Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  The trouble was that Standish had promised to help with the Bowley estates, so for a while Mark lingered on at Happy Valley. Few would have guessed he went there in pursuit of a deal. The truth was he worried more every month. He and Tatz had stemmed the losses, but profits were as elusive as ever. Mark needed that sixty thousand a year. Without it the Averdale Foundation was doomed. Standish had promised help, even Cummings had come up with a scheme, and Sidey had offered a third, but they all foundered on one point - they all called for Mark to invest a heap of new money.

  Mark sought out other people. He spent months in Nairobi, mostly in the bar at the Norfolk or eating cold-buffet luncheons in the vast, old fashioned dining-room. He liked the place and the people. It was where the real Kenya farmers ate and it served good no-nonsense plain food. They sat at every table talking weather and crops and cattle ailments or moaning about lions stalking their stock, or some bloody WOG stealing their whisky.

  They were a hard lot, but by God they knew Kenya. Mark listened for hours. He had no choice. They had something he wanted - they were rich in land and experience, even if they looked to lack as much as a penny. Mark decided that if he wanted a partner he would find one in the Norfolk ... if he waited long enough. So he sat and listened to these men with their sun-baked faces, who inspected him with faded blue eyes and talked through ragged moustaches. Sometimes their women came too, hastily rouged and powdered, wearing the inevitable ancient tweed skirt, stout stockings and heavy shoes. They were hardheaded folk who dressed plainly at home and made no concessions to the city. They left the smart clothes for their sons and grandsons - and were likely to sniff loudly when they saw African servants wearing tennis shoes, saying it was well known that a WOG couldn't function with shoes on.

  Mark had known them, or their like, years earlier when he had grown up with Percy Bowley and his father. They were real old-style Kenya. Settlers who had fought droughts and floods and locusts and rinderpest every day of their lives. They had grown rich in the war. Everyone with a farm in Kenya had grown rich in the war - everyone willing to work. The Forces had screamed for endless supplies of beef and wheat - and the farmers had delivered, even those with sons away fighting. "The trouble with Bowley's place," they told Mark, "was no one shifted his arse. Why didn't you get out before?"

  Mark would explain about Ulster - about the aircraft factories and the shipyards, as well as the farms which had to be kept going. "Besides there was a war on, remember, I couldn't get here."

  They invited him home and Mark criss-crossed the land, driving a hundred miles over bumpy roads to meet them for drinks. He liked the rough expansiveness of their lives, the shabby spaciousness of the farmhouses, and the warmth of the welcome within them. In truth he liked Kenya - the wild beauty, the infinite landscapes and the long green hills.

  Enough pioneering Averdale blood ran in his veins for him to enjoy the bracing nip of the evening air in the White Highlands - and the feeling of freedom. There was so much of Ulster in this wild country - if you overlooked the zebra grazing alongside the cattle, or an occasional lion sitting like a big dog at the side of the road.

  But Mark could not find a partner. Most of the old settlers were tired and wanted a rest. They had worked hard during the war, now their, sons were home they wanted to consolidate - and perhaps have some fun. Few even considered taking on a venture the size and scale of the Bowley estates.

  Mark was desperate. He had been in Africa far longer than planned. Every month detailed reports reached him from Ulster. Harris and young Tim O'Brien were coping as well as could be expected, but Mark was anxious to get back.

  Standish introduced him to other people, but their suggestions differed little from those put forward by Standish himself. Mark was expected to put up the Bowley estates and more capital, which they would manage for half the profits. It was unfair. Mark would risk everything in exchange for their know-how. He refused to deal on that basis ... but months were passing, he could not stay forever ... but neither was he willing to be robbed blind.

  Then one day at Government House, Ziggy Beck's name was mentioned. He had heard it before, snippets like "Did you know Ziggy Beck owns sixty percent of old Tim's place now," or "I hear Ziggy Beck has bought the MacLean property." Enough to indicate she had money, but finding out more proved difficult. People seemed reluctant to talk about her, even at Government House there were shrugs. "We don't really see much of her. Of course she's always around, she's in Nairobi two days a week, but, well... she's not really our type."

