Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Matt guessed that the man was his father but said nothing to interrupt.

  "I was hungry enough to eat old boots," Ferdy remembered. "Every meal I ever had came back to haunt me. But after about four days I stopped thinking about food, or at least stopped thinking so much. Every now and then someone down the block would start singing 'The West's Awake' or 'The Felons of our Land', songs like that, and we'd all join in to keep our spirits up. The warders weren't bad either - they told us thousands of people had gathered outside the gates, all saying the rosary for our welfare - an' there was talk of a nationwide strike, and then rumours started flying around that we might be released. Well that cheered us up and kept us going, and after ten days the miracle happened - the British gave in. We were all taken off to the Mater Hospital, driven through crowds of people all jumping for joy - and when we got there the doctors and nurses and nuns all showered us with gifts and greetings and ..." Ferdy broke off in his excitement, "I remember now - there was even a bishop - that was the first time I kissed an episcopal ring. Anyway the hospital was all decked out with flowers, and we had a special breakfast of porridge and fruit, and two days after that the British released the lot of us. A hundred men, the biggest hunger strike in history. There, what do you think of that?"

  But before Matt could answer Ferdy hurried on with the rest of the story. "I didn't find out till after, but the British in Dublin Castle got so worried about the General Strike and the thousands outside the prison, that they had offered concessions earlier on. They had even offered political status. But your Da turned them down flat. Said it was too late. He'd got them going by then, so he said he'd settle for nothing less than the release of all prisoners. So he got us all out. Is it any wonder I say he's a great man?"

  Slowly and carefully, Ferdy Malloy built a bridge between father and son. It was months before Matt realised what was happening, and by then other forces were at work. Belfast itself, as much as Ferdy's sly words, drove Matt into the arms of the IRA. Every day Matt saw examples of discrimination which made his blood boil. Every night a neighbour delivered another tale of woe. And every week friends had their homes smashed by ruthless squads of B Specials in their ceaseless hunt for hidden arms. Yet Matt's earlier hatred of his father was so strong that he refused to believe his father's way could be right ... or at least that was the way of things until Matt got a job - and that changed everything.

  Finding work had been a miracle. A big engineering company opened a small factory about three miles away from its main works, and a hundred men were taken on as labourers. Matt rushed back to his grandmother's house with news of his job, delirious with excitement. The pay was meagre, four pounds four shillings for a forty-four hour week - but there was talk of overtime so Matt would end up with more than that. And even four pounds four shillings meant money in Matt's pocket - his money, which came neither from his father nor the IRA. After three years in the north Matt had something to celebrate at last! He could hardly believe his luck. A job, a wonderful, marvellous job. He barely slept that night for excitement. As it was he was up before six, washed and dressed, with a small packet of sandwiches in his pocket, ready to go.

  He was outside the factory at seven-thirty, and inside half an hour later, with the factory hooter still buzzing in his ears. He worked like a Trojan. No matter what he was asked to lift, he lifted it - whatever he was told to carry, he carried. It was heavy, monotonous work and the English foreman was a slave driver, but Matt sweated and groaned cheerfully through the day. He returned to the little house in the Falls exhausted that night - exhausted but triumphant. The neighbours gathered to greet him, as delighted as he was - if Matt can find work, they seemed to say, there's hope for the rest of us.

  The next day was harder. Matt's muscles had recovered little of their strength. His whole body ached. But he gritted his teeth and some of the stiffness eased as the day wore on. I'll get used to it, he told himself, just give me time and a better diet maybe. When the day ended he slumped back to the Falls and went directly to bed, too exhausted to tell his friends about his day at the factory.

  His third day went easier. He paced himself, conserving energy, resting now and then, but getting through his work to the satisfaction of the foreman, which was all that mattered. And Friday started well. Matt woke refreshed - when he stretched he felt the elasticity back in his muscles - the soreness was less painful. He hurried to the factory, where the day passed without incident - except for one curious thing. Half way through the afternoon the foreman paused for a word - "You're to go to the office when the whistle blows. Okay? Don't forget now, there's a good lad."

