The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  Saxon glared at Katherine, as though ready to continue the argument. At last, he continued on the journey to Marble Arch.

  When they reached the house, Katherine was still shaking. Saxon helped her inside, sat her down in the drawing room, and poured her a glass of Rémy-Martin. She drank it down, but the shaking did not stop.

  Saxon did his best to soothe her. “You’re not hurt; that’s the only thing that matters. The necklace doesn’t mean a thing. You’re all that concerns me.”

  Slowly, Katherine regained control of herself. The shaking stopped, but inside she was still in turmoil. She went upstairs with Saxon, went to bed with him in the big four-poster, but they did not make love. She was in no mood to do so, and he didn’t press her. She just lay with his arms around her, staring off into the darkness.

  Saxon was right, she thought. The necklace didn’t mean a thing. All that mattered was the hate she’d seen in the young man’s eyes. It was like nothing she had ever witnessed before, and it terrified her.

  Chapter Nine

  SLEEP DID LITTLE to soothe Katherine’s nerves. She was still very shaken when she rose on Sunday morning. Furthermore, as if her own experience of the violence was not frightening enough, she was fated to be constantly reminded of it.

  While eating breakfast with John Saxon in the kitchen of his Marble Arch home, she switched on the radio to hear the news. The main topic was the riot, and the sporadic outbreaks of violence that had occurred throughout the night. More details were available now. Sixty-four people, including eighteen police officers, had been taken to the hospital, with injuries ranging from simple cuts to broken limbs and, in two cases, knife wounds. Over two hundred people had been arrested, and were scheduled for court appearances on Monday.

  Katherine and Saxon left Marble Arch together, at ten in the morning; she, once more wearing comfortable traveling clothes, to drive to Hampstead, while Saxon made the far longer journey to his weekend home in Oxfordshire. After helping her into the Triumph Stag, he stooped to kiss her. “I’m really sorry about last night. It was supposed to have been something very special between us, and it finished up as a nightmare.”

  “John, stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.” She turned the key, and the Stag’s engine burst into life. “Telephone me at the paper tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

  “Try. Enjoy your dinner party tonight.”

  “I’d enjoy it more if you were there.”

  “Didn’t you find another hostess?”

  “There are at least a dozen young women who would jump at the opportunity. I didn’t ask any of them, because you are the only young woman I wanted.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed him again, and drove away. She’d wondered if there were other women in his life. Now she knew: at least a dozen of them. That pleased her and annoyed her all at once. She was happy that at least a dozen other women obviously found Saxon as attractive as she found him, and she was upset that he should have noticed their interest. The important thing, she supposed, was that he wanted only her.

  On the way to Hampstead, she stopped off to buy a newspaper. News of the union meeting in Brighton was relegated to an inside page. Blazed across the front page were pictures of the riot, showing twisted grimaces of hatred stamped on hard, young faces.

  When she arrived home, she walked right into more reminders. The sole topic of conversation was the riot. Everyone had a solution. Franz, communicative for once, said the hooligans should be forced to do community work on game days. Jimmy Phillips said it was too bad there was no longer national service, and Edna Griffiths bemoaned the passing of corporal punishment. Nowhere was there sanctuary. To get away from it, Katherine decided to make good on the promise she’d given to Erica Bentley a month earlier. She telephoned to ask if she could bring the children to the farm that afternoon. Erica’s answer was “Of course!” But even in the peaceful country setting, Katherine found there was no escape.

  “Don’t know what this country’s coming to,” Cliff Bentley grumbled, as the adults sat in the farmhouse’s comfortable study, having tea. “A fine thing when some decent working man can’t take his son to a football game without getting set on by thugs. All the little miscreants the police caught — they should be loaded onto a ship and banished to bloody Australia.”

  “Cliff, dear,” Erica said sweetly. “We haven’t sent people to Australia for a century or more.”

  Henry, who was stroking a heavily striped tabby, one of the many cats the Bentleys fed, looked up at the adults. The boy had learned a new word the previous day, riot, and he was intent on using it at every opportunity. “Mummy didn’t see the riot like we did. She had to work for the newspaper in Brighton. She missed the riot.”

