Sean rarely gave any girl a second glance. He hardly met any - he continued to live at Great Cumberland Place with Tubby and Michael. Tubby was a forty-five-year-old bachelor and Michael was having a long Irish courtship with a girl still in Dublin. The businesses employed secretaries, but Sean had little contact with them - Tubby hired staff at Mallon and Michael did the same in Fleet Street. Sean actually still typed up his own copy. The truth was he was operating in a man's world and enjoying himself so much that girls had no part to play. There was no time for a social life. He even skipped meals unless they had a business connection - breakfast with Tubby, lunch with an architect, dinner with a politician. He was always in a hurry, dashing from one appointment to the next.
Certainly Sean knew hundreds of people. Most of them liked him. They knew he was successful, perhaps even rich, but he never made a show of it. He lived modestly at Great Cumberland Place, in fact years passed before he even bought a car. He spent money, he bought dozens of meals in the Savoy Grill, but ten times out of ten it was to learn something from one of his guests. Nobody minded, it was just the way Sean did things. He seemed to stop getting older. Tubby used to joke that Sean ran so fast that time couldn't keep up with him.
Commercially his next big step came at the end of 1951. He had been thinking about television for some time. Sean judged it to have a tremendous future and although the BBC had a monopoly there was talk of a second channel to be operated by private finance. Sean was convinced that television was a growth industry. A lot of people were frightened by it - film-makers said it would kill the cinema and Fleet Street said newspapers would fail if people could watch news on television. Sean's crystal ball was no better than the next man's - but maybe his intelligence service was.
He wrote to his agents in New York, to Freddie Mallon, to Ambassador Kennedy, to the CBS contacts - everyone he could think of. It seemed to Sean that a second channel would take years to overhaul the BBC's head-start. If a second channel did start it would need a supply of ready-made programmes to hold an audience, until it could produce them itself. And there was only one source of such programmes American television.
"Most of it's crap," Freddie wrote, "but some of the comedy shows are good. I think the Brits will go for it."
That was when Sean Connors decided to invest in commercial television. It was a big decision, not just because it meant a financial investment but because of commitment of time. Time was always the enemy. There were never enough hours in the day.
Then, in October, something happened which accelerated Sean's plans. The Conservatives won the General Election and promised to end the BBC monopoly. And the Tory victory caused something else to happen - George Hamilton implemented his plan to raise two million pounds for the Mallon Property Company. By the end of November the money was in the bank, and by December Tubby Reynolds was negotiating for a whole string of properties.
Sean's business affairs had never been better. Mallon was especially strong with George as chairman, and Tubby running day-to-day business assisted by Brian Tillet and Jack Thornton. And since Michael O'Hara had a very firm grip on London & Continental, Sean was free to pursue other ambitions.
At last he was going to America - and going in style - first-class aboard the Queen Elizabeth. It was the first time Sean had left his beloved London since arriving from Dublin all those years ago - and as he set off on a new venture it seemed only appropriate that he would be sharing that Christmas in New York with Freddie Mallon - the man who had welcomed him to London in 1938.
Chapter Six
By Christmas '51 Kate O'Brien had been Mark Averdale's mistress for three years. Her life had so changed that she could barely recall that day at Glossops when she had looked down from the stage to see him in the front stalls. She had been a girl then ... by Christmas '51 she was a young woman of twenty who had acquired so much experience that it seemed impossible to believe she had once been so innocent.
In a sense the three years were like layers of paint - the primer had been applied in the first year, then the undercoat, until in year three Kate had emerged shimmering under a veneer of sophistication which was to last the rest of her life.
But it was not always easy. Satisfying Mark Averdale in bed was bewildering to begin with ... as soon as she became mistress of one position he introduced another, his repertoire seemed endless. She had survived because she wanted to please - so for the most part she had given herself willingly. Mark Averdale left no room for shyness, not in the bedroom. "How can you be shy?" he would ask as he undressed her. "Other women have reason to be shy. Who can blame them for hiding their imperfect bodies. But you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Darling Kate, you are perfect, flawless, unique."
