They were married at the end of July. As she clung to his arm and looked up at him, Sean felt the happiest, luckiest man in the world. Gloria was beautiful, and she was his wife.
But their honeymoon in Miami was a disaster. She had wept as he made love to her - "Oh Sean, it hurts, please stop, I can't bear the pain."
He was as tender and gentle, as patient and as considerate as could be - but whenever he tried it was the same - "Oh why must we do this - it hurts and I don't like it. Sean, if you really loved me you wouldn't ask me to do it."
They talked about it. Back in New York he persuaded her to visit a gynaecologist. She did so reluctantly but it seemed to make little difference. Every night she talked of "an extended period this month" - or "it's not the safe time, Sean, we don't want a family just yet" - or - "not tonight Sean, I think dinner disagreed with me."
They sailed for England on the United States which that year had won the coveted Atlantic Blue Riband. Their state-room was luxurious - the crossing was smooth - they dined at the Captain's table - they danced in the ballroom. Mrs Gloria Connors was admired from one end of the ship to the other. She was fun. Everyone agreed she was charming. "She's so in love with her handsome husband," people said as they watched her. And Sean thought so too, as she looked up at him with her big blue-eyed "you are so masterful" look. He enjoyed being with her. He liked the way heads turned when she entered a room, he was proud of her - but in their state-room it was the same every night.
"I'll get used to it in time, Sean - that's all I need, time."
She hated the flat at Great Cumberland Place.
"So OK, we'll move," Sean told her, "I'll get Brian Tillett to show you some of our other flats."
But she didn't much like those either.
Once a week they tried to make love. Gloria rucked her nightdress up to her waist and spread her legs wide on the bed - but the noises she made were of pain not of passion.
Meanwhile everyone complimented Sean on his beautiful wife. "Charming," they all said, "and so sophisticated, but then these American girls are, aren't they?"
He tried not to think of Val. He tried to forget the pleasure they had found in each other's arms, the naturalness, the shared delight, the joy and the happiness.
He kept telling himself it would get better. Whenever he met her around town - lunch at the Savoy, dinner at The Twenty-One Club, a night out at Churchill's - his heart quickened at the sway of her hips as she walked towards him, her smile, her scent - he wanted her.
But every night she turned her face to the wall.
When they talked about it she said - "Sean, I love you so much. It's not I don't try ... I do, I try very hard ... it's just that... oh I don't know, let's not make a big thing of it. Let's just enjoy ourselves in other ways, like we did before we married. It will work out, you'll see, give it time."
By then it was mid-October. They had given it nine weeks. But Sean told himself, "Sure, give it time, it will work out, it's bound to."
Preparations for the launch of Seven Days throughout Europe were advancing at a rapid rate. Sean spent most days in Fleet Street - although more often as an onlooker, as he was compelled to admit. After all, Michael was Managing Editor - but it was more than just Michael, it was the team he had assembled - a very competent staff who were meshing together into a unit which promised to be brilliant. And nobody outshone Jimmy Cross.
James Cross (as he was called on his byline) had only been in Africa six months but he did possess advantages over most of the journalists who had rushed out from London. James Cross had been born there. He had lived in Southern Rhodesia as a boy, then his restless father had moved the family to Nairobi for two years, after which they had lived in Johannesburg and Cape Town. Jimmy Cross knew parts of Africa like the back of his hand. After the war he had come to England in search of a university education, stayed in London, gravitated to Fleet Street and joined London & Continental. He had been an asset on the "Africa desk" in London - but he was an asset beyond price in the field.
In six months Jimmy had criss-crossed the continent - but his main base had been at Nairobi. "When the genie comes out of the bottle," he wrote to Michael, "it will come out in Kenya first."
Michael disagreed. South Africa had to be the flashpoint in his opinion - and most people agreed with Michael.
Jimmy had compromised by appointing a stringer in Jo'burg and another one in Pretoria - then he based himself in Nairobi. Since when some of Jimmy's stories about the Mau Mau had made headlines all over the world. People felt their blood run cold as they read of barbaric initiation ceremonies. They winced at accounts of the sacrificial slaughter of animals - and were revolted to learn that drinking blood and human semen was part of Mau Mau ritual. And throughout it all Jimmy stood by his prediction.