  A week later he was in the bar at Smith's when Standish came in. They had a drink in a quiet corner.

  "Ziggy Beck?" Standish positively shuddered. "What on earth do you want with her? She's got a face like a mule. I know she's got the best pair of tits in Kenya, old boy, but no man ever gets near them. She was married to a German spy, a filthy Jew." He stopped short. "You're not thinking of doing business with her, I hope. People won't speak to you."

  Mark learned more of the story from a Government House official some days later. Apparently Ziggy and Otto Beck had arrived in East Africa in 1938, ostensibly on the run from Nazi persecution in Germany. He was much older than her, people put him at fifty, twice her age. They had money, enough to buy a spread at the far end of Happy Valley, where they reared such good beef that other farmers became envious. In the early days the Becks attended garden parties and other Government House functions - but Otto Beck's accent was so appalling that conversation was difficult, and people disliked his manner which they said was too obliging to be genuine. So after a while the Becks kept themselves to themselves. Various Indian businessmen seemed to visit them, but of course that put the Europeans off even more.

  Then came the war, and although the internment policy was a bit muddled old Beck was a German so people felt he should be locked up. There was even talk of his wife being locked up too, but finally she was confined to her farm for the duration. So Beck was carted off to jail, where he died in 1943.

  The government official became slightly embarrassed, "The man did die. He wasn't killed or mistreated. Anyone who says so is a bloody liar."

  He stared at Mark for a moment, as if expecting a contradiction. Then he shrugged, "Well, she just carried on with the business after that. Damn embarrassing really, she blames us for his death of course. We all hoped she would sell up and move on, but she just stayed. And to make matters worse she's a witch commercially. God knows what she doesn't own these days. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't have a share in every WOG bazaar from Nairobi to Mombassa. They love her. She speaks Kikuyu better than them, and Swahili, even a smattering of Masai. She treats 'em well, employs doctors, patches them up. Really, I mean in some ways, she's an ideal settler ..."

  "But?"

  "She's not one of us. Perhaps we've got a conscience about her. Sounds stupid but there you are. Your friends in Happy Valley hate her. She despises them and they can't stand that."

  It was just a diverting story at the time. Mark was only vaguely interested, especially as he thought he had found a partner by then - a man called Arthur Browning. Mark was getting somewhere at last. Browning was very interested, not just in management but in investing a substantial amount of capital, enough to warrant a full partnership. But then, after ten weeks of detailed negotiations, Browning pulled out. His wife had been taken seriously ill. Her recovery would take careful nursing, and he decided it might be wiser not to take on new responsibilities. It was a fearful blow to Mark Averdale, Browning was the end of the line, his last hope. But then Browning said, "Why not go and see Ziggy Beck. She's not as bad as she's painted. She's into everything these days. She might be interested."

  Out of sheer desperation, Mark called to see her. She maintained a permanent suite in the Norfolk - part living quarters and part office where she stayed two days a week to conduct her business in Nairobi. A middle-aged Indian in an alpaca suit ushered Mark through the office to a small sitting room, where he was left with the promise that Memsah
ib Beck would join him shortly, and he had just settled into an armchair when she came in.

  He had seen her at a distance, but never close up. She was fair-haired, medium height, and firmly well-covered - not fat but strongly built. Her hand-shake was strong too, brisk and confident. Mark was slightly unnerved. He disliked the idea of the meeting. Business was best conducted with men. To talk business with a woman was an odd thing to do at the best of times, but even worse when she was ostracised by half of the European community, in fact it made him feel decidedly uneasy. He regretted the visit and had just made up his mind to talk in generalities when she broached the subject with indecent abruptness.

  "I imagine you've come to see me about the Bowley estates?"

