"I hate them too ... I can't walk ..."
"Eoin O'Brien would have made himself walk. Nothing would have stopped him -"
"I can't... my legs ... sometimes I can't even feel ..."
"You don't feel. That's your trouble. You don't feel love for your parents, you don't feel hate for their killers -"
"You're wrong!" Tim clamped his hands over his ears. "Please stop saying that -"
Williams would not stop. He went on and on. He sought to arouse emotion - hatred or anger would do - he needed something. He sneered, "You only feel sorry for yourself. You don't love your Mummy. You don't hate her murderers -"
"I do!" The boy fought his tears. "I hate those men. You're not fair. You wait till I grow up, I'll show you. I'll get a gun and -"
"From a wheelchair?" Williams jeered.
Tim collapsed into such a torrent of sobbing that even Williams relented. He started to comfort the boy, then stopped, steeling himself for a parting lash. "Eoin O'Brien wouldn't have cried. Eoin O'Brien would have walked!"
The following morning Timothy was found two yards from his bed, where he had collapsed in an effort to walk to the door. Williams ignored the incident. He pretended to be bored with the boy. Instead of lessons he read aloud from an old book called Self Help. Tim listened, relieved that the tormenting had stopped. Some of the stories interested him - in fact some of the stories were wonderful. Time and again boys had overcome worse misfortunes than his to grow up and become great men. But when Tim showed interest, Mr Williams shook his head. "Don't be fooled. It took courage to do what they did." He sighed and stared at Tim. "If only you had your father's courage. Lord Averdale says Eoin O'Brien was the bravest man ever to walk the streets of Belfast."
A week later, Tim had a dream. He was in the lane at Keady. The men were there, lying in wait, just as they had lain in wait for his parents. This time, Tim was too quick for them, too brave. He shot them all ... and walked away ... walked ... to where his father waited with arms outstretched and a huge smile on his face.
The dream was so vivid that he told Mr Williams about it.
Timothy's treatment began the very next day with a visit to the Seymour Street Baths. He was to be taught to swim. He was terrified. His wasted legs were useless in water. He was sure he would drown when Wyndham Williams carried him into the pool. He clung despairing to his tutor's neck - and clung harder the next morning when they returned to the Baths yet again. With horror Tim learned that they were to come every day - for two hours each morning. His heart sank - but not his body, for his tutor's strong arms were there to keep him afloat - and after a week of splashing and floundering, Tim was astonished to find that he actually enjoyed the Seymour Street Baths. Although he was a long way from swimming, it was fun to be drawn through the water like a fish. And afterwards, when his tutor rubbed him down, it was clear that Wyndham Williams had enjoyed himself too. "But we'd better do some real work this afternoon, or Lord Averdale will have my blood."
Real work turned out to mean exercises for his legs, not schoolwork as Tim had imagined. Real work was brutally hard. After two hours, Tim broke down and begged to rest. Mr Williams shrugged, "Okay, but don't come crying to me when you dream you can walk."
Tim was too exhausted to respond. He hurt, he hurt all over. Gratefully he rested. He closed his eyes to relax while Mr Williams read from that same old book by Samuel Smiles - this time when Napoleon was told that the Alps stood in the way of his armies. "Then there shall be no Alps," said Napoleon, and he constructed a road. "Impossible," Napoleon said, "is a word only found in the dictionary of fools."
Tim dozed. Vaguely other stories reached him - Sir Charles Napier, going into battle against 35,000 Belooches with a force of only 2,000 men - and driving the Belooches back to defeat. Williams droned on "Courage decides the outcome of every battle." Tim thought of his dream - he had shown courage in his dream.
"Eoin O'Brien would have made himself walk," Wyndham Williams had taunted, "Eoin O'Brien was brave, everyone says so."
The son of Eoin O'Brien gathered his strength. Then he started again. Tim exercised for another two hours that day before collapsing. Williams put him to bed and sat for a long time watching him sleep.
After that they developed a routine. Two hours at the Baths in the morning, then home to bed until noon. Two hours of exercise after lunch, then back to bed again. Two more hours in the evening - six hours a day, seven days a week - when the Harley Street specialist had warned that an hour a day was as much as a child could take.
