Finally, the impromptu dinner party came to an end. Freddie's friends departed and the American ordered a last cup of coffee. He smiled wryly at Sean, "We live in troubled times. Maybe the best advice I can give you is to get back home to Ireland."
Sean flushed crimson. Did that mean he was a boy on a man's errand? The imagined slight cut deeply. He blurted out a reply before he could stop himself, "I've only been in London twenty-four hours, Mr Mallon. I'll know twice as much by this time tomorrow, and seven times more this time next week. I'm a quick learner. Wouldn't you say that's as useful as ..." he cast around for an example, "as knowing how to order food in Italian?"
Freddie Mallon looked stunned, then burst out laughing. "Listen, knucklehead, I didn't mean to insult you. I order in Italian because I did it all my life back home. I was brought up that way, there's nothing special to it."
Sean felt too foolish to apologise. Instead he fidgeted with his coffee cup.
Mallon grinned. "Okay, stay in London. Don't be so touchy, maybe I was just envious."
"Envious
"Sure. When I was your age my paper wouldn't send me eight blocks to cover a ball game, let alone a war in Europe."
"There's no war here, Mr Mallon."
"Chamberlain's scrap of paper? Peace in our time and all that crap. Forget it. There'll be war." Mallon scratched his chin and smiled across the table, "Relax. I was trying to help, that's all. I know you're smart, your paper wouldn't send you here to fall on your ass, and Bart wouldn't let you in the Mirror without checking you out. And your reflexes are quick, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Now I know you've got a temper too - so okay, what else is new?"
Sean covered his embarrassment with a laugh, and he did manage an apology. They talked for a while after that. Sean was enthralled by Freddie's account of Hitler's Germany. Not all of it was new. Even Dublin's papers had carried accounts of Mr Chamberlain's visits to Germany, but people in Ireland thought that the threat of war had receded, a view shared in England as far as Sean could make out. The London Times was positive - "Peace in our time," promised Mr Chamberlain, and The Times echoed him. Freddie Mallon, however, held a quite different view.
When they parted, Freddie said, "Now don't forget, kid, let me know if there's anything I can do. I eat at Mario's three or four times a week, and you know where I live."
It was a warming feeling, to have found a friend in this vast city.
Sean spent the next morning at Geraldine House. Freddie was absent, out gathering news in his own incomparable style. Everyone at the Mirror spoke highly of him - Sean was intrigued to learn that Freddie even broadcast once a week for CBS. He was quite possibly the best foreign correspondent in the business. "Wouldn't you think," Sean mused to himself, "he'd be the very man to copy if I stay here."
Staying was still a big if. Geraldine House was as daunting as ever. Everyone was so busy - too busy for a young Paddy straight from the bog. He was homesick for Dublin and as uncertain as ever - but to run away would be the end of a dream. He would never be powerful enough to smash the IRA and Matt Riordan with it. The thought of revenge gave him courage.
He left at noon and walked down the Strand to a tailor's, where he bought a grey flannel suit, a white shirt, grey socks and a maroon necktie. Next door he purchased some black shoes. Then he went to a bookshop for a copy of Mein Kampf which he took back to his hotel to read. He felt guilty, stretched out on the bed when he should be working, or at least looking for lodgings. Yet, in a way, he was working - working flat out to repair the gaps in his knowledge. And at seven o'clock he took another step forward. Dressed in his new finery, with Mein Kampf under his arm, he made his way to Soho in search of Mario's restaurant.
The American was there already, at what was obviously his usual table. He grinned at the new clothes but passed no comment. Instead he waved Sean into a chair and asked about his day. When Sean told him, Freddie was amused but impressed, "Well," he said, "and what did you make of the great leader's book?"
Sean plunged into his list of queries and was asking about Hitler's plan to carve "living space" out of Bolshevist Russia, when Freddie interrupted, "Hang on. Here's the very man. Helmut! Over here."
A tall, broad-shouldered-man bore down on their table. "Freddie! Wonderful to see you. They said you'd be here."
Freddie introduced Sean with a flourish, "Meet my young saviour, Sean Connors of the Dublin Gazette. Sean, this is an old sparring partner, Helmut von Roon."