Jimmy was right. In October white homesteads were attacked by Mau Mau. Farmers and their families were terrorised. The Governor declared a State of Emergency.
British troops were rushed out from England. More soldiers flew in from the garrison on Cyprus. In Nairobi, police swooped and arrested hundreds of black African leaders. Detention camps were crammed full.
Then, on 10 November, James Cross cabled his most dramatic story of all.
Throughout the world people were stunned at the news.
Lord and Lady Averdale Murdered
Kenya is sickened and dazed this morning. Cutters Lodge, home of Lord and Lady Averdale, was attacked by black guerrillas last night and burned to the ground. Policemen at the scene have described scenes of unparalleled carnage. Exact details are unknown, but it is believed that many of the Kikuyu labourers employed at Cutters and the nearby Bowley estates went to the aid of Lord and Lady Averdale - and paid for the intervention with their lives. Police experts seem certain that Lady Averdale was trapped in the fire and Lord Averdale lost his life in a courageous rescue attempt...
... half an hour ago the Governor declared this to be Kenya's blackest day. Lady Averdale was renowned as an advocate for improving the expectations of the African. Working conditions at Cutters were described as "a model of multi-racial harmony, an example to every farmer in Africa" by a recent United Nations delegation.
Tributes are pouring into my temporary office here at the Norfolk Hotel. A man stopped me an hour ago and said - "Mark Averdale was the only Westminster politician who understood Kenya ... who will speak for us now?" A call from Mombassa quotes Mr Motilal Gungi, a prominent Indian businessman, as saying - "Lady Averdale was a truly great person ... her goodness was an example to us all ... the whole Indian community will mourn her passing ..."
Chapter Eight
Kate O'Brien was woken at six in the morning. The Colonial Office was telephoning to say Lord Averdale had been involved in "an accident". That was all she knew until two officials arrived at seven-fifteen. She listened in stunned silence. She did not weep, or wring her hands, or cry out - she just sat and stared.
She went, back to her bedroom and sat on her bed. She felt so ... so unbelievably empty. Sometimes she had questioned her feelings for him. Her emotions always fell short of those described by the girls at Glossops. She never went "weak at the knees", or "turned to jelly" when he kissed her - but she had grown fond of him. She liked him - she liked him a lot. He was pompous at times - and arrogant - and when he lost his temper he could be hurtfully rude, but never with her. He was patient and attentive, kind and considerate. He was her protector, her provider, her tutor ... quite simply her life.
It was then that she wept - when she realised she had loved him without ever being "in love".
The telephone was busy all morning - every paper in Fleet Street wanted to speak to her. Crystal, her maid, took the calls. Kate thought Fleet Street's attitude was callous and intrusive ... she was dazed and upset... she consoled herself with the message that Tim was on his way from Belfast. She thanked God for that. Dear Tim, she thought, thank heavens I have Tim. We shall be all right if we are together.
She ran to him as he
came through the door. He was gaunt and ashen faced. He held her, then pushed her away.
He was shaking with temper - "There's a crowd of photographers outside. The press are besieging the house!"
"Oh, I didn't know ... Crystal has been answering -"
"Dozens of them. They're like vultures ... like ... jackals!"
Kate choked. She could hear Mark saying, "Pariahs! That's what they are. Blasted reporters are the bane of my life."
Tim had been drinking. She smelt alcohol on his breath. And as soon as he threw his coat down he asked for a drink.
"I'll get some coffee," she said.
"I said a drink! Give me some whisky."
She had never seen him so... so belligerent. Whatever she said seemed wrong. He snapped about everything. Of course he was upset - but so was she. She wanted to tell him that she hurt too. She wanted to hold his hand. All morning she had told herself that Tim was on his way that the awfulness wouldn't be so bad when he got here - but it was worse. He snarled at whatever she said.