Instinctively, and deliberately, Williams kept the boy and his guardian apart, while feeding their minds with images of each other. With Tim he talked constantly of the history of the Averdales, from the siege of Londonderry on, and of their many bloody battles with the Catholic hordes. Averdales were courageous, honourable and just - their tenacious leadership had kept Northern Ireland in the British Empire. Averdales were also fair minded men who recognised fine qualities in others. "That's why Lord Averdale took to your father," Williams confided. "He must have told me a hundred times that Eoin O'Brien was the bravest man who ever walked the streets of Belfast." And Tim's eyes shone even more when he heard of Lord Averdale's efforts to "bring those murdering Croppies in Keady to heel". The boy's jaw jutted out as he remembered his dream. Perhaps he would not be alone at all, perhaps Lord Averdale would be at his side? Williams nodded, "Quite possibly, but remember - Averdales only walk with the brave - and you've still to walk."
"I'll walk," Tim said grimly.
Wyndham Williams told a different story at his meetings with Averdale. Never, he said, had he seen a braver boy. Tim O'Brien possessed the courage of a lion cub. Williams stressed the pain and the agony, and the boy's unrelenting determination. "And I've found out what drives him on," he said proudly. "His father was your greatest admirer. He told the boy a dozen times that you were the finest man ever to walk the streets of Belfast."
Mark was astonished. His own childhood had been sterile, his father had barely spoken to him, let alone held conversations. Williams persisted, "It's made all the difference. The boy is determined not to let you down. His devotion to you is quite remarkable. If he does walk, that will be the reason."
At each meeting Mark was told that Timothy was a brave, intelligent little boy who was battling to overcome his disabilities not for himself, but to please his benefactor. Touched by such stories, Mark felt guilty about his initial instructions. "Look, maybe we're overdoing this -" But Williams thought otherwise, "It's not us, it's the boy himself. He's got the bit between his teeth and nothing will stop him."
Mark was taught to believe that his ward possessed unlimited determination. It was not always true. Sometimes Tim gave up. Sometimes he sat on the floor and howled. On black days he knew he would never walk. Williams would study him for a while, then say, "By the way, guess what Lord Averdale said the other day. 'Williams,' he said, 'It was true about Eoin O'Brien. He was the bravest man I ever met, but I'll tell you something, I think his son will be even braver.' "
The boy was in awe of being compared to his father. He wished he could hear such praise directly from his guardian. Tim never saw his guardian. He hardly saw anyone, not even his sister. He lived in this huge house, but except for Mr Williams and the servants, it was like a prison at times. He expressed his frustration. Williams feigned puzzlement. "I know, I can't understand it. When Lord Averdale was here last week I suggested that he come up to meet you again, but he shook his head. 'No,' he said, I'm dying to see him, but if he's anything like his father he'd rather wait until he's fit. I've loads of exciting plans for him then.'"
Words rang in Tim's ears ... dying to see him ... loads of exciting plans for him then. They sounded more wonderful than anything Tim could imagine. He dried his tears, screwed up his courage - and returned to his exercises.
So Wyndham Williams kept them apart, while skilfully drawing them together.
Somehow it added to Mark's loneliness. Belfast was a hell of a
frustration. His business managers needed constant guidance. The Averdale enterprises were not producing the profits necessary for his art collection. The shipyards were in trouble and the slump showed no sign of ending. Meanwhile he maintained his pressure on the RUC, but in that too he was frustrated. Matt Riordan seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
Mark sighed with relief only when he escaped to London twice a month - usually reaching Belgrave Square by four on a Friday afternoon and summoning Rose Smith to his study within an hour of arriving. The nurse reported on Kate's well-being, before collecting the child from the nursery. Mark inspected her with the worried eyes of a banker examining a doubtful note. Genuine or forgery? The real thing or a passable imitation? How could one tell? Her hair was as red as a sunset, her skin whiter than milk. No blemishes were apparent. She held herself well, with her chin up and her back straight. She moved like a dancer. She sat gracefully. Mark all but took a magnifying glass to her. Then he relaxed as she came into his lap. He was sure he was right.