  She made no effort to charm and that annoyed him. Women, however plain, should at least try to be charming. If they lacked looks and charm they were of no bloody use to anyone, not even themselves.

  He waved casually towards the street, "Well, I just happened to be in...”

  "No," she interrupted.

  He stopped in mid-sentence.

  She smiled. She had good teeth and her smile drew attention from her square jaw and a nose which seemed too large for her face. Her skin was tanned and healthy. He would never consider her attractive, but she might be presentable with a little more effort. Her clothes - a high buttoned blouse and a long skirt worn over riding boots - managed to look both casual and businesslike at the same time, feminine but hardly alluring. Yet she had a good figure, strong ... suddenly he remembered Standish saying, "She's got the best pair of tits in Kenya, old boy."

  "No," she said again.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You did not just happen to be in today. You came especially. Standish and his crowd have kept you dangling for months, and now Browning has dropped out. The old-stagers are all too busy swilling pink gins and bouncing grandchildren on their knees - and the latest crop of young farmers haven't the money. Who else could you try? Either you go back to Standish or come here. It must have been difficult but here you are," she paused, "even if you brought your prejudices with you."

  There was no rudeness in her voice, she had spoken pleasantly, conversationally almost, but with total confidence.

  He felt uncomfortable. "I've no idea what you mean, Frau Beck -"

  Her eyebrows rose. "I'm not German, no matter what you've heard. As a matter of fact I was born in Copenhagen."

  Her interruptions were disconcerting.

  She watched him for a moment, then said, "Well let's forget prejudices. I admit to a few of my own. Let me save time by telling you what I know."

  And she did. As far as his negotiations went her knowledge was total.

  She listed every proposal ever put to him and his reasons for turning them down. She mentioned every man he had talked business with, as if she read from a dossier. It was very comprehensive, but only took a few minutes. When she finished she smiled. "You seem surprised?"

  He was astonished. "I don't know where you get your information -"

  "How do you suppose I stay alive? Some people detest me here. They'd run me out of Kenya if they could."

  A denial would have lacked conviction, so he said nothing.

  She went on, "In effect you've only had serious talks with two men, Standish and Browning. You were unlucky with Browning, he's honest and not part of the Happy Valley crowd. His reasons for dropping out were quite genuine by the way, if it's any consolation."

  He thought - she's so damn positive about things which are none of her business.

  "As for friend Standish," she said with a ghost of a smile, "he organised a cartel. All very unofficial of course, but every man you negotiated with, except Browning, reported back to Standish. It was very simple. They figured you would have to deal with one of them eventually. They don't care which one - whoever signs contracts will split his profit with the others."

  He was shocked, then angry. He knew it was true as soon as she said it. He cursed himself for a fool and struggled with his temper. "That's a very serious accusation -"

  "I'm just sharing information. It's up to you if you believe me." .

  He believed her. She spoke with too much authority to doubt. He tried to calm himself, appear unconcerned. After a long pause he shrugged. "Perhaps I should give up the idea of a partnership. Maybe I should sell the estates outright."

  "The same rules apply. It's the cartel or Browning, and you know his position."

  He felt trapped, almost as angry with her cool manner as with Standish. It was a strain to keep his temper. He hated appearing foolish and naive, especially in front of this infuriating woman. Flushing with embarrassment, he said, "You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble -"

  "On the contrary, I told you before, knowing what goes on keeps me alive." Her look took on added intensity as she said, "For instance, I even know what happens at Jock Standish's card table."

  His flush deepened to a brick red.

  "I know what he says about my face," she paused, "and my figure."

  He looked at her breasts, instinctively, without thinking.

  "I see you've heard him on that subject too," she said with a chilling smile.

  Mark Averdale had rarely felt more miserable. He wondered if it was a deliberate attempt to humiliate him. Then, to his intense relief, her frostiness thawed. "I apologise for embarrassing you, but a real Standish wouldn't have batted an eyelid." She smiled. "Perhaps we might do business after all."

