Three hours later she was being driven up the Great North Road and out of London. Mr Connors had sent two people to look after her - a chauffeur and a very competent secretary from his office who seemed determined to mother her - "You look tired out, Miss O'Brien. Why not doze for a while. I'll wake you up when we get there."
Even then Kate failed to ask where they were going.
"Chester," Sean said to Michael, "she can spend the two days there, fly over to Belfast for the funeral, fly back and stay at Chester that night. Then Arthur will drive her back down to London on Friday and I'll interview her on Saturday."
"That's three days before we publish. We print on Monday."
"So? Just save me half a page, we won't need more ..." he hesitated, "unless I can get her to show me over Averdale's mansion. Herbert Rice was saying that Averdale's art collection is one of the best in Europe. We could do a feature on how the man lived, maybe a double-page spread of interior shots."
Kate needed those two days. She was so shattered when she arrived at Chester that she went straight to bed. Emily Jones, her chaperone, had arranged everything with the hotel - "My room is one side of you and Arthur is on the other. He was born in these parts, he'll be happy to show you round tomorrow if you feel up to it. Meanwhile you get a good night's sleep, that's the best medicine I know."
Kate was so exhausted that she slept soundly. The previous thirty-six hours had drained her, she was nearer collapse than she realised. But she awoke the next morning refreshed, stronger, more able to cope.
Emily Jones herself delivered breakfast on a tray. "It's a nice morning, why not let Arthur take you for a drive, it'll be better than sitting in your room?"
She dressed and they went out. Emily sat in front with Arthur. Neither said much, as if they realised she was better left to her thoughts - in fact when Arthur reached Rhyl he suggested she go for a walk along the beach - "Not if you don't want to of course Miss, but sometimes a breath of sea air ..."
So she walked, to please them to begin with, although they stayed in the car. Once she got going, with her hands thrust deep in her pockets and her collar turned up - she walked miles, lost in thought. The breeze helped clear her mind. She saw things more clearly. She had been dreadfully shocked about poor Mark and Ziggy, but it was Tim who had driven her to the edge of hysteria. His attitude, his manner. Of course he was upset, she made allowances - she could even understand his jealousy, after all he and Mark must have grown close during the war. And he must have been shocked about her sleeping with Mark. She could understand - but none of it justified hostility verging on hatred, she did not deserve that. And his avarice - his disgusting anxiety about the will - Kate would never forgive him ...
But it was the second day, again as she walked the beach at Rhyl, that she began to think of her future. What would she do? She had to do something ... her life had a pattern before, meeting journalists, politicians, artists, but that was as an adjunct to Mark - she lacked a separate existence.
Dealing with her trustees would be awful. Tim had threatened her already.
She would go to Paris, to Yvette, as soon as she could. Just for a while, until she sorted herself out. And after that, perhaps she would start a little business, a shop or something.
That evening she dined with Arthur and Emily, "my new friends" as she called them when she had telephoned Tim before she left London "I'm going away, to stay with friends until the funeral."
"Stay with who you bloody well like," he had snapped.
After dinner she washed her hair and went early to bed again, dreading the funeral the next day, yet wanting it over, both at the same time.
The event was as grim as she had imagined.
Everyone in Belfast seemed to be at the funeral - and not just Belfast, Westminster politicians of all parties walked in the procession to pay their respects. Kate smiled inwardly as she imagined Mark's reaction "All those jumped up clerks from the Labour Party! Good grief Kate, the world's gone mad!"
Poor Mark.
The funeral was only for him. Ziggy's lawyers in Nairobi had stepped in at the last minute. Apparently she had left specific instructions in her own will, asking to be buried in her rose garden. There had been an awful row. The matter had been taken to the Governor. But, after an embarrassing wrangle, Ziggy's wishes had been observed.
Twelve hundred people followed the cortege through the streets and at least eight hundred sipped sherry and chewed smoked salmon sandwiches afterwards. All either thought it or said it - "Damn odd, Averdale and his wife being buried separately." Kate felt their eyes throughout the entire day. It made the ordeal even worse.
