What really drove him mad was trying to arrange passage for Kate across the Atlantic. Even after Japan surrendered in August, world shipping was still hogged by the military. The repatriation of common soldiers was being given priority over First Class fare-paying passengers. Mark cursed and swore at one shipping clerk after another, to no avail.
Then, on 7 September, he received a letter from the United States Embassy in London.
Dear Lord Averdale,
I had hoped to visit with you in Belfast but our itineraries seemed irreconcilable. However I am writing with good news. At ten o'clock this morning I was offered some berths on the S.S. Amsterdam, sailing from New York on the 15th of this month. As I had to give an immediate answer there was no time to contact you, but I hope you will approve of these arrangements. Your ward Kate will arrive Southampton on 20 September. She will travel with my wife and daughter, and Madame Lefarge who as I guess you know has been the girls' tutor for some time...
Kate was coming home! In thirteen days! Unbelievable! Kate, at last!
Mark put a call through to the American Embassy, and while he sat waiting he reached for the calendar to put a ring round the date.
Some days later, Sean Connors was similarly circling a date in his calendar. It was a different date, although still in September. His notation also concerned a voyage from America. He read Margaret's letter again.
Dear Sean,
The most marvellous thing happened two hours ago and I cannot write it all down fast enough. I'm coming home. Nobody knows except you, so please let it be a surprise for Freddie and "those modest folk in the Dorchester" as he calls them. I still can't believe it. This is what happened. A month ago, when I returned to New York from the West Coast, I met some people called the Emersons. I should say re-met them because they came to a party at Eaton Square a million years ago. (Do those days seem a million years away to you too?) Anyway, I was getting out of a cab on Fifth Avenue when suddenly someone said, "Why, isn't that Margaret Hamilton?" And there were the Emersons, Charles and Paula. I hadn't seen them in years. They didn't even know I was married. Anyway, and this is the point, Charles is in shipping, which is how he came to know "your distinguished father" as he refers to him. Well, berths across the Atlantic are like gold dust at the moment - but being in the business Charles said he would see what he could do. hoped like mad of course, but had more or less given up when he called (telephoned) two hours ago with some fantastic news - we sail on the Maid of Orleans, docking in Southampton on the 29th September. What do you think of that? I still can't believe it. Of course the children are coming too. Can you believe George Jnr is four already? He can't understand it when I say we are all going home, because of course New York is home for him. Me too now I suppose, but you know what I mean. Sean, would you be a darling and meet me at Southampton? I can't tell you how excited I am, and how much I look forward to seeing you again. With love as always from your sister-in-law,
Margaret
On the fourteenth of September, Dinny Macaffety was on the point of leaving the Gazette, when his telephone rang. The story made headlines that day. A police convoy had been ambushed at Clondalkin. The attack had turned into a massacre. Four policemen in the escort cars had been killed instantly. The driver of the van carrying prisoners to Mountjoy had been shot dead, and the guard with him was critically injured. The attackers had driven off in the closed van, with the prisoners still inside.
Jennifer Johnstone could believe neither the size of the ship nor their cabin. The S.S. Amsterdam was huge, but their cabin was so cramped that it was impossible to imagine four people living in it for five days.
Alison laughed, "Darling, we only sleep here. Don't worry, you'll soon get used to it. Ask Kate, she's done it all before."
Yvette prodded an upper bunk. "Who wants the top deck? Any volunteers? Kate ... Kate ... you're shivering ... is something the matter?"
Kate's shudder was caused by memories of the sea crossing with Rose Smith. She had been afraid of America then. Now she was afraid to go back.
"Kate?" Aunt Alison asked, cocking her head.
"I know," Yvette said, "it's the excitement of going home."
How could Kate make them understand that her home was with them?
Aunt Alison patted her arm. "Tell you what. You and Jenny go up on deck and have a look round. We won't be long unpacking a few things."
Minutes later, the two girls were pacing the deck, staring at the New York skyline. "Goodbye America," Kate whispered. "Wonderful, wonderful America."
