I'm not one for letter writing so I'll end now. I meant all the things I said last Sunday - don't forget, Sean, you are always welcome.
Maeve O'Flynn
It was the first and only letter she ever wrote to him. The invitation in the final line made him tremble. Had the telephone been installed at the farm he would have called her there and then, and no doubt have visited her that night. But the farm lacked a telephone, and right at that moment Dinny Macaffety was bellowing - so Sean stuffed the letter into his pocket and hurried along to the editor's office.
Dinny looked like a waxwork's dummy. His freshly barbered mane was smooth and slick with pomade, the scent of which was drowned by the smell of mothballs from his best suit. He cast a hasty look at Sean. "We look like something out of Switzer's window. God save us but someone will buy the pair of us before we cross Stephen's Green."
Sean too wore his new suit. In fact everyone at the Gazette looked smarter than usual, and the office itself shone like a new pin - as well it should after Dinny's efforts of the past week. For it was the day of Lord Averdale's visit and Dinny's clean-up had only stopped short at rebuilding the place. Every exterior wall had been painted, floors had been waxed, desks cleaned, brasses rubbed, windows polished to a gleam, until now - at nine-fifteen on Monday morning - the Gazette was ready for inspection.
Dinny sighed at his litter-free desk, "I'll never find a thing again and that's the God's honest truth."
Mr Daly joined them. He was the solicitor appointed when Lord Bowley went to Africa. Dinny once said that the only paper Daly knew anything about was the one he wiped his arse on. "A mealy-mouthed, pontificating little weasel," was Dinny's description. Daly stood five feet tall, with bent shoulders and a narrow, pointed face which twitched in nervous anticipation of the editor's every word.
"Did you phone the Shelbourne?" Dinny barked at him.
"I did, and his Lordship's at breakfast. We're expected at ten o'clock."
Dinny grunted. "We'll take ourselves round now. He'll never expect a Croppy to be early. It might give us some advantage. God knows we'll need it."
The plan was simple enough. After collecting Lord Averdale from the Shelbourne Hotel Dinny would conduct him on a grand tour round the Gazette. Mr Daly would be on hand to answer any legal queries, and Sean was to follow in their footsteps as a personal assistant, making notes of any matters Dinny dictated. Then back to the Shelbourne for lunch (Sean was unsure whether he was invited to that), after which his Lordship would be leaving for London. But even simple plans sometimes go wrong - and Dinny Macaffety's plan went terribly wrong.
They were at the top of the steps leading to the ground floor when Dinny suddenly stopped. He felt in his pocket for something - then half turned - changed his mind, swung back to the stairs - and missed his footing. He went down like a ton of coal - and by the time Sean had brushed Daly aside, Dinny was crumpled into a heap at the foot of the stone steps, with his left leg bent under him. Sean leapt the last four steps and propped the dazed editor up in his arms - "Get back to the office, Mr Daly - send someone down to give me a hand."
Dinny's face was grubby grey, like a dirty shirt. He coughed and groaned, then opened his eyes - "Dear God, you had no call to do that, boy. This Prod bastard will have me thrown out anyway."
Sean blushed scarlet - "I didn't do it, Mr Macaffety -"
"Sure don't I know that," Dinny chuckled gruffly, then he yelped with pain, "God Almighty, don't touch my leg!"
Sean's hand withdrew as if from hot coals. He guessed the leg was broken. A clatter of footsteps above drew his attention. Daly was returning with help.
"We'll carry him between us," Daly was saying, "take him back upstairs -"
"No," Sean said with sudden authority, "he's not to be moved until the ambulance gets here. We'll have to keep him warm. Give me your coat, Mr Daly."
Sean wrapped the coat around Dinny Macaffety's extra large frame and tucked it under where possible. And ten minutes later the ambulance arrived.
"Just a minute, Sean," Macaffety said as the stretcher men lifted him. Sean looked into the putty-coloured face. Macaffety grimaced with pain.
"Get yourself round to the Shelbourne with Daly. Explain what happened, then take over - give the tour as best you can. But Sean, you do the talking, eh - don't leave it to that weasel."