That helped her confidence, but she never grew complacent. In the early days her dependence on him worried her. It was all very well to be told she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but Kate had seen other good-looking girls over all London. Suppose Mark Averdale decided on one of them?
But she stifled occasional doubts and her blossoming confidence enabled her to do most things he asked. He derived so much pleasure from looking at her that to have denied him would have been selfish so she posed nude while he painted her, posed nude while he photographed her, posed in the bath, posed on the chaise-longue, posed on the bed, posed everywhere - and then came an event which changed their relationship.
It happened at the end of three months. He wanted to make a clay cast of her body. She gritted her teeth, hating the thought of being smothered in clay. In the event the attempt only lasted a few minutes - by the time he had plastered clay over her buttocks he was trembling, and when it came to moulding her breasts desire overcame him completely. He started to make love and they rolled over and over like animals in a mud bath until he spent himself and collapsed exhausted. But when they rested, the clay set and stuck them together. They were joined from the waist to the knees! Rising to their feet was excruciatingly painful. Kate wept with pain and laughter. They edged crab fashion to the bathroom to soak in the bath. She clung to him, shaking helplessly, blinded by tears. Then she realised he was making the most peculiar hee-hawing sound. It was Mark Averdale laughing.
She really liked him from then on. Before she had been in awe, and a little afraid. He was always so serious. Of course he smiled at her, but his laughter was different - it was so rare - and she would not have believed he could have laughed at himself, or at their absurd predicament. So, liking him, she relaxed - and that too helped develop her confidence.
For the first year she lived in a little house behind Sloane Square. Mark was having the mansion in Belgrave Square converted. He was keeping the entire house, vast by post-war standards, but he needed room for his art collection and decided that Kate should have a self-contained apartment on the top floor. The separate front door would be obvious to the world, but what would be secret was the elevator from his bedroom to hers.
Time flew. She had a housekeeper and a maid, an adequate allowance, and Mark was forever giving her presents. That summer they spent two weeks in Tangier which was fun, two weeks at Monte Carlo which was very grand - and eight days in Paris. Mark was busy touring the studios, but Kate grabbed the chance to visit Yvette Lefarge. Yvette dined with them on their last night. Of course Yvette knew. Kate was a competent actress and might, just might, have fooled her old tutor for a few hours - but Mark's feelings shone from his eyes.
It was the same with everyone they met. Mark's manner was restrained, almost formal at times, but nothing could disguise that look in his eyes. Mark Averdale was besotted and the world knew it.
Kate felt she was meeting the world - at least the art world and some of the political world. Mark wove her into the fabric of his life. Within eight months Kate had shared cocktails with Henry Moore at the Leicester Gallery and Barbara Hepworth at the Lefevre - each of whom was considered by their admirers to be the leading sculptor in Britain. Kate enjoyed listening to their talk but was careful with her o
wn comments, fearful of displaying her ignorance. It was the same in artists' studios - she met Topolski in his house at Regent's Park and travelled down to Cookham to visit Stanley Spencer in his tiny house above Cookham Station. She enjoyed the experience, but was cautious in her judgements.
Even with Mark she described her impressions in timid language, finding it hard to explain her reactions to somebody's work. But gradually she developed tastes of her own and found words to justify her selections - which was yet another way in which she gained confidence.
Contact with the political world occurred when Kate visited the House of Lords to hear Mark speak ... and when she dealt with Ziggy Beck's correspondence. She had quickly learned to think of Ziggy as a friend. Ziggy wrote often, forever enquiring about the views being expressed on Africa by Westminster politicians. Mark himself answered to begin with, but Ziggy's thirst for detail exhausted him. One day Kate suggested "Why don't I search the newspapers and clip out anything on Africa? Then I could send her those every month, and you could write a summary. She'd have the whole picture." Mark leapt at the idea, which had worked so well that even before he returned to Africa that autumn Kate and Ziggy had become regular correspondents.