As for the child, she rather liked preening herself in front of her guardian. Sometimes she sat on his lap and nuzzled him, enjoying the smell of his hair and the feel of his hands on her bare legs. His scent reminded her of when she had taken her clothes off that time. She had enjoyed that experience too, sensing her mother's excitement and sharing it without knowing why.
Kathleen O'Brien had survived the Killing at Keady unscathed. She had not seen the blood-spattered bodies, hence they caused her no nightmares - and when she was told that her parents had gone to Heaven she was mildly pleased - Heaven was a happy place, grandmother said so. One day she would go there too and they would all be together again. Meanwhile her father's absence left her untroubled, and if she missed her mother at times, she missed her old Nanny as much. But Nanny was part of another life, and so much had happened that even she was a fading memory.
Two people were central to her new existence, her guardian and her nurse - and she had the measure of both. She even adapted to her new name of Kate. Why not? A new name for a new life, and since her new life was enjoyable she liked being Kate. Kate could do whatever she wished. Kathleen had been corrected and scolded, but Kate was never reprimanded. Where Kathleen had lived in one house, Kate knew she had several, and all were larger and staffed with servants. And for every dress Kathleen had owned, Kate had a dozen.
She loved Belgrave Square. Living there made her feel like a princess. She was a princess - her guardian said so whenever he saw her - "Ah, here's my little princess!" - and he would watch her with worried eyes while she smiled and walked up and down to show him how tall she had grown. It was part of their game and she played it with zest, twirling and pirouetting on her toes. He laughed and opened his arms to invite her onto his lap. She liked that most of all, to be hugged and squeezed, while watching Rose from beneath lowered eyelids. That was really exciting - the expression on Rose's face. Rose stood by the desk, clasping her hands in an effort to hide her disapproval. Kate would giggle and squirm as her guardian's hands slid under her skirt. Sometimes he squeezed her bottom and she giggled even more, while all the time watching Rose's face. Rose was upset whenever it happened. Rose tried not to watch, but she always did ... her eyes flicking to the hem of Kate's skirt. Kate caught her every time and screamed with delight. She was a princess having fun with her guardian. Rose was a servant who had to stand and watch. Kate liked to be hugged and petted - but the sense of power pleased her even more.
When Rose was bossy and bad tempered, Kate punished her unmercifully. "No," Kate screamed, "I won't do it. You wait till he comes home." The threat was not to tell tales, Kate was more subtle. She would squirm on his lap until Rose looked positively sick. Once, determined to inflict extra punishment, she had wriggled and shrieked so much that his fingers had caught inside her knickers. He had hurt her then, but Kate had laughed all the louder at Rose. The nurse had been very quiet at bath time that night, and had washed the tops of Kate's legs extra carefully. Kate had been surprised to see the bruises, but remained unrepentant, "See, I said I'd do it."
The threat lay between them forever after that. Sometimes Kate wished her guardian would not squeeze her bottom so hard, and sometimes she wondered why Rose became so upset - but mostly she was too busy getting her own way. Kate exploited the situation for all it was worth - and within months she was virtually mistress in Belgrave Square. Certainly she always got what she wanted - by fair means or foul.
She spent little time with her brother, although she saw him every day, usually as he returned from the Seymour Street Baths. Timothy was dull, she decided. Besides, Wyndham Williams was so strict that he frightened her. When they were at home she largely ignored them. Instead she plagued Rose to take her walking in the park, or to the zoo, and sometimes to the waxworks at Madame Tussaud's. Even as a six-year-old, Kate was fascinated by London.
It was a strange household. Above stairs the occupants lived separate lives - Tim and Wyndham Williams went one way, Kate and Rose Smith another. Rarely did they even take a meal together, since Tim's exercise times interfered - and although tutor and nurse could have shared a sitting-room, they seldom did. Social contact was minimal. Wyndham Williams had been heard to call Rose Smith "the worst sort of man hater" though precisely what that meant was a matter of conjecture below stairs, where they tended to despise Rose Smith anyway. Cook said she was spoiling the girl something rotten. "You'd think it was her own child, the way she acts. No good will come of it, you mark my words."