The tall man cast a look of enquiry at Freddie as he shook Sean's hand.
"Sure," the American grinned. "He saved my life yesterday. Pull up a chair and I'll tell you about it."
Sean listened to another highly coloured account of the accident. When it was over von Roon expressed suitable congratulations, before turning back to Freddie, "I can only stay for one drink. I'm dining with the Websters. You remember, we met them at your Embassy that night."
Freddie asked to be remembered to the Websters, then turned to Sean. "Helmut and I used to burn up the Kurfurstendam together. He knows Berlin night-life like I know the back of my hand."
The German flushed with pleasure, but his question a moment later had nothing to do with night-clubs. "What is happening in England? I arrived this morning to a war-fevered land. Everyone is talking about war. The papers are full of rubbish about air-raids and incendiary bombs and poison gas. Who is the enemy?"
Freddie's eyebrows rose. "Are you kidding? After listening to General Goering's cosy fireside chats about his invincible air force, people over here are in a muck sweat at the thought of Germans dropping out of the skies -"
"That's ridiculous. In Germany we have no idea to attack anyone. Did not the Fuhrer tell Mr Chamberlain that he has no further territorial claims? It's the socialist press here, whipping up a war scare. Freddie, I assure you, in Germany there is a spirit of peace and goodwill to all men."
"Unless you're a Jew," Freddie said bluntly. "Remember our last night on the Kurfurstendam? Those people smashing Jewish shops -"
"I was ashamed. Did I not say so? We are all ashamed, decent Germans of whom there are many, many millions -"
Freddie nodded. "Millions of decent Germans who watch their leaders drive those poor devils to suicide, who steal their money -"
"What's got into you?" Von Roon flushed. "This is beginning to sound like propaganda. The Jews cause difficulties, that's all. Your President Roosevelt will come to recognise the problem in time, believe me. You will have to do something about them in the end -"
"The final solution?" Freddie asked sarcastically, then he flushed too.
"I'm sorry Helmut, that was rude. We had some good times in Berlin, you and I - drink up, let's forget politics for a while."
Some of the tension faded from the German's face. After a pause he nodded, and turned to Sean with a smile. "Please accept my apologies too. Freddie is right, we can have too much of politics. After all, things can't be so bad when an Englishman, an American and a German can share a drink -"
"He's a Mick," Freddie spluttered, "a Paddy - he hates the English."
Von Roon's confusion sent Freddie into hysterics. The difficult moment was behind them. After that von Roon stayed for half an hour and told so many stories about shared times with Freddie that Sean was sorry to see him go. He waved as von Roon departed and asked Freddie how long he had known him.
"Helmut? God knows. A couple of years. He's a good sort, helped me no end when I first went to Berlin, but he's like the three brass monkeys about Hitler - see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. They're all the same over there."
He expanded on his theories during the rest of the meal. "The German psyche cries out for a strong leader. It's part of their mythology, this father figure coming out of the forest. You've started Mein Kampf - when you've read that there are a dozen other books at my place if you're interested. They might help you understand why perfectly decent people like Helmut von Roon not only tolerate Hitler but deify him."
Sean struggl
ed to understand. He was reminded of Dinny talking about the English - "You'll like them, Sean, the English are fine, it's the bloody British Empire that's so hard to stomach." Maybe Germans suffered blind spots in the same way.
Over coffee they talked of other things, including Sean's need to find lodgings. Freddie thought about it before reaching a conclusion. "Move in with me. There's plenty of room at Craven Street. We could team up - share a few expenses, swap contacts, that kind of thing. Two wild colonials together. What do you think?"
Of course the arrangement was one-sided. Sean had no contacts to swap, at least not in London. He had Dinny's letters of introduction, but they were to newspapermen most of whom Freddie already knew. Yet Freddie dismissed all protests with a chuckle. "Okay, you can be my apprentice. I could use some help. Besides you do have contacts. Didn't you say Ambassador Kennedy was a friend of yours?"
Sean blushed. He had mentioned the Ambassador's visit to Ballsbridge when talking about his father. He certainly had not claimed personal friendship.
"Maybe I just need you around," Freddie concluded. "Didn't I say you were my new good luck charm?"