The aspect of Kate's life which worried her most was her brother. Tim was beginning to suspect, no matter how often she said - "But this was always the plan, Tim. I remember you saying I would be hostess at Brackenburn, showing off the paintings and things - well the only difference is I'm helping in London."
"I dunno," he said, blushing slightly. "It's the way he looks at you. Kate, you're his ward ... at times I think, well now he's married again it seems odd that Lady Averdale herself isn't running things -."
"She is, in Kenya. Just as you run things in Ulster, and I do what I can here."
"I suppose so."
How could she tell him that Ziggy Beck was a business partner, and that Kate herself would be Lady Averdale one day? She firmly believed that. Mark had told her so often. But Tim was a worry. He was the only real family she had. And she loved him. She was proud of him. Mark was forever singing his praises - Tim and Mr Harris ran the Averdale businesses in Ulster.
Luckily Mark understood her concern - "I know it's difficult, darling. I tell you what - I'll go to Ulster alone every month. Only for a few days. You stay in London. God knows there's enough to be done, Ziggy's correspondence is a full-time job. If Tim doesn't see us together, well it might help."
And it did.
Thus the months flew past. When Mark was away in Ulster, often for more than "a few days", Kate filled her time in the same way as she would had he been in London - she went to private viewings at the galleries and debates on African affairs at Westminster. The only unusual thing she did was sit through some lectures on Art and Evolution at the Conway Hall. Mark certainly would not have done that, but Kate was still soaking up knowledge for her new life. She worked as hard as a conscientious secretary whose boss was away. Heads turned wherever she went, but she kept to herself. She was safe at the galleries, at least from the artists. Since Lord Averdale's patronage was valuable they behaved very properly. Westminster was different - tentative approaches were made by one Peer of the Realm, two MPs and three lobby correspondents - but Kate rebuffed them all with smooth charm. She was, without doubt, becoming more self-assured all the time.
Then it was October and Tim came to stay for a few weeks, while Mark made his first trip back to Kenya ...
Mark Averdale was never happier. Life had changed for the better and he seemed to change too. Of course basic traits remained - he was as possessive as ever, autocratic and blisteringly rude when he chose... yet, imperceptibly and then more noticeably, some of his attitudes altered. But not his desires. His desire for Kate was insatiable. He could never get enough of her. On the Dover train once, en route for Paris, after lunching well at the Charing Cross, they had settled into their reserved compartment intending to browse through their magazines - when the sheer beauty of her smile inflamed him. He jammed the door and drew the blinds, and undressed her there and then - and as the train rocked and swayed through the apple orchards of Kent made love to her for so long that they were still naked when the train drew into Dover.
He was the most gentle of lovers with Kate. Once he had imagined Molly Oakes as her tutor, now the idea was abhorrent. The very thought now turned him cold.
When artists wanted to paint her Mark refused - he could not bear the thought. His own efforts frustrated him, he destroyed every canvas. He knew she should be painted, he owed it to the world, but nothing would induce him to allow another man to gaze on her naked body. He was a prisoner of the Averdale temperament - Kate was his, and his alone. How could he know she was playing Eliza Doolittle to his Professor Higgins, how could he know she was always so anxious to please? Not that it mattered - Kate was his and their life together was perfect.
Keeping it perfect cost money. The mansion in Belgrave Square drained resources, the art collection devoured cash, travelling abroad was expensive, Kate's allowance, her clothes, the gifts he bought her all demanded a large income. And Mark had a large income, thanks partly to Ziggy Beck in Kenya. His lifestyle was safe - as long as Ziggy was safe.
Even so it was a wrench to leave Kate for his first trip back to Kenya. He blessed the new jet aircraft which reduced the long journey to a few days - but he would still be away a long time. In his luggage were his photographs of Kate - Kate nude on the chaise-longue, Kate on her bed,
Kate smiling, Kate serious and Kate sad - which was Mark's own expression as he waved her goodbye from the aircraft as it lumbered out onto the runway at Heathrow.