  “Brighton,” repeated his sister, who was coaxing another cat to come close enough to be stroked. “Brighton’s the seaside.”

  “That’s right, Joanne,” Erica said. “Brighton’s the seaside. What were you doing there, Katherine? Surely you weren’t covering that stupid union meeting. That belongs to the industrial or political staff.”

  Katherine felt her head float off into space; if she’d drunk a pint of whiskey, she would not feel less in touch with reality. Children . . . there was no way of keeping anything secret with a couple of kids around.

  “Katherine?” Erica was looking at her with a worried expression. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. You know, I think it’s time I learned to ride again. Come with me, Erica? Cliff can stay and amuse the children.”

  The two women left the farmhouse and walked to the stable. Erica mounted a spirited chestnut gelding. Katherine took her time with a calm gray gelding, accustoming herself once more to the hardness of the saddle beneath her, the feel of her feet in stirrups.

  “Everything all right?” Erica asked.

  “Getting there.” They walked the horses along the path leading from the stable. Katherine dug in her heels, and the gray gelding broke into a gentle canter. Erica kept pace. “Like riding a bicycle!” Katherine exclaimed. “It’s something you never forget.”

  “Want to tell me about Brighton?” Erica asked, when they had slowed to a walk again. “The mention of it made you look sick.”

  Katherine knew she could lie. Put off sharing her secret for a while longer, until someone else stumbled into the tangled web she was busily weaving. Who would that be? Someone less understanding than Erica? If anyone had to find out, Katherine reasoned, she’d prefer it to be Erica.

  “I haven’t been to Brighton in years. I just used the union meeting as an excuse to spend the night with my lover.”

  Erica demonstrated no surprise, and Katherine felt vaguely disappointed. The older woman’s only response was “And just how long has this been going on?”

  “Since the beginning of February. Last night was the first night we’d spent together, and it was an absolute disaster. Can you believe we got caught up in the aftermath of that riot?” She told Erica about the visit to the theater, and the terrifying drive along Charing Cross Road; as she described the blond youth ripping away the pendant, she touched a hand to her throat. Finally she mentioned that morning’s parting: two lovers, two different destinations.

  For fully thirty seconds, Erica sat silent and still on the chestnut gelding. Then she said, “A Rolls Royce Silver Shadow . . .? A five-thousand-pound diamond pendant that he just writes off . . .? A second home in Marble Arch, not to mention an estate near Henley-on-Thames . . .? Who the hell are we talking about here? Prince Charles, or the ghost of John Paul Getty?”

  Katherine laughed at Erica’s response to the casual mention of so much wealth. “Neither. It’s John Saxon.”

  “The same John Saxon you raked over the coals?”

  “The very same. And not the same. That one was a pompous twerp. This one’s a very lovely and considerate gentleman.” She related how she had met him at the opening of the Chiltern Towers hotel, how he had offered her a ride, and what had ensued fr
om there. “Do you think I’m doing the wrong thing?”

  “That depends on whether you’re asking me as a friend, or as a women’s writer. Wearing my women’s page editor’s hat, I’d advise that no matter how loyal you are to your handicapped husband, you also have a responsibility to yourself. You have every right to give yourself some happiness, because you only travel this way once.”

  “And as a friend?”

  “That’s more difficult. Again, you owe yourself happiness, but if Franz should ever learn . . .” A wealth of expression was contained in the simple shrug of Erica’s shoulders. “Franz is unbalanced now. What will happen to him if he finds out you’re seeing another man?”

  “He’s the one who brought up the subject of divorce.”

  “Being divorced is one thing. Being married, even in name only, and knowing your wife is with another man — that’s another matter entirely. The male ego is very fragile, easily injured, and then its owner can do strange things. Katherine, you’ve got to make sure Franz never learns about you and John Saxon.”

  “I think I’m doing a good job. I only see John twice a week, and I always have an alibi. After all, everyone knows that Lawrie Stimkin is a hard taskmaster.”

