Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Then she kissed him goodnight while Freddie sat beaming and nodding his head.

  It was more than just Margaret - the whole of New York took to Sean. Cab drivers stared into their mirrors - "Say buddy, ain't you Sean Connors the broadcaster? Well how about that? It's a pleasure to meet you."

  People stopped him on the sidewalk and waylaid him in elevators - "Oh brother, I wanna tell you, some of your shows in the war were just something" - and - "Are you making your career in New York now?" - and - "Now you let me know if I can do anything for you."

  He was on every chat show and in every newspaper.

  Then, after about ten days, it stopped.

  Margaret chuckled, "That's New York. Everyone's said hello - now they figure it's up to you."

  Sean had so many initial impressions. Prosperity, the abundance of food, crowded, well stocked shops, the absence of queues. Freddie took him everywhere and was delighted with his reaction. "I tell you Sean, old buddy, you should appoint me guide to all the great cities. London in '38, New York now - stick with me pal, I'll show you the world."

  Freddie and Margaret enjoyed themselves hugely. Freddie still behaved towards Margaret as he had in the old days. He fussed over her constantly. "You want the truth," he said to Sean one night when she had gone to bed, "we've been married eleven years, we've got three wonderful kids, and I still can't believe my luck. It's the original fairy story. I'm the stable boy who married a princess. I'm scared to death that one day she'll find out I'm not the prince."

  It was useless to tell him he had been Margaret's prince since before Dunkirk.

  Then, on the twelfth day of Sean's visit, Ambassador Kennedy telephoned.

  Sean was delighted to hear from him - even though Freddie's dislike of Kennedy was as strong as ever. "He hasn't changed. He still chases every blonde in town."

  Sean found it hard to blame the Ambassador for that. American women gave Sean his biggest surprise. They were so beautiful, at least those who dined, at the Mallons' were. Freddie's friends all seemed to have married film stars. Most were mothers of families, but none looked older than twenty-five. The men showed their age, yet their wives were stunning. American women seemed to have discovered the elixir of youth - no wonder Ambassador Kennedy still chased them.

  In fact American womanhood threatened Sean's self-confidence. Interviewing actresses in London was one thing, that was his ground and he asked the questions - for half a dozen beauties to quiz him over dinner every night was a different matter entirely. But he survived, helped by Freddie and Margaret - he even became accustomed to Margaret inviting an unattached girl as his dinner companion when she gave her little parties. Which is how he met Gloria Farrell from Boston.

  Gloria was a journalist who wrote about homes and gardens for one of Freddie's magazines. She was petite, blonde, blue-eyed, pert-nosed and easy to look at. Quick, lively, third-generation Irish American, Catholic and proud of it. She was also something else - Margaret's best hope of rescuing Sean from bachelorhood which she considered to be a miserable state. His description of life in London appalled her - sharing an apartment with two other men, working all round the clock, never going to parties or the theatre - "But don't you have any friends?" she had asked.

  "Hundreds," Sean grinned.

  But there was no woman in his life.

  Gloria was the third single girl invited to the Mallons' for dinner, and since she and Sean got on so well together Margaret ceased to cast her net wider - in fact she took her strategy a step further - "Sean, I feel awful about this but I can't take you sightseeing tomorrow. I'm terribly sorry. But I spoke with Gloria. She's working out the most fantastic programme. She'll collect you at nine-thirty in the morning."

  Sean was too bemused to suspect an ulterior motive. American hospitality was overwhelming, people were queuing up to entertain him - if someone dropped out half a dozen others were ready to fill the breach.

  So amid a welter of impressions, another sensation seeped into Sean's bloodstream - the almost forgotten pleasure of being in the close company of a good looking woman - and he liked it. The pace of life in New York was supposedly faster than in London, but not for Sean. He would have worked much harder in London, but as a guest of the Mallons he lived life as they lived it - and if that included candle-lit suppers and entertaining small talk, there was little he could do about it. He adjusted. He began to enjoy himself - for the first time in years he allowed himself the pleasure of admiring slender ankles, plunging necklines and sparkling eyes. He relaxed and found it was fun.

