Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  The two cramped rooms acquired a magic all of their own. It was their secret place, and as the weeks passed they schemed and planned to spend more time there together. Val no longer left Shadwell early on Friday afternoons. Instead she stoked up the fire and waited for Sean, who usually arrived at about four, in time for two glorious hours of lovemaking before they went "Up West" to meet Freddie and Margaret for dinner. After which Val went home to Eaton Square - but she often escaped back to Shadwell during the weekend for another meeting with Sean.

  Little wonder that Sean found that year exhilarating. By the summer it was hard to believe he was the same young man who had arrived in London the previous year, wearing a ginger tweed suit and a worried expression. All that remained from those days was the nickname Irish Navvy, and that was becoming talked about from one end of Fleet Street to the other. Freddie Mallon's protege had come a long way.

  And yet, it was not only Freddie's influence. Other people helped mould Sean - Val Hamilton more than anyone. She opened doors, not just to the Hamilton gatherings in Eaton Square, but to Labour Party politicians as well. And events helped ... the constantly boiling stewpot of political happenings developed a sharpness in Sean which might not have surfaced otherwise. Each was a factor in his growing confidence. Rarely now was he homesick. If he thought of the Widow O'Flynn it was only to hope that she was as happy with Jim Tully as he was with Val. Nor did he often write to Michael or Senator O'Keefe. The Senator sent him a quarterly statement which showed the Gazette to be quietly prospering, so with his assets safe and sound Sean was enjoying life. Of course contact with Dinny was regular, they often spoke on the phone - but Sean enquired about life in Dublin less and less. Even the rules were neglected - and he was often too tired at night to whisper to his dead father. In a changing Sean Connors only one thing persisted - that vague feeling of his that somehow the world was coming to an end. It was a premonition which grew stronger, influenced by his friends on the Mirror perhaps, who were convinced that war was inevitable. What would happen to Sean's new life then? He was Irish and neutral, but Freddie continued to pour scorn on neutrality. "Your father fought to win freedom for Ireland. Everyone should fight for their freedom. Think, Sean, think."

  On 25 August, time for thinking ran out. Sean had filed his usual huge quota of stories, many of the political ones gloomy with overtones of war, but some snippets of gossip gave reason for hope. Barbara Hutton, the multimillionaire, had closed her mansion in Regent's Park and moved to Capri. Winston Churchill had left London to holiday in Normandy. Various other politicians were vacationing in Europe. Surely war must be a long way off if the rich and the powerful could do that? And that very morning the pact announced with Poland must stabilise the situation. Or so Sean thought as he left Fleet Street and walked along the Strand to Craven Street, where he worked in his office for a couple of hours, before going for his visit to Val in Shadwell.

  But even as Sean worked at Craven Street, news of a quite different story was reaching Fleet Street. The IRA had bombed Coventry! At least five people were dead. Shocked news editors rushed to revise headlines for the afternoon editions - and before Sean began his journey to Shadwell newspaper vans were already delivering the story of the Coventry massacre.

  It hit Shadwell at a very bad time. Only that week there had been trouble in the docks. Half the stevedores were Irish, half were native born Cockneys - and there was barely enough work for a tenth of them. News of the IRA outrage in Coventry set light to a smouldering fuse. Fights broke out in the dockside pubs - "You come over here, stealing our jobs, killing and murdering, why don't you fuck off back to Ireland!" And Cockney blood boiled over when they were told to fuck off themselves. Soon men were fighting from one end of the West Garden Dock to the other. Outside the Lord Lovat in Dellow Street, two Irishmen were beaten senseless. Elsewhere, an Irish gang chased a man into the Meredith and Drew stables and thrashed him with horse-whips. A broken bottle was jabbed into a man's face outside the City of Dublin Dining Rooms ...

  Sean knew nothing of this as he walked down Watney Street carrying a bunch of yellow roses. He hated carrying flowers, but the reward was worth it. He pictured Val's pleasure, and the way she would throw her arms round his neck. He could almost taste her lips, and see the look in her eye as she undressed. He sighed with anticipation and quickened his step, only vaguely aware of the sounds of men shouting.

