averdale family, so naturally I was hoping to see it at Brackenburn, since quite apart from its reputation as one of the most sensual paintings in the world it is commonly regarded as Rouen's masterpiece. But the painting was neither in the gallery nor the Long Room, and when I enquired the servants told me that Master Mark had removed it to his bedroom. As a matter of fact I asked Mark if I might view it, but was refused in a manner which I can only describe as curt. I mention this not because of my small disappointment, but as a sidelight on Mark's character. Some things he will share with nobody. Of course the painting is his to do with what he likes - but his possessiveness amounts to an obsession at times."

  In London, the guardians - now reduced to three by the death of one of their number - were at their wits' end. They had served Joshua Averdale in various capacities in his lifetime, but the task he set from his grave seemed impossible. MacPherson's letter was read and re-read. The incident involving Rouen's painting was not the first indication of Mark's possessiveness - but Averdales were possessive, even if, to the guardian's knowledge, no one before Mark had taken erotic paintings into their bedrooms. What to do with the boy? Finally they hit upon Africa. Lord Bowley, the late Lord Averdale's cousin, had settled there. He was a widower with a son of Mark's age - perhaps he would take the boy for a while?

  Mark accepted the suggestion - leaving Brackenburn was a wrench but the great house would not be his unfettered until his twenty-first birthday. And if he stayed, no doubt the guardians would appoint another tutor. So, two weeks after his seventeenth birthday, he sailed from Southampton to Africa - where he remained for more than three years.

  Lord Bowley was well known for his shrewd judgement. He harnessed Mark's restlessness by making him work the Bowley estates - a tract so vast that a man could ride the boundary all day and not get back to his starting point. He sought to curb Mark's possessiveness by restricting him to little more than his horse, a rifle, a knife and a bed. And best of all he gave his son Percy to Mark as a companion. Percy was older by six months, a strong, easy-going boy with his father's gift for man management, but who was growing restless without company of his own age. Mark's arrival suited all three of them. Lord Bowley worked the boys hard and they responded - so much so that at the end of eighteen months Lord Bowley sent the boys on holiday. "You've worked damn hard and I'm grateful, but it's time you took a break. Go and see Africa. Look at it before it all changes, before they civilise the place. Take a year if you like, two youngsters your age, time you had an adventure before you settle down."

  So they went, taking Mbejobi, Lord Bowley's most trusted servant, with them. They saw Africa - spending fifteen months trekking from one coast and back again. They slept rough, stalked elephant, shot lion, ate wildebeest, got bitten by snakes, waded rivers, climbed mountains and damn near killed themselves - but Mark remembered the sheer exhilaration of those days for the rest of his life. Mark celebrated his nineteenth birthday in Nairobi's most exclusive brothel, not leaving his bed for a week. Percy won three hundred pounds in a Jo'burg card game and lost it at knife-point afterwards. Mark squandered fifty pounds at the Cape Town races. Percy got roaring drunk in Port Elizabeth's most exclusive bordello. They were thrown out of Mozambique. But they saw Africa - from the magical sunset over Kilimanjaro to the spray half a mile high above the Victoria Falls.

  Lord Bowley inspected them keenly when they returned. "Well, you both look healthy enough. If I didn't know better I'd think you'd led decently upright lives. No doubt you'll swear you've not touched a drop of whiskey, or taken any bad women to bed - or done any of the other normal, healthy, disgusting things I expected of you."

  They spent a week recounting their adventures, and the old man seemed to enjoy the hearing as much as they had enjoyed the doing. Lord Bowley, Mark decided, was the wisest man in the world.

  Most nights they slumped on the verandah, resting aching muscles after a hard day, drinking whiskey, and generally feeling pleasantly tired. Sometimes they talked of Ireland. "I miss it at times," the old man admitted, "but I had to get out. De Valera is destroying it. Ireland's no place for a Lord now, not in the south anyway. Maybe it was nothing but a poor place to start with, but a man as narrow and blinkered as de Valera will ruin it for sure." He snorted contemptuously. "Freedom! He'll give 'em freedom all right, freedom to starve!"

  "And the north?" Mark asked anxiously.

  "The north's all right if you remember one thing," Lord Bowley wagged a finger, "you're under siege. You've seen the mess in the south. They'll do the same for Ulster if you let them. Be firm, stand up for yourselves, nobody else will if you don't. And watch those English politicians - some of them couldn't hold tight to a brass washer. They'll give it away one day if you let them - but you're British and you insist on your rights."

