She could have said that he had made it necessary for her to change her dress - but instead she shook hands with the solicitor and sat down in the nearest chair.
"Mr Buckley agrees with me," Tim blurted out, unable to conceal his triumph, "the funeral should take place in Belfast. You should never have said that to the Colonial Office."
"I see," Kate stared down at her hands clasped in her lap.
The solicitor cleared his throat. He was short and fat, with a red face full of broken veins, and black hair sprinkled with grey. Suddenly Kate realised that he had known Tim for years - every visit Tim had made to Glossops had been incorporated into a trip to London to see the Averdale solicitor. Mr Buckley and Tim were old friends.
Buckley began with expressions of sympathy - then he seemed to reprimand Tim, "What I actually said was the Colonial Office was wrong to ask you for instructions -"
Kate's heart rose, only to fall again as Buckley continued - "after all, you were shocked and distressed, how could you be expected to think rationally."
True, but she had tried to do what Mark would have wanted.
"Did ... did he leave any instructions?"
"Not specifically, no - as a matter of fact this will was only made six months ago. I think all that flying was beginning to worry him - but my dear, all Averdales are buried in Ulster. Anywhere else would be quite inappropriate. And after what happened, surely Kenya would be the last place ..."
"And Ziggy - Lady Averdale?"
"Naturally will be laid to rest beside him. As husband and wife ..." he smiled, "I'm sure you understand, now you've had chance to reflect on the matter."
Kate began to marshal her arguments - but how could she explain that Ziggy would have wanted to be buried in her rose garden, no matter what - or that Mark would have been the last person in the world to oppose her wishes. How could she possibly explain that?
Buckley cleared his throat again. "As a matter of fact I telephoned the Colonial Office while we were waiting. Tim had a brief word with them too. The ... um, the misunderstanding has been completely cleared up ... there's nothing for you to worry about."
Kate shook with temper. Words poured out ... if Mark had left specific instructions, that would have been one thing, she said ... but in the absence of such neither Tim nor Mr Buckley had the right to make such an arbitrary decision. If anyone knew what Mark and Ziggy would have wanted Kate was in the best position to judge.
Buckley was taken aback. He had not expected opposition. He did his best to transfer the blame for "this misunderstanding" to the Colonial Office for their thoughtlessness in asking Kate, but he refused to reconsider his decision. The matter was closed, that was an end to it.
Kate prayed that Mark would forgive her. At least she had tried. And perhaps she was wrong ... after all, she couldn't be sure ... she was just so confused and upset and hating every minute of this meeting. She wanted to flee to her room. Vaguely she heard Buckley going on about the funeral arrangements in Belfast, and about reading the will formally afterwards, then he said, "but there is something I should give you before I go."
He fumbled in his briefcase and withdrew two large envelopes. "Lord Averdale wanted you to have these as soon as possible, in the event of, well, a tragedy like this. I've no idea what they contain -" "The will," Tim blurted out, "why wait until -" "These matters must take their proper course," Buckley said, with a sharp look at Tim. Then he softened, "As I was saying, I've no idea what these contain, but perhaps they will put your mind at rest on ... well, your expectations."
Tim stared at the envelope, confusion on his face, mingled with fear, mingled with hope.
Buckley closed his briefcase and stood up. "Now, if you will excuse me ..."
"I'll see you in Belfast tomorrow," Tim said, still staring at the envelope. "If you catch the morning flight I'll have someone meet you at Aldergrove. I'll get back there tonight -"
"I'll come," Kate said in a despairing attempt to bridge the chasm which had opened between them, "The two of us together -"
"No," Tim shook his head. "If Mr Buckley gets over tomorrow we'll do everything that needs to be done."
They were shutting her out. They even left together, as if neither of them wanted to be alone with her.
Crystal came in afterwards - with a bowl of soup on a tray - "You must eat, Miss Kate ..."
