"Sure," Freddie agreed. "Everything is different in war."
Even so, the next day he made Sean sign the partnership agreement. "Give the money away if it worries you," were his final words on the matter.
Freddie's last few days in London sped by. Meetings with CBS about Sean taking over Seven Days in London - a paralysing drunken orgy of a stag party before the wedding - kissing Margaret while the whole of London looked on - the reception at the Dorchester. After which Freddie and Margaret were gone, to Lisbon and thence to New York by the TWA Clipper.
Sean was overwhelmed with work. Just standing in Freddie's shadow was a full-time job. Freddie's parting advice had been to hire an assistant - "Find some Mick fresh off the boat. Then work him into the ground."
Sean had no time even for that ... and Val Hamilton was as busy as he was. The Labour Party was now part of Churchill's government, and Val's cockney sparring partner, Herbert Morrison, had become Minister of Supply. The Party stood on its head. Everything they had struggled against was now acceptable. The new Minister of Labour, Ernie Bevin, had spent his life fighting for a forty-hour week, now he told workers to ban strikes and work seven days a week. Clem Attlee pushed an Emergency Powers Bill through the House of Commons which gave the Government more power than ever before. An Englishman's home was no longer his castle; any man with a uniform could enter his house, search it, turn out his lights, send him to bed or take him to jail. As Supply Minister, Herbert Morrison controlled factories and plants, prices and delivery schedules - and Val Hamilton was one of his assistants.
She laughed when Sean teased her about the Party's change of heart. "I know, but haven't you heard - there's a war on."
The war now generated constant emergencies, alarms, tensions and strains - and an electric excitement as well. Hours alone were savoured, happiness was snatched at, for who could say what would happen tomorrow? Val was sent all over the country, and was away for days, sometimes weeks at a time. She and Sean had less time together but treasured it more. If Val was in London, gone was the pretence of not sleeping with Sean in Craven Street.
"People do talk, you know," Cynthia Hamilton remonstrated when Val made a rare appearance at the Dorchester.
"Oh?"
"The Bleddows were in on Tuesday, and she must have told everyone in the hotel."
Val grinned, "I wonder if she knows her daughter is shacked up with a Polish Colonel in -"
"Your expressions -"
"There's a war on. Didn't Shakespeare say something about 'Lechery, lechery - still wars and lechery -'"
"He most certainly did not say shacked up. Besides you can't condone...”
"No, just enjoy. I'm sorry, I don't mean to shock you, but this is 1940 and there is -"
"A war on," Cynthia sighed, "as if one could forget. Not that war makes the slightest difference to the way babies are born."
"Oh Mother," Val's eyes widened, "you don't mean - you and Father - my own parents, well I'm too shocked ..."
Cynthia chuckled and gave in. She had no defence against Val's high spirits. Few people did. Val had grown in stature and confidence, from a girl to a woman. She worked furiously, believed in her job, was in love and therefore happy - at least for most of the time. Occasionally black moods engulfed her, sometimes she sensed that her country's effort had come too late, and that the German war machine was unstoppable. Even then she made jokes, though only to Sean.
"Darling," she said one night. "Come to bed, come to bed now."
He was working. He had not expected her, it was late, he was to broadcast in the morning from the cramped studio beneath Peter Robinson's in Oxford Circus, his script was unfinished. He sat pounding his typewriter, speaking sentences aloud to practise the feel of them.
"Come on Irishman," she grinned. "Make love to me. It might be your last chance. If the Germans come Himmler will seize me as his mistress and you'll never have me again."
Sean hammered his machine, reading aloud from the script - "There can be no doubting - correction, there can be no mistaking the new mood in Britain -"
She crossed to his chair to nuzzle his neck and stroke the inside of his thigh.
"... and the stiffening resolve ..."
She giggled and reached for his crotch, "The stiffening other things ..."
"And, and the aroused ... Jaysus, Val!"