He dispensed with the optional two-day stop-over in Rome, preferring to go out on the next flight, determined to reach Nairobi as quickly as possible. The sooner he was there the sooner he could fly back. He rehearsed his argument with Ziggy - eight weeks at a time was too much to ask, he had other commitments, surely she would understand? Even as he practised he could hear her reply, 'But Mark, a deal is a deal, surely we have a business arrangement."
Yet in the event she agreed right away - "Let's make it twice a year," she said, "four weeks at a time. It's a much more sensible arrangement - besides it will make our marriage seem a little less abnormal to the watching world." Ziggy was forever unpredictable.
He was made welcome at Cutters. Ziggy gave a whole series of dinner parties in his honour - the Governor himself came to one. There was no doubting Ziggy's growing influence. Mark gathered from the gossip that the new Lady Averdale had been very busy that year.
The Bowley estates were a revelation. Endless acres had been given over to the fast money crop of pyrethrum, but coffee had been increased too, tea had been planted on the higher land, sisal had been set down elsewhere, and the wheat fields were an undulating wind-rippled sea of gold. Tatz proudly pointed to one innovation after another.
And Nairobi was astonishing. It was becoming so cosmopolitan. The cobbled courtyard of the old Norfolk was crammed with shiny new cars. The New Stanley had opened a French-style pavement cafe, full of pink faced, shiny-nosed tourists who pretended to be locals by screaming "Bring us another drink, boy" to the WOG waiters who rushed around on horny feet.
Kenya was booming ... and yet Mark detected an undercurrent. He came across Standish in the bar at Smith's Club, holding forth about the Belgian Congo - "They're giving up, if you ask me. I was there recently and everyone I spoke to was trying to sell up. Land is going for a song, good land that would make a man rich in ten years."
Belgian territory was nothing to do with British Africa - but British intentions towards the continent were causing concern. Mark was constantly asked about the political mood at Westminster - in particular would the Westminster Government give in to Nkrumah? Everyone was asking that question. Kwame Nkrumah was the black African leader most in the news. Educated in Britain and the United States, he had returned to his native Gold Coast in 1947 and established a national following very quickly. Now his Convention Pe
ople's Party was pushing for self-rule and Dominion status within the Commonwealth.
Mark always answered along the same lines - "The Government will buy him off. My guess is they'll give Nkrumah's crowd a few seats in some sort of new national assembly. Real power will stay with the Colonial Office."
"But will Africans be given the vote?"
Mark had to admit it was possible - "It doesn't make sense, I agree, nine out of ten WOGs can't even read or write, yet this Labour Government might be daft enough to give them a vote."
Mark summed up - "Don't worry. The Gold Coast is a long way from Kenya, and there's fifty other colonies to keep the Colonial Secretary busy. He won't stick his snout in here. I told him a dozen times - leave Kenya to the settlers. Stay off their backs, give 'em a fair deal, and they'll do the rest."
Which was reassuring as far as it went ... but Kenya had its own Nkrumah to worry about... an agitator named Jomo Kenyatta, whose support had spread from the Kikuyu to other tribes. In fact at the bar in Smith's, Standish said - "Well Mark, and how do you find this free land of ours? Been to any of Kenyatta's rallies yet - fifty thousand WOGs all jumping up and down for freedom. Uhuru they call it."
It was the first time Mark heard the word. Uhuru. Freedom. Oddly enough it reminded him of Lord Bowley, relaxing on the verandah after a hard day, with a glass in his hand, talking about Ireland. "Freedom," Lord Bowley had spat the word out, "De Valera's won them freedom all right, freedom to starve."
Strange, he thought, for something said then to ring so familiar now.
"Bloody Kenyatta. Should be thrown out of Kenya, or better still strung up." Standish finished his drink and shouted, "Boy! Let's have the same again. Then I'm off back to Columns. I hate Nairobi. The sight of all these bloody Asians getting rich from the tourists makes me throw up."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 146