It felt strange, leaving Craven Street at eleven at night. It had been home for so long that it had become part of him - but it was part of Freddie too, and Sean felt it was right for Freddie's wife to have the use of it now.
Tubby Reynolds owned a large terrace house which he was trying to convert into seven flats - trying being the operative word since he was restricted by shortage of materials and inadequate cash. Sean and Tubby had seen a good deal of each other - in fact Tubby had become Sean's closest friend in Fleet Street since Freddie went away. Their friendship had started during the crossing to Dunkirk and had ripened over the years. Like Freddie, Tubby was older than Sean, forty at the end of the war, but unlike Freddie he was not a dedicated journalist. He once said, 'I think it's a very grubby profession. We're nothing but voyeurs when it comes down to it. Peeping Toms who reveal all for the titillation of our readers."
He was poring over architects' plans when Sean arrived. "There's tea in the pot," he said, barely looking up, "do you want some?"
And some minutes later Sean was touring the house, clambering over builders' materials with a mug of tea in his hand while Tubby talked excitedly about the money to be made from converting old houses - "All the large London houses are done for. People can't afford them any more. Skivvies worked for nothing before the war, just to have a job. But that's all changed. Women earning decent wages in factories won't go back to domestic service. Who'll do the housework then? Can you see Cynthia Hamilton on her knees with a dustpan and brush?"
Afterwards Sean went to sleep in a bedroom without a door. "Don't worry," Tubby said, "that'll be fixed by tomorrow night."
Actually it took longer, but the floor was in place by the end of the week. It was typical of Tubby to underestimate the time jobs took, but despite that the alterations at Rutland Gate moved steadily forward. Tubby continued to work in Fleet Street but devoted every spare hour to supervising his small team of craftsmen. He only employed three. "All I can afford," he admitted to Sean, "what with their wages and the cost of materials I'm flat broke."
The state of Tubby's finances was well known in Fleet Street. He borrowed from everyone. Every penny went into the house. "Never mind," he shrugged, "I'll make a fortune when it's finished."
Sean returned most nights to find Tubby waiting to provide a tour of inspection. Sean praised the alterations as enthusiastically as possible, but generally it was late and he was asleep on his feet. Everyone wanted to give Margaret a party, that was the problem, and with Freddie away in Germany Sean was the obvious escort. He enjoyed himself, but successive late nights imposed quite a strain. The pace of his professional life was as fierce as ever. Seven Days was more demanding without the continuing drama of war. Stories were varied and took longer to find but Sean found them, and still produced his newspaper columns, five thousand words a week on what was happening in London. He worked long and hard by day, and escorted Margaret everywhere at night - but it was exhausting.
Freddie came back to the surprise of his life. He and Margaret spent a few days "honeymooning" which gave Sean a rest, but not much - for when the Mallons entertained, Sean was expected as a guest, and when the Mallons were asked out, Sean was invited too. In October, when Freddie returned to Nuremberg for the War Crimes Trials, once again Sean was found all over London escorting Margaret Mallon. Unknown to him she did it deliberately, it was part of her "resurrect Sean Connors campaign", but inevitably people began to talk. Margaret remained unconcerned. She poured scorn on it - "Dirty minds will imagine anything. Freddie's never even raised an eyebrow."
Freddie never had cause. Sean made sure of that. His behaviour was irreproachable, but people misread it at times. His fondness for Margaret showed in his eyes. When they went out she took his arm as a matter of course. They danced at night clubs and sometimes held hands on their way back to their table. People talked ... but Sean was too absorbed to notice.
Understandably, what with Margaret and a host of other things, the brief mention of Matt Riordan's escape in some of the British press had escaped his attention - but at the end of October a story in the Mail set his heart pounding.
IRA IN SMASH AND GRAB RAIDS
Bow Street Magistrates were told this morning that the three men charged with last week's raid on a Leyton jewellers are wanted in Dublin for murder. The men, Patrick Flynn, aged 37, Michael Casey, 32, and Clancy Ryan, 36, all members of the IRA, escaped from a Dublin prison in September following an incident in which eight men died. A fourth man, Matthew Riordan, escaped at the same time and remains at large. He is believed to be in Northern Ireland ...
