He managed a confused reply, saying that editors shape the news, reporters merely gather it. As for war... well, everyone knew de Valera's views on neutrality.
"You mean you'll sit on the fence?" She sounded horrified. "Surely the Irish won't want Fascism spreading right across Europe?"
He did his best to explain. As a country, Ireland was less than twenty years old. They were free at last, at least in the south. If the rich nations of Europe squabbled, well that had nothing to do with a poor country like Ireland.
It was not an answer which satisfied her. She swamped him with arguments - Mrs Harris came and went with the coffee, but was barely noticed amid the welter of words. Despite the practice Sean had received at Mario's he found himself struggling at times. Valerie Hamilton held strong opinions, about Hitler's Germany and democracy and all sorts of things. She was the most exhilarating girl he had ever met. She argued with a fierce intensity, relieved now and then by a gamin-like grin, as if to remind him it was only a game, an amusement to pass the time until Freddie arrived. But Freddie did not arrive, and when Sean called a truce while he fetched some more coal for the fire, he realised that it was almost noon.
"Look, I could phone if you like," he suggested. "If he's not at the Mirror they might know where to find him."
She had moved to the window. Winter sunshine lightened her donkey brown dress to the colour of sand dunes. Her fashionable short curls shone like a halo. She shook her head, "I'm not in a hurry. Besides, you promised me lunch."
He felt ten feet tall. He wondered if Mario's was open. Familiarity had shown him the comfortable scruffiness of the place, but at least he was known there, he could make an impression. Yet he couldn't go as he was. He glanced at his baggy trousers and the old Aran sweater. "I'll go and change. Won't be a minute."
"Oh no, it's cold out. Can't we eat here? Then if Freddie turns up we'll be ready and waiting."
He wondered what was left in the larder. Downstairs the front door banged. Freddie, he thought, bitterly disappointed that his time with this wonderful girl was over. But it was Mrs Harris letting herself out. Relieved, he grappled with the problem of lunch. No doubt she would simply ring for the butler at her homes in Eaton Square or Ashworth. Life was different in Craven Street.
She read his mind. "I'll help, just show me the kitchen. I'm really quite competent."
Her grin weakened his protest. It was a grin, not a smile, he had been thinking that all morning. A smile was polite and not always sincere, whereas Val's grin was open and honest.
"What would you have had?" she asked. "By yourself?"
"Cold beef, I think, and there might be some chutney left."
"Pickled onions?"
He nodded.
"With a glass of beer?"
He nodded again, then burst out laughing. It was absurd to think of her drinking beer. He suddenly felt very happy - and she was laughing too. "Well, let's have that," she said. "We'll reek to high heaven by the time Freddie gets back, but who cares."
They ate from trays in their laps, sat on either side of the fire - and talked non-stop, although perhaps Val did most of the talking. When she had finished she set the tray aside and prowled round the room, sipping from her glass as she studied the bookshelves. "You know," she said, "I've often imagined this room. It's more comfortable than I expected. I always thought Freddie lived out of a suitcase - rushing off to Berlin at the drop of a swastika. You too, I suppose. My God, I wish I were a man."
It seemed a most unlikely thing to say. Sean gazed in astonishment, unprepared to believe that she would want to change at all. He even said so, clumsily, fumbling for the right words.
She grinned as she returned to the fireplace. "How gallant, but I wasn't really fishing, I'm not Margaret you know. She is lovely, lovely and trapped, like my mother. It's just as well they don't want to do anything, men wouldn't let them, they are only allowed to be beautiful. Still, they're happy I suppose, and other people enjoy looking at them."
Sean was enjoying looking at Valerie.
"What do I want to do?" She seemed surprised by his question. "Oh, the same as now, I suppose, only more of it. Unless this double life turns me into a screaming schizophrenic."
Which was how Sean learned of her political activities. She worked for the Labour Party three days a week, in the East End - and talked fluently of the poor and the unemployed, and of Labour leaders like Attlee and Greenwood. Sean was unable to conceal his surprise. It seemed so at odds with what he knew of the Hamilton's.