  The foreman was a tough Yorkshireman whose accent was sometimes too thick for Matt to understand. He ran after him - "The office? Me, why - what's it about?"

  The man shrugged and took a step away.

  "My work is all right, isn't it?" Matt asked anxiously.

  "Aye lad, there's nowt wrong with your work," said the man as he hurried away.

  Matt worried for the rest of the afternoon. What could the office want? At six o'clock he went to find out. He was not alone, about twenty men gathered in the corridor, each with a worried frown on his face. Someone knocked on the door and was told to wait. Several men lit cigarettes, while others nervously watched the clock over the door. At ten past six a man came out. Matt had never seen him before - a burly man with untidy black hair, wearing a crumpled but obviously expensive grey suit. "My name is O'Brien," he announced, "I'm Lord Averdale's General Manager."

  Lord Averdale owned the factory, Matt had heard mention of that.

  "There's been a bit of a mistake," O'Brien said briskly, "I'm sorry but these things happen with a new factory and inexperienced staff. The truth is there's no work for you men here."

  Several men started talking at once. O'Brien waved them down - "I said I'm sorry, that's an end to it. You'll not lose out though, you'll all be paid for a full week, even though you're finishing tonight..."

  Matt missed the rest of his words. A mistake? The foreman had vouched for his work. How could there be a mistake?

  The office doors were fully open now. Matt saw other men behind a trestle table. Names were called, and men filed forward to collect their wages. Two workmen became angry and started to abuse O'Brien. Quickly half a dozen men moved from behind the table and hurried the protesting workmen down the corridor. Money appeared in Matt's hand. He counted it, then he too felt a hand on his elbow as he was steered towards the exit.

  "Hey you," one of the dismissed workmen grabbed his arm. "You're Liam Riordan's son, aren't you?"

  Matt stared into the man's face without seeing him. Regular work, that's what he thought he had got, regular work. Now he was finished - after four days.

  "Listen to me," said the man shaking Matt's shoulders. "What's wrong with you anyway? Are you Riordan or aren't you?"

  "Yes," Matt admitted blankly, "I'm Riordan." .

  "By Christ you're a poor bloody swap for your old man. Where is he? Where's Liam Riordan? We need his kind for this."

  Half a dozen of the dismissed men crowded round, all talking at once. "That bastard Averdale," someone said. "You bet it was a mistake. The mistake was letting that English foreman take us on ... Averdale's usual Orange bastards would have known better. Down Croppies down! That's all they understand."

  "What do you mean?" Matt asked, coming out of his daze.

  "What do you think? It's bloody obvious. You heard O'Brien going on about inexperienced staff. That foreman's only been in Belfast two weeks. Not long enough to tell a Prod from a -"

  "He knows now. He'll not make that mistake again -"

  "Not and work for that bastard Averdale -"

  "O'Brien's as bad. O'Brien's worse if you ask me."

  Suddenly Matt knew it was true. Every one of the Catholics had been sacked. He felt sick as he listened to the angry talk. There was work. Regular work. New men would be taken on in the morning - but none would be Catholics.

  "There must be
something ..." he began helplessly, only to be interrupted by a shout from the factory steps. O'Brien was shouting at them - "Get out of the gates. Away to your homes now - I'll not have a disturbance."

  A disturbance? They had only been talking. They stood a few yards inside the factory gates, a small group of nine men, just talking - and here was O'Brien bawling about a disturbance!

  "Away with you," O'Brien bellowed. "If you're not away this minute, I'll throw you out."

  They might have gone but for that. Two of the men had already turned towards the gates. But O'Brien's words infuriated them. They were all sick with disappointment, and tired after a hard day's work. Most were married and faced the heartache of hungry wives and children when they reached home. Frustration boiled into anger. The man next to Matt growled like a dog, low in his throat. Others swung round - then someone stepped forward and before they knew it they were all walking back to the factory. "Come on then, O'Brien," someone shouted. "Throw me out if you can."

  "Get back," O'Brien roared, "get out of this yard."