  He turned into the alley and ran straight into them. A crowd of docker's had backed two men up against the wall and were beating them mercilessly. Steel flashed as a docker's hook struck sparks from the brick wall. A man fell - six or seven others kicked out at him with their boots. The standing survivor twisted and turned against the wall, denied escape by men on either side.

  "Dear God," Sean gasped. "Are you killing that poor devil?"

  His accent betrayed him. Someone grabbed his arm. "Christ, here's another Irish bastard!" He was pushed against the wall. Stupidly he thought first of the roses, holding them above his head. A fist cracked into his face. His mouth filled with blood. A steel-tipped boot caught his knee ... and a moment later Sean was fighting for his life.

  He fought in a mist of rage, as he had fought for Maureen alongside the canal, all those years before, or along the Quays when his donkeys were killed. He grabbed one man by the ears and used him as a battering ram. He upended another and smashed his face into the wall. But they were too many for him. They came from all sides - twelve, maybe fifteen men, three of whom lashed out with steel hooks - a flailing mass of half-drunken men on a blood lust.

  Three minutes later he was down, felled by a steel hook plunged into his shoulder. Blood blinded him from a gash in his forehead. As he struggled to one knee a boot caught him behind the ear. He sprawled back down across cobblestones red with his blood. He raised his arms to fend off the blows. Again he was kicked down. Dizziness engulfed him. Far off, came the distant sound of police whistles. A steel-shod heel stamped on his fingers. A boot found his stomach, another cracked his head. A kick jarred his spine. He screamed. Dimly he heard the whistles again - and suddenly the men were gone, their fleeing footsteps clattering over the cobblestones.

  He lay in his blood and knew he was dying. That phrase "the end of the world" repeated emptily in his mind. Blood poured into his left eye, blinding him. His right eye throbbed. He was tempted to pass out, oblivion would be welcome. Somehow he forced his left eye open, willing it to focus. A yellow rose lay a yard from his head. Val's favourite colour. His broken hand reached for the flower. The alley looked a mile long, each cobblestone a yard wide. Behind him three crumpled figures lay inert on the ground, ahead the alley was deserted. Hazily he saw the entrance to the yard at the back of Val's building.

  He dragged himself, using his one good hand and his right leg. Twice he collapsed. He wondered how he would climb the stairs to Val's place. His breath came in gasps. He was sticky with blood.

  She saw him from the window - down by the trashcans, not moving. A crumpled mess of soiled clothes wrapped grotesquely around broken limbs. She screamed, sure he was dead. She screamed again and ran down the stairs, and was screaming hysterically when she reached the yard.

  Two policemen raced down to the alley. One struggled to hold her back, not wanting her to see what they had done to him. But Val saw.

  He almost died in the ambulance. The stretcher bearers thought he had gone. The hospital said he was virtually dead on admission.

  Val never left his side. She fought, she begged and pleaded with the hospital staff. She and Freddie arranged for a private room, with a cot in one corner for Val. George and Cynthia Hamilton arrived late that night and implored her to go home. She refused. Her fight was only just beginning.

  She fought like a tigress. Something told her she was his lifeline. It was inexplicable so she made no effort to explain. Who would understand? Even Freddie would have disbelieved her if she had said she was willing Sean back to life. She talked to Sean all the time, not out loud, in her mind, saying h
ow much she loved him, telling him over and over and over again, " I love you Sean, I need you Sean, I love you ..."

  For twenty-four hours he was not expected to live.

  For forty-eight hours even partial recovery was doubtful.

  For seventy-two hours his condition was critical.

  Val was there every minute. Twice his eyes flickered but closed immediately. She kissed his broken fingers and sat at his bedside. No words passed her lips. They were all in her mind ... in her mind she never stopped talking. "Sean, stay with me Sean ... I love you, Sean ..."

  Freddie patrolled the corridors, arguing with the doctors.

  On the third day Sean's lips twitched, as if with the ghost of a smile. Val burst into tears, and redoubled her soundless efforts - "stay with me darling ... I love you, Sean ..."

  Dinny Macaffety arrived from Dublin that morning.

  Senator O'Keefe and Michael O'Hara reached London in the evening.