  Gloria was certainly fun. They lunched together whenever their schedules permitted. They met two evenings a week, often at Margaret's dinner table, but sometimes Sean and Gloria took Freddie and Margaret out for an evening. By the end of eight weeks when Sean appeared around town people automatically expected to see Gloria on his arm. They were fast becoming "a couple".

  But, irrespective of what happened in the evenings, Sean's work schedule was crowded, most days were crammed with business meetings - so much so that after consulting their calendars he and Ambassador Kennedy found they had time only to meet each other for lunch.

  "It's been a heck of a long time," said the Ambassador, "but I'm delighted you finally made it."

  Sean still liked him. Despite Freddie and Margaret, despite the grapevine gossip, there was something about Joe Kennedy that reached out to Sean. "He is so like the Da," Sean thought as he listened to a glowing account of Jack's political career - "he's so proud of his son, so determined to help him every step of the way - the Da would have been like that with me."

  When they parted the Ambassador chuckled, "We must have a night out before you go home. I know all the right places," he winked, "a young man like you needs some fun."

  But Sean was having fun already, and he had met Gloria by then.

  At the end of ten weeks Sean's business in New York was complete. He had negotiated UK screening rights to all the American television material he needed - more than one channel could handle in fact. Sean formed another company whose function was to sell material to every channel in the UK - and also to buy rights in British-made programmes for sale in the States. Like the Mallon Property Company it started as a sideline but, by the early seventies, it was earning a fortune.

  Throughout his visit he had telephoned London every week. All was well. Tubby was on top of things in the property company, Michael O'Hara was running London & Continental with smooth efficiency Sean could stay a little longer if he liked.

  Freddie persuaded him. The old bond had re-emerged stronger than ever, besides they were doing so much business together that the most profitable part of Sean's trip was just beginning to surface. In a sense they merged their interests. Freddie was planning to launch a version of Seven Days, his main magazine, in Europe - "Why don't we slot London & Continental News into that?" he said to Sean. "Your boys provide the European coverage, my people give you the American news - between us we've got the whole package. Graft a marketing end onto Michael O'Hara's office in London and we're ready to go."

  The details were more complicated, but that was the principle Freddie was saved the cost of setting up a London office, and Sean funnelled London & Continental News into The Seven Days Corporation for fifty percent of the stock. Both Sean and Freddie withheld their other interests - in Freddie's case his specialist magazines, and in Sean's case his sixty percent holding in the Mallon Property Company and Transatlantic Television, as he had named his new company. Michael O'Hara would be appointed Managing Editor of Seven Days for Europe, and Freddie's New York editor, Sam Gittins, would run the American end.

  "A perfect marriage," Margaret pronounced when they told her about it.

  Sean and Freddie spent an exciting few days discussing the in-depth political analysis and profiles which the new Seven Days would provide - but Freddie wanted more ...

  "Africa," he said, "Sean, we must have our own men covering Africa. Have you seen the news-stands? Time magazine? Hardly a we
ek goes by without Gichuru on the cover, or Tom Mboya, or ... what's that guy ... Kenyatta. I tell you, Time's murdering me on their African coverage. Can you get say three of your boys out there ... give me some really big spreads, photographs, interviews, you know, 'The Emerging Giant' ... 'The Dying Days of the British Raj' ... that sort of thing."

  The following morning Sean telephoned Michael in London and a week later Jimmy Cross, London & Continental's "Africa desk" man, was on a flight to Nairobi with instructions to recruit more men when he got there.

  Africa fascinated Freddie - "It's not just me, everyone's fascinated. It's starting to dominate the UN. Africa will be where the big stories are in the fifties. I've been in the news business too long to doubt my own hunch."

  But Freddie was expanding on other fronts too. He was buying a number of newspapers across America - "That's a separate corporation. You can come in if you like. After all, if we've got reporters round the world we need all the outlets we can get."

  So, two weeks after that, Sean set out across America - ostensibly to pay his respects to the many editors who had syndicated his column over the years, but also to conclude negotiations for the purchase of three newspapers whose owners had talked to Freddie in New York.