  Suddenly the doors behind O'Brien burst open and other men appeared - too many for Matt to count and moving in a rush. Down the steps they charged, shouting and yelling, clubs and staves held high above their heads. Matt sensed men scatter on either side. Boots clattered on the cobbles as they raced back to the gates. Matt ran too - but surprise rooted him to the spot for a split second. Besides he had to turn - the men on the steps were already running full pelt. They caught him within twenty yards. Most of the dismissed men were caught within thirty yards. None reached the gates.

  Matt and the rest fought - but they were outnumbered and fists and boots were no match for clubs. Matt threw one man off, before a wooden stave split his head open. His knees buckled and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  They kicked him for an hour - or so it seemed. Matt never knew how many men did it. It felt like hundreds. Once, above the cries and screams around him, he heard O'Brien bellowing, "That's enough - get them through the gates." Matt thought he heard that, before he lost consciousness.

  Running water revived him - a thin trickle of water. He opened his eyes to find himself face down in the gutter. Water was running into the drain. It was raining. He could hear voices, women's voices, men groaning, a woman weeping. It was dark, night-time, he had no idea of the hour. A street lamp cast a dim light. He tried to move but a sharp pain made him cry out. Then hands moved gently on his shoulders, turning him to slide something under his head as a pillow. He felt desperately tired. He closed his eyes.

  The next he knew he was being carried over a threshold into a house. He heard a woman say. "For God's sake go easy on him." She sounded close to tears, but when he saw her she was nobody he knew - a total stranger. His head hurt, so did everything else - but his head hurt the worst. They lowered him onto the floor in front of a fire. He shivered then - he had not shivered outside in the rain, but he couldn't stop once he was in front of that fire. The woman wrapped him in a blanket. A man groaned elsewhere in the room. Matt closed his eyes and tried to stop trembling. Then he dozed off again.

  When he roused himself he was propped against the wall. The same blanket covered his shoulders. A man squatted down to speak to him "You've come back to us then. That's the spirit. Try not to move, I've just sewn your head back together."

  The doctor spent half an hour with him. Matt caught phrases like "two cracked ribs - fractured ankle - dislocated wrist - bloody miracle he's still alive". He saw the woman again, the one who had helped to bring him in. She was sitting on the floor, holding a cup to a man's lips. The man's hands were bulky with bandages. He caught Matt staring and managed a cheerful wink. Another man lay in front of the fire, propped on one elbow, smoking a cigarette. He looked quite normal apart from the bandages around his head.

  "Try not to move," the doctor was saying, "I'll be back in a minute."

  The woman rose as the doctor crossed the room. She pointed to Matt. The doctor nodded and hurried away. The woman smiled and brought Matt some tea. "I've no sugar, I'm afraid, but it's hot and strong if you'd like some."

  Matt sipped a mouthful and accepted a cigarette. One drag made his head spin. He handed it back. "I don't think I can walk," he said. "Would it be possible to sleep here tonight? I could pay, there's money in my pocket -"

  Tears filled her eyes and she was saying something in a soft, comforting voice when Matt spied Ferdy Malloy entering the room. "Ferdy!" Matt called, but the sound came out as a croak. Then Ferdy was limping over, dressed in his oversized raincoat as usual, anxiety etched into every line of his face. Matt felt so much better just for seeing him - seeing a familiar face. Then the woman burst into tears, thrust the cigarette into Ferdy's hand and hurried from the room.

  Ferdy said - "Eh, Matt? Upsetting the ladies - that's not like you."

  It took Ferdy a while to sit on the floor, his crippled left leg made things awkward, but he managed eventually. "Christ," he said, "you look bloody awful. The doctor's coming back in a minute. Feeling rotten, eh?"

  Matt tried to nod, but pain shot through his head.

  Ferdy waved to a man in the corner: "Right, Tim - I'll be over directly."

  Furniture had been pushed into bay windows, all jumbled up. Men were stretched out everywhere. Matt counted them. Four, no five of the men he had worked with. One was putting coal on the fire.

  "What happened to the others?" Matt asked.