She grinned, "I know, I'm the black sheep. The family accept it now, but mother is still kicking up about me taking a flat in Shadwell."
Sean had never been to Shadwell. It was down by the docks, and Valerie was taking a flat there in January. "I'll only use it during the week. We have committee meetings which drag on until all hours. I shall still go home at weekends." She grinned again. "The experience will be good for me."
When he asked why, she said, "Oh, the Labour Party is full of middle class intellectuals from tree-lined suburbs like Hampstead. They prattle on about the slums, but what do they really know? Nothing at first hand. I can't be like that. Being taken seriously in politics is hard enough as it is, my family is well off, I'm young, female, and - well reasonably presentable ..." Her glance seemed suddenly shy and out of character. "Well, you said I was. So don't you see - I'll never get anywhere if I'm just another armchair philosopher."
A moment later, while telling him how important it was to cultivate the grass roots in politics, she stopped in mid-sentence. "Sorry, am I boring you? I do go on, don't I? Everyone says a month in the slums will change my mind about all sorts of things."
He made a feeble joke about buying her beer and pickles in the East End, and was delighted when she reached for his hand. "That's a date," she said, "Sean Connors, Irish Navvy and Gentleman of Letters, I shall hold you to that."
They talked of other things for a while, although politics were never far from Val's mind. "This war will bring changes," she said at one stage. "It's a horrible thing to say, but it could be a good thing for the working class. Not even the Tories can send men off to fight without promising them a better life when they return ... if they return."
"You're positive then - there will be a war?"
Her eyes widened. "Freddie's certain. I assumed you agreed. I mean, living here, working with -"
"I suppose I do, but -"
"Oh, I forgot, you're going to be neutral, aren't you?"
They laughed, liking each other more every minute - and once Freddie was mentioned he became the subject of conversation. She was obviously fond of him, and Sean was wondering how fond, when she said - "If only he were less timid."
"Timid! Freddie?"
"Oh, I know that's not the right word, but how else do you explain the way Americans lose confidence? They're the most awful snobs, besotted by titles. What really worries Freddie is that Margaret will be Lady Tylehurst if she marries Bunny. So what? If Margaret wanted a title she could have the pick of the peerage. Can't Freddie see that? He's so knowledgeable about everything else. I just can't understand him. If he wants Margaret to marry him, why not ask her - and put everyone out of their misery."
Sean felt elated, not just for Freddie but because Valerie Hamilton was not interested in him for herself.
She sighed. "Lord, that was indiscreet. It's just I hate seeing Freddie mooning about. You'd better keep quiet about that. I'd hate to be thought interfering." She was suddenly anxious, "You will keep quiet, won't you?"
He was reassuring her when they heard the front door. Freddie's feet pounded up the stairs and along the landing. The door burst open. "Say, Sean, guess what -" he stopped, gaping at Valerie reclining on the sofa, stockinged feet up on the upholstery, shoes on the floor, the long since discarded fur wrap draped carelessly over the back of a chair. "Well, I'll be-"
"Damned," she grinned in welcome. "Well, guess what? Has war been declared?"
They all started talk
ing at once, with a good deal of laughter thrown in. The atmosphere became that of an impromptu party - and a party was what Valerie had called about. "There's been a glorious mix-up about tomorrow night. Half the invitations were lost. But you do know we expect you at Eaton Square, don't you?"
Freddie looked pleased and startled at the same time. "Tomorrow?"
"New Year's Eve," Valerie turned quickly to Sean. "You too, if you'll come."
Freddie glanced at Sean. Nothing definite was planned, except a half promise to meet the crowd at Mario's. Freddie accepted for both of them, and Val left shortly afterwards. Later that evening Sean learned a good deal more about the Hamilton's. Valerie's father held strong views on the Irish. Freddie chuckled, "Most things Irish send him into a spitting temper. It stems from that 1916 business, when he was fighting the Hun in France - he says rebellion in Dublin was a stab in the back, which I suppose it was from his point of view."
