Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Then back to Glossops and better still another three weeks in Switzerland for the skiing - but this time the trip was marred by an argument, amazingly between Kate and Jenny. Stupidly, idiotically, they fell in love with the same ski instructor. He was tall and bronzed, with thick black hair and vivid blue eyes. The two girls competed shamelessly for his attention. Jenny won by shamming a sprained ankle. Kate steamed with jealousy. Afterwards they laughed, but not at the time. It was the first crack in their relationship, a fracture which was to widen to an unbelievable chasm the next year.

  They were all growing up. Kate and Jenny were sixteen, and Rosemary a year older. Rosemary was scathing about their lack of boyfriends.

  Rosemary not only had an admirer in Lincoln where her people lived, but went out with a soldier called Eric from the Windsor barracks, even though such friendships were strictly forbidden. She met him in a milk bar in Slough on Saturdays and they went to the cinema. Her stories about what they did after the film was the high spot of the week. When Rosemary undressed on a Saturday night all the girls crowded round to inspect her love bites. The first time Jenny saw them she said - "Hasn't Eric got any teeth? I can't see the marks."

  Every week Rosemary opened her blouse to reveal a rash of purply blotches. Sometimes she even bore a bite on the inside of each thigh. Eric, she assured them, was very passionate indeed.

  Rosemary was saving her virginity for Martin in Lincolnshire because he was stinking rich and wanted to marry her - "but Eric is so earthy and primitive that I feel like Lady Chatterley with her gamekeeper."

  A reference which passed over Kate's head. She was even more mystified when Angela asked, "Did you stroke little Herbert or kiss him tonight?"

  "Sucked him for hours," Rosemary said proudly, "Eric went wild."

  So Glossops was providing a complete education.

  And Kate was emerging from her chrysalis stage. Gone now were her pimples and blotchy complexion. Lost too was the habit of blushing whenever anyone spoke to her. A combination of Glossops and Aunt Alison, skiing holidays and exercise, travel and nature, were conspiring to produce a lithe and poised young lady. Perhaps it was inevitable that Miss Broakes, who taught art and drama, was the first to see what the rest of Glossops was coming to realise - that Kate O'Brien was growing into an exceptionally beautiful girl. Kate had developed into Miss Broakes' favourite subject in the art class. "Just look at this child's eyes," Miss Broakes would say to her class. "Aren't they quite the most beautiful you've ever seen?"

  Kate had learned to hide her embarrassment, just as she had grown used to posing for the class. The whole process was restoring her self confidence. How strange, Kate thought to herself, but there was a time when I felt so alone - now I'm surrounded by friends at Glossops and family all over the place - dear Tim in Belfast, Yvette in Paris and the Johnstones at Highgate. It was only when she thought of her guardian in Africa that she worried.

  Chapter Three

  Mark Averdale's voyage to Africa developed into the most extraordinary journey of his life. Africa had changed him once before, from a callow rebellious youth into a presentable young man - and it was to change him again in ways he would never have imagined.

  At the outset he was glad to be going. With his affairs settled in Belfast he felt almost relieved as the ship nosed out from the Mersey and into the Irish sea. Why not, what was he leaving? He had virtually abandoned his dreams of Kate. Africa would get her out of his system. Certainly it would provide an escape from damn fool politicians at Westminster. The trip was welcome if for that reason alone.

  But Mark was not travelling for pleasure. The Bowley estates had to get going again. He needed money. Art treasures were coming onto the market all over Europe. More Nazi loot was unearthed every month. Wealthy collectors were buying as never before. Mark cursed the succession of thieving, incompetent managers who had ruined the Bowley estates - he needed that sixty thousand a year.

  So as the ship plunged down the coast of Africa and on towards Cape Town, Mark paced the decks and tried to concentrate on great works of art - but Rouen's nymph plagued him as she had most of his life. Every night she disturbed his dreams, and he awoke to re-experience his disappointment with Kate the child. It made him bad-tempered and irritable. Other passengers found him a difficult companion so he was not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief when finally they docked in Mombassa.

