Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  It was that very evening that Mark asked Ziggy about Kenyatta -"This Kenya Africa Union of his - is it anything to worry about?"

  She raised her eyebrows and looked at him. "Yes Mark, I'm afraid Uhuru might be. As a matter of fact I'm glad we're without company tonight, there's something I want to talk about."

  Mark had been in Kenya exactly three weeks. Of course he missed Kate but his days had been full and busy - often dinner guests at Cutters stayed overnight, the time had passed amazingly quickly. And, he had to admit, he did like Kenya, and he did like Ziggy. Their relationship was different now. He was no longer negotiating with her and that was a relief in itself. Besides, with Kate so fresh in his memory, he was no longer curious about Ziggy in bed. Odd, how she had grown on him. He no longer thought her nose overlarge, or her jaw too square. When he looked at her he just saw Ziggy - and he liked what he saw, liked as different from lusted after - liked as in respected and, as he had to admit, liked as in fond affection.

  Of course her shrewd directness still threw him at times. Even the day he arrived, when she met him at Eastleigh, her eyes had twinkled - "You look tired, Mark, I hope this young ward of yours isn't wearing you out."

  But her smile had been warm. He knew she was pleased to see him - just as, no matter that he missed Kate, he had felt strangely pleased to see her.

  So without the worry of trying to out-think her, he relaxed and Ziggy met him half way. Even staying at Cutters was different. Last year Ziggy's guard had been up. All the guests had been white - they were this time too in the main, mostly neighbouring farmers. Mark met again many of the men who had sat down at the farewell dinner a year before - "Ziggy's political party" as he dubbed them privately. But one evening he had sat down to dinner with an Indian - Ziggy's partner from Mombassa. Nobody else was there, but from the man's familiar nod to the house-boys he had obviously been to Cutters before. His manners were so perfect that Mark had no cause for complaint - though he did go to bed wondering why Ziggy had to do business with such people. But she had thanked him the next morning. "You were very courteous to Motilal last night. That was nice of you, I'm grateful." No more was said, yet Mark had the distinct impression of passing some kind of test.

  All this and more Mark Averdale knew when he asked her about Jomo Kenyatta - but he had no way of knowing that their talk would shock him so deeply.

  "Uhuru," she said, "is the wrong idea in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody's ready for it. The Governor talks of several more generations of Africans being needed before they can run Kenya. Well he's wrong. And Kenyatta talks of Uhuru now, or tomorrow at the latest, and he's wrong too. I've told them both but -"

  "Both? Kenyatta? You've met him?"

  "He's been here. He's had dinner here. Twice as a matter of fact."

  "Good Lord!"

  Mark was shaken to the core - but unable to stifle a shiver of admiration. Standish and the others at the club cursed Kenyatta's black hide - meanwhile Ziggy actually had the man to dinner.

  Her hands swept outwards to embrace the verandah and the gardens beyond. "You forget. This is my home. Whatever happens I want to know about it. My roots are down deep," she smiled, "I'm not ninth generation of anything very important, but I understand how you feel about Brackenburn."

  His heart went out to her. He might have reached for her hand but feared the gesture might be misinterpreted. As it was he was curiously moved. "Kenyatta," he said gruffly, "what's he like?"

  "Easily offended." Her smile widened. "I told him, black skin or no black skin, Kenya needs me as much as it needs him. I don't think he liked it much."

  "He's a bloody trouble-maker. I'm surprised you allowed him in the house. Standish is all for stringing him up." "Yes," she said dryly, "Standish would be."

  But the real shocks were just beginning. She talked about Uhuru for a while. She was so convinced it was wrong - that it was totally unworkable and impracticable - that Mark relaxed. He thought they were in agreement.