  Freddie put them all up in Craven Street where they spent the night talking about Sean. It was then that Freddie learned that Sean actually owned the Gazette. Dinny told him the whole story and swore him to secrecy, in return for which Freddie explained about Val Hamilton.

  Dinny smiled sadly. "Wouldn't you think he casts some kind of spell. The finest looking woman in Dublin is worrying herself sick across the water." He fell silent for a minute, then chuckled, "and her engaged to be married." He turned to the Senator, "Wouldn't you say Jim Tully's given more money to the church in these last two days than the whole of his life. Sure, there's every good father in Dublin praying for Sean."

  And not just in Dublin. Special Masses were said in Shadwell as the East End came to its senses. Fresh flowers arrived at the hospital every morning. Newspapers published daily bulletins, while Fleet Street colleagues waited and hoped. Ambassador Kennedy telephoned the hospital, and Val's friends in the Labour Party sent even more flowers and messages of goodwill.

  Val continued her vigil, white-faced, heavy-eyed, aching with fatigue, but as resolute as ever.

  At ten o'clock that night, seventy-seven hours after Sean was admitted to hospital, the miracle happened.

  His eyes opened wide, just for a second, but long enough for him to see Val and for the faintest of smiles to touch his lips.

  Val's mind talked in letters ten feet high - "I love you, stay with me, I need you ..."

  "Val," the tiniest whisper came from his pillow.

  Her head went to his pillow. When he spoke every word took an entire breath. "Will you shut up, woman - and let a man get some sleep."

  He had heard! She had not spoken aloud. Somehow he had heard! Her eyes flooded with tears. She fell to her knees at the bedside, choking, "Sean, darling ..."

  "Val," he whispered, then went to sleep.

  Terror gripped her. She stumbled outside for a nurse. The nurse's eyes widened as she measured Sean's pulse. "It's strong," she said, "as strong as mine." They listened to his breathing, deep and regular, not shallow and laboured as before. The nurse fetched a doctor. He expressed amazement, and was astonished even more when Val flung her arms around him, kissing him through her tears.

  Freddie arrived half an hour later to find Val in a fever of impatience. "He's sleeping. I'm going home for a couple of hours. Stay with him, Freddie, don't move from his side, promise - and promise to stay awake. Freddie pleaded with her to go straight to bed at Eaton Square. Her answer was evasive. He organised her cab and telephoned Cynthia. "Put her to bed," he said firmly, "she's asleep on her feet."

  An hour later the doctor checked Sean's pulse again and expressed bewildered satisfaction - and shook his head when Freddie offered him his heart-felt thanks. "That wee lassie did more than we did. Don't ask me how, but she did it, we just helped."

  Freddie hoped that the "wee lassie" was catching up on some sleep. He hoped in vain. At four in the morning Val returned. Freddie was astonished. Doctors and nurses looked on in open disbelief. Val's hair had been rat-tailed and knotted when she left, uncombed in days. Her soiled clothes were the same ones she had been wearing when she had helped lift Sean into the ambulance. Her white, tear-stained face had been hollow-eyed and exhausted. Everyone had agreed she was on the verge of collapse.

  She returned radiant. Her face was paler than usual, she still looked a bit strained, but her impish grin was triumphant.

  "Sorry Freddie," she apologised softly. "My hair took longer than I thought."

  Margaret followed her into the room and saw Freddie's expression. "Go on, say it, I won't be jealous for once. Doesn't she look lovely."

  Freddie was too overcome to answer. Instead he kissed Val's cheek and turned to leave. She caught his sleeve. "It's all right, Freddie," she whispered. "He's going to get better now, he told me so."

  They left her sitting bolt upright in the chair. When the night nurse looked in Val seemed not to have moved. She held the same pose, her eyes on Sean's face, her lips ready to greet him when he opened his eyes. And when he did - three hours later - the grin on Valerie Hamilton's face outshone all the lights in Piccadilly.

  Chapter Four

  Matt Riordan was on the run. Although he was becoming used to it, being on the run in Northern Ireland was a sight easier than evading the man-hunt in England after the Coventry massacre. In Ulster, Matt knew dozens of safe houses where Republican sympathisers would provide shelter - in England it was different. After fleeing from Birmingham he had travelled first to Manchester, but of his five contacts there three had already been arrested and the other two were missing. Matt spent the night in an empty tram in the depot, to be awakened at five the next morning by the cleaning staff.