They went to bed. Two hours later she made some tea and helped him organise his script. The work would be done, it was too important to leave, his work and hers - and yet other needs were important too. Just being in his arms made her feel safe, eased the tension, helped stifle her fears. When they made love she forgot about the blackout and gas masks and the dire predictions overheard in Herbert Morrison's office. Afterwards it was like being reborn. The black mood lifted, the possibility of invasion receded in her mind. She was her usual self again - confident, courageous and full of talk about "the new tomorrow".
"Ernie Bevin is right," she said. "This war will change everything. The working class won't be fooled again, not like after the last war. Bevin says -"
"Does Hitler agree?"
"Oh, him -"
"Or even your mother?"
Val grinned, "Morrison says he'll make her Mayor of Lewisham. She'd be good at it too."
They laughed and she snuggled against him. "I don't expect you've seen it yet, but things are changing. I go into factories every day. The mood is different, believe me, darling. Production is up, problems are being sorted out - I don't know, but it's as if the people themselves are taking this war over."
She was right, and Sean had seen it. The mood of defiance had been growing since the fall of France. Only that day a bus conductor had said to Sean, "Bloody allies, buggering about. We're well rid of them if you ask me. Now it's up to us - an' we'll show Hitler."
Val laughed, "Isn't that what I said? Chamberlainism is dead, the old school tie is dying, and the future belongs to the working class."
Sean's column reported the new mood because it was there. He saw examples every day. As men went off to the Army, their women came out from their kitchens to work in factories and offices - to deliver the post, the milk and the bread. Even in London's clubs, waiters had given way to waitresses. Women were in uniform, driving ambulances, directing traffic, sweeping roads - a new breed of women, who wore slacks and went hatless and complained cheerfully about rationing. London became ever more cosmopolitan, with streets full of Dutch policemen in black silver-braided uniforms, and de Gaulle's Free French with their black kepis, sharing the pavements with the electric blue uniforms of Dominion pilots. After a while even the sandbagged entrances to restaurants looked as familiar as parks without railings and Piccadilly Circus with Eros obliterated by yet more sandbags. Sean reported the new mood, but he still remembered Dunkirk and asked himself - "When will the invasion begin?"
The answer was not long in coming. Early August found Sean covering a story just as dramatic as Dunkirk. Seven Days in London went out as usual - although now Sean's stories were not gathered in the capital, but in green Sussex valleys and the orchards of Kent. Day after day he craned his neck and watched the dog-fights in the sky ... watched the dragonfly glint of wings spinning and snarling over the countryside ... and night after night he scrounged lifts into airfields or bought drinks in nearby pubs, listening to exhausted ground crews talk over the battle. The war in the air was the start of the invasion. Fleet Street was aware of the odds - that the RAF had neither the planes nor the pilots to hold the Luftwaffe back for much longer. Yet every day patched-up Spitfires and battle scarred Hurricanes rose up to meet the oncoming waves of Stukas and Zerstorers.
The sky became a terrifying place, raining blazing aircraft, shell splinters and parachutes - a huge cauldron of noise, contrails scoring white lines across the blue sky, the air shaking with the whine of engines and cannon fire. Every day, for day after day.
Sean stayed in Sussex and Kent, travelling into London once a week for his broadcast - then, often with John Plum of the Mirror, h
e returned to the chalk hills, or to walk past shop-keepers sweeping broken glass and shrapnel from their doorways.
Sean saw the pride in their faces. Every corner had a newspaper placard, freshly chalked - "RAF v Germans, 61 for 26 - Close of Play Today, 12 for O". Perhaps the claims were exaggerated, but people never admitted that, even to themselves. "This is our war now," they seemed to say, "and we're holding the front line."
Within a month, Sean knew enough about dog-fights to understand the tactics - and to appreciate the frustrations of some of the pilots. At Manston, for instance, the RAF had to climb into the sky already occupied by the enemy, knowing they would be jumped at 18,000 feet. "We should pull back to the airfields north of London," a pilot told Sean, "and gain height as we fly south. We'd come at Jerry on level terms then. It's so bloody obvious a kid could see it."
Sean sympathised, but he knew the answer even to that. The top brass were terrified that bombers would get through to London. Large-scale air raids were still unknown. Estimates of possible damage were frightening - some predicted that ten days of intensive bombing would create 200,000 casualties.