  "Don't misunderstand," she said, reading his expression. "I said it's wrong, not it won't happen. The persecution of Jews in Germany was wrong but it happened. I know -"

  "But what can happen here? You don't mean some sort of rising? Good God, the army would be out in no time flat -"

  "And then what? Concentration camps? WOGs instead of Jews?" "Oh for heaven's sake! That's preposterous -"

  "You don't vote for Fascism. You wake up one morning and it's there. You mentioned Standish just now - his sort wouldn't stop at one man, they'd string Africans up by the hundred -"

  "Well if it's an uprising. Dammit, what else can you expect -" "Not that!" Her face was flushed and suddenly angry. She took a deep breath. "Sorry. I'm explaining myself badly. Look, you know my views about partnerships - well what Kenya needs is all sorts of partnerships, multi-racial partnerships - and unless we get them the country is doomed."

  After that she talked for an hour, almost non-stop, waving aside his interruptions - driving on to make point after point.

  "Don't you see," she said again and again, "it's a positive answer to Uhuru - unlike the Governor's complacency - and what's more it's the right thing to do. The Africans must be given a stake, a worthwhile stake - and we must recognise those poor devils in the Indian community. They're despised by the Europeans and resented by the Africans, yet Kenya couldn't operate without them. Practically all wholesale and retail trade is in their hands, they provide the skilled workers, electricians, plumbers, clerks -"

  "Your ideas go too far. They really won't work -" "They're the only ideas that will Don't you see - it's this or nothing for the whites. I live here. Africa is like a volcano right now. It's not just the Gold Coast or the Congo - it's everywhere, under the surface, about to erupt - and it will erupt if it's left to men like Standish on one hand, and ... and to some of the African politicians, who want no more than to be Bwanas themselves, with white men's houses and white men's cars and white men's women!"

  The more she talked the more her ideas sounded like a sell-out to Mark - and he said so. "In Ulster we have a tradition, No Surrender -"

  "This is not Ulster and I am not surrendering. No one will shift me from Kenya - it's my home and I'm staying - but I'll give others a bit more in order to live happily with my fellow man - and with my conscience -"

  "WOGs aren't fellow men Good God, you talk as if they're rational human beings. They're shiftless and idle, they steal anything not nailed down, they get drunk every chance they get -"

  "Have you seen the Bowley estates? Who d'you think did that? Tatz by himself?"

  Their discussion became heated at times. Ziggy chain-smoked through a pack of cigarettes, Mark drank far more than normal, and their tentative friendship threatened to disintegrate.

  But after a dinner which neither of them really ate, they took coffee on the verandah as usual and gradually the tension eased - enough for Mark to say in a placatory voice, "Well you're on the spot, of course. Your intelligence service has always been first-class - but don't you think you're exaggerating? Listening to you one could almost believe there was some danger. Nobody thinks that - not here in Kenya."

  She smiled rather sadly. "I grew up in a Jewish household in Germany during the thirties. It taught me to read the signs early."

  "Kenya's a long way from Germany."

  "Is it? It seems increasingly similar to me. There's a very large number of dispossessed, people with nothing, virtually no possessions of any kind who are prey to any glib-tongued agitator who comes along. How do you think Hitler rose to power?"

  "Now steady on. That couldn't happen here. It's British territory for a start -"

  "And what happens if the British pull out?"

  "Out of Africa? You can't be serious. Ziggy, we're not just talking about Kenya ... for God's sake, there's Egypt, the Sudan, Somaliland, Zanzibar, Uganda, the Rhodesia's ... dammit need I go on? Africa is British, at least for the most part. For heaven's sake, some of your ideas ... I mean really ... and as for Kenya
, well it's just getting off the ground."

  She smiled, "So is the African."

  He went to bed shortly after - feeling bemused by the whole business. Some of Ziggy's ideas baffled him. He sat on his bed for a while, looking at Kate's photographs and missing her. Then he sighed and turned out the light. But Ziggy's arguments were still buzzing round in his head. Sleep eluded him. He tried for an hour and then gave up. He lit a cigarette and stood at the window smoking - and then he saw her. Suddenly he saw Ziggy's lemon frock deep in the gardens, at least forty yards from the house. He peered into the darkness. It was Ziggy - with a white cape wrapped round her shoulders against the chill - walking slowly along the path to the rose garden.