  After that he went to Liverpool, where he holed-up for twenty-four hours in the attic of a bakery owned by Ferdy's uncle, Mickey MacGuinness. There he waited for safe passage to Dublin to be organised, but MacGuinness's efforts to make contact with the IRA foundered. Detectives were searching the docks, travellers to Ireland were being scrutinised as never before. MacGuinness was terrified that Matt would be caught on the premises. Finally on the Sunday evening, Matt left, dressed in the new clothes which MacGuinness had provided and carrying an extra fifty pounds in his wallet.

  By Monday evening he was in Glasgow, and twenty-four hours later had made contact with Paddy Mullen, the local IRA commander. Mullen himself was under police surveillance so a lengthy meeting in public was out of the question. One brief encounter in a pub was enough. Matt returned to the pub just before closing time and went to the toilets, where he sat in a cubicle until a note was passed under the door. It gave an address in Bothwell Street. "Go there now" was written underneath.

  Twenty minutes later Matt walked up Union Street and ten minutes after that he was in the IRA safe house on Bothwell Street.

  Paddy Mullen was waiting for him. "You've got some neck - coming here after what you started down in the Midlands."

  "Will you hold on a minute and I'll tell you about it -"

  "Who needs telling! The whole bloody country is going mad -"

  "Then get me out. Get me across the water."

  "Just like that? This is nay a fucking booking office for the likes of you!" Mullen glared, red-faced with temper. They sat in an upstairs room, with a man at the window watching the street. Two others were below, guarding the front and back doors. Everyone was jumpy.

  Mullen's temper cooled after his initial outburst, but he was as bitter as ever about the effects of the Coventry bombing. "An Irishman can't cross the street in this city without a copper breathing down his neck. And it's the same all over from what I hear."

  It was. Police surveillance was massive everywhere.

  At the end of an hour, Mullen said, "You can sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we'll have ye aboard a collier for Belfast -"

  "That's no good. There's a price on my head -"

  "It's Belfast or nothing. Every minute you’re here endangers us -"

  "I'm to go to Dublin -"

  "You're to go to Bell!" Mullen slapped the ta
ble in fury. It was take it or leave it. Mullen wanted Matt out of Glasgow within twenty-four hours.

  Matt pondered his options. Ferdy and the others would help him in Belfast. Perhaps they could resurrect the bombing campaign, against military targets? Perhaps they could have a go at that bastard Averdale? It was tempting - if Matt could reach Ferdy from the collier without being intercepted by some trigger-happy B Special. The only alternative was to get down to London and go to ground in Kilburn. That would be easier, and at least his face wasn't staring down from Wanted Notices everywhere. But London was not Ireland, and most of all Matt wanted to reach Sean Connors in Dublin. It was a prospect he relished - Sean Connors, facing a full IRA trial, with Matt as executioner.

  The house grew cold during the hours of darkness. Matt dozed, wrapped in a blanket and slumped in an armchair - and when Wednesday dawned Matt was still weighing possibilities.

  By that Wednesday morning, Sean Connors was getting used to hospital. Nobody was forecasting a rapid recovery. His injuries were severe. The wound from the steel hook guaranteed a seven-inch scar down his back. His left leg was broken. His pelvis was fractured, and so were three ribs. Eighteen stitches had been sewn into his right leg. He slept for much of the time, doped against pain - but whenever he awoke, Val was there, freshly groomed and with a grin a mile wide.

  Nonetheless, recovery seemed certain by the Wednesday. Sean was taking liquid food. Visitors were allowed - Dinny, Michael, the Senator and Freddie Mallon - all of whom spent a few minutes with him under Val's watchful eye. Even the doctors seemed to defer to Val.

  Sean wanted to know why - why it had happened. Val avoided the issue at first, until eventually she told him about the Coventry massacre, and the backlash in the docks. He was incredulous. It was a shock another shock to have suffered yet again because of the IRA. The bitter irony brought a wan smile to his face. An even worse shock was to follow.