So Sean reported the Battle of Britain and felt more part of the war every day. These people were his friends. He was in love with an English girl who made droll jokes about what the Germans would do to her if they landed - jokes he pretended not to hear because he was lost for the right words of comfort. He made his sympathies known in a dozen ways, obliquely, by innuendo - but where Freddie Mallon had said outright, "America should be fighting this war," Sean had not said that about Ireland. Ireland remained neutral, by edict of Eamon de Valera and the wishes of most of her people.
Sean was under all sorts of pressures. Ever since being beaten up in Shadwell, he had received callers from Dev's office. An emissary from Eamon de Valera arrived at Craven Street every month. Sean knew why. Freddie's column and the CBS broadcasts commanded a wide following in the United States - and Dev wouldn't want the Americans to get the wrong impression of Irish policy.
He knew Dev's views by heart - that Ireland should stay neutral. He even accepted that with an army of less than 13,000 men. Ireland would be of little use in the war. Yet Ireland could play a part. If the British Royal Navy operated from Irish ports they could protect the life-line of supplies coming from America. German submarines were inflicting crippling losses. One hundred and fifty merchant ships had already been sunk. In June alone 300,000 tons, of shipping were torpedoed. Britain's shortages became more severe every day. The sugar ration was cut, butter reduced, tea limited to two ounces per person a week. Newspapers shrank from lack of newsprint, petrol rationing became ever more stringent. Vital materials were drying up. Yet de Valera still refused British shipping the use of Irish waters, or British aircraft the safety of Irish airspace.
Dev's men were not alone in bending Sean's ear. Other men called, men sent by Churchill, men who talked in confidential murmurs. "It's time for a united Ireland to fight this war. What we need is a Council of Defence for all Ireland."
"A Council of Defence?"
"A cross-border organisation that would consider all sorts of things, maybe even ending partition entirely."
Sean's heart lurched, "Would the Ulster Government go along with that?"
A shrug. "They'd buy a common defence policy. Then it would be up to your people to persuade them to go further."
With hope in his heart, Sean passed the hint back to Dev via his representative, but the Taoiseach was as unyielding as ever. De Valera would rather deal with the devil himself than with Winston Churchill.
The Craven Street crowd, especially some of the American journalists, were at Sean too. Clark Nelson was the most persistent, "Look kid, let me tell you about political power in the States. The Irish vote counts big. Places like New York, Philadelphia, Boston - Irish Democrats pull a lot of muscle. Nobody's going to sweet talk them into this war on the side of the Brits except ..." Nelson wagged a finger, "maybe a Mick. If you tell them neutrality is a dead duck, well I dunno, maybe they'll listen. Why else did Freddie Mallon hand you his empire?"
Was that why Freddie did it? Sean asked himself that question every night. Was Freddie using him? It seemed preposterous - they were such firm friends - Freddie trusted him to do a good job, that was all, and Nelson was jealous ...
Sean was pulled all ways. What hurt most was the accusation of being bought. Another American told him, "Back home we treat uppity niggers like you. Give 'em a few trinkets, make a fuss of them. After that they're neither one thing nor another. Can't go back to their own and can't ever be one of us. Uncle Toms. That's what's happened - the Brits have made you an Uncle Tom Mick."
The accusation festered. Sean saw himself through the other man's eyes - dressed in English clothes, accustomed to English ways, living in London with an English mistress. Even his accent had changed. After two years with Freddie he sounded faintly American. If he blasphemed he said "Jesus" more often than "Jaysus".
Something had to give. Sean wondered about going to America, perhaps when Freddie came back, Freddie came back. But he would want to take Val with him and she had the same answer for everything - "Wait until the end of the war."
Val was in Manchester for the whole of August, working for Herbert Morrison, and Sean was out of London most of the time - watching the Spitfires fight their incredible duels in the sky. Busy, terrifying days - and it was rare for one to end without someone sneering about Ireland in Sean's hearing - "Bloody Irish, living off the fat of the land. If we go, they go, that's for sure. At least we've got the guts to fight." One night Sean found himself arguing furiously in defence of de Valera. He wondered what his father would have said. Pat Connors had despised de Valera, but then Pat Connors had positively loathed Churchill.