"Wonderful wonderful cream cakes, you mean," Jenny joked, anxious to dispel Kate's gloomy mood. "And Hershey bars, and milk shakes, and good old T bones. Boy, am I going to miss all that food."
Kate smiled, "It will do us good. Look at the size we're getting."
It was true. Life in the Washington apartment had become one long self-indulgent feast. Both Alison Johnstone and Yvette had a sweet tooth, so Kate and Jenny's diet lacked the discipline a school might have imposed. The girls had grown plump.
"Who cares," Jenny shrugged, and changed the subject by pointing out buildings along the waterfront.
But Jenny's excited chatter was little more than background to the hubbub of Kate's thoughts. Five days. That was all. Then back to Ulster. Her guardian's last letter was adamant. There would be no school in England for Kate. She would have to say goodbye to her friends. "Perhaps you can see them occasionally," Mark Averdale had written, "but I have been making plans of my own."
Five days later Lord Averdale was hurrying along the platform at Southampton. He was not in the best of tempers. He had wanted to meet Kate in the Rolls, but petrol rationing denied him that luxury. Then the train had been unheated and crowded and slow. The damn thing even lacked a dining car.
It was only noon and the Amsterdam did not dock until four, but trains were so unreliable these days that the nine o'clock from Victoria had been the only one which guaranteed he would be in Southampton on time.
He consoled himself with the prospect of a good lunch at the Doplin. That would relax him. Four hours, and he would see Kate. It was so close he was almost frightened. The last photograph had been a bit blurred ...
He stopped. The paper-man on the corner was shouting something about Belfast. Mark fumbled for a penny, took the paper and started to read. The next moment it was staring up at him, that hated face, the charcoal sketch of Matt Riordan!
Mark began to shake so violently that holding the paper steady was almost impossible. It took all of his self-control to read the headlines and the opening paragraph of the story ...
HUNT FOR IRA MEN SPREADS TO BELFAST.
Four of the men who escaped from a Dublin prison last week are still at large. All are wanted for multiple murder. Belfast police are believed to be mounting a full scale search of the Falls Road area of the city for Matt Riordan ...
But Matt Riordan was a long way from Belfast. At that exact moment he was on the deck of Clancy's cousin's boat as it ploughed up the Solent. The choppy sea was made all the more turbulent by the wake of a liner as it passed two hundred yards away on the starboard bow. Matt glared across the water and turned to Jack Flynn at his side, "If a man must travel across water, that's the way to do it, not in a bucket like this."
Flynn smiled. He was a better sailor than Matt who had been sick in the night. "Clancy says we're almost there. This place Lymington is just round the next headland -"
"Thank Christ. I can't wait to get back onto dry land."
Clancy emerged from the wheelhouse. "Better get below, boys. Don't want to risk you being spotted from the shore."
Matt groaned. He hated the thought of squeezing his thin frame into that locker. When he did it the first time and heard tarpaulins and God knows what being piled on top, he thought he would never see daylight again. It was like a coffin, like being buried alive.
He gulped his lungs full of air and watched the liner steam on towards Southampton.
"The Amsterdam," Clancy said, watching he
r through binoculars, "Reckon that's how your friend Lord Averdale travels, eh Matt? Everything first class."
"He'll have a fucking first-class funeral," Matt spat over the side, "I'll make damn sure of that."
With which he went below and let them shut him away.
BOOK THREE
Chapter One
How close they all came to meeting that September. They all passed through the Southampton area - Sean Connors, Matt Riordan and Mark Averdale - they seemed set to collide. But as it happened a difference of a few days kept enemies apart and allowed only the reunion of friends. So the clash never came - nor did it come in what was left of 1945.
Yet that September marked a change in their lives, a dividing line between two phases. Kate O'Brien, for instance, who had spent the five days crossing the Atlantic worrying herself to a frazzle, was almost sick with nerves when the S.S. Amsterdam docked at Southampton. Not even the joyous sight of Uncle Linc waiting on the quay quelled the butterflies in her stomach ... at least not for long.