  "Rinty McGufinness is next door. The bastards broke his legs. And the doctor is upstairs with O'Malley - God knows what's the matter with him."

  How odd, he thought, Ferdy knows all their names but I don't. I worked with them but the only one I got close to was Micky Nealson. Matt looked ground the room but failed to find him - "There was another lad with us.'' he said to Ferdy, "Mick Nealson. What happened to him?"

  Ferdy scared with his one good eye for a long moment. "He's dead," he said flatly, "Micky Nealson is dead. The bastards murdered him."

  Quite suddenly Matt was weeping. He caught a blurred glimpse of others crossing themselves, he supposed he crossed himself too - but all he really saw was Mick Nealson's face, laughing with excitement the day they were taken on.

  Ferdy clambered to his feet and went over to talk to another man until Matt recovered. When he came back Matt said - "Christ, we were only trying to work. That's all, Ferdy, I swear to God that's all we were doing."

  Ferdy nodded sadly, "I know, I know son. Don't take on so."

  Matt could hardly speak. He was choked up at first, but when the awful injustice seeped into his mind he became angry. Shaking with temper he turned to Ferdy. "I met a man once, with my father, the last time I saw him. I dunno who he was but he must have been important to give the Da orders. He spoke very quietly. A hard-eyed sort of man. Ferdy, you must know who I mean?"

  Ferdy shrugged, "Perhaps."

  "Take me to him, will you, Ferdy. As soon as I can walk. Will you take me?"

  Ferdy stared with his one good eye. He searched Matt's face for a full minute. Then he said, "Aye, I'll take you. I reckon you're ready."

  Matt Riordan was not the only one for whom the name Lord Averdale had significance - Sean Connors was also concerned, though he tried not to show it. Outwardly his career continued much as before - Sean was diligent, conscientious and hard-working. Not that Mcaffety seemed to notice - he was too concerned about the Gazette's change of ownership. A letter had arrived from Lord Averdale's General Manager, a man named O'Brien. Curt and to the point, it had acknowledged the transfer of the late Lord Bowley's estate and requested copies of past balance sheets ... and ended with the ominous note that Macaffety was to continue as before ... for the time being.

  Then came an extraordinary meeting, or rather meeting with an extraordinary man. Sean tingled with excitement when his father mentioned that the man might visit them. Certainly there was the chance of a meeting. After all the man was coming to Dublin for informal talks with political leaders ... which really meant Dev and a couple o
f ministers ... but this man had a reputation for wanting to meet all shades of opinion ... and where better to hear the voice of Fine Gael than the small house in Ballsbridge?

  Sean looked him up in the archives at the Gazette ... not expecting to find much, the filed clippings were notoriously deficient; on overseas dignitaries, even when - as in this case - they were United States ambassadors of Irish extraction. To his surprise Sean found a file six inches thick. He was gripped from the first page. Not just because the man was of Irish descent - other Irishmen had found fame and fortune in the United States - but because of the diversity of the man's activities. The range was breathtaking. Every page of clippings showed a different aspect... businessman, movie-magnate, banker, politician, diplomat... the list seemed endless. Here he was pictured with an actress ... there with some New York bankers ... here with Winston Churchill ... there with Roosevelt... and over the page with Cardinal O'Connell of Boston.

  Sean's imagination stalled. This man had achieved the impossible - this man who dined at the White House in Washington, at 10 Downing Street in London, and who spent weekends at Windsor Castle with the King and Queen of England. This man who had started with so little and who now was so rich.

  So the imminent arrival in Dublin of the United States Ambassador to the Court of St James gave Sean much to look forward to - especially when he studied the man's record.

  In the event their meeting was brief. Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy rationed his time, but he did accept an invitation to the house in Ballsbridge - on the understanding that he brought his son Joe Jnr, and stay only for an hour.

  So began Sean Connors' lifelong friendship with the Kennedy family. Not that anything took place that evening which gave any hint of what was to come. There was hardly time for Sean to be involved in sustained conversation, he never even had a chance to ask a question, though he answered a few.

  "So you're the son of Pat Connors," said the Ambassador shaking hands.