But Kate could not face it. She looked at the long list of telephone messages and couldn't face that either. Finally she picked up the envelope, addressed simply to "Kate" in Mark's handwriting, and took it to her room. She had never felt more alone in her life.
Sean Connors had been working on the Averdale story all day - ever since Freddie Mallon telephoned from New York that morning "Wasn't Averdale the guy you knew? Wasn't he the guy who sold you the Dublin Gazette?"
All those years ago.
"Listen, Sean. This has got to be the first cover story. It's a natural. It's world wide - 'British Peer slain by African terrorists' - Sean, it's made for us."
It was ten days before publication - ten days before the European launch of the international edition of Seven Days.
"Sean, listen to me. We've got an inside track. For Chrissakes, you even knew the guy. Then there's ... what's his name, Jimmy Cross, on the spot with his big local connection ... then there's Ulster and the Irish end. Once you tick off the African interest, the United Nations angle my people are already working on that - then there's Averdale being a famous Westminster politician ... hell this story's got everything we need for the first issue."
"He's right," Michael O'Hara said afterwards, "there's even another angle - a beautiful girl."
Sean looked at him.
"You remember asking me to go to one of Averdale's press briefings? Well I went. Dear God, you should see this Kate O'Brien. If Deirdre hadn't been in London already, and me about to get married ... well I've never seen a more beautiful creature in my life."
"That's what Jimmy Cross said."
"He was never more right. God knows how she got stuck with Averdale."
"She's his ward, isn't she - I mean she was."
"So they told me - but the way he looked at her..." Michael shrugged. "Ah, 'tis probably just my dirty mind. There wasn't a man in the room not looking at her the same way."
Two hours later Sean spoke to Jimmy Cross in Nairobi. Jimmy was thrilled. His story was to be the lead in the special inaugural edition of Seven Days. Ten thousand words on the political ferment in Africa. Local profiles on the Governor, the Officer Commanding British Forces in Kenya, black politicians - everything and everyone. But he was less thrilled to hear about Kate O'Brien.
"You want me to call her from here? But -"
"She's not taking any calls. We can't get through to her. And the butler at the main house called in the police - now there's constables front, back and sideways, all hemmed in by reporters and cameramen -"
"I'm not sure she'll speak to me either -"
"You were a regular at her little soirees weren't you? Besides, just calling from, Nairobi might help. Give her the usual spiel -"
"Sir ... Mr Connors ... she's a very nice girl -"
"So? Tell her we'll protect her. And get her to call me."
Immediately afterwards Sean telephoned Gloria at home - "I'm working tonight, God knows when I'll be through. No, don't wait up, expect me when you see me." He replaced the receiver with a great surge of relief - whether because he was working flat-out again or because he was not going home to Gloria was something he was unable to answer.
But he soon realised that it would not be easy to revert to the role of full time journalist. Michael's team was already in action. The first international edition of Seven Days would feature the Averdale murders, but the combined articles amounted to a total assessment of Britain's abilities to preserve her role as a Colonial power. Reportage would discuss not only troubles in Kenya and Africa but other flash-points, the West Indies, the Mediterranean, and South-East Asia. In New York Freddie's te
am were scouring the UN building, while in London major interviews were scheduled with the Foreign Secretary and Oliver Lyttleton, the new Secretary for the Colonies.
Most of the material for the rest of the magazine was ready. Sean flicked through dummy pages of the specially commissioned articles theatre, books, cinema, the arts, medicine, education, big business, small business, trade unions ...
"It ain't called Seven Days for nothing," Michael cracked, "it'll take 'em seven days to read it."
It was a very long way from the old Dublin Gazette. And yet, Sean mused, it all started from there, from the day he bought the paper from Lord Averdale all those years ago. Now, by a curious twist of fate, Averdale himself would be featured posthumously in the new magazine.
"Your car is ready, Mr Connors."
He struggled into his overcoat. He had agreed to meet Herbert Morrison and some other Labour front-benchers. The House would rise early as a tribute to Lord Averdale, which in turn meant some of the Labour Party crowd would dine with Sean later and give him their views on the Colonies, especially Kenya.