Even when Mark Averdale was in London, the household remained divided. "It's not what I'm used to," Cook complained to the rest of the staff. "I'd up and leave except for that dear little boy. It fair breaks my heart what they do to him. Kids need a mother. His Lordship should marry again, that's what. Them kids might have a proper home then."
But marriage was a long way off for Mark Averdale, at least eleven years by his reckoning. Seventeen was young for a girl to marry, but not unheard of - besides Kate would hardly be marrying a stranger, she would have known him most of her life.
Nineteen forty-nine was when they would marry. He would only be thirty-nine even then - in the prime of life if he looked after himself.
Meanwhile, to comfort himself, his room was now graced with a life size bronze of Kate the young mother, fashioned by an eminent sculptor from photographs. The statue was good, Mark knew it was good, almost, he decided, a great work of art. But was it Kate? Rouen's Kate had had a look in her eye, hard to describe but it had been there. It had been in the photographs too. The statue's eyes were guileless and innocent. The sculptor had captured her beauty but missed her soul. Mark could never look at that statue without feeling the loss. The burning of Brackenburn and the Killing at Keady had destroyed a uniqueness too elusive for the greatest sculptor in Europe. The spark was missing extinguished by a bastard Croppie who would die a terrible death if Mark ever set hands on him.
Such then was the pattern of Mark's life. Haunted by memories of what he had lost, he was terrified of harm coming to the young girl who had become his obsession. In Belfast he awoke every morning to the glory of Kate's photographs - and in London to the bronze statue which, despite its limitations, was yet another reminder of the past and a promise of the future. His hands never tired of exploring that cold, unresponsive metal. He knew every crevice and curve, and lived for the day when a flesh and blood Kate would respond to his touch.
Then, as early summer lengthened the days, several events occurred within a few weeks of each other, which changed Mark's routine completely. The first, on 10 May, concerned the boy Timothy, of whom Mark had been hearing more and more from Wyndham Williams. He had wanted to see the child before, but Williams had pleaded for more time. Mark had curbed his impatience. "Strange," he admitted, "I didn't give a damn a few months ago, but now I can't wait to see the little beggar."
It was not as strange as Mark imagined. Even the meeting between guardian and ward - when it eventually came - was stage-managed
by Williams. Williams left nothing to chance.
It took place on Saturday, 10 May. Nobody would have known it was Lord Averdale's birthday, had Williams not uncovered the date while teaching Tim the history of the Averdales. Williams learned that in March, and it gave him a flash of inspiration. After which he raced against time. Not that anyone knew. Tim was walking on crutches by then, but nobody knew that either. Williams replaced the crutches with stout walking sticks, and increased Tim's exercise periods by an hour every day. And he introduced another project - a handwritten history of the Averdales, laboriously penned on parchment by Tim and set into a leather folder, on the cover of which Tim was to work the Averdale crest.
On Monday 5 May, Williams explained his plan to Tim, and when the boy thought he could do it, Williams shared some of the details with the rest of the household.
Everyone had some idea of what was to take place - but when Mark Averdale arrived on the Friday, little unusual seemed to be happening. The tutor reported that the boy was still making progress.
"Well, when can I see him?" Mark demanded, quite expecting to be asked for more time.
Williams surprised him. "Perhaps tomorrow afternoon - if that would be convenient."
Mark felt excited. Williams had so often praised the boy's courage that ... well, a guardian should take an interest.
He lunched at his club on the Saturday and returned to Belgrave Square with his head buzzing with talk of war. The situation was serious. The news was bad, but if the Navy strengthened the Fleet it might be good for Belfast... the shipyards could be busy again ... it might bring the slump to an end. Mark was pondering the likelihood of that when Williams entered the study. Mark looked up, "Good Lord, I'd almost forgotten. Shall we go up and see the boy now?"
"If you wish, sir, but first may I wish you many happy returns of the day?"
Mark was amazed - Williams opened the doors to the hall to reveal the entire staff drawn up in a line, with Kate and her nurse in the centre. The butler stepped forward with a blue box in his hands. "A small gift, sir, on behalf of the staff - with our congratulations on your birthday." Kate advanced and curtsied, smiling as only Kate could and shyly offering a package wrapped in silver paper.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 120