Uncle Linc was among the first aboard - charging up the companionway to sweep Aunt Alison in his arms. Then he was kissing Jenny and hugging Kate, and squeezing Yvette in such a bear hug that she went red in the face. Everyone was laughing and weeping at once - Kate too, for it was impossible not to share the Johnstones' happiness. But Kate's delight was marred - soon she and the Johnstones would be parted. Soon she would be taken to Ulster by her guardian.
She slipped away from the party and went back to the rails, scanning the dock for sight of Lord Averdale. He was nowhere to be seen, which was worrying in itself, but what worried Kate more was what would happen when he did arrive. She wondered if she would recognise him. Six years was a long time, and although she had sent dozens of photographs he had sent none in return.
At five o'clock there was still no sign of him. Then a policeman appeared with the purser. They hurried across to Aunt Alison ... and a moment later Uncle Linc joined Kate at the rails. "Kate honey," he said, "there's a policeman here with a message from Lord Averdale ..."
Lord Averdale did not board the S.S. Amsterdam until six o'clock, by which time many of the passengers had disembarked. Mark was feverish with anxiety, partly because he was late but mostly as a result of the afternoon's events. Seeing Riordan on the front page of the Evening News had been a tremendous shock. Mark had staggered into a pub and downed a whisky to stop shaking. Riordan! That murdering bastard was back in Belfast on the very day Kate returned from America. After six years ... six miserable, everlasting years. Mark almost wept with fury and frustration.
Then he had lost his temper. At the nearest police station he'd confounded the desk sergeant by demanding to be put through to Scotland Yard. A furious row had ensued. Mark was almost arrested. Finally a young Inspector, impressed by the Averdale title and intimidated by Mark's manner, took him to CID Headquarters. There Mark ranted on the telephone to Scotland Yard, the RUC, even the Home Office in London - but to little avail. Riordan remained free and was suspected of being in Belfast. The RUC urged Lord Averdale to take every precaution - "He's murdered even more men now. He's very dangerous indeed."
As if Mark Averdale needed to be told that.
"Today," he muttered through clenched teeth. "For it to happen today "
At three o'clock a senior CID officer named Briggs took Mark to the police canteen. Lunch had finished. Briggs organised some sandwiches, a pot of strong tea and a half-sized bottle of scotch. They sat at a corner table and Briggs began to talk soothingly of police protection.
"Not for me!" Mark snapped furiously. "Good God, I'd like nothing more than to meet Riordan face to face."
Briggs took his time. He was a large-boned man whose ruddy complexion owed less to drink than playing cricket on the village greens of Hampshire. Slow speech and a country burr disguised a shrewd intelligence. He had been hurriedly briefed by the Home Office, enough to know the background - the burning of Brackenburn, the Murder of Lady Averdale, the Killing at Keady, and Lord Averdale's hatred of Matt Riordan. Briggs thanked his lucky stars not to be a policeman in Northern Ireland. Privately he felt sympathy for Lord Averdale, but was still anxious to see him on his way - the Hampshire Constabulary had problems enough without becoming involved with Irish terrorists.
As things turned out Briggs had less difficulty than he imagined. By the time Mark sat down in the canteen his shock and anger had subsided. He was visibly shaken but what concerned him most was how this news affected his plans. He glared at Briggs. "You don't know Riordan. He won't attack me. He'll try to destroy what's mine - my homes, assets, my ..." he swallowed, "my possessions."
"Perhaps the RUC will make an early arrest, sir."
"And what if they don't? What then? There's a girl arriving from America today. Riordan murdered her parents. He crippled her brother. Would you take her back to Belfast? Would you take that risk?"
Briggs cleared his throat and proffered an answer "Well, maybe I'd make other arrangements, just for the time being -"
"Like what? Like sending her back to America? Good Christ, she's already been away six years. Am I to spend the rest of my life without her, just because the police are incompetent!"
"Perhaps she could stay with friends, sir? Just for a while. Give the RUC more time -" -
"Time," Mark groaned, his head in his hands.
The conversation continued in that vein for another half hour, with Mark erupting now and then while edging towards the inevitable. Grasping the nettle was painful, but it had to be done. He dared not take Kate back to Belfast if Riordan were there.
