The campaign went on. Every week, every day, an explosion occurred. Most were paid for by the arrest of an IRA man. The police were more vigilant than ever. Houses everywhere were raided by blue-uniformed officers with search warrants; tons of explosives were flushed down toilets by men on the run.
As for Matt, little remained now of the gregarious youngster who had charmed the ladies in his father's butcher's shop. He had grown into a quiet young man, close-mouthed and watchful, and had acquired Ferdie's ability to merge into the background. He could slip unnoticed into a pub, and slip out again without people remembering his face. Yet his inner strength was greater than Ferdie's. It showed in his eyes and the set of his mouth. Where Liam Riordan had been as strong as an iron bar, Matt was like a coiled spring, always wound up and ready to strike.
His was a solitary business. Sometimes loneliness clutched at his heart. He might see a young couple on a bus and envy their closeness. He had never enjoyed a girl's companionship, let alone experienced sexual union. Once, late at night, he was passing a dance hall when the doors sprang open and young people poured into the street. Matt glimpsed red-lipped girls squealing with excitement, and saw the predatory hunger in a boy's eyes. Couples went off in all directions. Just for a second Matt Riordan yearned for their kind of life, pined for their freedom. But the moment passed with the girls' voices on the breeze. He walked quietly away, through the darkened back streets to his lodgings, where he spent an hour cleaning his revolver before climbing lonely to bed.
All through the spring of 1939, Matt Riordan waged his patriotic war, fought against an enemy already girding its loins for a much bigger conflict in Europe - British politicians tried to ignore the wants of a few Irish fanatics - but public consciousness was aroused as the IRA campaign escalated. A bomb in Manchester killed a twenty-seven-year-old fish porter. Glasgow's water supply was cut off. Electricity pylons around London were wrecked, and in the Midlands Matt Riordan blasted lock gates apart on the Grand Union Canal.
Scotland Yard detectives redoubled their efforts. Raids on Irish occupied houses became commonplace. By the beginning of June, Matt had changed his lodgings twenty-eight times. More than once police arrived at the front door as Matt vaulted over a back fence. Dozens of his young volunteers were arrested. The tide, always running against the IRA, threatened to flood. Matt fought on, determined to make the British Government bend to his wishes.
The British Government, however, were not the first to react. By 14 June, the Dail in Dublin had had enough: The IRA was declared illegal. De Valera himself gave a speech - "No one can have any doubt as to the result of the campaign in England, and no one can think that this Government has any sympathy with it." He went on to accuse those involved of misreading Irish history and making no allowance for changed circumstances.
"Circumstances," Matt sneered when he read the newspaper report. "They only changed when you turned into a bloody traitor. By Christ, Pat Connors would have been proud of you now."
British patience was exhausted as well. A month later Westminster enacted the Prevention of Violence Bill; specifically aimed at the IRA. Home Secretary Sir Samuel Hoare told the Commons that sixty-six members of the IRA had been convicted and that thousands of pounds of IRA bombing equipment had been seized.
Matt knew it was true. In fact things were worse - sixty-six men had been convicted but dozens more were under arrest.
IRA men became desperate: Terror campaigns were launched in London. Bombs were detonated in shopping areas. At King's Cross Station an explosion blitzed the left luggage office, crippling a Scots doctor and wounding fifteen people, including his wife.
In Birmingham, Matt Riordan fought to hold his hot-heads in check. He would kill B Specials without turning a hair, but he was against murdering innocent civilians. "Will you just read the papers, for God's sake! You're turning the people against us. We're not fighting them, we're fighting their government."
But tempers were up. The rumour was that IRA prisoners were being ill-treated. Irish blood boiled, and the fight was on with a vengeance. More than once Matt brandished his revolver, threatening his poorly trained crew if they disobeyed orders. Tragically, not even Matt's discipline could hold them in check - and on Friday, 25 August, came the worst incident of all. It was Matt's bad luck that it happened in the Midlands.