She whispered goodbye at the graveside, but shed no more tears.
Tim was as remote as ever. She had promised herself that she would make another attempt to reach him, but his eyes remained cold and his manner was barely civil.
"Mark Averdale was the last of his line," Buckley told Tim in Kate's hearing, "so the title dies with him. I just thought you'd like to know. Put your mind at rest about some bloody lumberjack in Canada turning up to claim the title. Don't worry, it can't happen."
The very last Averdale. Nine generations. Kate was to have provided the tenth - Mark had told her as much ...
The very last Averdale.
Then it was all over, and she was on the aircraft looking down at the Irish Sea - wondering if she would ever go to Ulster again. She hoped not. She hated the place. Arthur ordered her a brandy and Emily gave her an encouraging smile. Kate thanked them both - she would have been lost without them. She owed Mr Connors more than his interview. She would never be able to thank him enough.
Chapter Nine
Seven Days was a journalistic triumph. It dominated the news-stands. Everything was praised; the writing, the photographs, even the printing. Issue number one bore Lord Averdale's picture on the cover with the caption "End of an Empire?" Inside questions were posed not just about the survival of the Averdale interests, but the stability of the British Empire itself. Reporter after reporter told the same story - growing unrest in the Colonies and indecision at Westminster.
The issue became a collector's item, and not just for the political news. Few readers failed to admire the full-colour portrait on page forty-eight, showing Kate O'Brien in the drawing-room of the Belgrave Square mansion. She was unsmiling and looking at a painting not the camera, but her elegance drew the eye more than the contrived poses of the professional models adorning the advertisement pages.
And the article itself - "The other side of Lord Averdale" - went a long way towards a public reassessment of the murdered peer. "Lord Averdale," Miss O'Brien was quoted as saying, "was too shy to express his ideals - but he was a very fine person, once you got to know him."
Not everyone agreed but most men were willing to bet the description fitted Kate O'Brien herself - she was obviously "a very fine person" but getting to know her was a challenge, as Sean Connors found out.
She was more self-assured than he had expected. Their telephone conversation had led him to imagine a tremulous girl, liable to dissolve into tears. Instead he found a calm, assured young woman who was not only exceptionally attractive but as confident as any female he'd met in New York.
As for Kate, those precious two days walking the beach at Rhyl had given her a chance to collect herself. She was able to hide behind the sophistication she had worked so hard to develop. The biggest dent to her self-assurance was Sean Connors himself. As soon as she saw him she realised he was much better-looking than that ski instructor. Taller, broader, more polished, and possessing infinitely more presence.
The interview went well. Kate thanked him for "spiriting her away" for a few days and he responded by expressing his sympathy for her involvement in the Averdale tragedy. Kate listened gravely, with her eyes downcast in case he should read what was going through her mind. She fought the urge to blurt out - "I've known you all the days of my life, you should have been here when I needed you."
And Sean a
sked questions in a calm, level voice, while all the time thinking - "Why do I feel so bloody protective, so anxious not to hurt her? I'm just here for a story, that's all. I'll never see her again. Just get the story ..."
Kate had given much thought to "the story". It was her one chance to square her account with Mark and poor Ziggy. Do this now, she told herself, render this last service, then you can flee to Yvette in Paris. She rehearsed her argument one last time, took a deep breath, and began to tell him, began to sell him "the story".
She showed him the Averdale collection - "Someone described Lord Averdale as selfish," she said. "What nonsense. He assembled one of Europe's most important art collections for the benefit of the public. His intention was to put everything on permanent exhibition ..."
She talked of the left-wing press which had labelled him "reactionary". "How can that be true?" she asked, "the best working conditions in Africa were found on his estates. Was it reactionary to help Africans buy land? Was it reactionary to start work on a model housing settlement? Or to fund schools and hospitals? I wonder at times if the men on the Daily Worker understand what the word means. Most people would call such actions progressive. But they have such closed minds on the Worker that they cannot admit anyone named Lord Averdale could be progressive about anything."