A delighted Sean moved into the narrow terraced house the next morning. Craven Street was not the most fashionable address in London, but the location - half way between Fleet Street and the House of Commons - suited Freddie perfectly. Soho's restaurants lay to the north, and to the south was the Embankment, a fine place for clearing the head after a heavy night. Originally Freddie had shared the comfortable three-storey house with another American - "when he went back to the States I just stayed on. I was comfortable, so why move?"
Thus began an enduring friendship, although the relationship was more like tutor and pupil at the outset. Freddie Mallon was an even harder task master than Dinny Macaffety. For weeks Sean worked as a research assistant, digging into the background of stories, checking facts and confirming details. He spent more time in the reading room of the British Museum than at his typewriter. The joke in Fleet Street was that the shrewd American had found some cheap labour and was working "the Irish Navvy" to death.
Sean didn't mind. Hard work suited him. New experiences left little room for being homesick. Of course his heart still ached, and every night he remembered his father. Before falling asleep Sean recounted the events of his day, whispering into the darkness as if dictating a letter ... "Sure now, Da, you'll remember me saying yesterday ..." and he was away, cataloguing thoughts and worries, hopes and aspirations. Many were about Freddie and his talk of war. On the other hand not all of the American's thoughts were dominated by the spectre of Nazi Germany - for instance, five minutes of his weekly CBS broadcast Seven Days in London were devoted to some of the unusual sights around the capital, and Sean developed a nose for sniffing them out. Consequently every week he delivered a piece from Billingsgate Fish Market, or the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, or even Bow Street Police Station - each story illustrative of an English eccentricity. Initially Freddie insisted on checking every detail, but when Sean proved his facts the American was glad to accept them and concentrated instead on filling the rest of his broadcast.
They often dined at Mario's, where they were invariably joined by other members of the overseas press corps - and gradually the restaurant acquired the same talking shop characteristics as the little house in Ballsbridge. Sean gave a similar account of himself - diffident at first, and only voicing an opinion when sure of his facts. It was a hard school, but a good one. And on other evenings, when Freddie was on a story or out to dinner with friends, Sean ploughed through the books at Craven Street in pursuit of Freddie's theories on Nazi Germany. Much went over his head, but enough stuck to give him a glimmer of understanding when Freddie argued that the roots of Fascism lay in German nineteenth century Romanticism.
Sometimes they just enjoyed themselves. Despite rumours of war, London remained the dazzling hub of the mighty British Empire, far removed from straight-laced Dublin. Freddie guided his protege round the nightclubs and late-night drinking spots - and once to a quiet house in Piccadilly where they spent the night with the girls. The Widow O'Flynn had taught Sean well, for the girl expressed more than professional pleasure with his performance. She nibbled his ear when he left. "Come again," she whispered, to which he replied, "Jaysus, I'll not come for a month after that."
Christmas arrived. Sean would have gone home but for Freddie. Not that the American need have been lonely, he had invitations to a score of country houses. The truth was that he preferred to stay in London. "You know, Sean," he confided, "these grand English country houses scare the shit out of me. All that fresh air in the mornings, and riding to hounds ... ugh ... I guess I'm just a city boy"
They stayed in London and gave a party for the press corps which lasted, on and off, for most of the holiday. In fact Sean's alcoholic haze was just lifting when he met Valerie Hamilton - on the morning before New Year's Eve.
The Hamiltons were Freddie's friends, as were most people Sean met but the Hamiltons were special. Freddie kept them to himself for a start. He dined at their Eaton Square house and occasionally returned hospitality by taking Mrs Hamilton and Margaret her daughter out to lunch but Sean was never invited. He didn't mind - just as Freddie was daunted by English country houses so Sean was shy of the people who owned them, and from what he knew of the Hamiltons they were likely to prove very daunting indeed.
