Mark Averdale took her on buying trips to the galleries of Rome and Paris, where she again visited her beloved Yvette, and on holiday to Marrakech, which she thought was the dreamiest place in the world. And when, after five months, Mark returned to Kenya again, Tim came over from Ulster to spend the entire four weeks as her companion in London.
It was when Mark returned from his second visit to Kenya that he formed the "Britain in Africa" movement.
"People must be told what's at stake," he said to Kate. "British influence is being undermined right across Africa. God Almighty, the place will go communist if we're not careful. I expect this Labour Government to be hopeless but even some Tories have taken leave of their senses. And as for the Americans ... they're supposed to be allies but all they do is whinge on at the United Nations about democracy in Africa ... as if that means the first thing to some bloody WOG fresh down from the trees ..."
From then on Mark's political activities increased - and Kate's involvement increased with it. She played hostess at luncheon parties which Mark gave for politicians ... and at least three times a month she circulated at cocktail parties for Empire Loyalists and kindred spirits. But she did more than add decoration, although she obviously did that. Kate and Ziggy between them cobbled together many of the arguments which won Lord Averdale fame at Westminster. It was Ziggy who forwarded facts and figures for Kate to work into speeches and parliamentary questions. And it was Kate who finally persuaded Mark to stop calling Africans WOGs - "You really must stop using that expression, darling, even to me. If you make it a habit to say African, then, even when you get heated, it will come out as African and not -"
"Bloody WOG," he grinned.
"They are your partners in Africa," Kate said firmly.
"Rubbish. Ziggy Beck is my partner and she's as white as I am."
"And Ziggy never calls them WOGs."
"No," he admitted, "but she's about the only person in Kenya who doesn't."
Kate knew that was true from first-hand contact with Kenyans visiting London. Increasingly Mark's Belgrave Square mansion was becoming Campaign Headquarters for white settlers visiting the capital; first they called at the Colonial Office, then they descended on Mark. Kate spent days entertaining them, showing them the sights and shepherding them round town like a schoolmistress with a crocodile of boisterous pupils. Which is how she felt at times, despite the fact that they were all older than her. She was invariably the only woman and finding things to interest a dozen horny-handed settlers was a constant headache. "Culture vultures we ain't," one admitted early one morning, "I mean all those paintings of Lord Averdale's, well if you've seen one you've seen ,'era all, haven't you?" Kate accepted the challenge. She took them to the National and showed them Leonardo's Virgin on the Rocks, only to be told that the blue rocks in the background could have been done by a pavement artist. She showed them Hals and Gainsborough and Rubens for brushwork, and Chadin for design, and Cosimo Tura for drawing, and the wonderful depth of colour in Titian's No me Tangere. She amazed herself at the extent of her knowledge - and was gratified by their response - heads nodded, eyes narrowed, arms were crossed in poses of concentration - then she realised they were looking at her. "You're right, Kate," one man said, glancing at his watch, "but the most beautiful thing here is about to join us in the pub for a drink."
She gave up. After that the nearest they got to culture was the waxworks at Madame Tussauds, to which Kate had been taken as a child by Rose Smith. But the most popular excursions of all were days at the races, and whenever Kate was forewarned of a pending visit she prayed for fine weather and a meeting at Kempton.
Overall though, she liked them. Most were hard-working farmers who cared passionately for Kenya. "Hell Kate, we built the country. Without us it would be a dustbowl. Yet to listen to some of the bleeding hearts in London you'd think we never do a day's work. According to them all we do is sit on a tall horse and oversee our lush acres. Good Christ, my old man started in Kenya before the war. He bent his back from morning to midnight. My mother had us kids like a Kikuyu woman. She delivered my brother herself and helped two cows calve the same day. We won that land fair and square, Kate, and we won it by the sweat of our brow - not by beating WOGs half to death. Heck, once upon a time Britain was proud of the Colonies - now we're looked on as cut-throats and bandits."
