She choked on his name, unable to say it aloud. She tugged Sean's hand and whimpered, "Look, down there. Is it..."
The man below glanced up at the Otter, narrowing his eyes as if committing every bullet hole to memory. Suddenly his eyes opened wide. He saw Sean. Then he was shouting and Sean was shouting back ... and Freddie was fighting his way up the gangway ...
Laughter and tears, embracing and back-slapping, questions and unfinished sentences - even that was not the end of that incredible day. Val and Cynthia Hamilton had met every ship. George Hamilton himself was on the quay.
Dover went mad. It was a carnival town, with flags and bunting, and "Well done BEF" daubed on walls everywhere. Sean and Margaret and Freddie Mallon were part of a miracle. More than 300,000 men had been lifted from the beaches of Dunkirk. Even after the Otter other boats sailed in, bringing yet more survivors, to be greeted by brass bands playing "See the Conquering Heroes Come", and garlands of flowers and singing in the streets.
"Bloody Marvellous!" screamed the headline in the Daily Mirror.
"So it was," Freddie agreed when he could speak.
Chapter Eight
"We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds ... in the streets, we shall fight in the hills ..." The voice from the radio rose to a thunder clap, "We shall NEVER surrender!"
Kate watched Aunt Eleanor shake her head in a gesture of mute admiration.
"... and even if," Churchill continued, "which I do not for a moment believe, this Island ... were subjugated or starving, then our Empire beyond the seas ... would carry on the struggle ..."
"I wonder?" Uncle Ned said dryly.
"Sssh," Aunt Eleanor waved a hand impatiently.
Kate rose from her chair and tiptoed to the door as Churchill thundered "... until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might..."
"He means us," Uncle Ned pointed an accusing finger at the radio.
"The same old pitch. The British are in a mess and we are expected to pull them out of it."
Kate closed the door noiselessly. Not that she expected Uncle Ned or Aunt Eleanor to notice - they were too absorbed with the radio and their forthcoming argument. It was a game they played - to argue over the news. Grown-ups pretended games were for children, but Kate had learned otherwise.
She had learned that lesson during the awful voyage out from England. The ship had pitched about on storm-tossed seas for days. Nazi submarines were rumoured to be tracking them. Yet even those were not the most frightening aspects of that terrible journey. Kate was tormented by the prospects of exile. She was being banished. Tim was being taken to Ulster, but she was being sent away. "Have I done something wrong?" she asked a dozen times over. "Am I being punished?"
Never had Kate felt more like an orphan - never more alone in the world. On the second night out from England, she had sobbed for her mother for the first time since the Killing at Keady.
She had tried so hard to please her guardian, only for him to send her away. "I want my princess to be safe," he had said. But suppose that were an excuse? Suppose she had not pleased him enough? Suppose it was a punishment?
"Men always punish women," Rose Smith had sniffed. "Don't worry. I love you, my darling. I'll look after you for ever and ever."
Which is when they had played Rose's game in the cabin. Nobody was ever to know about that. It was their secret - a strange, bewildering game which gave Rose so much pleasure that they played it again and again.
Kate had been terrified. She was in her berth, sobbing brokenheartedly - when Rose Smith drew back the bedclothes and climbed in beside her. Next minute Rose was kissing her on the lips ... and making strange moaning noises ... "Rose loves you, my darling ... come on, do what babies do, suck there."
Kate butted at the breast like a calf at an udder.
After which they did more peculiar things. Kate did them to please. She would face goodness knows what in America. She was afraid to face them alone. Besides, orphans had to please, otherwise ... the "otherwise" made her shudder. Rose threatened to desert her. If Kate told anyone of their game, she would be abandoned in America and sent to an orphanage. That was a terrifying prospect - so frightening that from that moment on Kate resolved to please everyone as often as possible. It was the only way an orphan could be safe.