  Mombassa! The sounds were exactly as he remembered - timeless the thin, soaring notes of flutes joining the twanging of mandolins - and from somewhere inland the dull, heavy thud of drums. Africa! Mark sucked in the air and felt glad to be back.

  Nobody met him. He was not expected. He wanted to get his bearings, find out about things before he descended upon the Bowley estates. He spent three days in Mombassa, listening to the gossip while forming impressions. If the war had been bad for the Bowley estates, it had brought prosperity to some people. Elephant poachers had made a fortune. Mombassa was full of ivory - native poachers and Arab middlemen as far north as Lamu had grown wealthy in the war. But Mark was more concerned with the coffee crop, and he was amazed at the high price it was fetching. One thing struck him forcibly. Kenya was on the verge of a boom. The place seemed full of fresh-faced, pink-kneed farmers in embryo, all eager to get to grips with the parcels of land given to them by a grateful King and Country.

  After a few days acclimatising Mark took the train to Nairobi and began the journey inland.

  Nairobi staggered him. It had grown into a city. Once it had been a sprawling shanty-town with a screeching core of Indian commerce. Now buildings were shooting up everywhere - the airport at Eastleigh was even operating international flights. Safaris were starting again Americans were all over the place talking about making movies - the whole place reeked of prosperity. Yet the Bowley estates had ceased to make money!

  Two days later Mark found out why. His discoveries appalled him. The coffee plantations, Lord Bowley's pride and joy, had been allowed to dwindle to a quarter of their former size. The beef herd had been rustled and decimated until the word herd was barely appropriate. Wherever he looked he found signs of mismanagement. The Bowley bungalow, a low, thatched, joy of a house, was in complete disrepair. He almost wept when he remembered the blood, sweat and tears which the Bowleys had put into it - all gone to waste. He found the current manager, a man called Llewellyn-Jones, in bed with a Nairobi prostitute who was apparently a permanent guest.

  The next three months were a nightmare. Mark threw Llewellyn-Jones out but then found it was not easy to hire a new manager. The good men were buying their own spreads with the help of Government money. And several not-quite-so-good men took one look at the task of rebuilding and turned the job down. Finally Mark engaged a South African, Jan Tatz, who was both desperate and tough enough to accept the challenge.

  By the end of 1946 they had stopped some of the rot but that fell a long way short of restoring the estate to its former glory. Tatz's best estimate was that three years hard work and a sizeable investment would be needed before they saw a penny profit.

  It was yet another setback. Mark did not want to invest - what with shortages and new taxation his businesses in Ulster were barely profitable. Even if he had the funds available, investing in Africa would be difficult. The Labour Government had now nationalised the Bank of England - currency controls had been introduced - it was no longer possible for a man to use his own money as he saw fit. Yet the same damn fool politicians were as good as giving money to any ex-squadron leader who fancied his hand as a farmer. Mark fumed.

  Potentially the Bowley estates were the most valuable part of the Averdale empire - immensely valuable when the Bowleys were killed - but now, milked dry, their worth was questionable. Even if he sold them, or attempted to sell them, in their present state he would realise only a fraction of their true worth.

  Finally he struck upon the idea of a partnership. Tatz had no money so he was out of the question - but Kenya had plenty of rich farmers. Mark had met som
e in Nairobi where he spent some time every week. He was popular in Nairobi. East Africa had long been a happy hunting ground for the British aristocracy, so a new English "Mi-Lord" was warmly welcomed. Mark was feted like royalty. He dined with the Governor and joined two of the clubs (where everyone knew everyone and each other's business) - and it was at Smith's club that he first met Jock Standish. Standish owned a spread almost as large as the Bowley estates - the difference being that his was profitable. He was a big, burly man with a ginger moustache who was cheerfully sympathetic about Mark's problems. "It's the country, old boy. You get robbed blind unless you're careful. Old Bowley must be spinning in his grave."