They were bitterly resentful of attitudes at the Colonial Office. Lord Averdale had become their champion. They would even miss a day at the races to hear him speak in the Lords - "By God Kate, didn't he give them stick! He was marvellous. I can't wait to tell them back in Nairobi."
They were so proud of him, and so grateful. Their feelings spilled over onto Kate, for they never left without giving her a present - "It's not much Kate, but it's in appreciation of all the work you do for us - and for being so nice."
So Kate found herself with an ever widening circle of friends. She felt wanted and needed, even important at times - and she loved it. Certainly she was forever trying to help. For instance Mark Averdale was effective at Westminster, but clumsily inept with the press. One day she heard him berating a journalist from The Times - "Your entire article was a pack of lies from start to finish. Did you make it all up? There wasn't one supportable fact..."
Afterwards Kate said, "Darling, you frightened that poor man to death -"
"He got everything wrong -"
"I know, but he's still got it wrong. Shouldn't we try to get him on our side, persuade him to print the facts as we see them -"
"Pariahs! That's all they are. Blasted reporters are the bane of my life."
After that Kate dealt with reporters - one at a time to begin with. If someone telephoned or called round for an interview, Kate was suddenly "available" with a typed summary, based on information received from Ziggy. But the situation quickly developed. Once journalists realised they had access to Kate they guarded her jealously. Excuses were made to consult her more often. News was rarely bent, but Kate was invariably given the benefit of the doubt if one existed.
Kate O'Brien was becoming very poised indeed. Raymond styled her hair, Digby Morton designed her clothes, she bought her scent in Paris and her shoes in Rome. If she took it for granted it was only because she knew it was expected of her - Mark wanted her to look her best, he liked her in pretty clothes, even if he liked her out of them more.
She quickly adjusted to the company of men - she had no choice, ninety percent of the people she met were men. Of course a few artists were women, but not many - a few politicians were women, but less than one in fifty - the rest were all men, farmers from Kenya, journalists from Fleet Street, the ministers and under-secretaries from Westminster. It was a man's world.
It was a man's world in Kenya too, a white man's world - and black men were beginning to resent it. There were sporadic outbreaks of violence - crops were burned, cattle were mutilated by gangs who struck in the night. Farmers agitated for greater protection from the police, and the whispers about Mau Mau grew louder. The boom days of Kenya seemed over - farming was limping to a standstill, native workers were either running off into the mountains to join the Mau Mau, or so terrorised by the Mau Mau that they were too frightened to work. Even the professional hunters were suffering, potential clients reading newspapers in New York or London were cancelling safaris left, right and centre ...
As Mark Averdale made his regular visits he noted the changes. The word Uhuru was on everyone's lips. It leapt out from every newspaper. It dominated every conversation. It seemed everywhere, except Cutters Lodge and the Bowley estates - where the big word was partnership.
Ziggy was racing against time. In 1951 she launched her most ambitious project. Every family in her employ was given ten acres of land five they farmed how they pleased, with maize and potatoes, but the remaining five acres were farmed under Ziggy's supervision. While the men laboured at Cutters or on the Bowley estates their families - wives, daughters, all sorts of relatives - tended and weeded, watered and looked after Ziggy's
five acres. "We get the first crop," she told Mark, "which is mostly coffee as you can see. In exchange, when we get the crop, that's in three years, we hand over title to that patch of land. We're giving the African a stake, Mark, a stake in Kenya - and by God it's going to work."
Not everyone thought so. Standish laughed himself sick. "You'd think she was dealing with a bunch of clerks in a London suburb. Christ, this is Kenya! And WOGs are WOGs - idle, thieving, dirty, drunken, sacrifice-loving, witch-doctor-dominated WOGs!"
The Governor was uncertain about the whole scheme. "He said it could create an unfortunate precedent," Ziggy smiled, "other big farmers might feel obliged to follow my example."
"And you said?"
"I hoped he was right."
Ziggy was planning another step forward. "I'm going to build a model housing settlement. Look, here are the plans. You see, three-roomed cottages, metal roofs, and central bore holes that will save the women hours of carrying water. Motilal's even working on an irrigation scheme which will feed waste water back to the crops -"
"Motilal?"