  The grounds at Cutters were one of its best features - Ziggy was immensely proud of her gardens - full of great purple jacarandas, ringed by figs and cedars, mottled thorn acacias - and roses. Watering the roses took precedence over everything - guests could be told there was only enough water for a wash, not a bath; cattle could bellow for thirst - but the roses were watered first thing every morning.

  She disappeared from his line of vision. He shivered at the window. He wondered if she was meeting someone? The idea was extraordinary, but seeing her like that was extraordinary. But then, twenty minutes later, she returned, walking slowly up to the house. She was quite alone.

  He hardly saw her the next day. She went into Nairobi for various meetings and he took himself off to the Bowley estates for a session with Tatz. And that night some more of "Ziggy's private political party" came to dinner, so there was little private conversation between them.

  Perhaps it was the way some of the guests hung on Ziggy's every word which sent Mark to bed in a thoughtful mood - but when he reached his room he started to analyse her various alliances. The smaller farmers seemed to gravitate to her. And she had a better relationship with the WOGs than anyone in Kenya. Then there were these partnerships with various Indian traders - not just in Kenya but Uganda as well. She even had access to the Governor these days ... and if Kenyatta had visited Cutters how many other black politicians had sat down to dinner? Her network of connections was really enormous. She had spun a web round herself - Mark was part of it too in a way - she had taken his name and nationality, she had encouraged him to become more active at Westminster ...

  Such thoughts kept him awake for so long that eventually, like the night before, he got up for a cigarette. Then he saw her again, in the gardens - coming back this time, walking up to the house from the rose garden, and just as alone as the night before.

  He began to wonder - there were guests staying that night - she could be on her way back from one of their rooms.

  He was shocked, and then angry. Good God, if he had to abstain she could at least do the same. And she had given him her word!

  His agitation brought all sorts of things to his mind. He remembered Standish calling her husband a German spy. Had the man been a spy? Mark had never really thought about it...

  With one thing and another he had such a restless night that he overslept in the morning. By the time he was up Ziggy had left the house, for the first of her meetings - but she left word to expect her for lunch. He had no plans of his own so he sat around reading the papers and having a few drinks, and - without quite knowing why - getting more irritable by the minute. Then, at precisely twelve-thirty, her Buick swept up the drive, driven by the Indian as usual, to set her down at the foot of the steps.

  She smiled as she came to join him. She wore her usual working-rig of high necked shirt, long skirt and riding boots. Her manner was as confident as ever, and although he was accustomed to it he was in such a scratchy mood that he suddenly saw red. "I think you owe me an explanation," he snapped.

  "Oh?" She sat down, a puzzled, almost hurt look on her face.

  He could have bitten his tongue. He wanted to ask what she was doing, creeping around the grounds in the middle of the night - but if he said that it would look as if he was spying.

  "What about?" she asked, her gaze firmly fixed on his face.

  So he plunged into the other subject which had kept him awake. "You're getting too involved in politics. All these contacts of yours. I think you're planning some political involvement behind my back. Something like that could be highly embarrassing to me at Westminster."

  Her face seemed to glow slightly, but her skin was too tanned to tell if she blushed - even if she had he would not have known if she blushed from embarrassment or guilt. She did not seem put out, in fact she actually smiled. "Churchill says everyone in Nairobi is a politician and most of them are leaders of their own parties. But I'm glad you've raised politics - I don't think we finished what we started the other night."

  After which they talked politics for almost three hours. She was very direct, "I no more believe that the sun will never set on the British Empire than I thought the Third Reich would last a thousand years." She was not anti-British. "After all," she smiled, "I really am a British Lady now, aren't I?" But the Africans had to be given a better deal - "The white man destroyed a way of life and put nothing in its place. We must either give now or see the whole lot taken away from us. The choice is ours. We can live out our lives in peace here if we help the African, if we teach him scientific farming and modern management - most of all if we give him a stake. I'll tell you this, Mark, if Kenya had a middle-class of twenty thousand Africans some of these black politicians would be laughed right out of the country. But as things are the extremists are having a field day sowing the seeds of racial hatred. I've no interest in becoming directly involved in politics, I'm busy enough as it is, but if those seeds take root we shall all be involved."