Sean's stomach turned over. Months had passed without Riordan entering his mind. Even thoughts of Ireland were rare. Dinny Macaffety had transferred the enormous sum of five thousand pounds to Sean's London bank - the sum settled upon for the Gazette - but apart from that Sean's contact with Dinny was spasmodic. He felt guilty at times. He remembered his father's dreams, and his father's death at Keady ... he remembered his own vows to take revenge on Matt Riordan and the IRA ... but it all seemed so long ago - before the war, before Val and so many experiences which had changed him. Until seeing that hated name in print. It was like ripping plaster away from a still open wound ... all the old pain flared up with searing intensity.
But the moment passed. Riordan's whereabouts remained unknown, his name faded from the newspapers. It stayed alive in Sean's mind for a while but as the weeks sped by it faded even there. As usual too much was happening. What with work by day and Margaret's parties by night, November flashed by. Margaret was determined to enjoy herself and to bring Sean alive again in the process - and she did, but it placed Sean under a strain. It wasn't just the late hours. Margaret was a constant reminder of Val. Often Sean's face was touched with sadness. Margaret would say - "No frowns allowed. Come on, let's dance." And dance they did, to the growing satisfaction of the gossips. Talk became so widespread that rumours even reached Sean, but when he mentioned them Margaret merely smiled, "Don't be so ridiculous, you are my brother-in-law."
They were trying to help each other, but their good intentions nurtured a dreadful seed of destruction. Sean should have remembered how unsure of himself Freddie had been about Margaret in the old days. He should have known Freddie would be jealous - and maybe he did but what could he do when faced with Margaret's determined efforts to paint the town red? After all, someone had to escort her.
Freddie arrived back in London twelve days before Christmas, and he and Sean lunched together the following day. On the surface Freddie was as friendly as ever, but underneath Sean detected a coolness.
"These trials are dragging on forever," Freddie scowled. "Maybe I'll take Margaret over to Nuremberg in January."
Sean had an uncomfortable suspicion that some of the tittle-tattle had reached Freddie's ears in Germany. Of course Sean did what he could - he excused himself from one party, and avoided at least two functions because the Mallons would be there - but that just seemed to add to the gossip. Finally he told himself it was too ridiculous for words, and when Margaret insisted that he attend their party on Christmas Eve he accepted with pleasure. After which Christmas passed happily and the three of them enjoyed themselves. In fact all would have been well - had it not been for New Year's Eve.
Sean hated New Year's Eve. It was seven years since he had danced at Eaton Square, but the very words "New Year's Eve" evoked a picture of Val in that lemon dress. The passing of time neither dimmed the memory nor dulled the pain, and on that New Year's Eve Sean Connors got drunk - gloriously, hopelessly, pissed-as-a-newt drunk!
Freddie and Margaret found him on the Embankment at four in the morning. They staggered upstairs with him to the sitting-room in Craven Street where they loosened his collar, stripped off his soiled jacket, took away his shoes and flopped him down on a sofa.
"Glory be," groaned Freddie. "He weighs a ton. Come on honey, leave him to sleep it off."
But instead Margaret went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of war
m water. "I can't leave him like this. You go up if you like, it won't take me a minute to clean him up."
Her back was to Freddie. She neither saw his expression or heard him mutter about making coffee. Not that it would have made any difference.
A minute later warm water brought Sean back to life. He groaned and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was such a vision of beauty that his heart lurched. Her face was inches away. Suddenly his loneliness was too much to bear. Instinctively he reached up with both hands and brought her lips down to his. His grip slid over her shoulders to pull her down onto him. She fell into his arms, pinned to the length of his body ...
"What the hell!" Freddie roared from the door.
He dropped the coffee things and reached the sofa in two strides, to pull Margaret backwards and onto the floor. After that it was bedlam. Freddie lost control. Sean toppled to the floor in an effort to escape. Margaret screamed and flung herself between them. Freddie grabbed her and slapped her face - "You bitch! I busted a guy's jaw in Germany when he told me what was happening behind my back -"
"No Freddie. It's not like that,' she sobbed, holding her face. "Please -"
Sean struggled to his feet - "Freddie -"
The American turned and swung.