"Motilal Gungi, my partner in Mombassa. You met him, remember? His Indian construction outfit is going to build it. Cost price, no profit - as his contribution to a multi-racial society."
Mark was in Kenya in October when the news came through of a change of government at Westminster. The Conservatives had been returned to office. "Well that's a relief," Mark said, "the Empire is safe with Winston back at Number Ten."
"I don't know about that," Ziggy said, "but Kenya is safe as long as Lord Averdale is at Westminster. You're famous out here now, do you know that?"
It was true. Wherever Mark went in Nairobi men shook his hand for championing their cause at Westminster. His popularity with the settlers deflected some criticism away from Lady Averdale's more "revolutionary schemes" - while in turn her popularity with the Africans overflowed onto him. Between them Lord and Lady Averdale were becoming the most talked about people in Kenya.
"You know," he said as she drove him out to Eastleigh to put him once more on the London-bound plane, "I never dreamt our 'business arrangement' would work out like this."
"You mean you're spending more time on Kenya than you imagined?"
"Well yes, that's true ... but I didn't mean that."
"Oh?" She threw him a quick sideways glance, her eyes twinkling. "You're not still sore about the clauses in fine print?"
He knew what she meant. He hesitated, then said, "Not since I walked in your rose garden one day."
She caught her breath. "Oh, you know about that."
They fell silent for a moment, then she said, "He was a very fine man, Mark."
"He must have been. He was married to a very fine lady."
He could have sworn there were tears in her eyes, but he must have been mistaken because a moment later she chuckled - "Any more compliments like that and we'll actually be flirting. I'll have to look up our contract - I'm sure there's a clause somewhere to put a stop to that sort of thing."
But when they hugged goodbye they embraced for longer than usual.
"Next year is the big year, Mark," she said. "If we can survive 1952 Kenya will be on the rails again - and running in the right direction too."
He kissed her cheek. "No Surrender."
"That's right," she smiled, "you tell 'em that at Westminster, from me.
For the first time in three years, Mark Averdale felt the tiniest twinge of regret as he boarded the aircraft. Of course he was anxious to get home to Kate - his delicious, desirable, wonderful Kate - but his visit had flown this time. So much was happening, so quickly. Next year he would try to get out three times, not just twice - make it every four months. He waved through the window to Ziggy. Next year was the big year, she had said - and he had never known her to be wrong. He sighed as he settled into his seat - if Kenya settled down again the future looked better and better. Really, he thought, he had plenty to be happy about.
And Kate was happy too. Sometimes she compared her situation with Jenny's, with whom she still corresponded. Mrs Jennifer Clayton Wells now lived on a USAAF base in Omaha -
"And guess what, I'm pregnant again. Thank heavens everyone is thrilled this time, not like when we had Scott. Clayton even stayed smiling when I told him Ma would come down and stay for the last month. I already told her if it's a girl we shall call her Kate after you. 'Why Jenny,' she said, 'what a lovely idea.' She really does think of you as her OTHER daughter, no matter what happened. I'm glad you and she write to each other now. The truth is she's ashamed of the way she behaved at Glossops that time and can't quite admit it. She does worry about you. Only the other day she said - 'I hope Kate doesn't waste the best years of her life looking after that Lord Averdale. She should be out enjoying herself, not nursing an old man. After all, she is twenty now. It's time she was thinking of getting married.' That's what she said Kate, which is a cowardly way of saying I'm concerned too. I don't mean to pry (liar) but you never mention any men in your letters??? Believe me there are some things in life a girl's got to do - and as Clayton says 'marrying and raising a family beats the hell out of most of them.' I'm so glad now we had Scott when we did. Clayton says 'We didn't start a family too early, we just got married a mite late.' He's always saying things like that. We want two more after this baby and all before I'm twenty-five. That way we'll be young enough to enjoy them. As Clayton says 'The family that plays together stays together ...'"