Sean made up his mind at the end of the month. It was the hardest decision of his life. He asked nobody's advice. One morning something clicked in his mind and the decision was made. He telephoned Dublin and asked Dinny to come over for a meeting.
Dinny arrived three days later, tired after a difficult journey, and irritable about Dublin's press censorship which sounded even fiercer than London's. Dev was using the Emergency to extend government power over all manner of things. "Sure there's no telling what he'll do next," Dinny complained. "Did you know he's blind now, or as near as dammit. Well, it suits him, he and Frank Aitkin and Boland are like the three brass monkeys - Dev sees nothing, Aitkin hears nothing, and Boland says not a damn word."
It was a happy reunion, although as Sean listened to the news from home he wondered if it was "home" any more. He had never been back, not for a Christmas or a vacation, or even for when the Widow O'Flynn married Jim Tully.
In exchange for the news from Dublin, he told Dinny bits and pieces of war-gossip, and how the south coast was being prepared to face the invasion.
Then he announced his decision. "We should be in this war, Dinny, and I'm going to say so."
"Dear God, you've gone out of your mind!" Dinny's face darkened. "And what do you mean, you're going to say so? Not in print, I hope. Never on the wireless to America -" They had a furious argument.
Dinny was passionate in his defence of neutrality. "Sure and why not? Every true Irishman thinks the same. Would you have us fight for Churchill and the British Empire -"
"I'd have us fight Hitler, that's all. To hell with the British Empire -" They argued for well over an hour.
Dinny talked of the mood in Ireland. "The country is behind Devon this. Some of us hate his guts on other things, but not about this. We want no part of a British war -"
"Or a French war? Or a Belgian war -"
"Dear God! Didn't your Da spend his life fighting the buggers -" "And didn't an Irishman kill him?"
"Dublin's still proud of his name. Would you bring shame on it?" Sean went deathly white.
Dinny put his head in his hands. "Will you just listen to me? Sean, you've got me so - look it, I'm sorry I said that about the Da and - God, give me another drink and let's s
tart over again."
Dinny was too upset to calm down, even after a few more drinks. "They'll never forgive you, Sean - never! Isn't it enough you're fighting the IRA without taking on the whole country? Dev will brand you a souper, a traitor to Ireland -"
"Do you believe that? There are fifty thousand Irishmen in the British Army. Are they traitors too?"
"God help us, they're not on the wireless, shaming Ireland -" "Shaming? To condemn Fascism -"
"Dublin won't see that. Sean, they'll spit on your name. Will you think of Pat, of all the things he wanted for you, a place in the Dail even. Didn't he always hope -"
"Will you stop bringing the Da in all the time. It's my life, my decision -"
"But his name gets dragged down with you." There was a long, painful silence.
Finally Sean shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dinny. I've my mind made up. Nothing else has changed. I'm as Irish as you about partition or anything else - but this war, Hitler - well, that's different."
They talked through most of the night, talked not argued, with Dinny almost in tears at times. White-faced and trembling, Sean explained the things he had heard from refugees, what he had learned from his reading and from simply being with Freddie. So much thought had gone into his decision that he was sure it was right.
Dinny saw only the chasm between them, an unbridgeable divide that would keep Sean forever from Ireland. At one point he said, "When I left home, everyone said I was to bring you back with me, but now," he shook his head, "wouldn't it be best if you stay over here. Maybe I can make your friends see what you're at, but Dev and the Dail... you know what I mean well enough."
The reproach cut Sean like a knife. Even the surprise he had prepared would be spoiled, but he went through with it anyway. "About the Gazette, Dinny. I'd like you to buy it. God knows, it's rightfully yours anyway. Pay me so much out of profits every year, whatever you and Senator O'Keefe think fair. I'll never doubt your word on a penny, you know that well enough."
Even though Dinny accepted the offer and expressed his thanks, the transaction seemed to underline the parting of their paths. They went to bed for a few hours' sleep, both with heavy hearts.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 127