  He disagreed with much of what she said, and told her so, but before the discussion ended she said two things that stayed in his mind - the first because he agreed with it, and the second because it reinforced the affection growing between them.

  "Kenya faces two dangers," she said, "an African uprising, and I'll do everything I can to stop that - but the other danger is just as great - that some fool Colonial Secretary at Westminster will be stampeded into granting self-rule before the country is ready for it."

  She reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Both of those dangers threaten our interests. Yours and mine. We're partners, Mark, our futures are bound together. I'll do everything I can here, and I know you'll do everything possible in London."

  It was a pledge, an extension of their "business arrangement", although neither said so in as many words.

  Then she said, "Being Lady Averdale has been very good for me. It's helped a lot this past year. I know I've only got a lease on the name but I shall honour it as long as I use it. Don't worry - I'll try not to cause you embarrassment at Westminster, or anywhere else for that matter."

  Just at that moment a car started up the drive.

  "Oh?" Ziggy gave a start of surprise. "Is that the time? I'm sorry but it's Motilal arriving for a meeting. You stay here, I'll take him down to the office."

  Which she did.

  Mark sat thinking after that. He was no longer irritable. The air had been cleared. He felt reassured, and warmly grateful for her comments about the Averdale name. So he relaxed and yawned drowsily. He wondered about going to his room for a nap, but if he slept in the afternoon he would stay awake half the night... so instead he went for a stroll in the grounds.

  Perhaps he did go to the rose garden deliberately. Afterwards he could never be sure - but within ten minutes he found himself on the same path Ziggy had used the previous night. And moments later - at the far end of the rose garden, out of sight of the house - he came across what he thought might be described as an arbour. It was a cul-de-sac of lush lawn, flanked by rose bushes, at the far end of which was a single headstone. He read the simple inscription.

  Otto Beck

  1880-1943

  Arranged over the grave were masses of freshly cut roses.

  He felt guilty being there. It was a private place. He was a trespasser. For the only
time in his life, Mark Averdale felt humble. He hurried away, anxious not to be seen. Yet it had given him a fresh insight into Ziggy Beck - and she was Ziggy Beck, the gravestone proved it - she would be Ziggy Beck until the day she died. He breathed a sigh of relief - glad now that he had not tried to demand his conjugal rights. He never would now, he was certain of that.

  The last few days flashed by, nothing of importance happened - but one incident occurred which later was seen as a straw in the wind. Paddy Buckland, a farmer from the other side of Nairobi, reported that some of his cattle had been mutilated - "Thirty animals, hacked about something rotten. I had to slaughter the lot. Some bloody WOG secret society - called Mau Mau or something like that."

  And Ziggy Beck had looked truly worried.

  The day before Mark left he went shopping in Nairobi for presents for Kate and, almost to his surprise, bought a very handsome gift for Ziggy as well - a fine jade carving which now looked rather splendid above the fireplace at Cutters.

  They parted the firmest of friends. When he kissed her goodbye at the airport he said quite sincerely, "Take care of yourself, Ziggy, I'll see you in six months."

  She grinned, "We have a tradition in Kenya - No Surrender. You tell them that at Westminster, from me."

  So, for the second time in his life, Mark Averdale left Kenya with a cheque for eighty thousand pounds in his pocket. He was delighted to be on his way back to Kate, but as he waved from the aircraft window he felt a sudden surge of emotion for the stocky, fair-haired woman who waved back.

  Ziggy Beck and Kate O'Brien were catalysts of change in Mark Averdale. A stranger menage-a-trois never existed ... but there is no doubt it worked and wrought changes in Mark. Who changed him most is impossible to say, both women influenced him, in fact someone said that both women civilised him. But as Mark flew back to London he. was determined to protect his interests in Kenya ... his land, his eighty thousand a year, and the woman who now bore the title of Lady Averdale.

  As for Kate, her poised confidence really blossomed in the second year. She moved into the completed apartment at Belgrave Square, and if the staff in that huge house ever had their nights disturbed by the mysterious whine of an elevator, they had discretion enough to turn a deaf ear.