It was quite a performance. Her green eyes flashed with temper, and although she showed her inexperience by hectoring at times, Sean Connors wrote it all down. It was hard to reconcile her description with the man from whom he had bought the Dublin Gazette but he said nothing about that. He never even admitted to meeting the man. Instead he asked gentle questions and tried to get to know her. He felt a great need to do that. Professional curiosity, he told himself, but it was more than that and deep in his heart he knew it.
So Sean Connors got his story. Seven Days was the only journal to interview Miss Kate O'Brien, just as it was alone in presenting "The other side of Lord Averdale." But there was more than professional interest in Sean's closing question - "And what about you, Miss O'Brien ? Have you had a chance to think about your own life?"
"Not really. I'm going to stay with a very old friend in Paris for a few weeks, perhaps even a few months, I don't honestly know. I need somewhere quiet to sort myself out."
He gave her his card. "I hope you'll call me when you get back, if you think I might be able to help in any way."
Then he left. She watched from the window. "All the days of my life," she whispered, "I feel I've known you all the days of my life."
Four weeks later it was Christmas. Sean gave a series of parties in his new house in Hill Street, in fact Christmas seemed one long party. All of his friends were there - Michael and Deirdre, Tubby, Sir George and Lady Cynthia Hamilton - and, a marvellous surprise, Freddie and Margaret flew over from New York, complete with their family. The house was greatly admired and Gloria was much praised for capturing the latest vogue in interior decorating. Sean felt warm and happy, surrounded by the people important in his life. And he sensed something else - he sensed his success. For the first time it seemed tangible. He had assets. His businesses brought him wealth and prestige. He owned this wonderful house and everything in it. His suits were tailored in Savile Row, he bought handmade shirts in Jermyn Street - and his reputation had so soared since the launch of Seven Days that people in the Savoy Grill were as likely to point him out as the celebrities he accompanied. The name Sean Connors was beginning to mean something ... and yet ... happy though he was, hugely successful though he was becoming the taste of success was less sweet than he had imagined.
He wondered why? After all, everything was perfect - his bank account, his house, his wife, especially his wife. When George had met her the first time he couldn't wait to take Sean aside - "She's a jewel!" And Cynthia approved too - "Sean darling, she's an absolute angel!" Everyone admired her. She was so incredibly competent. She organised a houseful of guests with the effortless skill of an Elsa Maxwell. The Mallon kids saw the pantomine at the Palladium and the circus at Olympia - the adults went racing on Boxing Day and enjoyed the theatre in the evening. The Christmas tree in the hall was a work of art. Everyone received a superbly chosen gift that was just right for them - never had people said "Oh darling, it's exactly what I wanted" with such genuine enthusiasm. And throughout it all Gloria shone like the star of Bethlehem. When the Mallon children quarrelled it was Gloria, not their nurse, who reached them first - "Hey gang, did I tell you the treat planned for you this afternoon?" When Deirdre got hiccups over dinner it was Gloria who knew the instant cure. And never once was there a curl out of place, a crook in her stockings, or a crease in her dress.
It was the same after Christmas. The Mallons returned to New York and the newly established household at Hill Street settled down to what was to become normal routine. Sean never had cause for complaint. Shirts were always freshly laundered. Suits were cleaned in rotation. Shoes were treed. If he and Gloria were going out that evening a change of clothing was laid out ready for him - if they were staying at home ice was stirred into his whisky as he came through the door. And Gloria was always waiting to greet him - as spick and span, as clean and shining, as a surgeon's knife.
The house ran with the noiseless efficiency of the clock in a RollsRoyce. Other husbands may have arrived home to tales of woe - about the milkman who failed to leave merchandise on the back step, or the dustman who did. If such domestic mishaps occurred in Hill Street Sean never heard about them. Gloria organised everything with the help of a Spanish maid who lived in, a daily char who lived out, a woman who cooked on special occasions and an odd-job man who called every Friday.