Which was much on her mind when the ship eventually docked in New York. They arrived to a battery of flashbulbs, brass bands and Douglas Fairbanks the actor - all lined up to welcome the thirty-five refugee children on the passenger list. Kate's smile adorned the front page of the evening papers - "Fairbanks greets young English war beauty". Few readers guessed that the smile concealed a mass of insecurities - nor did the people of Dayton, Ohio, when Kate's photograph beamed at them two days later. "England's Shirley Temple to live in Dayton" ran the caption in the Independent. To the outside world Kate was as poised as she was beautiful - yet beneath the smiling exterior lurked a vast number of misgivings.
Superficially she had no cause for concern. Ned Bleakley was a pillar of Dayton society - owner of the Independent, President of the Institute of Fine Arts, Vice-President of the Choral Society - Ned Bleakley was widely respected. He had almost forgotten his distant links with Ulster until Lord Averdale's letter had arrived to remind him. And since the Independent had already said by then that refugee children from Europe should be the first beneficiaries of American hospitality, there was no question about providing a home for Kate and her nurse. Ned's house on Hurlingham Drive was large enough to accommodate a dozen refugees, let alone two.
On the other hand, Eleanor had certain misgivings. Childless herself, she lacked any experience of children. She and Ned had their own lives to lead, they were settled and happy ... a child would be a disturbance ... even worse, a child might come between them.
Kate had never met two more opposite people - Uncle Ned was tall and thin, and Aunt Eleanor was so short and stout that her hips and torso met without a discernible waist. Her calves disappeared into her shoes without pausing for ankles. Her walk was as stiff-jointed as a doll. Even her face was doll-like, round and fat - and when she laughed she bounced up and down like the Michelin Man.
The house was huge, almost as large as the one in Belgrave Square. Kate and Rose Smith were given their own suite, which included the most luxurious bathroom Kate had ever seen. And Kate adored the rest of the house, especially the big drawing-room with its two grand pianos. Uncle Ned had a billiard room and a study, and a workshop in the basement - and Aunt Eleanor had her own private sitting-room and a sewing room, although Kate knew without being told that Aunt Eleanor left the sewing to Mimosa, a huge black woman who spent hours in the basement laundry room. All the servants were black - Rose said Americans employed only black servants because they were the best. Certainly Kate soon learned to like the ones at 920, Hurlingham Drive, especially Thomas the butler who sometimes took her out for a drive in Uncle Ned's Cadillac.
Right from the outset, Kate was determined to please. She remembered her rule - that an orphan should please in every way possible, as often as possible, because only then was she safe.
The servants were charmed from the very first day - and Uncle Ned was soon singing her praises. Aunt Eleanor was slow to be won over, but once Kate learned not to monopolise Uncle Ned when he returned from his office in the evening, Aunt Eleanor relaxed and positively beamed with approval.
Six weeks after Kate's arrival, Madame Lefarge was appointed as her governess. Kate was to be taught French and the piano, drawing, painting and classical literature. In fact Ned and Eleanor Bleakley were better equipped to teach all of those subjects, except Madame Lefarge's natural language, but Lord Averdale had insisted on a tutor and Madame Lefarge was the best to be found. She was to work with Kate five mornings a week, from nine until twelve-thirty.
As far as Kate was concerned, Madame Lefarge was yet one more person to please.
Gradually K
ate learned what she should do to be liked. Uncle Ned's time with her was restricted to two hours on a Thursday evening (when Aunt Eleanor was at her "Bundles for Britain" meeting), and an hour or so on Saturday afternoon (while Aunt Eleanor was at the beauty parlour) ... which was when Kate wrote her "Appreciation of Literature" essay for Madame Lefarge - who never guessed that it was composed by Uncle Ned. That was Kate's secret with him - their game which nobody knew about, not even Aunt Eleanor.
For the rest of the week, Kate kissed Uncle Ned goodnight, and made sure that she never stayed more than ten minutes when he arrived home from his office in the evenings.
Aunt Eleanor's secret was that she helped Kate with her piano practice - nobody knew about that either, not even Uncle Ned. Aunt Eleanor said - "Let him think that Madame Lefarge is an excellent teacher." Kate had agreed, "It will be our secret, won't it, Aunt Eleanor."
