So the lessons ended. By the end of four weeks Pat had realised his dream. He cast his mind back to Saint Patrick's Wishing Chair on that morning so long ago - "I wish I could write it all down," he had cried to the wind. "There must be a list of rules somewhere, that makes a man a giant among the rest of us. If only a man could set the rules down what a gift to leave to a son."
He rummaged through his rucksack and withdrew his precious notebooks, wrapped in oilskin for protection. He handed the package to Sean, who turned it over and over in his hands. It had been his dream too, a dream come true. He tingled with excitement. Knowledge was wealth and here was an asset beyond price. Words failed him. Gratitude, love, respect - emotions coursed through him: He opened his arms and embraced his father in a great hug of joy. Pat ruffled his son's hair. Neither said a word because at that moment neither could speak. Pat thought to warn the boy to guard the notebooks and keep them secret, but decided against it - a gift was a gift, to be cherished or not by whoever received it. Pat knew Sean would cherish the rules for the rest of his life.
A minute later Pat delivered his final judgement. "Never ask for advice," he said. "Never ask any man, especially me, for I've written down all I can tell you. It's all there - in the rules - if you look hard enough."
So they turned for home. It took four days to walk back to Dublin, and conversation lagged for the first time. Having delivered his blueprint for a life, Pat felt drained and exhausted. Now his left leg dragged badly and he leaned heavily on his stick. But it was a comfortable silence. Sean slowed his pace in unspoken recognition of his father's difficulties - and kept such an eye on him that their roles seemed to reverse - as if Sean was the man now, with every decision to take.
The night before they reached Dublin, he dreamt of Mrs O'Flynn. He awoke with a groan, unwilling to drag himself away from images of her soft rounded body. He wondered whether to tell his father? He felt so close to him. The rules gave them so many shared secrets, but he hesitated. He remembered the story of Charles Stewart Parnell, whose affair with a married woman had ruined him. And he recalled his father's contempt. That decided Sean. To disappoint his father was unthinkable, so he pushed all thoughts of Mrs O'Flynn aside.
In the same way he decided to keep his own rules to himself. They seemed puny compared with the real thing. And different. Yet they did have a purpose, Sean thought stubbornly, they dealt with the acquisition of assets - whereas his father's rules concerned political power. But a rich man was as powerful as a politician, more so at times. And a politician without money was surely at the mercy of the gombeen men, and gombeen men struck hard bargains. The ideal, Sean concluded, was to be a rich politician - and so to have need for both sets of rules.
On their last morning, they made an early start and reached Palmerstown by noon. This time Sean did glance up the lane to the farm, but it was merely a quick turn of his head, taken without breaking his stride. Decisions about Mrs O'Flynn would wait for another day. Meanwhile father and son walked steadily down the hill and along the Quays. Sean looked about with fresh eyes. Things were the same, and yet different. Houses looked smaller, the Liffey less wide, labourers not so muscular, and gombeen men less prosperous. Yet the scene had changed less than Sean himself. He walked with his head high and his bold blue eyes meeting the look of all and sundry. The weather had bronzed his face to emphasise the white evenness of his teeth. His thick black hair needed cutting and swept over his ears to add width to his face. Never had he felt fitter or more certain of himself - which was as well - for his brimming self-confidence was tested to the full within minutes of arriving in Dublin.
They entered Mulligan's Bar together, Pat's bulkier figure a half pace ahead ... and Sean was barely inside the door when Mulligan's loud voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Thank God, you're here," Mulligan shouted, rushing out from his counter to grip Pat's hand. "We've been searching the town for you."
"You knew I was away -"
"Aye, but not forever. St Patrick himself wouldn't believe the performance we've had here this morning."
"What performance?"
"That woman. Up at the farm. O'Flynn's wife. Didn't she come in here two hours ago, screaming for Mr Connors -"
Sean's stomach turned over. "Mrs O'Flynn? What's happened?"
Mulligan turned to him for the first time - "Brace yourself boy. I know he was a friend of yours. But he's dead. Old Farmer O'Flynn is dead!"