  They shared a few drinks and a week later bumped into each other again - and when Standish expressed interest in the Bowley estates Mark was more than ready to discuss a partnership. Of course he had heard some of the rumours by then - that Standish could be a bit wild and was something of a gambler - but he had plenty of money and Mark's need for a partner was so urgent that he was ready to talk to anyone.

  "Come over for the weekend," Standish said, "meet some of the others. I'm sure we'll work something out."

  And so Mark made his first visit to Happy Valley.

  It had been famous for years. Lord Bowley had known it, but refused to become part of it, even though it was sometimes referred to as the centre of social life in that part of the White Highlands. It lay between the Aberdares and the town of Gilgil, with its centre nestling along the Wanjohi river which ran down from the mountain of Kipipiri. The landscape was idyllic - a wide grassy valley backed by a leafy, wooded escarpment but it was not the physical grandeur of the place which drew Mark Averdale, it was Jock Standish and the people who lived there.

  The Happy Valley Set became notorious in the twenties when Josslyn Hay and his young wife Idina had entertained at Clouds, a large, thatched mansion with innumerable sitting-rooms and even more bedrooms. Joss Hay was somewhat like Mark Averdale, in fact they had both been at Eton. Joss too was "asked to leave". Like Mark, Joss displayed a total disregard for the opinions of others - but it was his wife who added the glitter to the legend of Happy Valley. She had been married twice before Joss and her countless lovers supposedly included Oswald Mosley. She had a perfect figure and her affaires had shocked London. Even after her divorce, when she married Joss in 1923, it was hinted that they would be "unwelcome at Ascot".

  So in 1925 they had settled at Clouds and began to entertain in a manner which was to shape the style of Happy Valley. Idina received guests naked in her bath, talking animatedly as she bathed, then dressing in front of them while they consumed endless cocktails. By the time dinner was served most of them were in a fair state of intoxication, and after dinner numbered keys were set out on a table so that bedroom partners could be chosen by chance. Idina was only happy if all of her house guests had swapped partners by nightfall.

  Joss and Idina were typical - Happy Valley was full of wealthy wanderers, indefatigable pleasure seekers who had grown weary of or been thrown out of other societies. Cocaine was taken like snuff and many were addicted to heroin - people drank, gambled and committed adultery as a matter of course. By 1947 many of the characters who had set the scene in the twenties were no longer there - some had died, by natural or unnatural causes, and others had moved on in their restless quest for amusement - but the style and tone of Happy Valley persisted and lived on in men like Jock Standish.

  So when Mark Averdale was invited to spend the weekend at Columns, Standish's vast house on the banks of the Wanjohi, he had a suspicion of what it might be like - but he went, partly out of curiosity but mostly to pursue Standish over the Bowley estates.

  On his first visit he arrived at about five on the Friday afternoon, hot and dusty after driving eighty miles in a jeep. He was shown to a guest bungalow by a house-boy, after which he took a cool bath and changed for the evening. Just before seven, he walked over to the main house and joined the other forty or so guests on the verandah, mingling happily with the throng of silks, dinner jackets, bronzed skins, dazzling smiles and glittering jewellery.

  Unlike Idina Hay, Marcia Standish did not greet people from her bath. But the warmth of her welcome was as obvious as her figure, splendidly revealed by a low-cut dress. She had brown hair and hazel eyes set into an oval face which wore an expression of fey innocence. She clung to Mark's arm and led him around, making introductions while providing a bird's eye view of her cleavage. He was impressed. She was a good looking woman, in fact Happy Valley seemed blessed by a number of attractive females.

  People danced to gramophone music, and talked and laughed and drank - replenishing their glasses from silver trays carried from room to room by the house-boys. As Mark was newly out from "home" his opinion was sought about "those bloody socialists who seem determined to ruin what's left of the Empire" - and his views so dove-tailed with theirs that he felt very much at ease by the time dinner was served - more than ever when Marcia Standish slid her hand onto his thigh.

  She came to his bungalow later that night, or early in the morning since it was three o'clock before anyone went to bed. "It's a house rule," she smiled in the moonlight, "the hostess gets the pick of the men. Do you mind?"