Madame Lefarge's secrets were many. She wept every day at what the Germans were doing to her homeland - she had very little money and needed every cent she earned teaching Kate, which created a problem, for she had never studied literature and the English classics were beyond her. "Never mind," Kate encouraged, "we shall learn them together. But I wish I could sketch like you."
So another secret was born. From that day on the sketches which bore Kate's initials in the corner were not drawn by Kate at all. They were the work of Madame Lefarge, who shrugged their secret away - "Soon you will acquire the knack of the crayon, ma petite, then ... pouff, we shall discard these poor things of mine."
Uncle Ned was so proud of Kate's sketches that he published them in the Independent.
Aunt Eleanor was so pleased with Kate's essays that she read them to her friends. Madame Lefarge was so impressed with Kate's prowess at the piano that she talked of a genuine musical talent.
Kate was pleased that they were all so pleased.
So in a hundred small ways, Kate subtly wove her will into everyday life on Hurlingham Drive. Of course Rose Smith knew some of Kate's secrets, but then Rose Smith had secrets of her own to safeguard when dealing with Kate.
In September 1940, when Kate had been at Hurlingham Drive almost a year, Uncle Ned announced that another visitor was expected. "Freddie Mallon. We publish his column. He's coming over for a lecture tour."
"Is that the Mr Mallon on the radio?"
"The very same," Uncle Ned said proudly.
Even Rose Smith was impressed. Not a week passed without her listening to a programme called Seven Days in London which Mr Mallon and another man broadcast. Rose said, "They make it come so alive. I could almost be back in the old place."
Kate was losing interest in the old place. Now that she had organised Hurlingham Drive she was beginning to like America. She even used words like automobile and radio without thinking them odd. She wrote to her brother every month, and Rose, acting on instructions, was forever sending photographs of her to her guardian - but Kate rarely felt homesick. After all, where was home? She had left Ulster years ago, and the house in Belgrave Square was now closed.
Kate was beginning to feel safe in America. Mr Mallon's war in Europe seemed a long way away.
Freddie Mallon married Margaret Hamilton twenty-four days after the fall of Dunkirk, a frustrating delay caused by the reading of the banns in church on consecutive Sundays. Freddie was sour about it - "War quickens the pace of life in other countries, but in dear old England ..." Even so, so much happened that time passed quickly, even for Freddie. First he and Sean did a CBS special on Dunkirk - by pooling experiences they had the whole story - which they told in an especially extended Seven Days in London. The response was instantaneous. The broadcast was hailed throughout the United States as a classic of reporting; Freddie's New York agent signed up more newspapers to take Freddie's column - and, perhaps most important of all, Freddie was invited to give a lecture tour, coast-to-coast across America, giving his views on the war.
Accepting was difficult. He had Margaret to consider and so many Americans were fleeing London that he was afraid of being accused of deserting a sinking ship. "And it will sink," he said bitterly, "unless people back home stop listening to Joe Kennedy."
Ambassador Kennedy's reputation grew worse every day. "I thought my daffodils were yellow until I met Kennedy," said a British Foreign Office official. The story was retold all over town. Not only that but Kennedy was rumoured to be as anti-semitic as Hitler - and a third story said that now that his family was back in the States, he was chasing every woman in London.
The Kennedy saga even strained Freddie's close friendship with Sean Connors. "I tell you, Sean, Hitler doesn't honour neutrality. Neutrality won't save Ireland, or even the States when Hitler gets powerful enough. People who preach neutrality, people like Kennedy, make me sick."
Sean was shifting his ground, but loyalty stopped him short of condemning Kennedy. He regarded the Ambassador, if not as a friend, at least as someone who was friendly towards him. Privately he was more shocked by Kennedy's womanising than by his politics, though he remained silent even about that, perhaps because of his relationship with Val Hamilton who was herself the cause of some friction with Freddie.