Kate read the latest letter and sat for a while studying a photograph of a very chubby Jenny bouncing Scott on her knee while an adoring Clayton looked over her shoulder. They certainly looked happy. Kate was glad, but not envious. She flicked through the rest of the photographs. Jenny's clothes were awful. And from what could be seen the furnishings of their little house were in terrible taste.
Imagine Aunt Alison being called Ma. Ma and Pa Johnstone, as no doubt Clayton would say. Miss Jenkins at Glossops would positively shudder. Kate giggled ... 'nursing an old man' indeed. Mark would be furious. She looked again at the photographs. She had to admit that Clayton was younger than Mark, in fact he looked younger than any man she knew - he was a boy, not a man.
She shrugged. "Everyone to their own taste. Clayton is certainly not mine - and his witty little sayings would drive me round the bend."
She put the letter and photographs aside and reached for the morning papers. But as she glanced at the headlines her mind was still on Jenny and Clayton Wells. The phrase "everyone to their own taste" repeated in her mind. Clayton must be to Jenny's taste, otherwise she wouldn't have chosen him, but did girls really choose, or did men do the choosing? She wondered ... especially about Jenny.
As she turned a page, her eye fell on a face she recognised. From years ago. It was the ski-instructor for whom she and Jenny had competed in Switzerland. How amazing. But as she read the caption she realised she was wrong.
New York welcomes London newspaperman
Sean Connors arrived aboard the Queen ...
Sean Connors? How odd, she had listened to his broadcasts as a child during the war. Goodness, how many times had she heard his announcement - "This is Sean Connors speaking to you from the heart of Great Britain ..." They had all listened together - Aunt Alison and Yvette, often misty-eyed, and her and Jenny. Week after week.
Kate held the paper at full-length, squinting slightly to look at the photograph. He was so like that ski-instructor. "Well Jenny my love," she mused, "you certainly had better taste then. No girl could be blamed for choosing someone like that."
Chapter Seven
New York! From the moment the Queen Elizabeth docked Sean was overwhelmed. He had written to Freddie, and to CBS, and to his agents - making appointments, fixing meetings, planning a schedule - but he had forgotten the great American public. Seven Days in London was a thing of the past. The Second World War had been over six years. The world had changed - but Sean's vast war-time listening audience lived on ... and their welcome astonished him.
Freddie and CBS organised it - or rather originated it, for once the news spread the welcome was hardly "organised". It was pandemonium. Every reporter in New York wanted an interview. Microphones were Sean's business but he had never seen so many. Cunard served an ocean of champagne, the party on board lasted three hours - Sean was hoarse from answering questions. His right hand was bruised from being shaken. His back was sore from being slapped. His face ached from smiling into cameras. But most of all, once he had recovered from his vast surprise, he was deeply touched. The welcome brought a lump to his throat.
Hours later (Sean lost sense of time) he found himself with Freddie and Margaret in their New York apartment. They had seen each other throughout that tumultuous day - had hugged and kissed each other hello - but not until late that night were the three of them alone.
Sean slumped, with a glass in his hand and a dazed look on his face. "I can't believe it. All those marvellous people. Hell, anyone would think I won the war. Besides it was all so long ago ..."
Freddie and Margaret embraced each other, delighted with the entire day. Freddie chuckled gleefully, "Didn't I always say you had a lot of friends over here?"
Freddie had grown plump, not gross but certainly corpulent - and his hairline had retreated over his scalp. Sean had to make an effort to remember the dapper, brown-haired figure who had stepped into the path of that London taxi all those years before. But Margaret was as lovely as ever - delicate, beautiful and very assured.
They talked for hours - still high on champagne and excitement. Each kept interrupting with - "Do you remember when ..."
The room overflowed with laughter and love.
Before Margaret went to bed she made a little speech - "I'm going to say this once and never again. It's my turn to apologise for all the time we lost, I should have made Freddie see sense. But you were always in our hearts, Sean, and now you're here ... well we're never going to lose you again."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 148