Chapter Eight
Afterwards Sean remembered them as the happiest days of his life. By the end of his first month on the Gazette he was head over heels in love with newspapers. Accessibility to the famous made Sean tingle with excitement. It was that which attracted him, not the prospect of professional advancement. The editor's chair held no appeal for Sean Connors, as the then incumbent Dinny Macaffety was quick to find out. Macaffety made a fearsome first impression - a bull-necked, red-faced, whisky smelling giant, with a voice like a foghorn - slumped behind the avalanche of papers which cluttered his desk. Hooded eyes surveyed Sean through a haze of cigarette smoke - "So you're the donkey boy," Macaffety barked at their first meeting.
Sean made what he hoped was a suitable reply.
"I'd know you anywhere," Macaffety growled. "You're the spitting image of your father. And you've a touch of his temper I'm told."
Sean admitted he could be hasty at times.
"Well my temper will blister your arse!" Macaffety said, pounding his chest to cause a cloud of cigarette ash to rise from his lapels. "Remember that before you raise your voice in this office." He snorted and rose from his chair, to cross to the window where he stared down into the street. "I hire and fire. Nobody tells me otherwise, got that?" He turned, looking larger than ever with the grey light of a Dublin morning behind him. "There's a queue a mile long for good jobs in this city. You know that, I suppose?"
Sean nodded.
"I could have the pick of Trinity College if I wanted," Macaffety continued. "Educated young men, older and wiser than you."
Sean said nothing.
"Yet I have to take you. Have to! Never set eyes on you until now, but I have to take you. And for why? Because of Pat Connors, God help me," Macaffety sounded disgusted. He collapsed back into his chair, ran a hand through his grey mane and fixed Sean with a brooding look. "I ought to have my head examined. Wouldn't you think I need a doctor?"
Sean hesitated, "Would it be because the Da's your friend, Mr Macaffety? You're doing him a favour, maybe?" He waited for a response, but when none came he added, "I'll do my best not to let you down, Mr Macaffety."
"And I'll never give you the chance," Macaffety rapped back, but his interest sharpened, "So - you know all about favours, do you?"
Repaying favours was one of the rules, but Sean decided against saying so. Instead he said, "The Da says it's the mark of a big man to repay favours. It's something I've been brought up with."
Macaffety tilted back in his chair and gave the boy his full attention. Boy was wrong, he thought, his editor's judgement automatically substituting "young man" and then "hungry young man". But hungry for what? He examined what he knew about young Sean Connors. The donkey business was legend, so were the fights - but both were the action of a doer, not a watcher. Reporters and writers were watchers of men, not men of action themselves. The contradiction provoked a question, "What makes you think you will make a newspaperman?"
Sean met the stare without flinching - "Everyone says I'm forever asking questions. Wouldn't that be a help, Mr Macaffety?"
"Only if you know the answers."
"The Da says I'll learn them from you, if I watch hard enough."
Macaffety felt the first twinge of uneasiness. Staff on the Gazette went in fear of him. Not that he sought to frighten them - he shouted a lot, and swore and cursed when things went wrong, but that was only to be expected - the lily-livered lot should stand up for themselves in Macaffety's opinion. People walked all over you if you let them. Nobody walked over Macaffety. Nor men
like Pat Connors. And they wouldn't walk over Pat's son if Macaffety judged right. But that was no reason to go easy on the lad, in fact the reverse, rough him up a bit, see what he was made of. "So your Da has been filling your head with grand ideas, has he? No doubt he said you'll be sitting in this chair one day."
Sean was genuinely surprised. "No sir, he never told me that."
"You thought of it yourself, I suppose?" Macaffety's voice took on an edge.
Sean considered, but shook his head. "No sir, but I don't think I'd like to be editor."
Macaffety was surprised. "Oh? So you'll be a reporter the rest of your life?"
The conversation had taken an unexpected shift. Sean sensed he was creating a poor impression, but the situation worsened as he lost his composure. "No, I don't think I'd like that either, Mr Macaffety."