  Erica chuckled. “A chauvinistic pig of a taskmaster, that’s what he is.” She looked over her shoulder toward the farmhouse, four hundred yards away. “We’d better get back, before my husband thinks we’ve deserted him.”

  They’d covered a hundred yards when Erica called out: “Speaking as a friend again . . .”

  “More advice?”

  “No, a compliment. Speaking as a friend, I think you’re looking better than I’ve seen you look in ages.”

  *

  Katherine found a memorandum resting on her typewriter when she reached her desk on Monday morning. It was from the chairman of Eagle Newspapers, inviting her to a special meeting at eleven o’clock that morning in the boardroom on the executive floor. Every member of the news staff had one; those who could not make the meeting, because of prior commitments or different shifts, would receive a copy of the minutes.

  As puzzled as anyone else, Katherine joined the surge of editorial people up the stairs toward the executive floor. She found herself walking next to Lawrie Stimkin. When she asked him what was going on, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I was hoping you could tell me what the big surprise is.”

  “My father only lets me in on surprises that concern the Eagles family, not Eagle Newspapers.”

  The boardroom filled quickly. Ten chairs were placed around the long mahogany table. First come were first served. No mock chivalry existed here, where men offered seats to women. Fleet Street’s gentler sex had fought too hard, too long, and too vociferously for equal rights, to be shown simple courtesies now.

  At precisely eleven o’clock, Gerald Waller, the Eagle’s editor, walked in. Behind him came Roland Eagles, looking more serious than Katherine could recall seeing him since the day of Franz’s accident. Whatever surprise he had, it was weighing visibly on him.

  Waller clapped his hands to kill the expectant buzz. As it subsided, he introduced Roland. Although taller than six feet, Roland found it difficult to see over the assembled journalists well enough to address them. Waller solved the problem by jerking a thumb at the closest reporter who was comfortably ensconced in a chair. Begrudgingly, the man gave up his prize. Roland offered a cool nod of thanks before standing on the chair.

  “All of you, I’m sure, are thoroughly familiar with the disgraceful exhibition of football-fan violence that took place this weekend.”

  Standing at the other end of the table, Katherine cupped her face in her hands. Don’t tell me you’re all wrapped up in this as well, she thought.

  Roland ceased talking and stared down the shining table at his daughter. At the silence, she dropped her hands. Roland sent a frosty smile her way before he continued. “In the past, Eagle Newspapers has toed a very strict editorial line regarding fan violence. We have mentioned incidents as briefly as possible because, quite frankly, we did not want to give free publicity to these mindless morons whose idea of a good time is a good fight. Well, we’ve found out that ignoring them hasn’t helped, so now we are going to publicize them to death.”

  Lawrie Stimkin stuck his hand in the air. Roland said he would answer any questions later, but Stimkin refused to be put off. “Just what is the reason for this change in editorial policy, Mr. Eagles?”

  Roland’s face soured for an instant. “Consistency, Mr. Stimkin. We have published the names of black youths who broke the law during the recent racial disturbances, but we’ve virtually ignored the trouble at football games, where the lawbreakers are nearly always white. Because of that, accusations of unfair practice have been forthcoming.”

  “I understand.” Pleased with himself, Stimkin looked around the assembly. All the reporters knew it was he who had claimed unfair practice; he had done everything but come right out and accuse the group’s management of pursuing a racially biased editorial policy.

  “If I may continue now?” Roland asked. “Thank you. From today, we’re going to find out what makes these hooligans tick. We’re going to climb right into whatever minds they have and learn what motivation, what background, is responsible for such antisocial behavior.”

  Eager to capitalize on his moment of triumph, Stimkin handed out assignments the instant he returned to the editorial floor. Special sittings of magistrates and juvenile court had been arranged for that afternoon. Stimkin told Katherine to go along to the magistrates court, “and come back with loads of names.”