"I'll do that, Mr Macaffety, and I'll come round to the hospital as soon as he's gone."
But Dinny Macaffety was past caring. His eyes screwed up in pain and he swore lustily at the stretcher-bearers.
Sean turned from the departing ambulance and set off towards Stephen's Green with Daly at his heels. His nerve might have cracked given more time. The new owner's visit was beginning to exceed Sean's gloomiest expectations. Suppose he couldn't answer this Lord Averdale's questions? Daly would be useless. Dinny had been nervous, but at least he could have coped.
They climbed the steps and entered the Shelbourne, to find Lord Averdale pacing the lobby. Paddy the doorman pointed him out. Sean was surprised. He had expected an older man, with a big military moustache, like Lord Kitchener. But the man who awaited them was young, less than thirty, with fair hair and an impatient frown on his face.
Sean was so unsure about shaking hands that he waved his hands in front of him like a blind man feeling the way. He fumbled through the introductions and excuses, unnerved by the coolly critical gaze. At his side Daly nodded and mumbled confirmation of the accident.
"All very unfortunate," Lord Averdale said eventually. He extracted a gold hunter from his waistcoat, "Worse than that - it's annoying. I'm due in London this evening. I can't possibly delay my departure."
Sean bit back an impulse to say that Dinny had nearly killed himself. Instead he said, "Mr Macaffety's broken his leg, sir. He'll be in hospital a good while."
Lord Averdale seemed unconcerned about that. He said "yes" and nodded in an abstracted way, then turned to Daly - "You're the legal man, aren't you?"
Daly admitted he was, which seemed to please Lord Averdale. "Good," he said, "then you'll do just as well as Macaffety." Which struck Sean as a monstrous insult - there was no comparison between Daly and Dinny Macaffety. Things were going from bad to worse, and plunged to new depths when Sean repeated Dinny's invitation to inspect the offices. Lord Averdale flatly refused - "No, I don't think that's necessary. Besides ..." he paused to consult his watch again, "it would suit me to get this over with. There's an earlier connection to London - a flight you know - I might catch that if I hurry."
So they had coffee in the Shelbourne. Sean knew it was all going wrong ... but what could he do? At one point he was almost dismissed, when Lord Averdale said - "I don't think I need to detain you, er ... Connors ... I want to discuss a legal matter."
But Daly saved him. "Perhaps he ought to stay. After all, well, technically I know nothing about newspapers."
"Neither do I, that's the whole point. I don't want to either, especially down here."
Lord Averdale's shrug of indifference suggested that Sean could stay if he wished, so they adjourned to a corner table where a waiter served coffee from a silver tray.
"I want to sell," Lord Averdale said flatly, "I want to sell the Gazette as quickly as possible."
Sell? Nobody had thought of that. All the talk had been about changes ... but for the paper to be sold?
Sean was picturing Dinny's face. The Gazette was Dinny's life. Sean's too in a way. They might have coped with some changes ... but for the paper to be sold?
"I'll make my position perfectly clear," Lord Averdale said to Daly. "I'm well aware of Lord Bowley's regard for Macaffety, so I'm ready to make him an offer. If he can raise the money - perhaps with friends and associates - he can have the paper for the price of its assets. If he can't, or doesn't want to ..." Lord Averdale shrugged, "I'll offer the property on the open market. I'll get more that way no doubt, but there's no guarantee that new owners will share Lord Bowley's opinion of the management. Macaffety will have to take his c
hance, but it's up to him. I can't be fairer than that."
Daly's only response was a blank stare.
"It's a very good offer," Lord Averdale said sharply, "I'd have thought, well, say you and Macaffety between you ... you'd see your money back in three years ... nothing wrong with that is there?"
Daly roused himself enough to say it was perfectly fair - but then came another shock.
"You've got until Friday," Lord Averdale summed up. "I shall be back from London by then. Net asset value as per the last balance sheet. Fix it up and we'll complete on Friday, there's a good chap. Otherwise I'm afraid I shall have to arrange a sale on the open market -"
"Friday?" Daly's astonishment got the better of him. "You don't mean this Friday?"