"Then in God's name, why are you wasting my time?"
Sean floundered, red-faced. He gulped, and words fell from his lips like falling bricks, "I think I'd like to own a paper one day."
"Own one!" Macaffety's eyes popped as he started to laugh. "Own a paper? Have you the slightest idea what it costs?"
Sean's misery deepened. His first morning was all turning sour. He had not known what to expect. Mr Macaffety was supposed to be his father's friend, yet he was baiting and jeering like an enemy. But instead of turning into despair, misery sparked off Sean's temper. "No, I don't know what a paper would cost, but the Da says Dev spent more than fifty thousand starting the Irish News and that's not half such a good paper as the Gazette, so I reckon I will need more than that."
Macaffety stopped laughing. It was funny, damn funny he told himself - but the lad had answered back, despite his embarrassment. No one else on the Gazette would have done that. Macaffety frowned, "And where will you find more than fifty thousand pounds?" he demanded.
"I'm not ready to buy a paper yet, Mr Macaffety, so I don't need the money right now."
Macaffety stared. Years later he claimed he made up his mind about Sean at that moment. The boy had answered so calmly, without conceit, but with a sureness which quite belied his discomfort. Macaffety was impressed - but he could not resist turning the knife - so when he summoned an assistant a few minutes later, he introduced Sean with a flourish - "This is Mr Connors. He's going to own the Gazette one day, meanwhile he has consented to work here as a copy-boy. Take him away and show him his duties."
The story was too good to stifle. Everyone on the Gazette knew it by the end of the day. The News and the Times had heard it by Friday. Sean was painfully aware of being a laughing stock, but he suffered the jokes with a grin, more concerned for his father's reputation than his own. Yet the incident did him no harm. Almost overnight every paper in Dublin had heard of Sean Connors, and though people laughed most were careful about what they said, perhaps for fear of Pat Connors. The jokes prompted Sean to write a new rule into his book. Never reveal a dream to anyone. And he made himself a promise - that he would buy the Gazette one day.
Meanwhile Pat Connors' star was rising in the Dail. Cosgrave, leading the Fine Gael parliamentary opposition, was no match for Dev, though it must be admitted that Dev had few equals in the whole of Ireland. But Pat's spirited speeches won such wide acclaim that he was elevated to the front rank of Fine Gael politicians. A supporting player for years, he seemed to be moving to centre stage. In fact his views were in such demand that first the Times, then the Independent and even the Gazette - irrespective of whether they were for or against Dev - published articles by Pat Connors. Pat's fees began to mount up, so much so that he and Sean left the rooms above Mulligan's Bar and took a small house in Ballsbridge - which was to become Pat's home for the rest of his days. It also became the meeting place for politicians and journalists - and on Saturday nights in particular, the downstairs rooms buzzed with political gossip, or erupted into gales of laughter at one of Pat's more scurrilous stories.
Sean basked in the atmosphere. He was thrilled - an entire house, just for him and his father, with a woman coming in to cook and to clean. That was exciting itself, but Sean could hardly contain himself when it became clear that the leading figures in Dublin were to become regular guests. He listened to conversations with rapt attention, soaking them up like a sponge. He analysed what men said, determined to discern their true meaning. Visitors' pronouncements were measured against the secret yardstick of the rules, and time and again Sean found other meanings to their words - self-justification for their actions, self-interest disguised as philanthropy. None of which dismayed him, on the contrary it confirmed the underlying truths in his father's rules - know men for what they are, not what they would have you believe. It was as if the month spent tramping the countryside had been his classroom, and now the house in Ballsbridge was a testing ground.
Initially Pat's guests accepted Sean as a courtesy to their host. It was Sean's home and up to him if he chose to spend his free time gossiping about politics. So Sean was tolerated. But attitudes changed after a few months. Nobody commented outright on Sean's growing maturity, but gradually his opinions became known - and in every case because he was asked. Guests would say - "What do you think, young Sean?" - and he would tell them, diffidently at first, but with growing confidence as he forgot about what they might think of him and concentrated on what he was saying. His common sense shone through, that gift inherited from his mother which mixed so well with his developing shanachie's skill that most listeners were nodding as he finished. "Not bad," they would say.