Freddie disapproved, it was as simple as that - not of their romance, after all he had brought them together, but of their sleeping together. In Freddie's mind sleeping with tarts was one thing, sleeping with a girl whom one respected was another entirely. His sense of propriety was offended. Not that he said anything, neither did Sean, but both were aware of a slight coolness between them. It might have curdled into something worse had less been happening. As it was there was no time to dwell on it - what with the threat of invasion, the wedding, and Freddie's struggle to decide about going to America.
Invasion seemed inevitable, and from what Freddie had seen in France he gave the British little chance of resisting. Dunkirk had created a few euphoric days in London, but it had been a defeat when all was said and done. "A goddamm rout," according to Freddie. People felt let down by their leaders. "Morale gets lower every day," Freddie observed. Ten million people were too apathetic even to apply for ration books. Half the country still expected the Government to make a deal with Hitler.
"What sort of deal?" Freddie demanded angrily. "Deals don't work with Hitler. When will everyone realise that?"
On 10 June, a week after Dunkirk fell, Italy declared war on Great Britain and France.
On CBS, Freddie said: "Mussolini might fairly be described as the jackal of Europe."
On Friday, 14 June, Hitler's troops marched into Paris. Three days later, eighty-four-year-old Marshal Petain broadcast from hastily commandeered offices in Bordeaux. "With a broken heart, I tell you that fighting must cease."
Freddie snorted, "An old man with the voice of an old woman is begging for the honour of France. Hitler will make him eat dirt."
And Hitler did. Four days later, the French leaders were summoned to the same spot in the Forest of Compiegne where Marshal Foch had confronted the beaten Germans at the end of World War I. To underline the humiliation they were made to listen to Hitler's terms in the very same railway coach, Dining Car 2419D, that had been preserved for twenty-two years in a nearby museum.
Britain stood alone.
Ironically, the mood in London began to change. An uncertain lightheadedness made inroads into the gloom. When the marriage took place between Alfred Henry Mallon and Margaret Veronica Hamilton at St Mary's Church, South Kensington, on 27 June, hundreds of Londoners turned out to cheer the bride. "War or no war," declared the Evening Standard, "Love will find a way."
Few people were under more strain at the wedding than the Best Man. Sean had spent most of the preceding three weeks watching Freddie struggle with his decision about the lecture tour. If he went he was to be away in three months, and in three months Hitler's troops might be marching down the Mall. To return might be impossible. Equally if Margaret went to America with him she might never see her family again ... and if she stayed she might lose Freddie forever.
/> Freddie was horribly torn. "Someone needs to tell the people back home. Our ambassadors won't, not Bullit in Paris, nor Kennedy here. Roosevelt says all the right things but does nothing. If I stump the country ... well, I'm no politician, but hell, I just might make people see sense."
The fall of France decided him. "I must go," he told Margaret that evening, "and I want you to come with me."
George and Cynthia were informed first, over dinner at the Dorchester later that night. "I'll take very good care of her, sir," Freddie promised, while Margaret comforted her tearful mother.
Sean was told the next morning. He looked stricken at the news.
"It's the right decision," Freddie said firmly, "I've looked at all angles and I just might make a difference. You'll handle things fine here, I'm sure of that. You've been carrying too much of the load anyway - what about becoming partners? I'll widen the circulation back home and we'll split fifty-fifty - everything, including the credits, how about that?"
"I'd rather you stayed in London," Sean blurted out. "Remember when I first came over, and you took me in like a stray dog? I'd have caught the first boat back to Dublin if I hadn't met you."
It was too early in the morning to start drinking, but start they did - and by noon they were quite drunk, on whisky and memories, as they remembered back over the two years. As Sean saw it, he owed Freddie too much to accept a partnership. The American had taken over from where Pat Connors and Dinny Macaffety had left off.
Freddie feigned disgust. "That's the trouble with the Irish. They get so damn sentimental. I'm only going to be gone for three months, for God's sake!"
Sean knew that was not true. He sensed another great change in his life, but defining it defeated him. Even so he was vaguely aware of the irony. He had come to London in search of a fortune, now he was turning down more money that he had ever earned in his life. "It's this bloody war," he said bleakly, "it gives you a new set of values."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 126