In Coventry, early in the afternoon, a man cycled into Broadgate and parked his bicycle outside Ashley's shop. At two-thirty the bomb in the bicycle's carrier exploded. Five people were killed, and more than fifty others seriously hurt.
Word reached Matt at four o'clock, just as he was about to leave Wolverhampton. He refused to believe it at first-sixty people - five dead, others crippled for life. The savagery stunned him. He had no doubt of the consequences. Word was already on the streets - "The bloody Irish did it, that murdering bunch of bastards!"
Two hours later Matt was in Birmingham, standing in the shadows at a street corner and watching the house across the road. Police were picking Irishmen up all over the city. Matt had no intention of being taken easily. His hand closed on the revolver in his pocket. Someone was in his room. A shadow passed across the curtain. Someone was in there waiting for him.
He turned and strolled to the corner. Once round that he quickened his pace. There was nothing much in his room; a battered suitcase, two shirts and some underwear. The police were welcome to that. For sure he was not going back.
Every newspaper placard screamed the same story - "IRA Bomb Outrage In Coventry" - "Massive Police Hunt For IRA Killers."
Matt bought an Evening Mail and read it on a park bench. He felt defeated. The campaign was over now, he knew that. Sixty people dead or maimed in one afternoon ... sixty! "Dear God," he muttered under his breath, "the English will never forgive us."
He had to get back to Dublin. They would have to start all over again. The IRA would never give up, and neither would Matt Riordan. "But it's a bad day for the auld country, all right," he whispered, as he rolled up the newspaper. The date caught his eye, "Aye, the twenty-fifth of August has been a bad day for us."
Chapter Three
Twenty-fifth August was also a bad day for Sean Connors, which was surprising as it was a Friday and he looked forward to all Fridays, thanks to Val Hamilton. So much had happened in the 237 days that had passed since that New Year's Eve party. He had changed his mind about all manner of things, but not about her - she remained totally fascinating.
The most common theory was that she was a throwback to her suffragette grandmother who had been imprisoned with Christobel Pankhurst - but that theory gained support only because the rest of the Hamiltons were so conspicuously non-political. They were Tory, of course, as major shareholders in Blue Chevron Shipping and a host of other enterprises they could hardly be anything else, but they were quiet Tories who contributed to party funds with a minimum of fuss. George, Val's father, spent his life in the City and little was known of him in Fleet Street - his companies made news, not George Hamilton himself. He was thought to have refused a safe Tory seat on the excuse of being too busy. In fact he regarded the House of Commons as a home fit for rogues and charlatans, and was fond of saying that "Men who can, run their own affairs: those who can't, go into politics and meddle in the affairs of others."
Freddie, who had met him dozens of times, still found him difficult. "The trouble is I never know what he's thinking. He keeps most of his opinions to himself, at least he does at Cynthia's parties. God knows why she married him. Of course he lets her have her own way and pays the bills, but scores of men would have done that."
Valerie's mother was known as Cynthia to everyone - "Life's too short to be formal," she told new acquaintances. "That's why I adore Americans. London's too stuffy, I always say. We could do with a positive invasion of people from Boston and Chicago - just to shake us out of our rut."
Cynthia collected Americans, apparently convinced that all Americans were rich and that Texas was the size of Bloomsbury. "You're from Houston
? Texas! How marvellous - you must know the Mastersons. They're such good friends - they were here last year, you know, standing just where you are now."
She liked American voices, men's voices preferably. "I could close my eyes and listen to you for hours - no, really, I could. It's all there in your dark brown voice - the wide outdoors and the big blue skies. It makes me go quite weak at the knees."
Which is what half the men in the room hoped would happen - for Cynthia Hamilton remained a glamorous figure. In 1939 she was exactly the same age as Rose Kennedy, the Ambassador's wife, whom most people considered her only rival as the most elegant woman in London. By universal agreement Cynthia was good to look at, fun to be with, and knew everyone in town. If she was a bit silly at times people merely shrugged, "That's Cynthia, but she's got a heart of gold." And she had. For instance she was always introducing the young men at her parties to those who might help their careers. Even Sean, on his fourth visit, was summoned to her side. "Well," she smiled, " since Val seems determined to play Nora Barnacle to your James Joyce I'd better do something about you." She dragged him across the room. "Esmond dear, this brilliant young man is in newspapers. Here's your chance to meet him before you go as dotty as your dear father." Which was how Sean met Esmond Harmsworth, son and heir of Alfred Harmsworth, whose story had inspired Sean to leave Dublin.