"I most certainly do. I'm a busy man. You've got the chance of a bargain, and bargains don't last for ever, you know."
Sean could contain himself no longer. "But please, sir - Mr Macaffety will still be in hospital -"
"That's unfortunate, I agree, but it's no fault of mine." Lord Averdale consulted his watch again, "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me ...”
Mark Averdale was well pleased with himself. Lord Bowley would have approved of giving Macaffety a chance to buy the Gazette. True, the timing was tight but that was up to Macaffety - Mark had given him first option. Mark was well used to making investment decisions quickly - within seconds at an auction - so to allow someone the best part of a week was generous in his opinion. He made no allowance for differing circumstances, but then he made few allowances for anyone - it was up to other people to look after their own affairs. Mark had his own priorities. Sheila O'Brien was due at the Chelsea studio tomorrow, and Mark had no intention of delaying in Dublin.
Even the flight to Croydon was exciting. It was Mark's first experience of flying and he found it stimulating. Not that he needed a stimulant he had been in a fever of impatience for days. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Sheila and Kathleen O'Brien naked in Leonard's studio. His ambition was about to be realised. He tingled with anticipation. Every hour took him nearer to verification of his discovery. Soon he would have proof that the beauty once captured on canvas had been miraculously re-created and was his to enjoy - his to possess! He had spent his last hour at Brackenburn talking to the girl in the painting. "Soon Kate," he had whispered - and the girl had smiled back from the pool.
But the mood in London, when he arrived late on that Monday afternoon, was depressing. The capital was dreary with rumours of war. The talk at the club was all about Hitler and Czechoslovakia, or France and the Maginot Line. There was no gaiety, no sense of expectation in fact the reverse. Men at the club looked surprised, even shocked at Mark's sparkling eyes and flushed face. They seemed to be dreading tomorrow and Mark could hardly wait. Eventually he took himself off to St John's Wood where he drank champagne with Molly Oakes before taking her to bed. But even the pleasure of sexual intercourse with an imaginative partner left him dissatisfied. True, she was beautiful - but Kate would be better ...
Sean Connors also spent a restless night, but for very different reasons. He sat in the kitchen of the small house in Ballsbridge, drinking tea and studying columns of figures. It had been a long and a worrying day.
Daly had been less than helpful at the office. The Gazette was to be sold and that was an end to it - neither Daly nor Macaffety could raise enough money.
"And how much money is that?" Sean had asked - which was how the argument started. According to Daly such confidential matters were no business of a junior reporter, which was perhaps true, except that Sean was due at the hospital to report to Dinny Macaffety. "Just so long as Mr Macaffety knows," Sean had shrugged. "If he starts asking for figures and things ... well, wouldn't you think he'll want a full report?"
The prospect of Macaffety's wrath was too much for Daly. He sealed the balance sheets into an envelope and marked it "Private and Confidential".
Sean said not a word. He simply took the large envelope under his arm and left for the hospital - where he found Dinny Macaffety nursing a leg in plaster, and the rest of the hospital reeling from the editor's temper.
Nor did his temper improve when Sean made his report. Dinny's face darkened, "Friday? This Friday? We've no chance of raising the money by then."
Later, when the initial shock had worn off, Dinny was even more pessimistic. "It could be a year on Friday for all the good it would do. Where would the likes of me be finding that kind of money?"
"What kind of money, Mr Macaffety?"
"Sure it's all there, isn't it? Give me that envelope."
So they studied the figures together. Not that Dinny knew how to interpret them - "How the devil would I know that?" he snapped in exasperation at one stage. "Do you think I'm a damn bookkeeper? Words are my business, not numbers."
Even so Sean thought he could work out the value of net assets. If he was right they amounted to thirty-two thousand, five hundred pounds. It was a staggering amount of money.
Dinny seemed to lose interest after that - lose heart - he was no businessman. Ever since the death of the Bowleys he had clung to the slender hope that things might remain as they were - with him running the paper for an absentee owner. He had wanted it so much that he had almost convinced himself it was possible ...
Sean did his best to encourage him - "Whoever buys it will want you as editor, Mr Macaffety. They're bound to - everyone says you're the best editor in Dublin."