It was four o'clock. The Amsterdam had docked. Kate would be waiting.
"I'll send a man aboard," Briggs murmured. "Say you'll be a little late."
Mark seemed to have taken root. He had waited six years, but now the time had come he had taken root in a police station, immobile until he reached a decision.
He poured himself another whisky while Briggs left the canteen. The only solution Mark could think of was to send Kate to school with this Johnstone girl. Of course there was Molly Oakes and the house at St John's Wood, but that was to have been a gradual thing ... besides, Molly had stipulated that Kate must be at least sixteen.
He began to adjust to the idea. At least Kate would be in England. He could visit, half-terms and holidays ... and perhaps Riordan would be arrested soon.
"I've arranged that, sir," Briggs said when he returned to the table.
Mark dragged his mind back to the immediate. He began to re-plan his welcome. He must not alarm Kate, whatever he did. Then there were the Johnstones to consider ... he had planned just to say hello and goodbye, escape as soon as decently possible ... but now ... if Kate went to school with their girl, the Johnstones might be important in the future ... and he was in their debt already.
His nimble brain shook itself free of shock and began to function again. Within an hour it was all organised. Mark booked several suites at the Savoy and arranged that he and Kate, together with the Johnstone party, would be convoyed up to London by a fleet of police cars. Briggs complained about irregularities - but finally the prospect of evacuating potential trouble from his patch was too seductive to resist. He described the exercise as a courtesy extended to visiting VIPs, and hoped the Chief Constable would see it in the same light.
Shortly before six, Mark swept along the Southampton waterfront in a police Wolseley with two others in tow. They stopped alongside the SB Amsterdam and Mark alighted. He paused at the foot of the gangway and looked up at the rails - and then he saw Kate.
Kate was heartbroken at the prospect of being parted from the Johnstones. She was ready to plead, to beg, to do anything rather than go to Ulster. The thought of being torn from dear Aunt Alison and Jenny was completely unbearable.
The reunion with her guardian was as traumatic as she had expected, especially when he arrived surrounded by policemen. And he seemed so strange - the way he kept staring. Jenny giggled, Kate blushed beetroot, and even Aunt Al
ison went pink. Then plans were changed in the most astonishing way. Lord Averdale announced that everyone was going up to London together, to stay at the Savoy as his guests.
The Savoy was terribly grand. Kate and Jenny shared a room, and Aunt Alison bustled in to help them dress for dinner - "Jennifer, you wear your blue, and Kate slip into that green silk and let me have a look at you."
The maid was summoned, frocks were sent to be pressed, and Aunt Alison almost expired.from excitement. "He's taken Linc down to the bar for a talk. Kate darling, I think you will be allowed to go to school after all."
And so she was - it was announced over dinner. Ulster was still recovering from the war - "Consequently," Lord Averdale said, "I think it best if you attend school in England for a while."
Kate went red with excitement. Jenny hugged her, overjoyed. Uncle Linc grinned from ear to ear. Aunt Alison laughed. But Kate's guardian just stared at her, rather sadly she thought. The girls went to bed early and left the three adults drinking brandy.
Lord Averdale vacated the hotel at eleven o'clock the next morning, but Kate was summoned to his sitting-room first. "I shall leave Mrs Johnstone to deal with the matter of schools," he said. "She seems very capable ..."
He went on to talk about various things but Kate hardly heard - he was staring so hard that she blushed.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, I mean -" she felt her face blazing.
"You've grown," he said. "Will you walk up and down for me like you used to? Do you remember, at Belgrave Square ..."
So she did, feeling utterly foolish, hating herself for blushing so furiously. It was an awful habit which had started quite recently. When anyone looked at her she went quite crimson. Aunt Alison said it was like her spots - "You'll grow out of it darling, it's just a growing-up stage." But Kate knew she looked awful - what with her red face and her red hair, her pimply complexion - and she felt as awkward as a carthorse.
"Hmmm," her guardian sounded disappointed. He looked it too.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 134