Freddie had fallen under her spell. "She's so darned nice, hurting her would be like drowning kittens. I couldn't do it." And neither could others. But another thing had happened to Freddie. He'd fallen in love with Margaret.
Margaret was so like her mother that there was no doubting how she would look in later years - her admirers had only to see Cynthia to know that, and since they liked what they saw, Margaret received ten proposals before her twenty-second birthday. She turned them all down, but with such charm that the men loved her all the more - Margaret's rejections were said to be exquisite emotional experiences in themselves. London watched and waited, curious to see who would capture her. Speculation was mounting about a possible engagement to Lord Tylehurst - when along came Freddie Mallon.
Freddie was different from the others, most of whom were English, titled and wealthy. Freddie was a New Yorker with charm and a growing reputation, but he still had his fortune to make. Even so, Cynthia took to Freddie and that helped, and Margaret liked him enough to encourage him.
That had been the state of play when Valerie Hamilton called at Craven Street on the morning before New Year's Eve. She was attracted to Sean immediately, which was surprising. Val's mind was usually too full of politics to leave much room for young men. There had been a young man of course; Val had quite happily lost her virginity the year before to an intense student from the London School of Economics. The affair had ended almost before it began - broken off by Val with characteristic decisiveness. She had no regrets. She had wanted to experience sex but had expected it to excite her much more than it had, to her mind a good rousing speech by Nye Bevan was a far greater thrill.
Val was the cuckoo in the Hamilton nest, but she'd compensated by learning to amuse her father. She liked the sound of his laughter and provoked it whenever she could. Her incentive was simple, to compete with her more glamorous sister, and she did, though not easily. Both girls had a sense of humour, so both could be amusing at times - but Val tried harder. Margaret rarely led a conversation because her knowledge of most subjects was superficial. Val researched her material - mainly in the arts and politics, because those were the interests of the people around her. After which she entertained her father with sketches of other people's opinions - wildly exaggerated for effect. He was delighted, with both her humour and her knowledge, and often asked before a party: "Now Val - what's so-and-so going to say this evening?"
The problem was that her research had led to unexpected consequences. The more she read about the size of the world, the more outraged she became. What had started as a search for material became a genuine quest for knowledge. She still parodied people's opinions, but increasingly expressed views of her own - left-wing views, not Communist, thank God, but those of the Fabians and the Labour Party, which were almost as bad.
By the time she was twenty-one she had met Clem Attlee and various Trade Unionists, and was forever attending meetings at Friends House on the Euston Road. She developed a passion for politics, and expressed real concern for the welfare of the working class. She hated poverty and regarded the slums in the East End as a battleground. When it became obvious that she saw them as her personal battleground, her parents grew very alarmed - but by then it was too late.
Val was a strong-willed twenty-two-year-old who might leave home altogether if George put his foot down, and neither he nor Cynthia wanted that. Besides, they were torn - Val was attracting quite a following. Labour Parry MPs, including Mr Attlee, spoke highly of her future in politics. The concern felt by her parents became tinged with a perverse kind of pride. Why their daughter had adopted this interest was a puzzle, and her intention to spend a couple of nights in Shadwell every week was horrifying - but what could they do, except hope for a young man to come along and fill her head with quite different ideas.
Then she met Sean. Freddie kept them together. He seized the chance to take Margaret out more often, as part of a foursome which included her sister. By the end of February a once-a-week date for a show and supper was a regular thing. The four young people were seen all over London enjoying themselves.