Meeting Morrison generally evoked memories of Val - but that night, as the car bowled along Whitehall towards Parliament Square, Sean's thoughts strayed back to this girl Kate O'Brien. He wondered if Jimmy Cross had spoken to her? She had not called the office. Her story might be useful...
Kate barely slept that night. By dawn the next morning she had read, re-read, and wept over Mark's letter until she knew passages by heart.
"I hope to God you never read this, my darling. I wanted to look after you for so much longer. I wanted you for the rest of my life - but if you read this I suppose that wish will have been granted. I dreamt of you for so many years, but you are so much more than I dreamt of..."
She felt unworthy. Throughout most of her life she had yearned to be loved - and when it had come the avalanche of his feelings had swamped her. But - she clung to the thought - she was glad to have pleased him - glad, glad, glad - no matter that her brother called her a whore, no matter that there was so much the world would never understand.
Mark had left her everything in London.
"... the house, the paintings, various bank accounts, Buckley will have the details. Don't worry, my darling, business will never become a burden, your monthly needs will be paid as a matter of routine ... you need only consult your trustees on exceptional items - and having suffered trustees myself in the past I am giving you two from whom you will receive every help - your dear brother Tim, who has matured so well -and Ronald Buckley ..."
She flinched. She had crossed swords with Buckley already, and Tim in his present mood was unlikely to provide "every help".
Mark had left the Bowley estates to Ziggy ...
.. for reasons almost too complicated to explain - I could say because Africa is neither your world nor Tim's, and although that is true it does not explain what Ziggy has come to mean to me. I hope you will visit her, Kate - the thought of you two together is a fond one of mine, for you have both given me so much in such different ways ..."
Everything else was left to Tim.
"... sometimes I think he has become more of an Averdale than I am."
There were many more pages in which he expressed his love for her. She wept as she read them. She had never expected a will. She had not thought of a future without Mark, not since that Christmas four years before, and now he had gone.
.. but I shall always be with you Kate, just as you will always be mine. You were mine before you were born, and you must remain mine even after my death. It is the way things are. Of course you must never marry. My possessions are yours as long as I possess you - but should you ever marry, everything Averdale will be stripped from you and given to Tim. It is the Averdale way."
The proviso hardly registered, she was too upset, too dazed by events.
She dozed from time to time - then woke with a start - and the whole nightmare flooded back - Mark and Ziggy killed, and Tim who seemed suddenly to hate her. She wondered what she would do. The future seemed so empty ...
At eight o'clock the telephone started ringing again ... mostly reporters wanting some sort of comment ... but Buckley called to say the funeral would take place in Belfast in three days' time ... and Tim rang to say he was trying to get hold of Buckley. Tim was furious, "That conniving bitch! Well she's dead too. That must invalidate this nonsense about the Bowley estates. We must oppose it, Kate, we must, God knows what the legal complications are, I've been trying to speak to Buckley
"No Tim, no," she almost sobbed into the telephone.
"Listen. You'll need me in the future. I'm your trustee -"
She hung up. Oh Tim, she thought, I need you now, not in the future - and not so hatefully callous.
Half an hour later the newspapers arrived. Kate no longer had to search out items for Ziggy. Ziggy and Mark were on the front pages. Descriptions of Mark tore a gasp of pain from Kate - he was called "arrogant" ... "self-opinionated" ... "domineering" ... which perhaps was true but he was other things too. And Kate searched in vain for a proper tribute to Ziggy. Not one paper gave a full account of what she had been trying to do in Kenya. Reading them Kate was reminded of the farmers she had shown around London - "Heck Kate, once upon a time Britain was proud of the Colonies - now we're looked on as cut-throats and bandits."
