The Reluctant Taoiseach
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THE RELUCTANT TAOISEACH
John A. Costello
DAVID MCCULLAGH
Gill & Macmillan
PREFACE
Most days that the Dáil is sitting, on my way to the Press Gallery, I walk past the portrait of John A. Costello which is on the jacket of this book. For the last couple of years, I have been silently promising the painting that I was nearly finished this biography. At last, I will be able to look Jack Costello’s likeness in the eye again.
John A. Costello’s interests were (not necessarily in this order) golf, the law, religion, politics, and his family. Whatever about the others, the last mentioned enthusiasm is easy to understand for anyone who has met the extended Costello family. Doubtless there is much in this book with which they will disagree, but I hope they will feel that it is fair.
The idea of writing this book has been at the back of my mind for at least ten years, but it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for Declan Costello, who encouraged me to undertake it, facilitated access to his father’s papers in UCD, and smoothed my way with various contacts. Unfortunately, a recent illness means that he hasn’t been able to see it finished, a fact I will always regret.
Declan’s brother, John, kindly put some memories on paper for me. I have also been helped by a number of the Costello grandchildren, who have shared memories of the private side of the public man: Jacqueline Armstrong and her husband Fergus, Kyran FitzGerald, Joan Gleeson, Georgina Sutton and Isabelle Sutton (who supplied a treasure trove of photographs).
Many others gave me information about John A. Costello, in interviews or through correspondence, including Jack Christal, Liam Cosgrave, Ronan Fanning, Tom Finlay, Alexis FitzGerald, Ronan Keane, Harvey Kenny, Mick Kilkenny, the late Patrick Lynch, Muiris Mac Conghail, Risteárd Mulcahy, the late Louie O’Brien, Niall O’Carroll, Michael V. O’Mahony, Pat Russell, Richie Ryan and T.K. Whitaker.
Much of the research for this book was carried out in the UCD Archives—many thanks to Seamus Helferty and his colleagues, particularly Orna Somerville who catalogued the Costello Papers. Stephen MacWhite (acting on behalf of Mrs Kathleen MacWhite) kindly granted access to the papers of his grandfather, Michael MacWhite; as did Mella Crowley to her father, Freddie Boland’s memoir. The UCD-OFM partnership facilitated access to the de Valera and MacEoin papers. Thanks also to the staff of the National Archives of Ireland, the British National Archives, the Public Records Office of Northern Ireland, and the National Library of Ireland (especially Mary Broderick).
I am also grateful to: Jonathan Armstrong, King’s Inns Library; Patricia Boyd, Registry of Deeds; Damien Burke, Irish Jesuit Archive; Mary Clark, Dublin City Archives; Joe Curry, Dominican College, Eccles Street; Noelle Dowling, Dublin Diocesan Archivist; Peter Durnin, Papal Knights Association of Ireland; Estelle Gittins, Trinity College Manuscripts Department; Greg Harkin, All Hallows archives; Elizabeth Keane, biographer of Seán MacBride, who pointed me in a useful Canadian direction; Fran Leahy, Property Registration Authority; Martin Long, Catholic Communications Office; Seán MacCárthaigh and Pascal Letellier at the Arts Council; and Darragh O’Donoghue, Allen Library.
Across the Atlantic, I thank Richie Allen, Library and Archives Canada; Erica Flanagan of the Truman Library; Herb Pankratz at the Eisenhower Library; and John Vernon and Matthew Olsen, United States National Archives, College Park, Maryland.
Friends and colleagues with specialist knowledge have been bothered for information: Eamon Kennedy clarified some legal aspects, Alan Finan interpreted some medical terms, Joe Mac Raollaigh did some translation, and Senator Cecilia Keaveney explained the latest legal developments concerning Lough Foyle. Michael Webb kindly gave me a copy of the Memoirs of his father-in-law (William Bedell Stanford). My father, Robin McCullagh, supplied some information on the stamp marking the centenary of John A. Costello’s birth, and more importantly he and my mother, June, performed child minding duties above and beyond the call of duty.