She was still in her dressing-gown - eventually she used that as an excuse to flee to her bedroom - to dress - which is what she was doing when Crystal put a call through on the extension. It was the man from the Colonial Office, asking about funeral arrangements ... were the bodies to be flown to Ulster or buried in Kenya?
Kate's head was a whirl. The man wanted an immediate decision. With all her heart she begged Mark to tell her what to do. What would he want? And Ziggy - what would she want? She had never been to Ulster - Ziggy had loved Kenya - she would want to be buried there, Kate felt certain. She caught her breath. The rose garden. Mark had told her about a rose garden, the grave of her husband, her first husband. Oh God, would that look awful? Ziggy buried between two husbands? Or Ziggy buried elsewhere with Mark? Or Ziggy buried without Mark separately, him in Ulster, her in Kenya? That would be macabre. She couldn't do that.
"Miss O'Brien?" the man persisted.
She wanted to scream, I'm twenty-one - that's all -I don't know what to do!
"We rather thought Ulster," the man said, "in view of Lord Averdale's -"
"No," she said quickly, reaching a decision.
She told him about the rose garden at Cutters. "I see," he said, sounding doubtful. In that case the funeral would have to be the day after tomorrow. "These hot countries, you know." Should they make travel arrangements for her and her brother?
Kate closed her eyes. Blackness engulfed her. Oh Mark, tell me what to do.
She finished dressing and returned to the drawing-room, not knowing if she would find Tim drunk or sober.
But he was sober. Crystal had served coffee and sandwiches. Kate had not had a thing all day. She poured herself coffee, feeling dazed and lightheaded.
Tim looked at his watch. "Nearly six," he said, "Buckley should be here soon."
"Buckley?"
"The Averdale solicitor. I tracked him down this morning before I left. He was in Manchester -"
"Oh thank heavens. What a relief. He'll know what to do. There's just so much ... I mean ... apparently we have to fly out to Nairobi in twenty-four hours -"
"What for?"
"The funeral. I just had the Colonial Office back -"
"But the funeral will be in Belfast."
"Oh? Well, actually I told him Kenya ... it seemed the best -"
"You what?" Tim leapt to his feet.
She stared at him. "They wanted an immediate decision. I didn't think of the solicitor. I've never met him -"
"Who gave you the right?"
She sat down hurriedly. "It's not a right. I thought it was best, that's all. If it's wrong we can probably change it -"
"I'll say we will. Good God, what's got into you?"
"I don't understand -"
"Not much you don't. Well we'll see about that. Buckley must have the will."
She struggled to follow his meaning. "Will? Oh, you mean Mark might have left instructions ... oh thank God if he did -"
"I don't mean that. I want to know where I stand, that's what. You think he's left you the lot, don't you? Or do you bloody well know? Was that the price? Was that the price for sleeping with him?"
"Oh no," she whispered, then buried her head in her hands. "Oh Tim, no -"
"No? You didn't think I knew, did you? How d'you think I felt when I found out? My own sister - our guardian's whore! How do you think felt? After all the years when it was just him and me in Ulster - all those years you were away in the war with your precious Aunt Alison, and then at Glossops - you never gave him a thought, did you? You never wanted to see him again. Or me. You told me that once. Then it all changed, suddenly, that Christmas, that's when it changed - when he married this other whore in Kenya and came back and took you on holiday. Just you! Not me! It didn't matter that I was alone in Belfast ... it didn't matter because I'm always there, whenever he needed me I was there. I've always looked after his interests ... I've worked and worked and ..."
His voice broke to a sob. He collapsed into a chair, his face contorted with misery.
She flew to his side, kneeling, her arms reaching up to encircle his neck.
"Get away from me!" he spat at her. "Get away, you bloody whore!"
She lost her balance and sprawled at his feet. He leapt up and stood over her. "Well?" he shouted, "I haven't heard a denial! I'm listening have you nothing to say?"
How could she even begin to explain? He would never believe Mark would have married her ...
"Tim -" she started.
He hit her. His open hand cracked across her face. She fell backwards but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he snapped, "I'll even show you proof."