  Ten minutes before the court was due to convene, Katherine squeezed herself into the packed press box. Usually, three or four reporters were spread out in the box. Today, a dozen were jammed into it. At least another dozen were crowded into the public gallery at the rear of the courtroom. Members of the public who wished to view the proceedings today had to fight for the privilege with journalists. Katherine thought she recognized someone in the public gallery, a familiar-looking white-haired man. Before she could get a better view, the man was hidden from sight by two large police officers.

  Katherine turned her attention to the unusually bulky court list. She was barely able to move her hands enough to turn the pages, and when she tried to force a little space for herself, she was rewarded with an angry grunt from the middle-aged Mirror reporter on her right.

  “Would you mind keeping your lethally sharp elbows pointed toward yourself?”

  “I just want a little space before I’m crushed to death.”

  “That’s all Hitler wanted as well. Get your Lebensraum somewhere else.”

  Katherine tried the man on her left. “Do you think I could possibly get a little breathing space?”

  “How’s this?” The man abruptly shifted his body, and the people sitting on his left were squeezed into an even tighter area. Katherine found herself with another few precious inches.

  “Thank you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .?” Only then did she realize that the man was a total stranger. She thought she knew all the regulars, yet she’d never seen this reporter before. Come to think of it, why was she so sure he was a reporter? Just because he was sitting in the press box? He certainly did not look cynical enough to be one. Or crabby enough, like the Mirror man on her right. This one was young, no more than thirty-five, Katherine guessed. Thin, with a sharp, angular face, curly brown hair, and light brown eyes that seemed to be smiling at her confusion.

  “My name’s Barnhill. Raymond Barnhill.” He made the introduction in a slow, measured voice. Katherine’s ear for accents picked out the United States; somewhere in the South? “And you are?”

  “Katherine Kassler, Daily Eagle. Which newspaper are you representing, Raymond?”

  “None of them, and all of them. I’m with the London bureau of the International Press Agency.”

  “Oh, wire service.” She took another, more critical look at him. She should not have had to wait until he opened his mouth to reali
ze he was American. The way he dressed should have told her. An expensive gray Harris tweed sportcoat, a crisp white shirt, and maroon knitted tie — worn with a much-traveled pair of jeans, and the kind of thick-soled suede shoes her father had always referred to as “brothel creepers.”

  “Does the IPA always cover English magistrates’ court cases?” she asked him.

  “No, but this is special. My editors want all they can get. You see” — he squeezed around to face her fully; she liked the sharply drawn, Lincolnesque lines of his face — “the British press always plays up how safe this country is compared with the States. Britain’s wonderful, because you can walk the streets, that’s the usual line. Now it’s our turn. Our newspapers want to show how safe it is to attend a sporting event in the United States, and how dangerous it is in Britain.”

  Katherine felt compelled to defend the country of her birth. “That is a ridiculous and completely irresponsible attitude to take. What happened this weekend is an aberration. For heaven’s sake, it’s not the kind of thing you see every week.”

  Raymond Barnhill’s brown eyes dropped to Katherine’s left hand. “You married? Got any kids?” When she nodded, he said: “Would you let your kids attend a Saturday afternoon game?”

  “My oldest isn’t yet seven. He isn’t even old enough to understand the game.”

  “You’re evading the question.”

  “I just told you — this kind of violence is not a regular occurrence.”

  “Isn’t it?” Barnhill flipped through a stenographer’s pad. “Let me educate you. Three years ago, fans of Leeds United wrecked most of Paris after watching their team lose the European Cup Final to Bayern Munich. Scottish supporters, who couldn’t bear the excitement of seeing their team beat England, did the same to Wembley Stadium last year. In 1974, Newcastle United fans overran the field when their team was losing to Nottingham Forest, and chased the players and officials back to the dressing rooms. And let’s not forget this oldie but goodie — those hundreds of Tottenham Hotspur fans who’d just seen their team lose five-nothing at Derby. They wrecked the train taking them back to London, and when they were thrown off the train in the middle of nowhere, they found the nearest peaceful village — a place called Flitwick — and leveled that, too. By the time those soccer fans finished with Flitwick, Sherman’s march through Georgia looked like a damned Sunday school picnic.”