At Gill & Macmillan, I’d like to thank Fergal Tobin for taking on the book in the first place (a decision I hope he won’t regret!); D Rennison Kunz who oversaw the editorial process; Nicki Howard who commissioned the jacket and looked after marketing; Teresa Daly who dealt with publicity; and photo researcher Jen Patton. Thanks also to editor Esther Kallen, and to Helen Litton for compiling the index. My gratitude to them all.
Elaine Byrne and Maurice Manning made helpful suggestions on the manuscript, as did John Fanagan, who kindly proof-read the entire draft, despite the fact that we had never met. Any errors that remain are, of course, entirely my fault. I really should have listened to them.
Finally, to my family, who have had to put up with my absences, physical and mental, as this was written. My wife, Anne-Marie Smyth, encouraged me to start the project, to find a publisher, and to keep going. Our daughter, Rosie, also urged me towards the finishing line, with the encouraging words: “Are you not finished that book yet?” My love, and my thanks, to them both.
David McCullagh
May 2010
Introduction
THE RELUCTANT TAOISEACH
“I agree that I was a reluctant Taoiseach, but I was never a reluctant politician.”1
JOHN A. COSTELLO, 1969
“It was because John A. Costello happened to be available at that time, in those circumstances, that … the First Inter-party Government was born.”2
TOM O’HIGGINS, 1969
John A. Costello was unique among Irish heads of government for two reasons. Firstly, he wasn’t the leader of his party—he was chosen as Taoiseach in 1948 as a compromise among the five parties who wished to form a government. The second difference between him and other holders of the office was even more fundamental: his genuine reluctance to take the job. Not only did he not seek the top job in Irish politics, he actively fought against taking it.
Other holders of the office have struggled to attain it; Jack Costello had it thrust upon him. The only other politician to hesitate before accepting a chance to take the job was Jack Lynch of Fianna Fáil in 1966. Lynch has sometimes been described as a reluctant Taoiseach. But his reluctance was entirely due to consideration for his wife3—there was no doubt that he, unlike Costello, actually wanted the job.
Apart from being essentially a part-time politician, other factors seemed to militate against Costello. For the first 44 years of the State’s existence, the other three men who headed Irish governments had played prominent parts in the 1916 Rising. Costello, by contrast, had been playing golf when the Rising broke out, and many years later still seemed aggrieved at having had his journey home interrupted by a roadblock.4 He played no role either in the War of Independence, apart from representing prisoners in a couple of court cases.
In fact, like the vast majority of his contemporaries, he had been a Home Ruler rather than a Republican during most of this period, one of the rising Catholic middle class who saw the introduction of Home Rule as their ticket to greater political, economic and social status. One of the ironies of Irish history is the ultimate triumph of such people, who seemed to have been cast to the margins by the War of Independence.
In office, Costello was to provide surprises, too, not least his success in holding together two disparate coalition governments for considerable lengths of time—comparable, indeed, to the tenure of the single-party government which came between them. Despite his earlier key role in the development of the Commonwealth, he declared the Republic, a development not without its controversies, but nonetheless significant. And while he was seen as a temporary or stop-gap Taoiseach, he served longer in the office than any of his Fine Gael successors to date.