"Whoever buys it will run things their way. I'm too old to learn new tricks. It won't work and I know it. There's no sense in kidding myself."
Even the prospect of borrowing the money seemed hopeless. "How much did you reckon it was?" Dinny demanded. "Over thirty thousand pounds. Nobody in their right senses would lend me that. No, Sean, it's to be sold over my head and there's damn all I can do about it."
Sean fell silent for a while, then he asked - "Would you mind if I showed these balance sheets to a friend of mine?"
Dinny shrugged, "After Friday they'll be public knowledge anyway."
Conversation dried up after that. Dinny seemed disinclined to talk, and all Sean wanted was to find a quiet corner and study the figures. He left as soon as he could. Macaffety called after him - "Better get yourself back to the office. Paddy Egan will want all the help he can get."
But Sean went home. His father was out and Sean had the house to himself. He spent the rest of the afternoon combing through the balance sheets. At the back of his mind lurked the vague idea of showing them to Jim Tully, but first Sean wanted to understand them himself. And that proved difficult. For a start the total value of all assets was nearly sixty thousand pounds - but total assets, he discovered, were very different from net assets. In fact there were all sorts of assets - current assets, circulating assets - Sean's brow crinkled in concentration. Finally he made sense of at least part of it - enough to realise that he had been right to deduct all liabilities from all assets, and thus arrive at the value of net assets which Lord Averdale wanted - the amazing sum of thirty-two thousand, five hundred pounds.
When Pat Connors arrived home they ate the meal of cold meat left out for them by Mrs McGuffin - then Pat left for a political meeting and Sean went back to his figures. It was then that he made his discovery. He was looking at the list of fixed assets, marvelling that plant and machinery were worth an astonishing fifteen thousand pounds, when he stopped. The line above said - Freehold property ... £5,000. Sean had passed it earlier, his interest captured by more dramatic figures - but as soon as he. looked back he knew it was wrong. It had to be if it meant the Gazette's offices. The Gazette occupied a very large building. The offices ran to four floors, and the print shop occupied the entire basement. If the truth was known they had too much space, spreading themselves all over the place. And a corner site in O'Connell Street was worth more than five thousand pounds. Sean knew that from his attempts to find tea-rooms for Maeve O'Flynn. But what did it mean? Audited balance sheets couldn't be wrong - could they?
It
was eight o'clock when he returned to the hospital. He slipped the half bottle of whiskey from under his jacket and into Dinny's hand, and then asked about the office building.
Dinny shrugged, "Lord Bowley's family have owned that site for generations. He owned the building and he owned the paper. It was all his money."
"But why does the balance sheet say five thousand?"
"Sure, how would I know? It didn't matter a damn. I just told you, he owned the building before the paper ever started. What would be the point of him charging the paper more - he'd only be paying himself. I suppose some sort of nominal value had to be put down to suit the auditors."
"But it's worth more than that -"
"Is it now?" Dinny flushed with temper. "So you'll be telling your new friend Lord Averdale, I suppose? Ach, what does it matter. It's not something for the likes of us to bother about."
But it did bother Sean. It bothered him so much that he could hardly sleep that night. The full potential of his idea eluded him - but one thing seemed clear. If he could pull it off he would make the five hundred pounds he needed to send Tomas and the family to Australia.
Sean Connors and Mark Averdale were not the only ones restless that night - in Belfast Matt Riordan was sleepless too. His had been a long day also, most of it spent well away from the Falls Road, amid the gorse and heather which grew so abundantly on the hills above Brackenburn.
The destruction of Brackenburn had been approved by the IRA. There was still much to do, Matt would go back there tomorrow and again on Wednesday - but his plan had been accepted. The hard-eyed men who wore the Fainne had awarded Matt his first command.
Matt had argued powerfully at the secret meeting. Some men had wanted a more political target, a member of Craig's cabinet was suggested, but Matt would have none of it. It was what Lord Averdale stood for that was important, what he represented ... three hundred years of repression ... the Averdales had helped found the Orange Order ... helped bring about the Act of Union ... and had been foremost in their refusal to employ Catholics ...
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 105