"In fact I said much the same thing myself, only this morning." So Sean was accepted, and within a year men could be heard saying - "Wait until Saturday night - Pat and young Sean will have something to say about this."
It was the same at the Gazette. Life was difficult at first. When Macaffety joked everyone laughed - so Sean was the butt of much humour. But after a while the laughter died away, to be replaced by respect, quite simply because Sean Connors was the best copy-boy the Gazette had ever had. He was everywhere at once - jobs were done a sight more quickly by Sean than anyone else - paste was mixed, messages run, tea made, beers collected from the pub next door, pencils sharpened, typewriters cleaned - nothing was too much trouble, no job unworthy of his best endeavour. And he was always there - starting earlier than he had to, and only finishing when he could walk home in the early hours clutching the new day's issue of the Gazette. Such energy would have been remarkable anywhere, in Dublin it was phenomenal. Even Dinny Macaffety was heard to growl - "Sure I get dizzy just watching him. God help us if he does buy the place - we'll be run to shadows inside of a week."
Only on Saturday did Sean rest. It was his one day off from the Gazette. But even then he was busy, though not always in the way people imagined - for on Saturdays Sean went to Palmerstown to help the Widow O'Flynn.
People accepted it. Ever since Farmer O'Flynn's heart attack - the day Mrs O'Flynn arrived in Mulligan's Bar searching for Sean when he returned from Coney Island with his father. He had dashed upstairs to comfort her, where she fell round his neck and sobbed all over him. Then, white-faced and shaking, she had walked down on his arm and he had driven her donkey-cart back to the farm. After which he had taken over ... arranged the funeral and everything. "Like a grown-up son," said the gossips, "the poor woman has got her troubles right enough, but it's a blessing to have that young man to lean on." And the Widow O'Flynn had demurely agreed.
After the funeral Sean went to the bank and listened to an account of her comfortable finances. The farm labourers were told they could stay on without fear of not being paid - and every Saturday morning Sean inspected their work and dealt with their wages. The farm ticked over. Farmer O'Flynn would have done better, for Sean was no farmer - but he made sure no. money was lost.
He went directly to the farm in the early hours of every Saturday morning, leaving the Gazette at past midnight to tramp the lonely miles up to Palmerstown "I may as well, Da. Milking starts at six in the morning. If I come home first I'll have to leave at five."
"But where will you sleep?"
"There's a loft in the barn. The Widow O'Flynn has put a bed there for me. It's cosy enough."
Which was true. The explanation was accepted by all. Sean made sure of that - every Saturday morning the labourers arrived to find him descending the ladder from the loft. Tired as death he looked, as well he might, having dragged himself from the Widow's warm bed an hour before. But the world saw nothing of that. All the world saw was a young man selflessly doing his duty by a dead friend. "He sticks at it," said the gossips - and the Widow O'Flynn demurely agreed.
Apprenticeship years, Sean called them afterwards - learning politics, learning newspapers, learning how to please a lady in bed. Sometimes he wondered which was the most important, even which was the most enjoyable - for although Maeve O'Flynn was an imaginative teacher, so was Dinny Macaffety. Sean had been at the Gazette just over a year when he was summoned to Macaffety's office one day. "Sit down, Mr Connors," Macaffety barked.
Sean ticked through his jobs that morning, wondering which had caused dissatisfaction. In between running messages and a dozen other tasks he had worked the front counter for an hour, accepting death notices and wedding announcements. He groaned at the thought of mixing them up - "Mr and Mrs Flagherty are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Bernadette to Tim Feegan, aged 88, who died on Tuesday with a smile on his face."
"I've been thinking," Macaffety scowled. "No man should own a newspaper without being a reporter first. Wouldn't you say so, Mr Connors?"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 94