  Lord Bowley was proud to be British and proud of the Empire. "The British invest," he said, warming to his theme, "time, money, men, know-how - of course they want a return on their capital, why not, but they build a country up, not milk it dry like some of these other buggers. And take the Commonwealth - another great development. When people are ready to run their own affairs they should do so. Perfectly right. That's what de Valera should have gone for, full membership of the Commonwealth, with all the benefits of trade and investment. Now he's half in and half out. He's not trusted, so nobody invests tuppence in Ireland - and all because of a crack-pot idea of becoming a republic like America. There's no comparison - America's rich in resources while Ireland needs all the help it can get. I'll tell you, had this Commonwealth idea been around in 1776 America wouldn't be a republic - they'd be inside the Commonwealth, growing rich behind a wall of preferential tariffs."

  So, beneath Africa's velvet skies, Mark learned much the same brand of politics as his father would have taught. Enemies of Unionism would get the same reply from Mark as first fell from the lips of another Averdale at the Siege of Londonderry - "No surrender!" It was in his blood, and nothing learned from Lord Bowley contradicted his most cherished convictions.

  Thus the guardians raised an Averdale after all - and the two who were still alive to greet Mark's ship at Southampton were more than pleased with the young man they met. He was tall and lean, with sun bleached fair hair and healthy bronzed skin. Africa had performed a metamorphosis, turning a troublesome boy into an attractive young man - an attractive rich young man, for although the trustees had failed to expand the Averdale empire at least they had kept it intact. Which was why, five weeks before his twenty-first birthday, Mark Averdale was in England ... to claim his inheritance.

  Mark was still an Averdale. He proved it at Southampton. Crates of possessions stretched from one end of the quay to the other. Trophies by the ton. Skins, antlers, the head of a brindled gnu, elephant tusks, zebra hides - the list seemed endless. Overwhelmed Customs officers organised a special examination shed, but their inspection was casual by comparison. Mark went through everything with a fine tooth comb and only when he was satisfied that it was complete did he pass it for onward shipment to Brackenburn. What was his was his ... and God help anyone who failed to respect his property.

  In London he stayed at his family's house in Belgrave Square and his guardians and trustees called to discuss the Averdale investments. They were considerable. The company which bore Mark's name - Averdale Engineering - was but a small part of his inheritance. Indirectly he owned fifteen percent of Belfast's linen industry, nineteen percent of the shipyards, five percent of all whiskey distilled in the Province, and a scattering of holdings in any number of businesses. In addition to which he owned the house in London, three farms in Ulster, and of course Brackenburn. But sole control of this empire was not his for another four years - the family investments would be supervised by trustees until Mark's twenty-fifth birthday - "apprenticeship years", Joshua Averdale had call
ed them in his will.

  Mark was undismayed. He had plans, of his own. Meanwhile his income was substantial and, most importantly, he had Brackenburn. Brackenburn drew him. He still remembered pining for the great house while at school. Even in Africa he had been homesick at times. So the minute Mark finished with the guardians and trustees he left London and journeyed to Ulster.

  Brackenburn! Even in a country blessed with great houses, Andrew Averdale's mansion was exceptional. Nothing rivalled it in Ulster, and although the south had some fine houses, few equalled Brackenburn. In England it was surpassed by Blenheim Palace in Oxford and Castle Howard in Yorkshire, but only just - indeed it closely resembled Castle Howard. It was smaller but, not by much, where Castle Howard was 600 feet long, Brackenburn was 500; where the Great Hall at Castle Howard was 34 feet square, Brackenburn's was 30 - but both were crowned by a dome and flanked by staircases. Both houses had curved arcades connecting the main building to a kitchen block on one side and a stable block the other - and both had wide paved terraces on their southern elevations, backed by a gracious portico surmounted by a pediment. But in Brackenburn's Long Room the alabaster Corinthian columns rose twenty-five feet to a ceiling far finer than anything at Castle Howard. And Brackenburn's entrance was more impressive. No, it mattered not that it was a shade smaller than Castle Howard, to Mark's eye Brackenburn was the most magnificent house in the world. And it was his!

  So he returned in the summer of '31 and all through that autumn the leading families of Ulster trekked out to Brackenburn to pay their respects. Many did so warily. Joshua had been dead ten years, and hardheaded businessmen are not in the habit of keeping seats warm for other men's sons. The order had changed. Joshua had left a vacuum and those who had filled it were anxious to assess what effect this new Averdale would have on the affairs of the Province.