Then why the invitation?
Freddie shrugged, "That's Val. She's as strong as he is. The whole family fought her on this Labour Party business, but she still went her own way. Now she's going to live in Shadwell," he grinned. "God help the East End."
Sean hesitated, worried about being made unwelcome, even though he knew he wanted to see her again. He kept picturing her grin and hearing her non-stop arguments.
"Don't worry," Freddie said. "There'll be a hundred people there. You'll hardly have a chance to thank your host and hostess."
The following night they went to the Hamiltons' party in Eaton Square - Sean handsome in a borrowed dinner jacket, Freddie as dapper as ever. Not that Sean enjoyed it to begin with, in fact he hated the first hour. It was like his initiation at Mario's all over again. He felt shy and out of place, uneasy to be rubbing shoulders with the obviously wealthy. He could find no point of contact with people who chattered about St Moritz and the Sporting Club in Monte Carlo.
He saw what Val meant about Margaret - she was beautiful - tall and graceful, with a radiant smile. Val suffered by comparison in most people's eyes - but not Sean's. That Margaret was as poised as a fashion plate worked against her with Sean. Fashion models terrified him. They were glossy photographs in Vogue, pictures not people. In fact the entire glittering house seemed full of bejewelled images instead of flesh and blood characters. Sean wished he had gone to Mario's instead.
It was not until later that he changed his mind. Val spent more time at his side, dazzling in lemon lace, grinning reassurance while muttering outrageous comments about the more pompous guests. Not all were pompous. Val guided him from one group to another, choosing people who interested her and whom she hoped might interest him. And they did. He found himself revising his earlier opinions. He relaxed and began to enjoy himself. He even danced, though only with Valerie. She floated in his arms, and the smell and feel of her excited him more as the evening wore on. Champagne made him light-headed. He glowed with wellbeing, and when everyone clasped hands to sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, Sean Connors fairly exulted. This was Harmsworth's London! This was the London he had dreamt of.
"To the Irish Navvy," Val grinned across the brim of her glass, "and to 1939. May it be a wonderful year for you."
How could it be anything else, Sean thought, looking at Valerie. Dance music swirled round and round that grand London house. It was a different world from Dublin. Right at that moment the IRA and men like Matt Riordan were a million miles away.
Chapter Two
In fact, Matt Riordan was less than twelve miles away. While Sean danced in a glittering ballroom, Matt Riordan sat cleaning his gun in a scruffy attic in Kilburn.
Much had happened to Matt since the Killing at Keady. He had holed up for weeks with Ferdy Malloy in the Mountains of Mourne. RUC men and B Specials had combed the length and breadth of Ulster, but had never come within a mile of Matt's hiding place. Only Jimmy Traynor had slipped through the cordons now and then, to bring scraps of information and supplies of food.
It was Jimmy who broke the news that Matt's mother had died after being interrogated. Matt reeled. His father dead, now his mother. He had loved her every day of his life. Matt hated the RUC and B Specials as never before, but most of all he hated Averdale and the Connors. Without the Connors his mother would have stayed in Dublin ... without Averdale she might at least have remained alive in Belfast...
Then, at the end of the first week in the hide-out, Matt learned something else. Traynor arrived, clutching the Dublin papers. Pat Connors was dead! It was all over the front page. "Killed after an incident at the border ... died in his son's arms ... the funeral attended by ..." Matt read on, only half believing.
'Your Da took that murdering bastard with him," Traynor said.
It made Matt feel better. The Riordans had killed a Connors between them. But Sean Connors was still alive, and Matt swore he would kill him one day.
Meanwhile the rest of the news was bad. Averdale had doubled the reward for Matt's capture. Traynor described the man-hunt. "The Falls are being torn down brick by brick. We'll have to get you over the border, Matt, as soon as we can."