Sean took the punch flush on the chin.
It took Margaret ten minutes to separate them. The baby was shrieking in the bedroom. The nurse ran out onto the landing, struggling into her dressing-gown. Margaret's dress was torn. Sean's eye was cut - and Freddie was sobbing from exertion and jealousy.
Margaret pulled Sean out to the landing, then pushed him downstairs to the front door. "You'd better go. I've never seen Freddie like this -"
"I gotta apologise. Oh God, I'm so sorry -"
"It's all right. Go now. I'll call you in the morning."
Then she shut the door in his face. Sean staggered down to the Embankment. A chill wind from the river threatened to cut him in half. His head cleared. Realisation hit him like a hammer. He almost wept. "Oh God, what have I done ..."
Margaret did not telephone in the morning. At two o'clock in the afternoon Sean went shopping for a huge bouquet of flowers. Then he bought a box of black-market cigars from a tobacconist who had known him for years. He broke the seal and put a note inside to Freddie - "You two are my dearest friends. How could I insult either of you? Please forgive me."
From Tubby's house in Rutland Gate he flagged down a taxi and paid the man to deliver the gifts - but an hour later the man returned, unable to obtain an answer from Craven Street.
Sean telephoned. There was no reply. He was expected to dine with the Mallons that night. At eight he dressed for dinner, hoping they would collect him as promised. At ten he went out to a pub and drank his evening meal alone.
The following morning the estate agents who acted for the owners of Craven Street telephoned - "Mr and Mrs Mallon have left for Germany. The keys are with us, in case you wish to move back into the house."
Sean said no, he would not move back. After which he tried to find Freddie. He doubted that his friends had left the country already, no matter what the estate agent said, but tracing them was impossible. The Dorchester had no knowledge of them, and Sean was reluctant to ask George and Cynthia.
Ten days later a friend telephoned to say that the Mallons were in Nuremberg.
Sean wrote to Freddie's hotel.
The letter was returned unopened.
By the end of January 1946 Sean wondered if he would ever see his friends again. He would do anything for Freddie, and just as much for Margaret. He remembered sailing into hell on earth with her at Dunkirk ... and being reunited with Freddie in Dover. He remembered ... and remembered ... so many things.
Inevitably he spent more time with Tubby Reynolds, sharing the second floor at Rutland Gate - and when Tubby's funds were exhausted, Sean loaned him six hundred pounds to continue the building work. Tubby was grateful but concerned. "There's no denying I need the money but God knows when you'll see it back. And if you're going to the States with Freddie Mallon -"
But Sean shook his head. "Don't worry - I have a feeling I'm staying right here."
Chapter Two
Mark Averdale's decision to go to Africa in 1946 was not taken lightly. He would be away a very long time. The Bowley estates covered thousands of miles. By a quirk of fate the Averdales actually owned even more of Africa than they did of Ulster. When an investment that size goes sour a great deal of time is needed to put it right. Mark harboured no illusions, nor did he overestimate his own competence. His attitude remained constant - he had no interest in business on a day-to-day basis, that was a job for his managers, and if honest men were not to be found in Africa then Mark planned to look closer to home. Plenty of young Englishmen were looking for a future abroad. The British Government was providing finance for thousands of ex-officers to buy farms in Kenya and Rhodesia. White men were flocking to the Dark Continent as never before.
It was as well Mark was encouraged by that, for little else pleased him. Attlee's Labour Government filled him with dread. New taxes were imposed every day. Mark's entire fortune was threatened. The railways had been nationalised, then the coal mines. What next? Suppose the Government seized all agricultural land? What would happen to the thousands of Ulster acres owned by the Averdales? What would Mark be left with - shipyards that were already running down after the war - linen mills producing a product superseded by rayon and cotton - a London house that would cost the earth to re-open!
It was all very worrying and for the first time in years Mark felt unable to console himself with dreams of Kate. No matter what Molly said he could not believe the child would grow up into a beauty. She lacked grace, her skin was bad, she was gauche - there was no magic. His heart ached when he remembered the uncanny resemblance between Kate the young mother and Rouen's model - but that had been a miracle, he had been a fool to expect another. Mark tried to put her out of his mind but it still hurt, it hurt every night when he dreamt of what might have been.