They were part of society, less newsworthy than Lady Cunard or Chips Channon, but newsworthy enough. Gossip columnists were as excited about parties at Ashworth, the Hamilton house in Berkshire, as those at Cliveden, home of the Astors. And Augustus John's portrait of Mrs Cynthia Hamilton had created a sensation at the Royal Academy - "the most sensuous woman in England" he had called her, and most men agreed. She was well over forty in 1938 but had resisted the years so well that she was often mistaken for Margaret, her daughter. They both had chestnut brown hair, dazzling smiles and smoky blue eyes. Margaret was the attraction for Freddie - as Sean knew from Fleet Street gossip and from watching him prepare for an evening with the Hamilton's. "How do I look?" he would ask, with uncharacteristic lack of confidence. Sean was amazed. The American's self-assurance was usually massive. Sean found it painful to watch. He considered Freddie's handling of the situation grossly inept - but Sean had been spoiled by the Widow O'Flynn. Not all such affairs ran so smoothly, as he was about to find out.
The morning before New Year's Eve was crisp and fine, and Sean rose early, free of a hangover for the first time in days. Mrs Harris, their cockney char, arrived at nine and began her attack on the chaos created over Christmas.
Freddie went off to Geraldine House, and Sean shut himself in "the office", a tiny room on the second floor next to the sitting-room. Sean worked one day a week in the office, writing his "London Diary", a big spread which had become a feature in the Dublin Gazette - two thousand words which, together with photographs, took up the paper's middle pages every Saturday. The Diary owed a great deal to Freddie. It was Freddie who taught Sean that readers found the private lives of well known figures much more interesting than their public utterances. That was when Sean learned to dig deep. Sean Connors was the first to reveal that Sir Oswald Mosley was secretly married to Mrs Diana Guinness. And that the King had dined at the home of Lord Baldwin, solely to meet some Labour MPs. And that the Hon. Unity Mitford was spending more and more time with a certain Captain Fitz-Randolph from the German Embassy. Trivial in themselves, yet when interwoven with Sean's political commentary, they portrayed something of the seething whirlpool of life that was London. Certainly Dinny was pleased with the Diary which was winning new readers for the Gazette every week.
On the morning before New Year's Eve, Sean was sweating over his column and Mrs Harris had just finished the sitting-room, when the doorbell disturbed them. Mrs Harris had gone up to the bedrooms and Sean could hear her grumbling on the top landing, so he went to the door himself - and found himself looking at Valerie Hamilton.
He knew who she was.
The photographs in Freddie's room showed the whole family - George and Cynthia Hamilton, flanked by daughters Margaret and Valerie. The pose made it obvious that Cynthia and Margaret enjoyed being photographed, whereas Valerie, three years younger than Margaret, seemed totally bored. Her eyes were focused upwards, as if pleading for the intervention of Divine Providence, and there was something of that in her expression when Sean opened the door.
"Oh," she said. Her eyes rounded as she stared at him. A faint touch of colour appeared at her cheeks. "You must be the Irish Navvy. You couldn't be anyone else. Black hair and bold blue eyes, with that wild untamed look about you. Freddie's description was quite inadequate. I shall tell him. Is he in?"
Sean responded with a red-faced stare. The Irish Navvy nickname had stuck in Fleet Street, but to hear it from this tiny girl was quite startling - as startling as the girl herself. He tried to remember what Freddie had said about her - that her political views were a bit strong at times, and "she's not as pretty as Margaret." Freddie was wrong about that, Sean thought she was beautiful. Swathed in a silver fox fur, Valerie Hamilton looked like a porcelain statue, five feet high with flawless skin and mocking hazel eyes. "I'm Val Hamilton," she said, offering him a tiny gloved hand.
He came alive with a start, explaining that Freddie was out.
"Then I shall wait," the porcelain figure announced. "If he's not back by noon you can stand me lunch. How would that suit you?"
She looked out of place in the sitting-room. The whole house seemed suddenly shabby. Not that Valerie appeared worried. She gazed through the open door to his desk in the office, "Oh Lord, are you working? Don't let me disturb you. Give me a magazine or something and I'll be as quiet as a mouse."
It seemed rude to do that, so he pretended his work was finished, persuaded Mrs Harris to make some coffee, and settled down to entertain his unexpected guest. He wondered how to amuse her. He enjoyed the cut and thrust of the talk at Mario's but that was mainly about politics, he could hardly expect Valerie Hamilton to be interested in that. But she proved him wrong almost immediately. "Are you preparing your readers for war?" she asked. "Back in Dublin I mean?"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 114