  Wherever Sean went he was interviewed - by the papers themselves, by radio and television. Invariably he achieved a favourable reaction but then came Chicago - and Chicago was a disaster which was to haunt him for years.

  He should have known better. He was an experienced journalist - well used to the ways of the press. He was a successful businessman with an assured, easy manner. He was even a minor celebrity.

  But in Chicago he took a mauling.

  In fairness he was not feeling well. He had developed a streaming cold. To keep a clear head was impossible. He was running a temperature. It was an effort to stop shivering. And he had suffered a thoroughly bad day.

  In New York Freddie had agreed terms on a paper, but when Sean arrived in Chicago a competitive bid was on the table. The asking price had been raised. Sean argued with the owners all morning. Then went back to his hotel to telephone Freddie. He sat on his bed drinking whisky and hot water for his cold, interrupting his conversation with explosive bouts of sneezing into an already sodden handkerchief.

  Three more hours at the newspaper that afternoon failed to achieve agreement. Sean limped back to his hotel wanting nothing more than a warm bed and oblivion. He ached all over. His eyes streamed. He should have gone directly to bed - instead he worried about a radio interview arranged for six-fifteen. Sean was a journalist himself - he hated the thought of letting a fellow professional down. So he drank more whisky and hot water, rang down for a cab and arrived at the studio. He consoled himself with one thought - that in less than an hour he would be in bed.

  But that was before the disaster.

  Hugh Mcllroy's interview was hostile from the opening question.

  "Mr Connors, you first won fame during the war when you called upon Ireland to fight against Hitler. Do you think that was right?"

  "It was right to fight Hitler -"

  "But Ireland was neutral - a tiny country, poorly equipped - Ireland's involvement wouldn't have made a scrap of difference to the war."

  "If the Allies had been able to operate from Irish ports -"

  "Weren't you calling your countrymen cowards?"

  "Certainly not. Thousands of Irishmen fought in the British army -"

  "Ah! The good Irish fought for the British, the bad stayed at home. Is that what you're saying?"

  Sean was caught off-balance. It was stifling hot in the studio. His eyes were watering. His nose was all blocked-up.

  "I'm not saying that. What I mean is -"

  "That's how it sounded, Mr Connors. In fact haven't you consistently bad-mouthed your own countrymen? For instance, didn't you call the IRA the scum of the earth?"

  Sean was totally unprepared. Other interviewers had asked about Dunkirk and the Blitz ...

  Mcllory opened a file. "I have the exact quotation here if you'd like to refresh your memory."

  "I haven't bad-mouthed anyone -"

  "But you did call the IRA the scum of the earth."

  "Well I may have... I mean yes ... I know when you mean, in London, I was beaten up -"

  "By the IRA?"

  "Well not exactly, but because of the IRA -"

  "According to the reports, you were beaten up by a gang of London dockers, East End thugs, who not only attacked you but half-killed some other Irish -"

  "That's true, but -"

  "But instead of blaming the Brits you called the IRA the scum of the earth? Isn't that an odd reaction? It looks like you were currying favour -"

  "That's rubbish!" Sean snapped.

  His face went dark red. Beads of sweat rose all over his forehead.

  Mcllroy shrugged. "Mr Connors, does the name William Joyce mean anything to you?"

  "Joyce?" Sean was muzzy-headed, taken aback. "Joyce? You mean the writer -"

  "That was James Joyce," Mcllroy smirked, "every real Irishman knows that."

  Sean tried to clear his nose, but merely spluttered into his handkerchief. Sweat was soaking his shirt. The studio felt like an oven.

  Mcllroy hurried on, "The Joyce I mean was better known as Lord Haw-Haw. He was a broadcaster, like yourself in a way, broadcasting from another country during the war, telling his countrymen how mistaken they were. The British called him a traitor and hung a noose round his neck. Weren't you called a traitor in Ireland -"

  Sean was furious. "Not by people whose opinion I respect."