The one bright spot in Mark's life was young Tim O'Brien, who was everything Mark could have hoped for. The boy was quick to learn and dogged in his application. Mark had never seen such determination. Tim seemed set to master every aspect of the Averdale businesses in Ulster. He was only seventeen but his grasp of commercial affairs was astonishing. Mark had offered him the chance of university, but Tim turned it down flat. "What I really want is to work as Mr Harris's assistant."
Harris was Mark's General Manager, and had been for three years. He was competent, but not as able as Eoin O'Brien. Nobody had ever equalled O'Brien's efficiency, but Mark nurtured hopes that one day another O'Brien would surpass even his father's high standards.
"He's a grand little worker, sir," Harris said. "I'd be happy to take the lad on."
"He's as bright as a whistle," Mark agreed proudly. "I'm relying on you, work him hard and teach him all you know. He'll carry a lot of responsibility one day."
So gradually Mark organised his affairs in Ulster to operate in his absence. He met with his bankers, his lawyers, his accountants, and the Unionist Party at Stormont - and said much the same to everyone: "You'll have to keep an eye on those lunatics at Westminster. Thank God we've our own Government. We can stop the worst of Attlee's stupidities."
"No surrender," came the chorus - the time-honoured Ulster rallying cry.
No surrender ran in Mark's blood, and in '46 he felt threatened. His assets were at risk. When asked how long he would be away in Africa, he shrugged. "All I remember about Bowley's place is it takes three years to turn coffee into a money crop. I'll be home long before then I hope, but I'll not be back until everything's settled."
And so, in March, Averdale sailed for Mombassa. His last meeting in Belfast was with the RUC to remind them of their search for Matt Riordan.
"Wherever he is now," they assured him, "he's not in Belfast, we're damn certain of that."
But they were wrong. Matt Riordan was in Belfast, and ha
d been for some time - and he was safe in Belfast, safer than he had been for years.
It all came about following his accident at the house in Lymington. Clancy's cousin, Bridie, had taken over during that long nerve-racking night. While Clancy and the others had argued downstairs, Bridie had sat at Matt's bedside and nursed him through the most frightening hours of his life.
Bridie was barely qualified as a nurse, but working in a Liverpool hospital had taught her not to panic. She had held his hand and reassured him in her calmest voice, while all the time thinking of how to get him to a doctor. There was only one doctor she could trust - her brother Hugh.
"You just sleep," she said to Matt and then lied, "I saw this happen to a man in the war. He got over it, with time and good nursing." She forced herself to laugh, "And you mightn't know it but I'm the best nurse there is."
Matt had clung to her hand. "Will I ever see again, Bridie - properly I mean?"
"Och, you'll see fine in a while, but not now. Will you do as your nurse says and get some sleep."
He was dozing when she left him at dawn. Downstairs Clancy and the others were in the kitchen, worrying themselves to a frazzle, but Bridie was quite positive. "Either we take him to a hospital, or bring a doctor here. Hugh might help, if I ask him -"
"For mercy's sake have some sense. Besides Hugh's in Belfast -"
"No, he's in London this week ..." she blurted out.
Clancy scowled and swore violently.
"If I could get to a phone," Bridie said after a deep breath, "Hugh would help -"
"Bloody Hugh -"
"Hugh's a Ryan," she snapped. "The same as us, Clancy. And he's Fergy's big brother!"
Hundreds of Ryans lived in the Ballymurphy district of Belfast. Clancy Ryan had been born there, and Bridie Ryan too, almost in adjoining houses. They had grown up together, them and two of Bridie's brothers. Fergus and Hugh, Clancy and Bridie - inseparable until death. But death had come early for Fergus - he was nine years old when the B Specials had charged into Ballymurphy one day on yet another raid. Fergy had been on the stairs when armed men rushed into the house. Fergy had screamed with fear. He had not shouted a warning as was claimed after at the enquiry. He had been going to bed. But some trigger-happy B Special loosed off a shot. The bullet smashed through poor Fergy as if he was made of papier-mâché. He had died in Bridie's arms, with the rest of the family looking on.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 136