George Hamilton, however, was not enjoying it. Still undecided about Freddie, he now had Sean Connors to worry about. "He's Irish, and penniless by the sound of it. No family, no nothing. God Almighty, first this bloody Labour Party nonsense, now this! What's got into the girl?" Cynthia soothed him as best she could. "Don't worry about it. He's just a friend. Heavens, they're not getting married. It makes life easier for Margaret, that's all - she and Freddie, Val and this young man. It's nice for the girls to go out together."
It was nice for the boys too, and years afterwards Sean was to count those days in 1939 as among the best in his life. What made life so exciting was not just the tingling thrill of falling in love, or working with Freddie, or the hustle and bustle of Fleet Street - it was the sum of all of those things. The pace got faster and faster. Freddie Mallon had a lot to do with that: by being taken under his wing Sean acquired more status in Fleet Street than could have been earned by a year's solid work. People assumed that because Freddie was so good at his job "the Irish Navvy" was good too - an assumption Sean did his best to live up to. He worked like a slave, accepting assignments from Freddie at any time of day or night. And he continued to read as much as he could. When baffled he asked questions, and when the answers were incomprehensible he asked more questions. He read the newspapers, listened to Freddie's broadcasts, studied politicians. London generated a feeling of being at the heart of things and Sean loved it. He even gained standing from his tenuous relationship with Joe Kennedy, the American Ambassador at the Court of St James.
The Kennedy’s had taken London by storm the year before. Fleet Street was accustomed to pompous Ambassadors, stuffy men, full of their own importance. The Kennedy’s were nothing like that. They were lively, frank, Catholic, Irish-American - and numerous. "What a family!" ran a headline, showing a smiling Joe Kennedy and his wife and nine children.
The Ambassador galloped horses on Rotten Row, went to Twickenham for the rugby, Wimbledon for the tennis, Ascot for the Gold Cup and Epsom for the Derby. His sheer energy captured headlines. When the press called at the Embassy, Joe sat with his feet on the desk. "A newspaperman's life is a difficult one," he said once. "Why should I make it harder?" Fleet Street loved him for that.
And the Ambassador's wife was sensational too. "As slim as a sixteen year-old," said one paper. "As vivacious as a screen star," said another. People found it impossible to believe she was a forty-seven-year-old mother of nine. Nine! "Makes you believe in the stork," quipped a headline.
Even when they left London, the Kennedy’s made
news. Most of the family spent the summer on the Riviera. Snippets appeared in the British papers ... Mrs Kennedy dining at the Eden Roc Casino ... meeting Elsa Maxwell... dining at the American Embassy in Paris, while Ambassador Kennedy hurried back to London to provide moral support for Mr Chamberlain, who was about to embark on his mission to Hitler's Berchtesgaden.
The Prime Minister and the American Ambassador seemed very good friends. Certainly both believed that Herr Hitler could be accommodated. Even after Berchtesgaden, Mr Chamberlain and Ambassador Kennedy agreed that war could be averted, an opinion which seemed justified at the end of September when Chamberlain returned from Munich. True, part of Czechoslovakia had been sacrificed to Germany, but agreement had been reached with Hitler. And when the Prime Minister promised "peace in our time" most people nodded their heads.
But not all. Duff Cooper resigned as First Lord of the Admiralty, while in the House of Commons, Winston Churchill declared: "We have sustained a total and unmitigated defeat. £l was demanded at pistol point. When it was given, £2 was demanded at pistol point. Finally the Dictator consented to take £l.l7.6d with the rest in promises of goodwill for the future."
More and more people were reaching the same conclusion. The Daily Mirror warned: "We know what the Nazi word is worth."
Yet Ambassador Kennedy continued to say otherwise. In a notable speech on Trafalgar Day, he said, "Democratic and dictator countries ... have to live together in the same world, whether we like it or not."
These words were not well received, and the Ambassador's honeymoon with the British press ended when he returned to the United States for consultations with his President. In New York he told the Journal American - "I feel more strongly than ever ... that this nation should stay out .. absolutely out ... of whatever happens in Europe." To Associated Press he said, "Last summer I predicted there would be no war in Europe. Well, I am going out of the prophet business on 31 December."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 116