It has been widely known that his reluctance to take the job was, at least in p
art, due to his desire not to leave the law—for both professional and financial reasons. His love of the practice of law was obvious to all who knew him, and he could even say in an interview while Taoiseach that “his biggest moment was not when he became Prime Minister, but when ‘winning a big case’”.5
But there was another reason, as he revealed in an extraordinary letter to his son Declan, then in Switzerland, written just days after he became Taoiseach: “I think I can honestly say that it was not the financial loss or even the parting from my life’s work as an advocate … that made me fight so hard against acceptance, but a fear amounting almost to terror that I would be a flop as Taoiseach and bring discredit on the new administration if it was formed. I felt that such a new departure would be looked upon with distrust and be subjected to severe criticism. If I proved unfit it would be disastrous for them all.”6
This engaging self-doubt was also, to say the least, untypical in holders of the office of Taoiseach. However, Costello’s reluctance, while real enough, should not be exaggerated. Once he agreed to take on the job, he did so with his characteristic determination, energy and application. Indeed, in the same letter to his son, he concluded by saying that despite his initial doubts, “I can now assure you that I am perfectly and supremely happy and contented, and face the future and what it holds with resignation, and with confidence and hope.”7
Anyone watching, or listening to, John A. Costello would have been surprised at his admission of a lack of confidence. As an Irish Times editorial at the time of his death noted, he was a man who “breathed belligerence”.8 This public image was reinforced by his tendency to scowl in photographs—apparently he didn’t smile for the camera because he didn’t like having his photograph taken.9 In later life, with his hat, his cigar and his scowl, he reminded one of his granddaughters of “a Mafioso boss, particularly as he dived into his big black State car at the end of a working day”.10
His belligerence was evident on the political platform, in interviews, and most particularly in the courts. One of those on the receiving end of his forensic brilliance was Dr Harry Parker, an acquaintance who was appearing as an opposing witness. “I remember one occasion when you attacked me most savagely in the witness box and for, as far as I could see, no good reason. Feeling hurt, I asked Cecil Lavery what was the reason. This most gifted counsel, like little Audrey, laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He intimated that you simply wanted to win your case …”11
But this belligerence was only part of the story. As the same Irish Times editorial observed, his manner was misleading, his belligerence “the armour he put on against his sensitive and compassionate disposition”.12 Those who worked with and for him praised his kindness—even Noël Browne, the Minister for Health who never forgave Costello for his handling of the Mother and Child crisis. There are many examples in his personal papers of his charitable instincts,13 and he maintained his interest in the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul throughout his life.
The law was, arguably, his first love. Political opponents like Seán Lemass accused him of being prepared to argue any brief, in politics as in the law. “He was still at the Bar as it were: he was not really concerned about the soundness of the brief. He argued to the brief given to him by his Party or his officials.”14 This was unfair, but then Lemass had a famous aversion to lawyers in general, and Fine Gael lawyers in particular. Interestingly, Ronan Keane, a future Chief Justice who saw both Lemass and Costello speak at a debate at UCD’s Literary and Historical Society in 1951, felt that Costello was by far the more effective speaker, because of his ability to appeal to ordinary people. It was this which made him such a “great jury operator”—he knew how to come across as one of them.15
His secretary, Patrick Lynch, who knew him well, said his background in the law was not always an advantage. “Acceptance of the law’s delays did not foster an overnight conversion to consistent punctuality. The vehement rhetoric of the courts did not necessarily match the changing moods of the Dáil, and he sometimes found it hard to avoid flowery diction and the purple patch.”16 His forceful speaking style could be both a blessing and a curse in political terms—his speeches were generally quite entertaining, and his aide-de-camp and political assistant Mick Byrne always urged him to throw away his script and speak off the cuff during election meetings in the constituency.17 But what pleased a crowd could also cause trouble.
As his son-in-law Alexis FitzGerald tactfully pointed out to him, “it is impossible to speak frequently ex tempore without the eloquence of some moment reaching further than the facts warrant … whenever Mick Byrne tells you to do without a script, please remember that if I were present I would howl for one. As many of the words that you have as Taoiseach to utter should be thought out carefully before they are uttered, I am certain that you should suffer the glory of the moment to pass by. The cheers cease but litera scripta manet [the written word remains]. The local enthusiasm will be less, the national greater.”18 FitzGerald also warned his father-in-law that Fianna Fáil planned to play on another characteristic—his notoriously short fuse—by provoking him into a rage. “As I believe they think this the chink in your armour, you should watch always for this line of attack.”19