  He did not mind at all. In fact half an hour later he was groaning with pleasure.

  But his real introduction to the ways of Happy Valley came when they played cards the following night. "It's a tradition," Jock Standish said after dinner. "Always play on a Saturday night. High stakes mind you. Too rich for some. There's a saying that only the biggest men in Africa play at Jock Standish's table. Right Marcia?"

  "Some are bigger than others," she said, sipping her drink and throwing Mark an innocent look.

  Another guest, Vivien Hathaway, laughed in a way which seemed to underline a point, but her meaning was lost on Mark. He felt disappointed. A card game might last a while and he had been hoping for more pleasures in bed with Marcia - but he sensed something else. They were testing his nerve. He watched their expectant expressions, then shrugged. "Very well, I'm all for tradition."

  "We have a rule," Standish continued. "We start at midnight and no man leaves the table until the cock crows - winning or losing. That acceptable?"

  Someone cackled "Cock-a-doodle-doo" in the background.

  Mark tried to catch Marcia's eye but she was talking to Harry Jackson, a farmer from the other side of Nairobi with whom she had spent most of the evening. That irked too - Mark wondered if she had been disappointed last night.

  George Sidey, another guest, smiled, "No pressure, Averdale. Nobody's forcing you. Entirely your choice."

  Mark detected the undertone. Resenting the implication that he might back down, he answered coolly, "Sounds a good idea. Bowley's place has cost me a packet, some of your money might pay for my trip." And he was still returning Sidey's stare when Audrey Cummings led him off to the verandah. They danced for the next half hour. She was a willowy blonde who moved so rhythmically that he almost forgot Marcia Standish, but the memories of the previous night were too vivid to forget altogether. He looked for her without success until, at ten minutes to midnight, she climbed the steps to the verandah, coming from the direction of the guests' bungalows. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Behind her, stepping into the light, came Harry Jackson.

  "Poor Marcia," Audrey Cummings purred. "One pleasure curtailed by another. She only came back to watch you at the card table."

  "Watch? Won't she play?"

  "Not tonight. There will only be five players tonight."

  The card room was beyond the dining-room at the centre of the house.

  A log fire blazed in the grate. In the middle of the room was a single table, not small and baize-topped as usual but much larger and draped to the floor with a red chenille cloth. Directly above it shone a single drop lamp, while the rest of the room was left in shadowy firelight.

  Cummings was already seated at the table. "Ah, Lord Averdale. Audrey been looking after you, I hope?"

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p; "Your wife dances splendidly," Mark answered and was rewarded with a squeeze of his arm.

  Most of the guests followed them in, glasses in hand. Music from the verandah drifted in too, faintly audible under the hubbub of talk. Mark sensed a stir of excitement, like the moment before the rise of a theatre curtain. However Audrey was wrong about the number of players, only four chairs were set at the table.

  When Mark sat down his knees tangled in the red chenille cloth which was a nuisance because when he reached forward he pulled the cloth with him. Finally he stuck his knees under the table and gathered the cloth in folds across his lap. Once comfortable he became conscious of the table again, which was at least four feet square, much larger than normal for cards - but the extra size was a benefit when Standish began to distribute the chips. Mark studied the stack of polished ivory discs in front of him. "We've five thousand each," Standish said. "Draw more later if you're losing."

  There were indeed only four players - Cummings on Mark's left, Sidey to his right, and Standish himself across the table.

  They played poker, not a game in which Mark was experienced, in fact it was banned in his London club. Bridge was considered a gentleman's game, whereas poker was known to lead to all sorts of excesses.

  The atmosphere was disconcerting, and Mark winced at the size of the stakes. The lowest valued chips were a hundred pounds. He cursed himself for becoming involved, suspecting the others would play against him. It was the way people packed tight around the table which worried him most. Guests gathered on all sides, crowding as close as around a roulette table. Audrey Cummings was so near that if Mark turned his head his face would be in her cleavage. Her hand rested on his shoulder and her fingers stroked the nape of his neck. Mark glanced up in case Cummings realised what was happening - but Cummings was studying his cards.