He dragged her into the hall and along to her bedroom, where he flung her across the bed before crossing to the wood panelling alongside her dressing room. She knew what he was doing, even as he fumbled to find the concealed catch. A moment later the secret door rolled back to reveal the hidden elevator.
"I found it last time I stayed. Quite by accident. My suitcase was missing. I came in here to see if it had been put here by mistake. Then I leant against the wall - and hey presto!" He swung round to face her. "So I took a ride in it. We both know where it goes - don't we - you rotten bitch!"
She pulled herself upright on the bed. Her cheek was aflame with the mark of his hand. She was trembling uncontrollably.
"Not that I didn't suspect," he panted. "Even before - but I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't - not my own sister. And her so full of what it meant to have a brother. I told myself I was wrong - Kate wouldn't do that, Kate hasn't changed him, it's this bloody whore in Kenya, filling him up with stupid ideas -"
"That's enough!" she shrieked. She stood up, hugging herself to stop shaking. "Ziggy is dead -"
"She killed him, the bitch. All her crazy schemes. Averdale steel, I used to remind him of that when he told me about them, Averdale steel is the way to keep the Croppies down. He taught me that as a kid. It's her fault he's dead. If he'd listened to me ... but she changed him, the cow, she never let up, as soon as he got there she was on at him with her silly bloody ideas -"
"All right, Tim." Her words were less of a shriek this time.
She took a deep breath. "You've had your say. Now listen to me. Mark would never have a word spoken against Ziggy. Her ideas may not have been yours, they may have been wrong, I don't know, that doesn't matter, all that matters now is we do what Mark would have expected of us. And he would not have expected this screaming match - he would not have expected you to call Ziggy a bitch ... and ..."
"Whore is the word you're looking for," he sneered.
Kate went bright red, as red as her hair, so red that the mark on her face was no longer visible. Her eyes blazed, but she was more in control of herself. She had recovered from the fright of being struck and dragged along the corridor.
"We're both upset," she said, "and you've been drinking. There's no point in continuing this conversation -"
She wa
s interrupted by a cough - Crystal appeared at the still open door. "Excuse me Miss Kate, but Mr Buckley has arrived. I've put him in the drawing-room."
A stricken look crossed Tim's face. Kate read his expression. Pain and bitterness, and fear. Her heart went out to him. Poor Tim, he must have been so desperately lonely. She had tried to reach him - she had invited him to stay whenever Mark went away, but the situation had defeated everyone. She wanted to say, "Tim, I'm your sister ... we're all we've got" ... but Crystal was waiting for an answer.
Crystal had seen the secret elevator. She averted her eyes, but Kate knew.
Kate groaned under her breath - so now your suspicions are confirmed too, she thought wearily.
"Thank you Crystal," she said, "please tell Mr Buckley we shall join him immediately."
She waited until Crystal left, then crossed to the panelling to close the lift door.
Tim grabbed her arm. "Buckley must have the will. If you've talked me out of what's rightfully mine -"
"For God's sake! How can you be so ... so despicable. Poor Mark was only killed last night. How could you even think, I didn't even know there was a will."
For a split second they stared at each other, then Kate turned away. "I'll have to change, you've torn the sleeve of this dress."
When he left she felt faint and a little bit sick. She wanted to cry but steeled herself. She changed and brushed her hair, then powdered her face to conceal the mark of Tim's blow. She forced herself to take time, needing to collect herself after the awful scene. What had made Tim so bitter ... her for sleeping with Mark ... Mark for neglecting him ... or fear that Mark might not have bequeathed everything to him? She shuddered. She had been stunned ... even to think of that ... but Tim had thought... that's what made it so horrible ... Tim had thought. She had wanted to cry out - "Tim dear, we're orphans, nothing is rightfully ours", but he had looked at her so coldly that she had been lost for words.
Eventually she pulled herself together. She was ready to face the solicitor. When she entered the room Tim was in the middle of saying something. He broke off and swung round to face her - "Ah, so you've deigned to honour us after all."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 151