  He felt curiously complimented. It would be a relief to talk business, even if she was a woman. "Very well then," he said, "so what about Bowley's place?"

  "I'm interested. Why not? There's no better land in East Africa."

  He felt pleased at that and started to outline his ideas about a partnership when she interrupted. "I'm afraid I have another appointment in five minutes. I'm sorry but I had no idea how long this would take. May I make a suggestion?"

  He was too surprised to answer. She had a knack of unbalancing him.

  "It's some time since I saw the estate. Why not invite me to lunch tomorrow?"

  So he did. On his way to the door he tried to decide on the best way of addressing her. "Shall we say midday then, Mrs Beck?"

  "Call me Ziggy," she said, shaking his hand briskly, "yes, I'll be there by noon. Thanks for coming in, Mark."

  He walked to his jeep in a daze. He would have gone for a drink but for the thought of bumping into Standish. His blood boiled about Standish. He would pay him back, he was damn sure about that. Meanwhile his mind was full of the most extraordinary woman he had ever met.

  It took nearly two hours to drive back to the Bowley estate. During the journey he analysed the whole meeting. He was ashamed of his own performance. He had allowed her to wrong-foot him every time. Even inviting herself to lunch! That would be all round Nairobi tomorrow night, to her advantage and his detriment. If nothing came of it people would guess - would know that Lord Mark Averdale had been rejected by a pariah of society. God what a fool! "Call me Ziggy," she had said with a sudden display of oily charm. Of course he made excuses for himself - after all he was unaccustomed to women in business - her approach had been unexpected - he had been surprised. Well tomorrow, he vowed, will be a different matter entirely.

  But the following day went very much the same way. She arrived in a dusty Buick driven by the same Indian secretary Mark had seen at the Norfolk. Ziggy Beck was as cool as ever, even dressed in the same style - fresh clothes but cut to the same pattern. He was sure Standish was right about her breasts but her shirt was very discreet. Clothes, however, were the most discreet thing about her - she was alarmingly frank about everything else, and quite scathing about the way the estate had been managed.

  In the afternoon they drove over part of the property. Her knowledge was vast. She had only lived in Africa ten years but seemed to have accumulated more understanding than some of the third and fourth generation Kenya farmers in the bar at the Norfolk. Grudgingly he said as much.

/>   "Oh, I'm hopelessly ignorant about a lot of things," she said. "Sometimes I think no one will understand Africa -not even them." She pointed to some natives at the side of the road and made him stop the jeep so she could talk to them. They all seemed to know her, that was Mark's first surprise, quickly followed by a second - their affection for her was quite unmistakable. Mark was accustomed to respect, all Europeans were, but genuine affection was something quite different, even undesirable. She stopped him there for twenty minutes or so, under that blazing sun while she talked and laughed in a Kikuyu which was much too fast and fluent for him to follow.

  It irritated him. He thought she was showing off for a start, but it was more than that and he said so. "It doesn't do to be too friendly," he muttered as they drove off. "The WOGs take advantage. They steal everything not nailed down as it is."

  "Oh? Did Standish teach you that too?"

  Mark vividly recalled Standish flogging a houseboy for stealing, but decided to keep that information to himself. Instead he shrugged, "It's a well known fact."

  "It's a well known prejudice," she corrected sharply.

  They travelled in silence for a few minutes after that, but Ziggy Beck was too interested to remain quiet for long. She kept pointing out areas for improvement and talking of the need to diversify into other crops such as pyrethrum and sisal, and on the higher lands, tea. But the steeliness in her eyes earlier stayed in his mind. She was a very determined person, he could hardly think of her as a woman, despite the occasional hints of femininity which her clothes failed to conceal.

  Later, back at the bungalow, they discussed the estate further, but when he began to outline what he would require from a partner she stopped him. "I may have some ideas of my own," she smiled. "Surely you can spare me another few meetings? After all you wasted more than a year on Standish and other people."