When they had people in, Gloria was the perfect hostess. When they went to people she was the perfect guest. Small talk, as practised by Gloria, was a minor art form. She could discourse for hours on the latest fashions, on so-and-so's new novel, on the British theatre (which she loved) and British films (which she hated). To maintain three conversations at once took no effort, four was no problem and only when five were running simultaneously did she have to concentrate.
Not only that but she looked good. When they were in company it was rare for another woman to be judged more attractive, and never better groomed. Grooming was something at which Gloria excelled. Everything she wore was crisply fresh. The tiniest smudge on a blouse would require her to change. If cleanliness was next to godliness then Gloria was truly saintly.
And yet...
By March Sean had defined at least one "and yet". They never talked to each other. Not really talked, not about anything important. Her conversation was no different with him than with anyone else - Freddie, for instance, or Michael. She conducted the same light-hearted, good humoured banter with everyone. Small-talk. Background chatter. She refused to discuss anything serious. "It's so boring," she said when he tried, "and people talking politics or religion always end up having an argument. I ask you, who wants to argue?"
He did. He liked arguing. He and Val had argued all the time ... about Catholicism, Fascism, Democracy, the Labour Party, the state of the nation, the state of the world ... they could argue about anything, at least until bedtime, and bedtime could be at midday if the mood struck them.
But bedtime with Gloria was another "and yet". Nothing worked not candle-lit suppers, soft violins, extravagant compliments, expensive presents, nothing. Even when they did make love it was never the uncomplicated coupling he had enjoyed with Val. Gloria sent out subtle unspoken signals with which he tried to comply. As month followed month he learned it was useless to try unless he bathed first, it was essential to be spotlessly clean when he lay down beside her. Clean and fresh-smelling - which meant dousing himself in eau de cologne, and not only brushing his teeth but gargling with a mouth wash. Copulation for Gloria remained a distasteful business, only bearable when conducted under sanitised, sterilised, disinfectant-reeking, laboratory conditions.
Sean made the effort less and less and got little joy from it when he did. More often it filled him wit
h painful reminders - his union with Gloria was a sham compared to the love he had once known with Val.
But, apart from his marriage, life for Sean was full and exciting. The circulation of Seven Days rose with every issue, advertisers queued up to buy space, and Jimmy Cross was voted "Reporter of the Year" by Fleet Street for his vivid accounts of Mau Mau atrocities in Kenya. By that Autumn, 1953, whole battalions of British soldiers were engaged in battles against strong guerrilla groups. Eighty thousand Kikuyu were held in concentration camps. The gallows in Nairobi crashed away at a rate never seen before on British soil. And as Sean read the despatches his mind often turned to that beautiful red-haired girl who had talked so earnestly of Lady Averdale's predictions.
"Unless we succeed in creating partnerships," Lady Averdale had said, "the soil of Kenya will run red with blood."
And now it was happening.
Yvette Lefarge had welcomed Kate with open arms. Kate's instincts had been sound. Of all the substitute mothers she had clung to over the years none loved her in such an uncomplicated fashion as the elderly Frenchwoman, nor would have accepted her relationship with Mark Averdale with such understanding - Eleanor Bleakley might have fainted on the spot, Alison Johnstone would have been shocked to the core but Yvette was much wiser than that.
Not that the "relationship" was discussed to begin with - December passed with Kate making only guarded references to her life with Mark Averdale. Yvette was unconcerned. She enjoyed Kate's company and was content to let time heal the shock. It was only in January, when Kate was beginning to wonder "what am I going to do with my life?" that Yvette learned the entire story.
"Should I say I knew about your affaire without needing to be told?" Yvette smiled. "Or should I pretend to be shocked? Which reaction would you prefer? Tell me and I'll try to oblige."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 153