Crystal stood over her while she ate some toast, the first food Kate had eaten in twenty-four hours. And it was Crystal who persuaded her to speak to Jimmy Cross when he called from Nairobi - "He's phoned four times already. He knows you don't want to be disturbed, but he says he's calling from Africa to help you."
"Jimmy?" Kate said into the receiver, "Jimmy, is that you?"
They had only met a dozen times. She was careful not to have favourites, her professional relationship with Jimmy Cross was no stronger than with half a dozen Fleet Street reporters, but it was such a relief to hear a friendly voice ...
Jimmy expressed condolences, he was kind and considerate - but then he presented his argument, that the best way to disperse the crowd outside her door was to grant an exclusive interview to one paper - "once we spread the word most of the boys will leave you alone."
"But I've nothing to say, I'm shocked and upset -"
"Kate," he said firmly, "that crowd outside won't be your usual polite lobby correspondents. You've got the monkeys out there, the paparazzi - believe me, all sorts of things will be printed. Some you won't like. Do it my way and you'll have a chance to tell the world what the man was really like."
She owed Mark that. She had read some of the things ...
"It's the background they want, Kate. What were his ambitions for Kenya? What happens to the 'Britain in Africa' campaign now? What -"
"I don't know," Kate cried. She felt desperate.
"Do one thing for me Kate, will you - phone Sean Connors for me."
"Sean Connors the broadcaster?"
Jimmy's exclamation was muffled. "These days he's a lot more than that. Among other things he's my boss. Here's the number. Will you call him right away?"
"I don't know."
"Please, Kate."
So she did. She was confused and a little light-headed. She was sick about Tim. She had barely slept a wink through the night.
She announced herself to a telephonist - and then she was through to him.
"This is Sean Connors speaking."
She trembled at the sound of his voice. She knew it so well. It brought back so many memories ... listening to the radio with Uncle Ned in Dayton, Ohio ... and later, listening with Aunt Alison and Jenny and Yvette ... tuning in week after week for news of the war.
"Hello," he said again. "This is Sean Connors speaking -"
"From London," she whispered huskily. "This is Sean Connors speaking from London - bringing you the news from the heart of Great Britain - the country that now stands alone."
He caught his breath, then said, "That's a very nice compliment, Miss O'Brien, especially at a time of great personal
sadness. May I express my sympathy and apologise for intruding."
She was weeping silently. Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She remembered Yvette weeping when Paris was liberated in the war - and Aunt Alison crossing the room to take her in her arms. She remembered all the love in that Washington apartment and her heart ached.
She heard his voice more than his words. She had always liked his voice - the warm timbered tones, the accent which was a strange mixture of Irish brogue, British crisp and American drawl. She felt she had known him all her life.
He was telling her what he wanted. Background for an article he was writing on Lord Averdale ... "Naturally I don't want to intrude now," he said, "but if I could meet you in a few days' time ..."
All my life, she kept thinking, I feel as though I've known him all my life. He sounded so safe, so reliable, so trustworthy. He sounded like a friend-which was the exact word he used a moment later - "May I make a suggestion, Miss O'Brien. Haven't you a friend you could stay with I can imagine what it's like, with everyone pestering you ..."
A friend? Aunt Alison in Washington - Jenny in Omaha - Yvette in Paris. She had more than a friend twenty-four hours ago, she had her own brother ...
"Failing that," he was saying, "I could arrange for you to be spirited away for a few days. It would give you time by yourself - time to recover from the shock, a chance to think ..."
It sounded idyllic ... to get away from everyone, Tim, this apartment with its memories and incessantly ringing telephone ...
She told him about the funeral in Belfast.
"We'll take care of that too," he said calmly, "we'll get you there and take you away afterwards."
But why would he be so kind?
"And when it's all over," he said easily, "perhaps you'll grant me my interview."
It was such a relief to let someone takeover. She didn't even ask where she was going, or who would go with her - she just knew he would take care of her. Yes, she said, she could be ready in two hours - yes, there was a back way into the apartment, up the fire-escape from the mews behind the building ...
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 152