He went two weeks later, crossing to Cavan and thence to Kildare. Finally he holed up in Wicklow. That was tempting - with Sean Connors in Dublin, twenty-five miles away. Matt had wanted to go to Dublin there and then. In the end he had accepted his orders, but not until he was promised, "You'll go to England for this bombing campaign. And when you come back, we'll all go for Connors."
It was a big step forward. Matt's arch-enemy was now officially designated a target by the IRA.
As for the bombing campaign - a team of twelve was to be sent across the water. They were less well trained than Matt would have liked, but he was used to making the best of imperfect situations. And he wanted to go. His father had devised the plan in New York with Sean Russell - it was fitting for a Riordan to go.
They crossed to the mainland a week before Christmas, taking advantage of the holiday crowds, and once landed made for separate destinations, some to Liverpool, two to Glasgow, three to London, and Matt himself to Birmingham.
He tingled with excitement. Enemy territory at last. He stared from the train window and marvelled at the sire of the towns. Snow Hill Station, when he reached it, seemed enormous. Matt swung along the platform, carrying two suitcases in hands which still bore scars from the acid burns suffered at Keady.
After taking half an hour to find the right bus, he arrived at his landlady's house in Solihull at eight in the evening, well pleased to have completed an uneventful journey. But his satisfaction was short-lived.
Scotland Yard had got wind of the operation. Detectives were already watching the houses of well-known Republicans. From behind the net curtains of an upstairs window, Matt's landlady pointed out the rain-coated figure in a shop doorway. And the news got worse. IRA men in the Customs Service were risking their necks to smuggle explosives across - but no safe hiding places had been arranged for storing the stuff!
The woman gave Matt some supper. She was clearly uneasy, and he promised to move on as soon as he could.
By Christmas Day, he had moved to Wolverhampton. There too some of his men were being watched. A temporary dump had been established in a builder's yard, but the explosives had to be moved by the end of the week. Matt rented a basement on the city outskirts and spent a worrying afternoon transferring potassium chloride and sulphuric acid in a builder's van.
It was the same everywhere - local commanders in Coventry and Leamington complained about not knowing what was happening. Matt gave them new orders and stiffened their nerve before moving down to London for a meeting with Joe Reynolds of the London Command. Which was why Matt was in Kilburn on New Year's Eve. Not that his visit yielded much - except the conviction that someone had talked. Newspapers were full of Hitler and Germany, with barely a mention of Ireland - yet British police were watching the Irish as never before.
Matt returned to Birmingham on 3 January. He worked fast and as best he could. Most of the Irishmen he me
t couldn't mend a fuse, let alone make a bomb. Matt took them back to his lodgings and explained what was necessary, then showed them his revolver and threatened to kill them if they betrayed him.
He was racing against time. On 12 January, announcing itself as the rightful government of Ireland, the IRA sent a note to the British Government, demanding that they declare their intention to leave Ireland. The British were given four days to make an announcement - or else.
Matt brought his troops in the Midlands to a state of readiness. He had performed miracles of organisation - Birmingham was now encircled by twenty-two secret ammunition dumps - but Matt worried himself sick about the competence of his men.
On 16 January, when the British Government failed to respond to the IRA's note, the order was given. The bombing campaign was about to begin.
Men took appalling risks, riding to assignments on jolting trams, with gelignite in lunch boxes on their laps. Others returned to sites to re-set mechanisms which failed to explode. It was an amateur's war, conducted by young volunteers who had left school at twelve and emigrated to labouring jobs in England. Few bore their adopted country the slightest grudge. Many had learned to like the English. Yet when Matt made appeals to their patriotism, few could resist.
Three electricity plants in London were blown up, two in the Midlands, one in Liverpool - and a gas mains in Glasgow was sent sky high ...
The British seemed more bemused than alarmed. Occasionally Matt over-heard snatches of conversation - "What do the bloody Irish want anyway? They've got their own country now, haven't they?"
Matt longed to tell them about the Falls Road and the conditions of Catholic people in Belfast. He held his tongue for fear of betraying his accent. An Irish brogue rang out like the Angelus amid the nasal Birmingham twang.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 115