Though he was not a particularly intellectual Catholic, his deep religious commitment cannot be doubted—as was made more than clear during the Mother and Child controversy. For much of his life he went to Mass every day, either at his local church in Donnybrook in south Dublin or in the Church of Adam and Eve on the quays on his way to the Four Courts.20 He was, according to a former parish priest, “an example in every way”, both as a parishioner and a sodality member.21 His son Declan recalled that while he would say the Rosary every night, he never suggested the entire family should join in, as would have been reasonably common at the time. Instead, once the children had gone to bed, he would kneel down beside the fire in his study to perform his devotions alone, rather than insisting on conformity.22
His pugnacity could frequently extend to religious matters—famously in an address to the Trinity College Philosophical Society in October 1948, when he referred several times to the “so-called Reformation”23—a reference which caused considerable offence to Protestants. It was also, according to Patrick Lynch, quite deliberate. Lynch had drafted a speech for him, but the Taoiseach had rewritten parts of it, adding in the “so-called Reformation” reference as an expression of his dislike and suspicion of Trinity.24
Apart from religion, John A. Costello’s other great comfort in life was his family. Evenings were spent in the study, the children listening to the radio while their father read briefs by the fire—he claimed to have learned to ignore noise and concentrate on his work in the Law Library, where he worked with conversations going on around him.25 A profile in the (British) News Review in 1949 noted that “most of the family fun is found at home”, referring to the then Taoiseach’s liking for listening to music, playing bridge, taking his dachshund Slem for a morning walk, and reading thrillers.26 What he referred to as his “pernicious habit” of reading detective stories did prove politically useful on one occasion, giving him the background knowledge to make an informed Dáil contribution about the training of police in detection techniques.27
He had a ritual of going every spring to the Dublin Mountains to pick primroses with the family. The journey, given his famously fast driving, must have been a bit rough—his daughter Eavan later said looking at a painting of primroses which had belonged to her father made her feel carsick because it reminded her of those trips.28
And then there was golf, to which he cheerfully admitted he was “addicted”, even in old age.29 At the time of his election as Taoiseach, he was Captain of Portmarnock Golf Club, and an editorial in Irish Golf magazine remarked that his choice for both posts was wise, as “John Costello despite his very retiring manner makes one respect him and feel confidence in him.”30
However, it would appear that despite his “addiction”, he wasn’t a particularly strong gol
fer—his son recalled that, even being generous, he was no more than “average”.31 The Irish Golf editorial noted that “he never played golf except for the fun and exercise of it”, and went on to pay a rather backhanded compliment: “When one has seen a golfer take the rough with the smooth in the most equable of manners, when he could miss a shortish putt without thinking the world was collapsing, then one can have confidence in the new Taoiseach. A broad fairway to him, though if he does find the rough he will get out of it calmly and well.”32 Every Sunday for years, Costello played in the same four-ball in Portmarnock, with Dick Browne of the ESB, an old school friend; Dick Rice, chairman of the Revenue Commissioners; and Seamus O’Connor, the Dublin City Sheriff.33 It was on one such occasion in 1948 that he wrestled with the dilemma of whether he should accept the position of Taoiseach.
A less benign addiction was to smoking—he was an inveterate smoker of Churchman cigarettes, although according to his son he didn’t actually inhale.34 In conversation, an observer noted, he had two habits—“twiddling a pencil, and keeping his cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth while talking”.35 One of his more impassioned contributions to the Dáil was on the question of tobacco, which he argued was a necessity rather than a luxury, and should be taxed accordingly. “It enables everyone, whether rich or poor, to carry on his work … In addition to giving a certain amount of comfort, and soothing the nerves … it gives him a certain amount of relaxation, and enables him to do his work better.”36
He was a famously dapper dresser.37 In 1948, the British Lord Chancellor, William Jowitt, paid him a compliment by suggesting he might visit a tailor in Dublin while on holidays in Ireland “to see if I can approach nearer your standard” of sartorial elegance.38
Another factor much remarked upon was Jack Costello’s modesty. Tom Finlay, later to be Chief Justice, recalled his “absolute humility” as one of the most remarkable things about him. He would have been taken aback if Finlay, as a young barrister appearing in court with him, let him through a door first.39 Again, the News Review noted in 1949 that as Taoiseach, “the idea of anyone wanting to write an article about him still amuses him”.40 The young Fine Gael activist Richie Ryan had the job of announcing Costello’s arrival into the Drawing Room of the Mansion House during the 1949 Fine Gael Ard Fheis. As he called out, “Ladies and Gentlemen—the Taoiseach!” he got an “almighty thump” in the back and heard Costello growl, “Cut that out, Richie, I don’t want any of that nonsense.”41