  "You mean you don't respect those who disagree with you -"

  "Not necessarily," Sean glowered, "but I'll make an exception in your case."

  Mcllroy blinked.

  Sean rejoiced to have scored a small point. He tried to calm his jangled nerves. He wished his head would clear. His temples throbbed, breathing was difficult. He had stumbled into a minefield but could escape if he kept cool ... after all he had been in thousands of interviews, none as hostile, but experience would see him through ...

  All such resolutions were forgotten a moment later.

  "During the war," Mcllroy persisted, "you must have realised your patriotism would be called into doubt?"

  Sean remembered agonising over that decision, his bitter argument with Dinny, and his remorse afterwards .:.

  He answered carefully, "I was a reporter doing a job. Those were dark days in 1940 -"

  "For the British Empire perhaps, but not for Ireland."

  In temper Sean blurted out, "I doubt Ireland would be free today if Hitler had -"

  "But Ireland is not free," Mcllroy pounced, "the British still rule the north."

  Sean bit his tongue.

  "Wasn't your father a famous Irish patriot?" Mcllroy asked, shifting his ground.

  "He was."

  "In fact he was an IRA hero -"

  "He was."

  Sean's face was bone white. He looked sick. But his eyes should have warned Mcllroy - his eyes were like chipped ice.

  "Didn't your father fight in the Easter Rising? Wasn't he even in the GPO with Pearse and Connolly -"

  "He was," Sean snapped, at the end of his tether, "times were different-”

  "So different that you call the IRA the scum of the earth. Your own father? You condemned your country and your own father -"

  "That's enough!" Sean snarled furiously. "Leave my father out of this -"

  "You were the one to call him the scum of the earth. I'm surprised -"

  Sean's fist exploded on Mcllroy's jaw. The microphone was knocked flying. Sean was on his feet, rushing at Mcllroy. By the time sound engineers dashed in from the control room Sean was boring after Mcllroy. A swinging right crashed Mcllroy against the far wall. Elsewhere in the building programme controllers killed the transmission but not before listeners heard Sean's outraged rasp - "You poisonous son of a bitch!"

  Fifteen minutes later - still shaking with temper, shivering
with cold, muzzy-headed and confused - Sean was ushered into a cab. Whisky on his breath led someone to claim he was drunk.

  Back at the hotel he climbed into bed, wishing it was all a bad dream.

  But the dream persisted through twelve hours of sleep. It was waiting when he awoke. A newspaper pushed under the door bore the headline - Drunken Irish brawl heard by millions!

  He felt like death. Room service sent up coffee - with the rest of the papers and a list of phone messages. He groaned aloud. Even the New York papers carried the story - Sean Connors in Chicago Bust!

  The telephone messages were mostly from reporters - but Gloria and Freddie had called - and so had the newspaper proprietors with whom Sean had spent the previous day. Their message read - "Can see no purpose in further discussions. Have agreed sale with other party."

  Freddie was more concerned about Sean's health when they spoke on the phone - "You sound lousy. Get yourself back to bed. Have the hotel send up a doctor. I'll call you later, OK?"

  Sean did as he was told. He ached all over. Sweat flowed from every pore in his skin.

  An hour later a Doctor Wharton called Freddie from Sean's bedside - "Mr Connors has a bad dose of 'flu. He needs to stay warm and in bed for a couple of days."

  Sean slept fitfully, thrashing about on the bed. He dreamt feverishly of his father but it was all mixed up. Ambassador Kennedy kept saying - "One day my boy's going to run for the White House." The dream rolled back through the years to the little house in Ballsbridge - Sean was shaking hands with Joe Kennedy Jnr, the Ambassador was laughing in the background - "Someone should take a picture - the future President of the USA shaking hands with the future Taoiseach of Ireland." But Jack was going to run for President, not Joe, Joe was dead. So was the Da. And the Widow O'Flynn was laughing - "Sure you'll be many things in your life but you'll never be Taoiseach."

  When he awoke it was evening. The doctor was back. There was a blonde at his side. The doctor was saying - "He's still burning up, but the worst should be over by morning. I'll look in before nine ..."